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THE ARENA.
No. XXIII.
OCTOBER, 1891.
[Illustration: James Russell Lowell (signed J. R. Lowell)]
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
BY GEORGE STEWART, D. C. L., LL. D.
With loving breath of all the winds, his name
Is blown about the world; but to his friends
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame,
And love steals shyly through the loud acclaim
To murmur a _God bless you_! and there ends.
When Longfellow had reached his sixtieth year, James Russell Lowell,
then in his splendid prime, sent him those lines as a birthday
greeting. Lowell, since then, received in his turn many similar
tributes of affection, but none that seemed to speak so promptly from
the heart as those touching words of love to an old friend. To himself
they might well have been applied in all truthfulness and sincerity.
Of the famous group of New England singers, that gave strength and
reality to American letters, but three names survived until the other
day, when, perhaps the greatest of them all passed away. Whittier and
Holmes remain, but Lowell, the younger of the three, and from whom so
much was still expected, is no more to gladden, to delight, to enrich,
and to instruct the age in which he occupied so eminent a place.
Bryant was the first to go, and then Longfellow was called. Emerson
followed soon after, and now it is Lowell's hand which has dropped
forever the pen. At first his illness did not cause much uneasiness,
but those near him soon began to observe indications of the great
change that was going on. At the last, dissolution was not slow in
coming, and death relieved the patient of his sufferings in the early
hours of Wednesday, August 12th. Practically, however, it was conceded
that his life-work had been completed a few months ago, when his
publishers presented the reading world with his writings in ten
sumptuous volumes, six containing the prose works, and the other four
the poems and satires. He was, with the single exception of Matthew
Arnold, the foremost critic of his time. Everything he said was well
said. The jewels abounded on all sides. His adroitness, his fancy, his
insight, his perfect good-humor, and his rare scholarship and delicate
art, emphasize themselves on every page of his books. His political
and literary addresses were models of what those things should be.
They were often graceful and epigrammatic, but always sterling in
their value and full of thought. Long ago he established his claim to
the title of poet, and as the years went by, his muse grew stronger,
richer, fresher, and more original. As an English critic, writing
pleasantly of him and his work, in the London _Spectator_ said lately:
"His books are delightful reading, with no monotony except a monotony
of brilliance which an occasional lapse into dulness would almost
diversify."
James Russell Lowell was descended from a notable ancestry. His father
was a clergyman, the pastor of the West Church in Boston. His mother
was a woman of fine mind, a great lover of poetry, and mistress of
several languages. From her, undoubtedly, the gifted son inherited his
taste for _belles-lettres_ and foreign tongues. He was born at
Cambridge, Mass., on the 22d of February, 1819, and named after his
father's maternal grandfather, Judge James Russell. After spending a
few years at the town school, under Mr. William Wells, a famous
teacher in his day, he entered Harvard University, and in 1838 was
graduated. He wrote the class poem of the year, and took up the study
of law. But the latter he soon relinquished for letters. His first
book was a small collection of verse entitled "A Year's Life." It gave
indication of what followed. There were traces of real poetry in the
volume, and none who read it doubted the poet's future success in his
courtship of the muse. In 1843 he tried magazine publishing, his
partner in the venture being Robert Carter. Three numbers only of _The
Pioneer_, _a Literary and Critical Magazine_, were published, and
though it contained contributions by Hawthorne, Lowell, Poe, Dwight,
Neal, Mrs. Browning, and Parsons, it failed to make its way, and the
young editor prudently withdrew it. In the next year he published the
"Legend of Brittany, Miscellaneous Poems and Sonnets." A marked
advance in his art was immediately noticed. His lyrical strength, his
passion, his terse vocabulary, his exquisite fancy and tenderness
illumed every page, giving it dignity and color. The legend reminded
the reader of an Old World poem, and "Prometheus" too, might have been
written abroad. "Rhoecus" was cast in the Greek mold, and told the
story, very beautifully and very artistically, of the wood-nymph and
the bee. But there were other poems in the collection, such as "To
Perdita Singing," "The Heritage," and "The Forlorn," which at once
caught the ear of lovers of true melody. A volume of prose essays
succeeded this book. It was entitled "Conversations on some of the Old
Poets," and when Mr. Lowell became Mr. Longfellow's successor in the
chair of modern languages and _belles-lettres_ at Harvard, much of
this material was used in his lectures to the students. But later on,
we will concern ourselves more directly with the author's prose.
