[Speech of William Dean Howells, as editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," at
the dinner given to John Greenleaf Whittier, at Boston, Mass.,
December 17, 1877, in celebration of the poet's seventieth birthday,
and in celebration also of the twentieth year of the magazine.]
GENTLEMEN, CONTRIBUTORS AND FRIENDS OF THE "ATLANTIC
MONTHLY":--The serious moment has approached which sooner or later
arrives at most banquets of the dinner-giving Anglo-Saxon race--a moment
when each commensal, like the pampered sacrifice of the Aztecs, suddenly
feels that the joys which have flattered him into forgetfulness of his
fate are at an end, and that he must now gird himself for expiation. It
is ordinarily a moment when the unprepared guest abandons himself to
despair, and when even the more prophetic spirit finds memory forsaking
it, or the treacherous ideas committed to paper withering away till the
manuscript in the breast-pocket rustles sere and sad as the leaves of
autumn. But let no one at this table be under a fearful apprehension.
This were to little purpose an image of the great republic of letters,
if the mind of any citizen might be invaded, and his right to hold his
peace denied. Any gentleman being called upon and having nothing to say,
can make his silent bow and sit down again without disfavor; he may even
do so with a reasonable hope of applause. Reluctant orators, therefore,
who are chafing under the dread of being summoned to stand and deliver
an extorted eloquence, and who have already begun to meditate reprisals
upon the person or the literature of the present speaker, may safely
suspend their preparations; it shall not be his odious duty to molest
them.
We are met, gentlemen, upon the seventieth birthday of a man and poet
whose fame is dear to us all, but whose modesty at first feared too much
the ordeal by praise, to consent to his meeting with us. But he must
soon have felt the futility of trying to stay away, of endeavoring to
class himself with the absent, who are always wrong. There are renowns
to which absence is impossible, and whether he would or no, Whittier
must still have been in every heart. Therefore he is here in person, to
the unbounded pleasure of those assembled to celebrate this day. I will
leave him to the greetings of others, and for my own part will invite
the goldenest silence of his sect to muse a fitting tribute to the verse
in which a brave and beautiful and lofty life is enshrined.
As to the periodical which unites us all, without rivalry, without
jealousy, the publisher has already spoken, and where there is so much
for the editor to say he cannot, perhaps, say too little. For twenty
years it has represented, and may almost be said to have embodied,
American letters. With scarcely an exception, every name known in our
literature has won fame from its pages, or has added lustre to them; and
an intellectual movement, full of a generous life and of a high ideal,
finds its record there in vastly greater measure than in any or all
other places. Its career is not only distinguished among American
periodicals, but upon the whole is unique. It would not be possible, I
think, to point to any other publication of its sort, which so long
retained the allegiance of its great founders, and has added so
constantly so many names of growing repute to its list of writers. Those
who made its renown, as well as those whose renown it has made or is
making, are still its frequent contributors, and even in its latest
years have done some of their best work in it. If from time to time a
valued "Atlantic" writer ceases to appear, he is sure, finally, to
reappear; he cannot even die without leaving it a rich legacy of
manuscript. All young writers are eager to ally their names with the
great memories and presences on its roll of fame; its stamp gives a new
contributor immediate currency; it introduces him immediately into the
best public, the best company, the company of those Boston authors who
first inspired it with the life so vigorous yet. It was not given us all
to be born in Boston, but when we find ourselves in the "Atlantic" we
all seem to suffer a sea-change, an æsthetic renaissance; a livelier
literary conscience stirs in us; we have its fame at heart; we must do
our best for Maga's name as well as for our own hope; we are naturalized
Bostonians in the finest and highest sense. With greater reverence and
affection than we can express, we younger and youngest writers for the
Atlantic regard the early contributors whom we are so proud and glad to
meet here, and it is with a peculiar sense of my own unworthiness that I
salute them, and join the publishers in welcoming them to this board.
I know very well the difference between an author whom the "Atlantic"
has floated and an author who has floated the "Atlantic," and confronted
with this disparity I have only an official courage in turning to invoke
the poet, the wit, the savant whose invention gave the "Atlantic" its
name, and whose genius has prospered an adventurous enterprise. If I did
not name him I am sure the common consciousness would summon Dr. Holmes
to his feet. I have felt authorized to hail the perpetual autocrat of
all the "Breakfast Tables" as the chief author of the "Atlantic's"
success, by often hearing the first editor of the magazine assert the
fact. This generous praise of his friend--when in a good cause was his
praise ever stinted?--might be spoken without fear that his own part
would be forgotten. His catholic taste, his subtle sense of beauty, his
hearty sympathy and sterling weight of character gave the magazine an
impress which it has been the highest care to his successors to keep
clear and bright. He imparted to it above all that purpose which I hope
is forever inseparable from it, when in his cordial love of good
literature he stretched a welcoming grasp of recognition to every young
writer, East, West, North, or South, who gave promise of good work.
Remembering his kindness in those days to one young writer, very
obscure, very remote (whose promise still waits fulfilment), I must not
attempt to praise him, lest grateful memories lead me into forbidden
paths of autobiography; but when I name Mr. Lowell I am sure you will
all look for some response to Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, a contributor
whose work gave peculiar quality and worth to the numbers of the
magazine, and whose presence here is a grateful reminder of one with
whom he has been so long bound in close ties of amity.