In 1860 William Dean Howells, now one of the foremost literary influences in the English-speaking world, was a young man writing for the _Ohio State Journal_ of Columbus. Several of his poems had been kindly received and published by the _Atlantic Monthly_, so that the young lady from New England who screamed with surprise at seeing the _Atlantic_ on a western table and cried, "Why, have you got the _Atlantic Monthly out here_?" could be met with, "There are several contributors to the _Atlantic_ in Columbus." The several were Howells and J.J. Piatt. But to be an accepted contributor to the _Atlantic_ was not enough. Howells must see the literary celebrities of New England. Emerson and Bayard Taylor he had seen and heard in Columbus, but Longfellow, Hawthorne, Lowell, Holmes, and Whittier were the literary saints at whose shrine he wished to burn the sacred incense of his adoring soul. From Hawthorne he received a card introducing him to Emerson. Emerson was then about sixty, although nothing about him suggested an old man. After some conversation on general topics, Emerson began to talk of Hawthorne, praising Hawthorne's fine personal qualities. "But his last book," he added, reflectively, "is mere mush." This criticism related to the _Marble Faun_. Of course, such a comment shocked Howells, whose sense of literary values was much keener than Emerson's. "Emerson had, in fact," writes Howells, "a defective sense as to specific pieces of literature; he praised extravagantly, and in the wrong place, especially among the new things, and he failed to see the worth of much that was fine and precious beside the line of his fancy." Then Emerson made some inquiry about a Michigan young man who had been sending some of his poetry to Emerson. Howells was embarrassed to be obliged to say that he knew nothing of the Michigan poet. Later Emerson asked whether he had become acquainted with the poems of Mr. William Henry Channing. Howells replied that he knew them only through the criticism of Poe. "Whose criticisms?" asked Emerson. "Poe's," replied Howells. "Oh," Emerson cried after a thoughtful moment, "you mean _the jingle man_!" This was a moment of confusion and embarrassment for Howells. Had the vituperative pen of Poe ever thrown off more stinging criticism than that? "_The jingle man!_" Emerson turned the conversation to Howells himself and asked him what he had written for the _Atlantic_. Howells replied, and Emerson took down the bound volumes and carefully affixed Howells' initials to the poems. "He followed me to the door, still speaking of poetry, and as he took a kindly enough leave of me, he said one might very well give a pleasant hour to it now and then." This was a shock to Howells. "A pleasant hour!" Howells was intending to consecrate all time and eternity to it, and here is the Sage of Concord coolly speaking of poetry as though it were some trifling diversion, like billiards or whist.