In December, 1844, Mr. Lowell espoused Miss Maria White, of Watertown.
She was a lady of gentle character, and a poet of singular grace. The
marriage was a most happy one, and it was to her that many of the love
poems of Lowell were inscribed. Once he wrote:--
"A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud not opened quite,
That hourly grew more pure and white,
By morning, and noon-tide, and evening nursed:
In all of Nature thou had'st thy share;
Thou wast waited on
By the wind and sun;
The rain and the dew for thee took care;
It seemed thou never could'st be more fair."
She died on the 27th of October, 1853, the day that a child was born
to Mr. Longfellow. The latter's touching and perfect poem, "The Two
Angels," refers to this death and birth:--
"'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine,
The angel with the amaranthine wreath,
Pausing, descended, and with voice divine,
Whispered a word that had a sound like death.
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.
All is of God! If He but wave His hand,
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,
Till with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud."
A privately printed volume of Mrs. Lowell's poems appeared a year or
two after her death. Mr. Lowell's second wife was Miss Frances Dunlap,
of Portland, Maine, whom he married in September, 1857. She died in
February, 1885.
Mr. Lowell was ever pronounced in his hatred of wrong, and naturally
enough he was found on the side of Garrison, Wendell Phillips, and
Whittier, in their great battle against that huge blot on
civilization, slavery in America. He spoke and wrote in behalf of the
abolitionists at a time when the anti-slavery men were openly despised
as heartily in the North as they were feared and detested in the
South. He wrote with a pen which never faltered, and satire, irony,
and fierce invective accomplished their work with a will, and moved
many a heart, almost despairing, to renewed energy.
"The Vision of Sir Launfal" was published in 1848, and it will be read
as long as men and women admire tales of chivalry and the stirring
stories of King Arthur's court. Tennyson's "Idyls" will keep his fame
alive, and Lowell's Sir Launfal, which tells of the search for the
Holy Grail, the cup from which Christ drank when he partook of the
last supper with his disciples, will also have a place among the best
of the Arthurian legends. It is said that Mr. Lowell wrote this strong
poem in forty-eight hours, during which he hardly slept or ate.
Stedman calls it "a landscape poem," a term amply justified. It
contains many quotable extracts, such as, "And what is so rare as a
day in June," "Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, from
the snow five thousand summers old," and "Earth gets its price for
what earth gives us." We are constantly meeting these in the magazines
and in the newspapers. The vision did much to bring about a larger
recognition of the author's powers as a poet of the first order. He
had to wait some time to gain this, and in that respect he resembled
Robert Browning, at first so obscure, at last compelling approval
from all.
The field of American literature, as it existed in 1848, was surveyed
by Lowell in his happiest manner, as a satirist, in that clever
production, by a wonderful Quiz, A Fable for Critics, "Set forth in
October, the 31st day, in the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway." For
some time the authorship remained a secret, though there were many
shrewd guesses as to the paternity of the biting shafts of wit and
delicately baited hooks. It was written mainly for the author's own
amusement, and with no thought of publication. Daily instalments of
the poem were sent off, as soon as written, to a friend of the poet,
Mr. Charles F. Briggs, of New York, who found the lines so
irresistibly good, that he begged permission to hand them over to
Putnam's for publication. This, however, Mr. Lowell declined to do,
until he found that the repeated urging of his friend would not be
stayed. Then he consented to anonymous publication. The secret was
kept, until, as the author himself tells us, "several persons laid
claim to its authorship." No poem has been oftener quoted than the
fable. It is full of audacious things. The authors of the day, and
their peculiar characteristics (Lowell himself not being spared in the
least), are held up to admiring audiences with all their sins and
foibles exposed to the public gaze. It was intended to have "a sting
in his tale," this "frail, slender thing, rhymey-winged," and it had
it decidedly. Some of the authors lampooned took the matter up, in
downright sober earnest, and objected to the seat in the pillory which
they were forced to occupy unwillingly. But they forgave the satirist,
as the days went by, and they realized that, after all, the fun was
harmless, nobody was hurt actually, and all were treated alike by the
ready knife of the fabler. But what could they say to a man who thus
wrote of himself?--
"There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb
With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rhyme,
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,
But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders.
