Children's Stories in American Literature, 1660-1860

by Henrietta Christian Wright

CHAPTER XV

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

1819-1892

James Russell Lowell was born on the 22d of February, 1819, at Cambridge, Mass. Fate had willed that he, beyond all other writers, was to preserve a certain phase of Yankee life and make it the treasure of futurity, and the Cambridge of his early boyhood was the best training he could have received for such a mission.

The then unpretentious village, with its quiet streets shaded with elms, lindens, and horse-chestnuts, was revered throughout New England as the home of Harvard College, but it was much more than that. It was a little world in which still lingered all the quaintness and simplicity of early New England life, and Lowell, imbibing these influences unconsciously in childhood, was able afterward to reproduce their flavor in his literary work and thus preserve them from oblivion. The birthplace of Lowell was Elmwood, a charming country-seat formerly occupied by a Tory tax-collector, who had emigrated on the outbreak of the Revolution. It had a large, comfortable house shaded by some of the Cambridge elms, which Lowell characteristically remarks were unable fortunately to emigrate with the tax-collector, and the grounds were beautified by the trees and flowers which were the delight of Dr. Lowell, the poet's father.

In Cambridge streets were to be seen many of the sights characteristic of New England village life, suggesting still the village life of England when Shakespeare was a boy. The coach rumbled on its way to Boston, then a little journey away, and old women gathered around the town spring for their weekly washing of clothes. At the inn were discussed all those questions of law, religion, and politics that had not been settled at the town-meeting, and the village barber-shop, with its choice collection of rarities, had the dignity of a museum. So fascinating was this place that the boy who had to have his hair cut was considered in luck, and was usually accompanied by several of his play-fellows, who took this means of feasting their eyes upon the barber's treasures. Here were tomahawks, Indian bows and arrows, New Zealand paddles and war-clubs, beaks of albatrosses and penguins, and whales' teeth; here were caged canaries and Java sparrows, and one large cockatoo who, the barber asserted, spoke Hottentot. Old Dutch prints covered the walls, and the boys were barbered under the pictured eyes of Frederick the Great and Bonaparte. Perhaps the choicest treasure was the glass model of a ship which the young patrons valued at from one hundred to a thousand dollars, the barber always acquiescing in these generous valuations.

Once a year Cambridge celebrated a curious festival called the Cornwallis, in which, in masquerade, the town's people and country people marched in grotesque processions in honor of the surrender of Cornwallis. There was also the annual muster, when the militia were drilled under the eyes of their admiring wives, mothers, and daughters. But the great event of the year at Cambridge was Commencement Day. The entire community was aroused to do its best in the celebration of this festival, the fame of which had spread to every corner of New England. The village was turned into a great fair, where came every kind of vender and showman to take the places assigned them by the town constable; the gayly decorated booths extended in an orderly row along the streets, and the entire population gaped unrestrained at the giants, fat women, flying horses, dwarfs, and mermaids, only taking their eyes away long enough to regale themselves with the ginger-beer and egg-pop, sold on the stands or wheeled through the streets in hand-carts by the enterprising venders. The college exercises were dignified and grave, as suited the traditions of its classic halls, but to the boys who, like Lowell, had but this one opportunity in the year, the marvels of the booths and peep-shows made Commencement a red-letter day.

Another charm of old Cambridge was found in the river, which to the boyish imagination led to fairy realms beyond. Once a year the sloop Harvard, owned by the college, voyaged to the Maine coast to carry back the winter supply of wood. Her going and coming was an event in the life of the Cambridge schoolboy, who watched the departure with wistful eyes, filled the time of absence with romantic imaginings of adventure in the perilous seas, and welcomed her return with eager thirst for the news she might bring. This humble little craft held no secondary place in the interests of Lowell and his mates. The heroic adventures of her crew inspired the boys to bold ventures on the duck pond, the admiral of the home-made fleet being the young Dana, who delighted an after-generation of boys by the story of his actual adventures at sea in the fascinating book, Two Years Before the Mast.

Lowell's first school was not far from Elmwood, and although he did not distinguish himself for scholarship, he went willingly every day, returning rather more willingly, perhaps, and sending always his boyish salutation of a cheery whistle to his mother as he approached the house. But in the daily life of the old village, and in the rambles through wood and by stream, he learned lessons more valuable than those he found in books. Nature, who appealed so strongly to his heart, had made him a poet, and she took her own way of teaching him the mysteries of his art.

