He is equal as an artist to the best French writers. His books
are not only artistically fine, but morally wholesome.—_Magazin
für die Literatur des Auslandes._
The great body of the cultivated public has an instinctive
delight in original genius, whether it be refined or sensational.
Mr. Howells’s is eminently refined. His humor, however vivid in
form, is subtle and elusive in its essence. He depends, perhaps,
somewhat too much on the feelings of humor in his readers to
appreciate his own. He has the true Addisonian touch; hits his
mark in the white, and instead of provoking uproarious laughter,
strives to evoke that satisfied smile which testifies to the
quiet enjoyment of the reader. His humor is the humor of a
poet.—_E. P. Whipple._
Mr. Howells has been compared to Washington Irving for the
exquisite purity of his style, and to Hawthorne for a certain
subtle recognition of a hidden meaning in familiar things. A more
thoroughly genial writer, certainly, we have not, nor one more
conscientious in the practice of his art.—_Scribner’s Monthly._
The Young Editor, from “A Modern Instance.”
“Hullo!” he cried, with a suddenness that startled the boy, who had
finished his meditation upon Bartley’s trowsers, and was now deeply
dwelling on his boots. “Do you like ’em? See what sort of a shine you can
give ’em for Sunday-go-to-meeting-to-morrow-morning.” He put out his hand
and laid hold of the boy’s head, passing his fingers through the thick
red hair. “Sorrel-top!” he said with a grin of agreeable reminiscence.
“They emptied all the freckles they had left into your face—didn’t they,
Andy?”
This free, joking way of Bartley’s was one of the things that made him
popular; he passed the time of day, and would give and take right along,
as his admirers expressed it from the first, in a community where his
smartness had that honor which gives us more smart men to the square
mile than any other country in the world. The fact of his smartness had
been affirmed and established in the strongest manner by the authorities
of the college at which he was graduated, in answer to the reference
he made to them when negotiating with the committee in charge for the
place he now held as editor of the Equity _Free Press_.… They perhaps
had their misgivings when the young man, in his well-blacked boots, his
grey trowsers neatly fitting over them, and his diagonal coat buttoned
high with one button, stood before them with his thumbs in his waistcoat
pockets, and looked down over his mustache at the floor, with sentiments
concerning their wisdom which they could not explore; they must have
resented the fashionable keeping of everything about him, for Bartley
wore his one suit as if it were but one of many; but when they understood
that he had come by everything through his own unaided smartness, they
could no longer hesitate. One, indeed, still felt it a duty to call
attention to the fact that the college authorities said nothing of the
young man’s moral characteristics in a letter dwelling so largely upon
his intellectual qualifications. The others referred this point by a
silent look to ’Squire Gaylord. “I don’t know,” said the ’Squire, “as
I ever heard that a great deal of morality was required by a newspaper
editor.” The rest laughed at the joke, and the ’Squire continued: “But
I guess if he worked his own way through college, as they say, that he
hain’t had time to be up to a great deal of mischief. You know it’s for
idle hands that the devil provides, doctor.”
“That’s true, as far as it goes,” said the doctor. “But it isn’t the
whole truth. The devil provides for some busy hands, too.”
“There’s a good deal of sense in that,” the ’Squire admitted. “The worst
scamps I ever knew were active fellows. Still, industry is in a man’s
favor. If the faculty knew anything against this young man they would
have given us a hint of it. I guess we had better take him; we shan’t do
better. Is it a vote?”