[Speech of James Russell Lowell at a banquet given to Sir Henry Irving,
London, July 4, 1883, in view of his impending departure for a
professional tour of America. Lord Coleridge, Lord Chief Justice of
England, occupied the chair. The toast, "Literature, Science, and
Art," was proposed by Viscount Bury, and Mr. Lowell was called upon to
respond for Literature. Professor Tyndall replied on behalf of
Science, and Alma Tadema for Art.]
MY LORD COLERIDGE, MY LORDS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:--I confess
that my mind was a little relieved when I found that the toast to which
I am to respond rolled three gentlemen, Cerberus-like, into one
[laughter], and when I saw Science pulling impatiently at the leash on
my left, and Art on my right, and that therefore the responsibility of
only a third part of the acknowledgment has fallen to me. You, my lord,
have alluded to the difficulties of after-dinner oratory. I must say
that I am one of those who feel them more keenly the more after-dinner
speeches I make. [Laughter.] There are a great many difficulties in the
way, and there are three principal ones, I think. The first is the
having too much to say, so that the words, hurrying to escape, bear down
and trample out the life of each other. The second is when, having
nothing to say, we are expected to fill a void in the minds of our
hearers. And I think the third, and most formidable, is the necessity of
following a speaker who is sure to say all the things you meant to say,
and better than you, so that we are tempted to exclaim, with the old
grammarian, "Hang these fellows, who have said all our good things
before us!" [Laughter.]
Now the fourth of July has several times been alluded to, and I believe
it is generally thought that on that anniversary the spirit of a certain
bird known to heraldic ornithologists--and I believe to them alone--as
the spread eagle, enters into every American's breast, and compels him,
whether he will or no, to pour forth a flood of national self-laudation.
[Laughter and cheers.] This, I say, is the general superstition, and I
hope that a few words of mine may serve in some sort to correct it. I
ask you, if there is any other people who have confined their national
self-laudation to one day in the year. [Laughter.] I may be allowed to
make one remark as to a personal experience. Fortune has willed it that
I should see as many--perhaps more--cities and manners of men as
Ulysses; and I have observed one general fact, and that is, that the
adjectival epithet which is prefixed to all the virtues is invariably
the epithet which geographically describes the country that I am in. For
instance, not to take any real name, if I am in the kingdom of Lilliput,
I hear of the Lilliputian virtues. I hear courage, I hear common sense,
and I hear political wisdom called by that name. If I cross to the
neighboring Republic Blefusca--for since Swift's time it has become a
Republic--I hear all these virtues suddenly qualified as Blefuscan.
[Laughter.]
I am very glad to be able to thank Lord Coleridge for having, I believe
for the first time, coupled the name of the President of the United
States with that of her Majesty on an occasion like this. I was struck,
both in what he said, and in what our distinguished guest of this
evening said, with the frequent recurrence of an adjective which is
comparatively new--I mean the word "English-speaking." We continually
hear nowadays of the "English-speaking race," of the "English-speaking
population." I think this implies, not that we are to forget, not that
it would be well for us to forget, that national emulation and that
national pride which is implied in the words "Englishman" and
"American," but the word implies that there are certain perennial and
abiding sympathies between all men of a common descent and a common
language. [Cheers.] I am sure, my lord, that all you said with regard to
the welcome which our distinguished guest will receive in America is
true. His eminent talents as an actor, the dignified--I may say the
illustrious--manner in which he has sustained the traditions of that
succession of great actors who, from the time of Burbage to his own,
have illustrated the English stage, will be as highly appreciated there
as here. [Cheers.]
And I am sure that I may also say that the chief magistrate of England
will be welcomed by the bar of the United States, of which I am an
unworthy member, and perhaps will be all the more warmly welcomed that
he does not come among them to practise. He will find American law
administered--and I think he will agree with me in saying ably
administered--by judges who, I am sorry to say, sit without the
traditional wig of England. [Laughter.] I have heard since I came here
friends of mine gravely lament this as something prophetic of the decay
which was sure to follow so serious an innovation. I answered with a
little story which I remember hearing from my father. He remembered the
last clergyman in New England who still continued to wear the wig. At
first it became a singularity and at last a monstrosity; and the good
doctor concluded to leave it off. But there was one poor woman among his
parishioners who lamented this sadly, and waylaying the clergyman as he
came out of church she said, "Oh, dear doctor, I have always listened to
your sermon with the greatest edification and comfort, but now that the
wig is gone all is gone." [Laughter.] I have thought I have seen some
signs of encouragement in the faces of my English friends after I have
consoled them with this little story.
