The moral of
one of Hawthorne's stories is that there is no element of treasure-trove
in success, but that true luck lies in the deep and assiduous
cultivation of our own plot of ground, be it larger or smaller. For
indeed the only estate of man that savors of the realty is in his mind.
Mr. James seems to have arrived early at an understanding of this, and
to have profited by the best modern appliances of self-culture. In
conception and expression is he essentially an artist and not an
irresponsible _trouvere_. If he allow himself an occasional
carelessness, it is not from incaution, but because he knows perfectly
well what he is about. He is quite at home in the usages of the best
literary society. In his writing there is none of that hit-or-miss
playing at snapdragon with language, of that clownish bearing-on in what
should be the light strokes, as if mere emphasis were meaning, and
naturally none of the slovenliness that offends a trained judgment in
the work of so many of our writers later, unmistakably clever as they
are. In short, he has _tone_, the last result and surest evidence of an
intellect reclaimed from the rudeness of nature, for it means
self-restraint. The story of Handel's composing always in full dress
conveys at least the useful lesson of a gentlemanlike deference for the
art a man professes and for the public whose attention he claims.
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