Charles A. Dana held that California could not rightly claim the
glory of such literature as she had, for none of her writers of
distinction—such distinction as they had—was born there. We were
austerely reminded that “even the sheen of gold is less attractive than
the lustre of intellectual genius.” “California!” cried this severe but
not uncompassionate critic—“California! how musical is the word. And
again we cry out, California! Give us the letters of high thought: give
us philosophy and romance and poetry and art. Give us the soul!”
How many men and women who scorn delights and live laborious days to
glorify our metropolis with “the letters of high thought” are on Fame’s
muster-roll as natives of Manhattan island? Doubtless the state of New
York, as also the city of that name, can make an honorable showing
in the matter of native authors, but it has certain considerable
advantages that California lacks. In the first place, there are many
more births in New York, supplying a strong numerical presumption that
more geniuses will turn up there. Second, it has (I hope) enjoyed that
advantage for many, many years; whereas California was “settled” (and
by the non-genius-bearing sex) a good deal later. In this competition
the native Californian author is handicapped by the onerous condition
that in order to have his nose counted he must have been born in the
pre-Woman period or acquired enough of reputation for the rumor of his
merit to have reached New York’s ears, and for the noise of it to have
roused her from the contemplation of herself, before he has arrived
at middle age. This is not an “impossible” condition; it is only an
exceedingly hard one. How hard it is a little reflection on facts
will show. The rule is, the world over, that the literary army of the
“metropolis” is recruited in the “provinces,” or, more accurately,
_from_ the provinces. The difference denoted by the prepositions is
important: for every provincial writer who, like Bret Harte, achieves
at home enough distinction to be sought out and lured to a “literary
metropolis,” ten unknown ones go there of their own motion, like
Rudyard Kipling, and become distinguished afterward. They wrote equally
well where they were, but they might have continued to write there
until dead of age, and but for some lucky accident or fortuitous
concurrence of favoring circumstances they would never have been heard
of in the “literary metropolis.”
We may call it so, but New York is not a literary metropolis, nor is
London, nor is Paris. In letters there is no metropolis. The literary
capital is not a mother-city, founding colonies; it is the creature of
its geographical environment, giving out nothing, taking in everything.
If not constantly fed with fresh brains from beyond and about, its
chance of primacy and domination would be merely proportional to its
population. This centripetal tendency—this converging movement of
provincial writers upon the literary capital, is itself the strongest
possible testimony to the disadvantages which they suffer at home; for
in nearly every instance it is made—commonly at a great sacrifice—in
pursuit of recognition. The motive may not be a very creditable one; I
think myself it is ridiculous, as is all ambition, not to excel, but
to be known to excel; but such is the motive. If the provincial writer
could as easily obtain recognition at home he would stay there.
For my part, I freely admit that “the Golden State can not ‘boast’
of any native literary celebrities of the first rank,” for I do not
consider the incident of a literary celebrity of the first rank having
been born in one place instead of another a thing to boast of. If
there is an idler and more barren work than the rating of writers
according to merit it is their classification according to birthplace.
A racial classification is interesting because it corresponds to
something in nature, but among authors of the same race—and that
race the restless Americans, who are about as likely to be born in a
railway car as anywhere, and whose first instinct is to get away from
home—this classification is without meaning. If it is ever otherwise
than capitally impudent in the people of a political or geographical
division to be proud of a great writer (as George the Third was of an
abundant harvest) it is least impudent in those of the one in which he
did his worthiest work, most so in those of the one in which he was
born.