But I must not allow myself to indulge in any further remarks. There is
one virtue, I am sure, in after-dinner oratory, and that is brevity; and
as to that I am reminded of a story. [Laughter.] The Lord Chief Justice
has told you what are the ingredients of after-dinner oratory. They are
the joke, the quotation, and the platitude; and the successful
platitude, in my judgment, requires a very high order of genius. I
believe that I have not given you a quotation, but I am reminded of
something which I heard when very young--the story of a Methodist
clergyman in America. He was preaching at a camp meeting, and he was
preaching upon the miracle of Joshua, and he began his sermon with this
sentence: "My hearers, there are three motions of the sun. The first is
the straightforward or direct motion of the sun; the second is the
retrograde or backward motion of the sun; and the third is the motion
mentioned in our text--'the sun stood still.'" [Laughter.]
Now, gentlemen, I don't know whether you see the application of the
story--I hope you do. The after-dinner orator at first begins and goes
straight forward--that is the straightforward motion of the sun. Next he
goes back and begins to repeat himself--that is the backward motion of
the sun. At last he has the good sense to bring himself to the end, and
that is the motion mentioned in our text, as the sun stood still. [Great
laughter, in the midst of which Mr. Lowell resumed his seat.]
* * * * *
"THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE"
[Speech of James Russell Lowell at the annual Ashfield Dinner at
Ashfield, Mass., August 27, 1885,--the harvest-time festival in behalf
of Sanderson Academy, given for several years under the leadership of
Charles Eliot Norton and George William Curtis, long summer residents
in this country town. Mr. Lowell had recently returned from his post
as Minister to England; and he was presented to the literary gathering
by Professor Norton, President of the day. Professor Norton closed his
eloquent words of introduction as follows: "On our futile laurels he
looks down, himself our highest crown.--Ashfield speaks to you to-day,
and the welcome is your own to New England."]
MR. PRESIDENT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:--I cannot easily escape
from some strength of emotion in listening to the words of my friend who
has just sat down, unless I receive it on the shield which has generally
been my protection against many of the sorrows and some of the hardships
of life. I mean the shield of humor, and I shall, therefore, take less
seriously than playfully the portrait that he has been kind enough to
draw of me. It reminds me of a story I once heard of a young poet, who
published his volume of verses and prefixed to it his own portrait drawn
by a friendly artist. The endeavor of his life from that time forward
was to look like the portrait that his friend had drawn. [Applause.] I
shall make the same endeavor.
It is a great pleasure to me to come here to-day, not only because I
have met some of the oldest friends of my life, but also that after
having looked in the eyes of so many old English audiences I see face to
face a new English one, and when I looked at them I was reminded of a
family likeness and of that kinship of blood which unites us. When I
look at you I see many faces that remind me of faces I saw on the other
side of the water, and I feel that whether I speak there or here I am
essentially speaking to one people. I am not going to talk about myself,
and I am not going to make a speech. I have spoken so often for you on
the other side of the water that I feel as though I had a certain claim,
at least, to be put on the retired list. But I could not fail to observe
a certain distrust of America that has peeped out in remarks made,
sometimes in the newspapers, sometimes to myself, as to whether a man
could live eight years out of America, without really preferring Europe.
It seems to me to imply what I should call a very unworthy distrust in
the powers of America to inspire affection. I feel to-day, in looking in
your faces, somewhat as I did when I took my first walk over the hills
after my return, and the tears came into my eyes as I was welcomed by
the familiar wayside flowers, the trees, the birds that had been my
earliest friends.
It seems to me that those who take such a view quite miscalculate the
force of the affection that a man feels for his country. It is something
deeper than a sentiment. If there were anything deeper, I should say it
was something deeper than an instinct. It is that feeling of
self-renunciation and of identification with another which Ruth
expressed when she said: "Entreat me not to leave thee nor to depart
from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go: where thou
livest I will live, and where thou diest there will I die also." That,
it seems to me, is the instinctive feeling that a man has. At the same
time, this does not exclude the having clear eyes to see the faults of
one's country. I think that, as an old President of Harvard College said
once to a person who was remonstrating with him: "But charity, doctor,
charity." "Yes, I know; but charity has eyes and ears and won't be made
a fool of." [Laughter.]
I notice a good many changes in coming home, a few of which I may,
perhaps, be allowed to touch upon. I notice a great growth in luxury,
inevitable, I suppose, and which may have good in it--more good,
perhaps, than I can see. I notice, also, one change that has impressed
me profoundly, and when I hear that New England is drawing away, I
cannot help thinking to myself how much more prosperous the farms look
than they did when I was young; how much more neat is the farming, how
much greater the attention to what will please the eye about the farm,
as the planting of flowers and trimming the grass, which seems to me a
very good sign. I had an opportunity, by a strange accident, of becoming
very intimate with the outward appearance of New England during my youth
by going about when a little boy with my father when he went on
exchanges. He always went in his own vehicle, and he sometimes drove as
far west as Northampton. I do not wish to detain you on this point,
except as it interested me and is now first in my mind.
