spoke, every letter he wrote
was a benediction and an inspiration.

He was a constant revelation to me of the swift transitions of mood to
which a Celtic man of letters is liable. His humor was like a low, sweet
bubbling geyser spring. It rose with a chuckle close upon some very
somber mood and broke into exquisite phrases which lingered in my mind
for weeks. Side by side with every jest was a bitter sigh, for he, too,
had been deeply moved by new social ideals, and we talked much of the
growing contrasts of rich and poor, of the suffering and loneliness of
the farmer, the despair of the proletariat, and though I could never
quite get him to perceive the difference between his program and ours
(he was always for some vague socialistic reform), he readily admitted
that land monopoly was the chief cause of poverty, and the first
injustice to be destroyed. "But you must go farther, much farther," he
would sadly say.

Of all of my literary friends at this time, Edgar Chamberlin of the
_Transcript_ was the most congenial. He, too, was from Wisconsin, and
loved the woods and fields with passionate fervor. At his house I met
many of the young writers of Boston--at least they were young
then--Sylvester Baxter, Imogene Guiney, Minna Smith, Alice Brown, Mary
E. Wilkins, and Bradford Torrey were often there. No events in my life
except my occasional calls on Mr. Howells were more stimulating to me
than my visits to the circle about Chamberlin's hearth--(he was the kind
of man who could not live without an open fire) and Mrs. Chamberlin's
boundlessly hospitable table was an equally appealing joy.

How they regarded me at that time I cannot surely define--perhaps they
tolerated me out of love for the West. But I here acknowledge my
obligation to "The Listener." He taught me to recognize literary themes
in the city, for he brought the same keen insight, the same tender
sympathy to bear upon the crowds of the streets that he used in
describing the songs of the thrush or the whir of the partridge.

He was especially interested in the Italians who were just beginning to
pour into The North End, displacing the Irish as workmen in the streets,
and often in his column made gracious and charming references to them,
softening without doubt the suspicion and dislike with which many
citizens regarded them.

Hurd, on the contrary, was a very bookish man. He sat amidst mountains
of "books for review" and yet he was always ready to welcome t