McClure's Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1

June, 1893.
Vol. I. No. 1
S. S. McCLURE, Limited NEW YORK AND LONDON 1893
Copyright, 1893, by S. S. McClure, Limited. All rights reserved.
Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York

When I was requested to furnish a dramatic biography of Mr. Howells, I was confronted with what seemed an insuperable difficulty. The more I thought of William Dean Howells, the less dramatic did he seem to me. The only way that occurred to me of introducing a dramatic element into our proposed interview was for me to assault him with tongue or pen, in the hope that he might take energetic measures to resent my intrusion; but as, notwithstanding his unvarying kindness to me, and many unforgotten benefits, I cherished only the friendliest feelings for him, I could not persuade myself to procure dramatic interest at such a price.
My second objection, I am bound to confess, arose from my own sense of dignity which rebelled against the rôle of an interviewer, and it was not until my conscience was made easy on this point that I agreed to undertake the present article. I was reminded that it was an ancient and highly dignified form of literature I was about to revive; and that my precedent was to be sought not in the modern newspaper interview, but in the Platonic dialogue. By the friction of two kindred minds, sparks of thought may flash forth which owe their origin solely to the friendly collision. We have a far more vivid portrait of Socrates in the beautiful conversational turns of “The Symposium” and the first book of “The Republic,” than in the purely objective account of Xenophon in his “Memorabilia.” And Howells, though he may not know it, has this trait in common with Socrates, that he can portray himself, unconsciously, better than I or anybody else could do it for him.
If I needed any further encouragement, I found it in the assurance that what I was expected to furnish was to be in the nature of “an exchange of confidences between two friends with a view to publication.” It was understood, of course, that Mr. Howells was to be more confiding than myself, and that his reminiscences were to predominate; for an author, however unheroic he may appear to his own modesty, is bound to be the hero of his biography. What made the subject so alluring to me, apart from the personal charm which inheres in the man and all that appertains to him, was the consciousness that our friendship was of twenty-two years’ standing, and that during all that time not a single jarring note had been introduced to mar the harmony of our relation.