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Frank Norris (search for this): chapter 10
s of life in the middle West are sombre, but not morbid. In one respect his work and that of Frank Norris present an odd paradox. Each of these writers set out with the stated intention of breaking els. Mr. Garland's earlier tales have much of the ironical compactness of de Maupassant, and Mr. Norris's novels could not have been written but by a worshiper of Zola. It cannot be expected that tand style which cannot be safely ignored. Apart from the question of method, the substance of Mr. Norris's books is of exceptional power, and his early death deprived not only the West, but the whole country, of one who promised more even than he had accomplished. Mr. Norris's last story, The pit, dealt with Chicago as a great financial centre. The work of Mr. H. B. Fuller has had to do rather en? His song outlasts Town, tower and god, all that then was, save Heaven. It may be that Mr. Norris's book will live when the tremendous operations of the wheat pit are forgotten; or if not that
Festus (search for this): chapter 10
icle of the vast interior! An Easterner traveling in the West may well be amazed, not at any ostentation of vanity on the part of Western hosts, but at their wonderful humility over an achievement so vast as the material conquest of a continent. How easily all else must seem to them secondary; so that it may look like a trivial matter, as the Western editor said, to make culture hum. But when we turn our eyes backward, we see that in all nations the laurels of literature have endured beyond these external displays of power. They outlive cities, state-houses and statesmen. One may quote those fine lines of the once famous poem, Festus:-- Homer is gone, and where is Troy and where The rival cities seven? His song outlasts Town, tower and god, all that then was, save Heaven. It may be that Mr. Norris's book will live when the tremendous operations of the wheat pit are forgotten; or if not that book, some other. Life is more important than art, but art is its noblest record.
Viola Roseboro (search for this): chapter 10
ly life, but the moment they attempt to delineate a highly-bred woman the curtain rises on a creaking doll in starched petticoats. Few, indeed, of our early Western authors could venture to portray, what would seem not so impossible, an everyday gentleman or lady. For the East, on the other hand, Miss Jewett has been able to produce types of the old New England gentry, dwelling perhaps in the quietest of country towns, yet incapable of any act which is not dignified or gracious; and Miss Viola Roseboro has depicted such figures as that of the old Southern lady, living in a cheap New York boarding-house, toiling her life away to pay her brother's or her father's debts, and yet so exquisite in all her ways that the very page which describes her seems to exhale a delicate odor as of faded jasmine. See Book and heart. But Western literature is assuming an aspect of larger development than any mere interpretation of the local type. The wondrous transitory city created by the Chi
William Hazlitt (search for this): chapter 10
ringing with them a largeness, as of the prairies, the genius finally developed has been that of the miniature artist. One must step back a century and read what Hazlitt wrote of Clarissa Harlowe to find the precise criticism for such work. Clarissa, says Hazlitt, is too interesting by half. She is interesting in her ruffles, iHazlitt, is too interesting by half. She is interesting in her ruffles, in her gloves, her samplers, her aunts and uncles. She is interesting in all that is uninteresting. Hazlitt's Lectures on English poets. It is not unusual to find such superfine developments of art attempted in rough, new countries; but they cannot be said to represent the life of which they may be, by reaction, the outcome. ThHazlitt's Lectures on English poets. It is not unusual to find such superfine developments of art attempted in rough, new countries; but they cannot be said to represent the life of which they may be, by reaction, the outcome. There have been of late decided manifestations of an instinct toward the direct expression of the Western spirit. Local types. In looking at the recent Western contributions altogether, however, we perceive one marked feature they have in common with the Eastern. The labors of many authors, in all parts of our vast country, ar
Homer (search for this): chapter 10
cle of the vast interior! An Easterner traveling in the West may well be amazed, not at any ostentation of vanity on the part of Western hosts, but at their wonderful humility over an achievement so vast as the material conquest of a continent. How easily all else must seem to them secondary; so that it may look like a trivial matter, as the Western editor said, to make culture hum. But when we turn our eyes backward, we see that in all nations the laurels of literature have endured beyond these external displays of power. They outlive cities, state-houses and statesmen. One may quote those fine lines of the once famous poem, Festus:-- Homer is gone, and where is Troy and where The rival cities seven? His song outlasts Town, tower and god, all that then was, save Heaven. It may be that Mr. Norris's book will live when the tremendous operations of the wheat pit are forgotten; or if not that book, some other. Life is more important than art, but art is its noblest record.
