Whatever minds there may be about Harte’s fiction finally, there can hardly be more than one mind about his poetry.  He was indeed a poet; whether he wrote what drolly called itself “dialect,” or wrote language, he was a poet of a fine and fresh touch.  It must be allowed him that in prose as well he had the inventive gift, but he had it in verse far more importantly.  There are lines, phrases, turns in his poems, characterizations, and pictures which will remain as enduringly as anything American, if that is not saying altogether too little for them.  In poetry he rose to all the occasions he made for himself, though he could not rise to the occasions made for him, and so far failed in the demands he acceded to for a Phi Beta Kappa poem, as to come to that august Harvard occasion with a jingle so trivial, so out of keeping, so inadequate that his enemies, if he ever truly had any, must have suffered from it almost as much as his friends.  He himself did not suffer from his failure, from having read before the most elect assembly of the country a poem which would hardly have served the careless needs of an informal dinner after the speaking had begun; he took the whole disastrous business lightly, gayly, leniently, kindly, as that golden temperament of his enabled him to take all the good or bad of life.

The first year of his Eastern sojourn was salaried in a sum which took the souls of all his young contemporaries with wonder, if no baser passion, in the days when dollars were of so much farther flight than now, but its net result in a literary return to his publishers was one story and two or three poems.  They had not profited much by his book, which, it will doubtless amaze a time of fifty thousand editions selling before their publication, to learn had sold only thirty-five hundred in the sixth month of its career, as Harte himself,

     “With sick and scornful looks averse,”

confided to his Cambridge host after his first interview with the Boston counting-room.  It was the volume which contained “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” and the other early tales which made him a continental, and then an all but a world-wide fame.  Stories that had been talked over, and laughed over, and cried over all up and down the land, that had been received with acclaim by criticism almost as boisterous as their popularity, and recognized as the promise of greater things than any done before in their kind, came to no more than this pitiful figure over the booksellers’ counters.  It argued much for the publishers that in spite of this stupefying result they were willing, they were eager, to pay him ten thousand dollars for whatever, however much or little, he chose to write in a year:  Their offer was made in Boston, after some offers mortifyingly mean, and others insultingly vague, had been made in New York.