The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching
Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching;
His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,
But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,
And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem,
At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem."
Apart from the humorous aspect of the fable, there is, certainly, a
good deal of sound criticism in the piece. It may be brief, it may be
inadequate, it may be blunt, but for all that it is truthful, and
decidedly just, as far as it goes. Bryant, who was called cold, took
umbrage at the portrait drawn of him. But his verse has all the cold
glitter of the Greek bards, despite the fact that he is America's
greatest poet of nature, and some of his songs are both sympathetic
and sweet, such as the "Lines to a Water-fowl," "The Flood of Years,"
"The Little People of the Snow," and "Thanatopsis."
But now we come to the book which gave Mr. Lowell his strongest place
in American letters, and revealed his remarkable powers as a humorist,
satirist, and thinker. We have him in this work, at his very best. The
vein had never been thoroughly worked before. The Yankee of Haliburton
appeared ten years earlier than the creations of Lowell. But Sam Slick
was a totally different person from Hosea Biglow and Birdofredum
Sawin. Slick was a very interesting man, and he has his place in
fiction. His sayings and doings are still read, and his wise saws
continue to be pondered over. But the Biglow type seems to our mind,
more complete, more rounded, more perfect, more true, indeed, to
nature. The art is well proportioned all through, and the author
justifies Bungay's assumption, that he had attained the rank of
Butler, whose satire heads the list of all such productions. Butler,
however, Lowell really surpassed. The movement is swift, and there is
an individuality about the whole performance, which stamps it
undeniably as a masterpiece. The down-east dialect is managed with
consummate skill, the character-drawing is superlatively fine, and the
sentiments uttered, ringing like a bell, carry conviction. The
invasion of Mexico was a distasteful thing to many people because it
was felt that that war was dishonorable, and undertaken solely for the
benefit of the slaveholder, who was looking out for new premises,
where he might ply his calling, and continue the awful trade of
bondage, and his dealings in flesh and blood. Mr. Lowell's heart was
steeled against that expedition, and the first series of his Biglow
papers, introduced to the world by the Reverend Homer Wilbur, showed
how deeply earnest he was, and how terribly rigorous he could be, when
the scalpel had to be used. The first knowledge that the reading
world had of the curious, ingenuous, and quaint Hosea, was the
communication which his father, Ezekiel Biglow, sent to the Boston
_Courier_, covering a poem in the Yankee dialect, by the hand of the
young down-easter. It at once commanded notice. The idea was so new,
the homely truths were so well put, the language in print was so
unusual, and the "hits" were so well aimed, that the critics were
baffled. The public took hold immediately, and it soon spread that a
strong and bold pen was helping the reformers in their unpopular
struggle. The blows were struck relentlessly, but men and women
laughed through their indignation. There were some who rebelled at the
coarseness of the satire, but all recognized that the author, whoever
he might be, was a scholar, a man of thought, and a genuine
philanthropist, who could not be put down. Volunteers were wanted, and
Boston was asked to raise her quota. But Hosea Biglow, in his
charmingly scornful way said:--
"Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle
On them kittle-drums o' yourn,--
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn.
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be,--
Guess you'll toot till you are yaller
'Fore you git ahold o' me!"
