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Updated: May 28, 2025
Howells let fall some chance remarks on the tendency of modern fiction, without adequately developing his theory, which were largely dissented from in this country, and were like the uncorking of six vials in England.
Silas heard the detective boast that he knew everything and would make an arrest in the morning, he thought about the handkerchief and knew he was done for unless he took Howells up. And the man did ask for trouble, sir. Well! Mr. Silas gave it to him to save himself." "I've never been able to understand," Paredes said, "why he didn't take the evidence when he killed Howells."
"If I was there last night," he thought, "Howells will never find out how I got into the room, because, no matter what trap he sets, I can't tell him." His leaden weariness closed his eyes. For a few minutes he slept again. Once more it was a voice that awakened him this time a woman's, raised in a scream. He sprang up, flung open the door, and stumbled into the corridor.
One such book was written by W. D. Howells, not so famous in literature then as now. Lincoln furnished a sketch of his life, an "autobiography" so called. This contains only about five hundred words. Its brevity is an indication of its modesty. Nor was there any lack of eulogistic music. Among the writers of campaign songs were J. G. Whittier and E. C. Stedman.
Of course all this took but a moment's time. Then his face softened, became winning and his glance was gracious. "I'm glad to see you," he said, and his tone was cordial. "Won't you be seated?" We took seats at the opposite ends of a long sofa, and Mr. Howells began at once to inquire concerning the work and the purposes of his visitor.
Howells had been confident that he could handle a man and so solve the riddle of how the room had been entered. Certainly Howells's challenge had been accepted, and Bobby knew that he had fallen into that deep sleep hating the detective, telling himself that the man's death might save him from arrest, from conviction, from an intolerable walk to a little room with a single chair.
In Mark Twain we have "the national spirit as seen with our own eyes," declared Mr. Howells; and, from more points of view than one, Mark Twain seems to me to be the very embodiment of Americanism. Self-educated in the hard school of life, he has gone on broadening his outlook as he has grown older.
Howells, "than those which embody character as it is affected for good as well as for evil by the severity of the local Sunday-schooling and church-going." Out of the pangs of conscience, the ingenious sedatives of sophistry, the numerous variations of the lie, he won a wholesome humour that left you thinking, by inversion, upon the moral involved.
This can scarcely be said of the writings of Franklin and Jefferson, and it certainly cannot be said of the writings of Cooper, Hawthorne, Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Lowell, Lincoln, Mark Twain, and Mr. Howells. In the pages of these men and of hundreds of others less distinguished, there is a revelation of a new national type.
Therefore such advice had very little influence upon me. The criticism that really touched and influenced me was that which said, "Don't preach, exemplify. Don't let your stories degenerate into tracts." Howells said, "Be fine, be fine but not too fine!" and Gilder warned me not to leave Beauty out of the picture.
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