While I was in England I had occasion once to address them on the
subject of Democracy, and I could not help thinking when I came up here
that I was coming to one of its original sources, for certain it is that
in the village community of New England, in its "plain living and high
thinking," began that social equality which afterwards developed on the
political side into what we call Democracy. And Democracy--while surely
we cannot claim for it that it is perfect--yet Democracy, it seems to
me, is the best expedient hitherto invented by mankind, not for
annihilating distinctions and equalities, for that is impossible, but,
so far as it is humanly possible, for compensating them. Here in our
little towns in the last century, people met without thinking of it on a
high table-land of common manhood. There was no sense of presumption
from below, there was no possibility of condescension from above,
because there was no above and below in the community. Learning was
always respected in the clergyman, in the doctor, in the squire, the
justice of the peace, and the rest of the community. This made no
artificial distinction.
I observe, also, that our people are getting over their very bad habit
with regard to politics, for Democracy, you must remember, lays a
heavier burden on the individual conscience than any other form of
government; and I have been glad to observe that we have been getting
over that habit of thinking that our institutions will go of
themselves. Now it seems to me that there is no machine of human
construction, or into which the wit of man has entered, that can go of
itself without supervision, without oiling; that there are no wheels
which will revolve without our help, except the great wheel of the
constellations or that great circle of the sun's which has its hand upon
the dial plate, and which was made by a hand much less fallible than
ours.
It also pleases me very much to see a friend whose constancy, whose
faith, and whose courage have done so much more than any other man's to
bring about that reform [great applause], though when I speak of civil
service reform the friend who stands at our elbow on all these occasions
will suggest to me a certain parallel, that is, that as Mr. Curtis is
here to-day and I am here to-day, it reminds one of the temperance
lecturer who used to go about carrying with him an unhappy person as the
awful example [great laughter], and it may have flickered before some of
your minds that I was the "awful example" of the very reform I had
preached. However, I say that it is to me a very refreshing thing to
find that this old happy-go-lucky feeling about our institutions has a
very good chance of passing away.
One thing which always impressed me on the other side of the water as an
admirable one, and as one which gave them a certain advantage over us,
is the number of men who train themselves specifically for politics, for
government. We are apt to forget, over here, that the art of governing
men, as it is the highest, so it is the most difficult, of all arts. We
are particular how our boots are made, but about our constitutions we
"trust in the Lord," without even, as Cromwell advised, keeping our
powder dry. We commit the highest destinies of this Republic, which some
of us hope bears the hope of the world in her womb--to whom? Certainly
not always to those who are most fit on any principle of natural
selection: certainly, sometimes to those who are most unfit on any
principle of selection,--and this is a very serious matter, for if you
will allow me to speak with absolute plainness, no country that allows
itself to be governed for a moment by its blackguards is safe.
[Applause.] That was written before the United States of America
existed. It is one of the truths of human nature and of destiny. If I
were a man who had any political aspiration,--which, thank Heaven, I
have not,--if I had any official aspiration--which, thank Heaven, also,
I have not,--I should come home here, and when I first met an American
audience I should say to them: My friends, America can learn nothing of
Europe; Europe must come to school here. You have the tallest monument,
you have the biggest waterfall, you have the highest tariff of any
country in the world. [Great laughter and applause.] I would tell you
that the last census showed that you had gained so many millions, as if
the rabbits did not beat us in that way of multiplication, as if it
counted for anything! It seems to me that what we make of our several
millions is the vital question for us.
I was very much interested in what Prof. Stanley Hall said. I am heretic
enough to have doubted whether our common schools are the panacea we
have been inclined to think them. I was exceedingly interested in what
he said about the education which a boy gained on the hills here. It
seems to me we are going to fall back into the easy belief that because
our common schools teach more than they used--and in my opinion much
more than they ought--we can dispense with the training of the
household. When Mr. Harrison [J. P. Harrison, author of "Some Dangerous
Tendencies in American Life," one of the preceding speakers] was telling
us of the men who were obliged to labor without hope from one end of the
day to the other, and one end of the year to the other, he added, what
is quite true--that, perhaps, after all, they are happier than that very
large class of men who have leisure without culture, and whose sole
occupation is either the killing of game or the killing of time--that is
the killing of the most valuable possession that we have.
But I will not detain you any longer for, as I did say, I did not come
here to make a speech, and I did not know what I was going to say when I
came. I generally, on such occasions, trust to the spur of the moment,
and sometimes the moment forgets its spur. [Laughter and applause.]
* * * * *