The parson adds a note, sprinkled with Latin and Greek sentences, as
is his wont. The letters from the first page to the last, in the
collected papers, are amazingly clever. The reverend gentleman who
edits the series is a type himself, full of pedantic and pedagogic
learning, anxious always to show off his knowledge of the classics,
and solemn and serious ever as a veritable owl. His notes and
introductions, and scrappy Latin and Greek, are among the most
admirable things in the book. Their humor is delicious, and the mock
criticisms and opinions of the press, offered by Wilbur on the work of
his young friend, and his magnificent seriousness, which constantly
shows itself, give a zest to the performance, which lingers long on
the mind. The third letter contains the often-quoted poem, "What Mr.
Robinson Thinks."
"Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He's ben on all sides that give place or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,--
He's ben true to _one_ party,--an' thet is himself:--
So John P.
Robinson, he
Sez he shall vote for Gineral C.
* * * * *
Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life
That th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller tail coats,
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To get some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;
But John P.
Robinson, he
Says they didn't know everything down in Judee."
Despite the sometimes harsh criticism which the Biglow papers evoked,
Mr. Lowell kept on sending them out at regular intervals, knowing that
every blow struck was a blow in the cause of right, and every attack
was an attack on the meannesses of the time. The flexible dialect
seemed to add honesty to the poet's invective. The satire was
oftentimes savage enough, but the vehicle by which it was conveyed,
carried it off. There was danger that Lowell might exceed his limit,
but the excess so nearly reached, never came. The papers aroused the
whole country, said Whittier, and did as much to free the slave,
almost, as Grant's guns. In one of the numbers, Mr. Lowell produced,
quite by accident, as it were, his celebrated poem of "The Courtin'."
This was in the second series, begun in the _Atlantic Monthly_, of
which he was, in 1857, one of the founders, and editor. This series
was written during the time of the American Civil War, and the object
was to ridicule the revolt of the Southern States, and show up the
demon of secession in its true colors. Birdofredum Sawin, now a
secessionist, writes to Hosea Biglow, and the poem is, of course,
introduced as usual, by the parson. The humor is more grim and
sardonic, for the war was a stern reality, and Mr. Lowell felt the
need of making his work tell with all the force that he could put into
it. In response to a request for enough "copy" to fill out a certain
editorial page, Lowell wrote rapidly down the verses which became, at
a bound, so popular. He added, from time to time, other lines. This is
the story of the Yankee courtship of Zekle and Huldy:--
"The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.
* * * * *
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her chair a jerk
As though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.
'You want to see my pa, I s'pose?'
'Wall,--no--I come dasignin'--'
'To see my ma? She's sprinklin' clo's
Agin to-morrer's i'nin.'
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't 'ould be prosumin',
Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_
Comes natural to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, 'I'd better call agin;'
Says she, 'Think likely, mister;'
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An'--wall, he up an' kist her.
When ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose natures never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer wind
Snow-hid in Janooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',
Till mother see how matters stood,
An' gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they war cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday."
During the war, Great Britain sided principally with the South. This
the North resented, and the Trent affair only added fuel to the
flame. It was in one of the Biglow papers that Mr. Lowell spoke to
England, voicing the sentiments and feelings of the Northern people.
That poem was called "Jonathan to John," and it made a great
impression on two continents. It was full of the keenest irony, and
though bitter, there was enough common sense in it, to make men read
it, and think. It closes thus patriotically:--
"Shall it be love, or hate, John?
It's you thet's to decide;
Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?'
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess
Wise men forgive,' sez he,
'But not forgit; an' some time yit
Thet truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!'
'God means to make this land, John,
Clear, then, from sea to sea.
Believe an' understand, John,
The _wuth_ o' bein' free.'
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess,
God's price is high,' sez he;
'But nothin' else than wut He sells
Wears long, an' thet J. B.
May larn, like you an' me!'"