Orpheus C. Kerr (search for this): chapter 10
ans that we are now content to let the reputation of our humor stand or fall by the quality of the American joke. Artemus War. So far as pure humor is concerned, there has never been a distinct boundary line between England and America. Nor can we say that what is called American humor belongs distinctively to the West. The early humorists were mostly of Eastern origin, though bred and emancipated in the Westthus Artemus Ward was from Maine, Josh Billings from Massachusetts, and Orpheus C. Kerr and Eli Perkins from New York. The prince among these jokers was Artemus Ward, who as a lecturer glided noiselessly upon the stage as if dressed for Hamlet, and looked as surprised as Hamlet if the audience laughed. The stage was dark, and the performance was interrupted by himself at intervals, to look for an imaginary pianist and singer who never came, but who became as real to the audience as Jefferson's imaginary dog Schneider in Rip Van Winkle, for whom he was always vainly whis
Washington Irving (search for this): chapter 10
charm to the Western wilds and rivers. In The pioneers Cooper made us already conscious citizens of a great nation, and took our imagination as far as the Mississippi. Lewis and Clark carried us beyond the Mississippi (1814). About 1835 Oregon expeditions were forming, and I remember when boys in New England used to peep through barn doors to admire the great wagons in which the emigrants were to travel. Then came Mrs. Kirkland's A New home, Who'll follow? （1839). Besides this we had Irving's Tour of the prairies (1835) and his Astoria the following year. The West was still a word for vast expeditions, for the picturesqueness and the uncertainty of Indian life, and not for the amenities of a civilized condition. Aspirants for literary fame were not long lacking, to be sure, but as most of their work was based upon reading rather than experience, it had nothing characteristically Western about it. Most of them turned instinctively, ere long, to the Atlantic coast for sympathy
Oliver Wendell Holmes (search for this): chapter 10
d one. Nothing used to strike an American more, on his first visit to England thirty years ago, than the frequent discussion of American authors who were rarely quoted at home, except in stump-speeches, whose works had no place as yet in our literary collections, but who were still taken seriously among educated persons in England. The astonishment increased when he found the almanacs of Josh Billings reprinted in Libraries of American humor, and given an equal place with the writings of Holmes and Lowell. Finally he may have been driven to the extreme conclusion that there must be very little humor in England, where things were seriously published in book form, which here would never get beyond the corner of a newspaper. He found that the whole department of American humor was created, so to speak, by the amazed curiosity of Englishmen. It was a phrase then rarely heard in the United States; and if we had such a thing among us, although it might cling to our garments, we were
Josh Billings (search for this): chapter 10
were rarely quoted at home, except in stump-speeches, whose works had no place as yet in our literary collections, but who were still taken seriously among educated persons in England. The astonishment increased when he found the almanacs of Josh Billings reprinted in Libraries of American humor, and given an equal place with the writings of Holmes and Lowell. Finally he may have been driven to the extreme conclusion that there must be very little humor in England, where things were seriouslyne between England and America. Nor can we say that what is called American humor belongs distinctively to the West. The early humorists were mostly of Eastern origin, though bred and emancipated in the Westthus Artemus Ward was from Maine, Josh Billings from Massachusetts, and Orpheus C. Kerr and Eli Perkins from New York. The prince among these jokers was Artemus Ward, who as a lecturer glided noiselessly upon the stage as if dressed for Hamlet, and looked as surprised as Hamlet if the au
Estelle Anne Lewis (search for this): chapter 10
rsonal narratives in the woods, beginning in 1831--and Timothy Flint, who wrote Ten years in the Valley of the Mississippi (1826), and also who wrote from Cincinnati to the London Athenaeum and had his books translated into French. These books, with those of Peter Parley (sometimes written by Hawthorne), gave a most vivid charm to the Western wilds and rivers. In The pioneers Cooper made us already conscious citizens of a great nation, and took our imagination as far as the Mississippi. Lewis and Clark carried us beyond the Mississippi (1814). About 1835 Oregon expeditions were forming, and I remember when boys in New England used to peep through barn doors to admire the great wagons in which the emigrants were to travel. Then came Mrs. Kirkland's A New home, Who'll follow? （1839). Besides this we had Irving's Tour of the prairies (1835) and his Astoria the following year. The West was still a word for vast expeditions, for the picturesqueness and the uncertainty of Indian li
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