Lowell enjoyed his singularly fortunate and happy boyhood as only one gifted with a poetic mind could. To him New England village life revealed a charm that enabled him in after-days to paint a picture of it as lovingly faithful as one of Shakespeare's scenes. In his charming reminiscence, Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, he has preserved one of the dearest memories of his boyhood. Beaver Brook and Indian Summer Reveries are also transcriptions of those idyllic days of his youth.

Lowell entered Harvard in his sixteenth year and was graduated in his twentieth, during which time he says he read everything except the books in the college course. It was during these years, however, that he studied the great poets of the world, while romances, travels, voyages, and history were added as a flavor to his self-chosen course of study.

Perhaps he showed the true bent of his mind in his boyhood poem, addressed to the old horse-chestnuts, whose arms twined themselves around his study-room at home. He was class poet for his year, but was not allowed to read his poem, as he was at the time temporarily suspended from the college. In this poem Lowell made good-natured fun of Carlyle, Emerson, and other philosophers, whose thought was just beginning to influence their generation, thus hinting the power which made him later the most successful humorist of America.

After leaving college Lowell studied law and was admitted to the bar, a profession which he almost immediately saw would make him only miserable, and which he soon left. In his twenty-second year he published his first book of verse under the title A Year's Life, a volume which was mainly inspired by his admiration for the woman who afterward became his wife, and which gives indication of the power which was developed later, though in the after-editions of his works the poet discarded most of the productions of that time. A little later Lowell conceived the idea of starting a magazine, which should rival in value and fame the celebrated Philadelphia magazines, which were believed to stand for the highest literary art in America. The magazine was named The Pioneer, and its editorship and ownership were shared with a friend. It appeared in January, 1843, and ran for three months, ending in dismal failure, though the contributors numbered such names as Poe, Elizabeth Barrett, Whittier, and the artist Story. It was not until twelve years later, when his own fame was well established, that Lowell undertook the editorship of another magazine, and put to practical use his reserve talent for adapting and selecting for popular favor the best literary work of the time.

A year after the failure of The Pioneer, Lowell published a second volume of poems. In this collection occur the poems The Legend of Brittany; Prometheus, a poem founded on the old Greek myth of Prometheus, who incurs the wrath of Jupiter by giving fire to mankind; The Heritage, a stirring ballad, and The Shepherd of King Admetus, embodying the myth of the coming of Apollo to King Admetus and his gift of poesy to the world. The volume heralded the fame that Lowell was afterward to attain as a poet.

In 1846 the Mexican war was the great political question of the day, and the country was divided in opinion as to whether the Government had undertaken the war in a spirit of justice, or merely for the sake of acquiring new territory. The South mainly favored the war, while a portion of the North opposed it on the principle that the new territory would favor the extension of slavery. There was much talk of glory, and the heroes of the day were the generals and soldiers who were winning laurels on the Mexican battle-fields.

Lowell considered the war dishonorable and opposed to the principles of liberty, and he took a firm stand against it. He did this, not, as may be said, in his own way, for the way was new to him, but in a manner that turned the vaunted heroism of the day into ridicule, and appealed to the public conscience by its patriotism and honesty. Keeping his own personality in the background, Lowell sent his wits roving into the world of memory and brought from it a hero who was destined to rival in fame the leader of the Mexican campaigns. This hero possessed the old courage, fire, and enthusiasm which had braved the British in Revolutionary days. His patriotism was a pure flame, his wisdom that of the builders who had founded a commonwealth of civil rights in the midst of the primeval forest; his common-sense would have made him a king in Yankeedom, and his humor was as grim as that of the old Puritans, who believed in fighting the devil with his own weapons. He came on the scene dressed in homespun, and spoke the homely dialect of New England, that singular speech so unlike any other and which seems to have had grafted upon the original English all the eccentricities which made the Puritans a peculiar people.

