That Lowell himself knew how to give pleasure with praise is evident enough from the several letters which Mr. Norton has printed, to Mr. Aldrich, to Mr. Howells, to Mr. Gilder, and to other younger writers. He was constantly sending pleasant messages and writing notes with unaffected expressions of enjoyment, and his friendly feeling made it easy for the editor of the Atlantic to consult him with reference to contributions even from strangers. Thus he wrote to Mr. Howells: “I would be burned at the stake—nay, I would agree to be shut up alone for an hour with —— before I would acknowledge (I spelt it without a d!) a poem to be good unless it was so. I would be burned at two stakes, and be shut up with —— and —— ere I would say a good word for the verses of a rising young author. But I expect to see and like your poem in the next Atlantic. It is good, despite Mrs. Howells and the anapests,—or whatever other kind of pests they were.
“Go by your ear, my dear boy, or by Madam’s and leave Latin prosodies to —— and the other profound scholars who understand ’em, but be sure that the plot of your little poem is so charming that it will take all the lovers and loved, and who else is worth caring for?
“I tried it on Mrs. Lowell (you know we have a bit of Darby and Joan left in us still) and she purred at once. No: it is good and subtle (or subtile, I don’t know which, thanks to Mr. Nichols), but it is either you like.
“P.S. You have a real vein, so don’t be bothered, but make it as good as you can and thank the gods.”
And again, in answer to some questions Mr. Howells had asked him respecting the Isles of Shoals, apropos of the articles by Mrs. Thaxter then to appear in the Atlantic: “‘Londoner’s’ is right. The names of the islands are ‘Haley’s,’ otherwise (and better) ‘Smutty-nose,’ ‘Star,’ always called ‘Star-island,’ ‘Hog,’ which Mrs. T. no doubt calls ‘Appledore,’—the name of a village that once stood on it,—‘Cedar,’ ‘White,’ ‘Malaga,’ and ‘Duck.’ There you have ’em all.
“Now I have a favor to ask of you—Se io meritai di voi assai o poco—and that is to have the sheets of the life of Landor sent me. I guess I could make something out of them, which perhaps you boys hardly could. By the way, I was very much pleased with your notice of that fellow’s (Sebright,[37] I think) Congressional reminiscences. It made me laugh, and was so fine (so subtile) that the man himself, despite his name, will never feel the edge of it. I always had great expectations of you,—but I am beginning to believe in you for good. You are the only one that hasn’t cheated me by your blossom. I like your flavor now, as once I did your perfume. You young fellows are dreadfully irreverent—but don’t you laugh—I take a kind of credit to myself in being the first to find you out. I am proud of you. But see how Fate takes me down! As I wrote the words, it began to rain on my hay. Absit omen. And may it be long before you are mown!
“As for your gigantic boongalong there in Boston,—I fancy it is like Niagara, a thing that one can reckon mathematically. It is but one voice raised to the nth power or so. And I remember that the Colosseum was where the early Christians used to be martyred. Now I got up this morning at half past six, and therefore count myself among the early Christians.
“I forgot to tell you that George Curtis liked your Venetian poem very much. So did I.”
His position naturally made him the recipient of many commissions for securing the publication of poems and other manuscripts, and his friendliness drew him into many letters of counsel, and it might be encouragement. To one whose acquaintance he had made through a contribution which he had accepted when editor of the Atlantic, he wrote in answer to a letter in which she had confessed to discouragement over hostile attack on a more recent work:—
That my note gave you any pleasure gives me a sensible satisfaction. I am glad to find it was my Miss —— after all.