fter
the true. Now that I have said this I am half ashamed of it, for I know
well enough that what he did was best; but if my regret is mean, I will
let it remain, for it is faithful to the mood which many have been in
concerning him.

There can be no dispute, I am sure, as to the value of some of the
results he achieved in that other path. He did indeed create anew for us
the type of good-citizenship, well-nigh effaced in a sordid and selfish
time, and of an honest politician and a pure-minded journalist. He never
really forsook literature, and the world of actual interests and
experiences afforded him outlooks and perspectives, without which
aesthetic endeavor is self-limited and purblind. He was a great man of
letters, he was a great orator, he was a great political journalist, he
was a great citizen, he was a great philanthropist. But that last word
with its conventional application scarcely describes the brave and gentle
friend of men that he was. He was one that helped others by all that he
did, and said, and was, and the circle of his use was as wide as his
fame. There are other great men, plenty of them, common great men, whom
we know as names and powers, and whom we willingly let the ages have when
they die, for, living or dead, they are alike remote from us. They have
never been with us where we live; but this great man was the neighbor,
the contemporary, and the friend of all who read him or heard him; and
even in the swift forgetting of this electrical age the stamp of his
personality will not be effaced from their minds or hearts.

VI.

Of those evenings at the Taylors' in New York, I can recall best the one
which was most significant for me, and even fatefully significant. Mr.
and Mrs. Fields were there, from Boston, and I renewed all the pleasure
of my earlier meetings with them. At the end Fields said, mockingly,
"Don't despise Boston!" and I answered, as we shook hands, "Few are
worthy to live in Boston." It was New-Year's eve, and that night it came
on to snow so heavily that my horse-car could hardly plough its way up to
Forty-seventh Street through the drifts. The next day, and the next, I
wrote at home, because it was so hard to get down-town. The third day I
reached the office and found a letter on my desk from Fields, asking how
I should like to come to Boston and be his assistant on the 'Atlantic
Monthly'. I submitted the matter at once to my chief on the 'Nation',
and with his frank goo