This singular figure which now attracted public attention was first heard from in the columns of the Boston Courier, as the author of a poem on the subject of the raising of volunteers for the Mexican War. The poem was written in the Yankee dialect and, it was stated, had been sent to the office by the poet's father, Ezekiel Biglow. The verses rang with New England canniness, and the familiar dialect acquired a dignity never before acknowledged. Scholars, statesmen, critics, and the public at large, after a first few puzzling moments grasped the full force of the new crusade, and the standard-bearer and author, Hosea Biglow, became the most talked about man of the time. Previous to this society had laughed at the reformers. Now people laughed with Hosea at the supporters of the war. From this time Hosea Biglow's sayings and doings were the most popular comment on the political situation. Whatever happened was made the subject of a poem by Hosea, expressing sometimes his own opinions and sometimes the opinions of Parson Wilbur, John P. Robinson, and other persons introduced into the series. These poems met with tremendous success. Wherever it was possible they were set to music and sung with all the abandon of a popular ballad. There is a story told to the effect that John P. Robinson grew so tired of hearing the song in which he is introduced that he fled across the sea in despair. This brought no relief, however, for the street gamins of London and the travelling American and Englishman, wherever he could be found, unconsciously greeted his ears with the rollicking refrain:

"But John P.

Robinson, he

Sez they didn't know everythin'

Down in Judee."

Among the political poems occurs in "The Notices of the Press," which form the introduction, the exquisite love-poem, The Courtin'.

In wit, scholarship, and knowledge of human nature, the Biglow papers are acknowledged as a classic, and the future student of American literature will be ever grateful for this preservation of the Yankee dialect by New England's greatest poet.

Lowell's next important contribution to literature was the publication of the poem, The Vision of Sir Launfal. This beautiful poem, in which in a vision a young knight arms himself and starts in search of the Holy Grail, reads like a sacred legend of the Middle Ages. It is full of the pious spirit of the old monks who still believed the story of the existence of the Holy Grail, and the possibility of its recovery by the pure in heart. This story, which has appealed to the art of every age, found in Lowell a poet worthy of its expression, and one who has transcribed the mysticism of the past into the vital charity of the present. Though a dream of the Old World, it is still the New England poet who translates it, as may be seen from the bits of landscape shining through it. Glimpses of the northern winter; of the wind sweeping down from the heights, and of the little brook that

"Heard it and built a roof

'Neath which he could house him winter-proof,"

show the poet in his mood of loving reminiscence.

In his poems Prometheus, The Legend of Brittany, Rhœcus, and the collection known as Under the Willows, which includes the Commemoration Ode, Lowell shows his highest point as a poet, which is also reached in The Cathedral. His was a large and generous spirit, which found no experience or condition of life trivial. He was in sympathy with nature and with the aims and happiness of humanity. The affectionate side of his nature is shown in many of his poems, one of the most beautiful being that which is expressed in The First Snowfall, a tender and sacred memory of one of the poet's children.

The Commemoration Ode, written in honor of the Harvard graduates who fell in the War for the Union, was read by Lowell July 21, 1865, at the Commemoration Service held in their memory. No hall could hold the immense audience which assembled to hear their chosen poet voice the grief of the nation over its slain in the noblest poem produced by the war. To those present the scene, which has become historic, was rendered doubly impressive from the fact that Lowell mourned in his verse many of his own kindred.

A Fable for Critics is a satire in verse upon the leading authors of America. The first bit was written and despatched to a friend without any thought of publication. The fable was continued in the same way until the daily bits were sent to a publisher by the friend, who thought the matter too good for private delectation only. In this production Lowell satirizes all the writers of the day, himself included, with a wit so pungent and so sound a taste that the criticism has appealed to the succeeding generation, which has in nearly every case vindicated the poet's judgment of his contemporaries. The authorship remained for some time unknown, and was only disclosed by Lowell when claimed by others.

Besides his poetry Lowell produced several volumes of charming prose. Among these is The Fireside Travels, which contains his description of Cambridge in his boyhood; Among My Books, and My Study Windows, which contain literary criticism of the choicest sort, the poet easily taking rank as one of the foremost critics of his time. Throughout his prose we find the same feeling for nature and love for humanity that distinguishes his poetry. His whole literary career was but an outgrowth of his own broad, sympathetic, genial nature, interwoven with the acquirements of the scholar.

Lowell was for a large part of his life Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-lettres at Harvard. Soon after its beginning he became editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and he also was for a time one of the editors of the North American Review.

Outside of his literary life he was known as a diplomat who served his country with distinction as minister, successively, to Spain and to England. Though finding congenial surroundings in foreign lands, Lowell was always pre-eminently an American; one who, even in his country's darkest hour, saw promise of her glory, and to whom her fame was ever the dearest sentiment of his heart. Most of his life was spent in his old home at Elmwood, where he died in 1892.