The work concludes with notes, a glossary of Yankee terms, and a
copious index. The chapter which tells of the death of Parson Wilbur
is one of the most exquisite things that Lowell has done in prose. The
reader who has followed the fortunes of the Reverend Homer, is
profoundly touched by the reflection that he will see him no more. He
had grown to be a real personage, and long association with him had
made him a friend. On this point, Mr. Underwood relates an incident,
which is worth quoting here:--
"The thought of grief for the death of an imaginary person is not
quite so absurd as it might appear. One day, while the great
novel of 'The Newcomes' was in course of publication, Lowell, who
was then in London, met Thackeray on the street. The novelist was
serious in manner, and his looks and voice told of weariness and
affliction. He saw the kindly inquiry in the poet's eyes, and
said, 'Come into Evan's and I'll tell you all about it. I have
killed the Colonel.'"
So they walked in and took a table in a remote corner, and then
Thackeray, drawing the fresh sheets of manuscript from his breast
pocket, read through that exquisitely touching chapter which records
the death of Colonel Newcome. When he came to the final _Adsum_, the
tears which had been swelling his lids for some time trickled down
upon his face, and the last word was almost an inarticulate sob.
The volume "Under the Willows," which contains the poems written at
intervals during ten or a dozen years, includes such well-remembered
favorites as "The First Snowfall," for an autograph "A Winter Evening
Hymn to My Fire," "The Dead House" (wonderfully beautiful it is), "The
Darkened Mind," "In the Twilight," and the vigorous "Villa Franca" so
full of moral strength. It appeared in 1869. Mr. Lowell's pen was
always busy about this time and earlier. He was a regular contributor
to the _Atlantic_ in prose and verse. He was lecturing to his students
and helping Longfellow with his matchless translation of Dante,
besides having other irons in the fire.
It is admitted that the greatest poem of the Civil War was, by all
odds, Mr. Lowell's noble commemoration ode. In that blood-red struggle
several of his kinsmen were slain, among them Gen. C. R. Lowell,
Lieut. I. I. Lowell, and Lieutenant Putnam, all nephews. His ode which
was written in 1865, and recited July 21, at the Harvard commemoration
services, is dedicated "To the ever sweet and shining memory of the
ninety-three sons of Harvard College, who have died for their country
in the war of nationality." It is, in every way, a great effort, and
the historic occasion which called it forth will not be forgotten. The
audience assembled to listen to it was very large. No hall could hold
the company, and so the ringing words were spoken in the open air.
Meade, the hero of Gettysburg, stood at one side, and near him were
Story, poet and sculptor, fresh from Rome, and General Devens,
afterwards judge, and fellows of Lowell's own class at college. The
most distinguished people of the Commonwealth lent their presence to
the scene. There was a hushed silence while Lowell spoke, and when he
uttered the last grand words of his ode, every heart was full, and the
old wounds bled afresh, for hardly one of that vast throng had escaped
the badge of mourning, for a son, or brother, or father, lost in that
war.
"Bow down, dear land, for thou hast found release!
Thy God, in these distempered days,
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways,
And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!
Bow down in prayer and praise!
No poorest in thy borders but may now
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow.
O Beautiful! My Country! ours once more!
Smoothing thy gold of war-disheveled hair
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore,
And letting thy set lips,
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse,
The rosy edges of their smile lay bare.
What words divine of lover or of poet
Could tell our love and make thee know it,
Among the nations bright beyond compare?
What were our lives without thee?
What all our lives to save thee?
We reck not what we gave thee;
We will not dare to doubt thee,
But ask whatever else, and we will dare.
"The Cathedral," dedicated most felicitously to the late James T.
Fields, the author publisher, written in 1869, was published early in
the following year in the _Atlantic Monthly_, and immediately won the
applause of the more thoughtful reader. It is a poem of great
grandeur, suggestive in the highest degree and rich in description and
literary finish. Three memorial odes, one read at the one hundredth
anniversary of the fight at Concord Bridge, one under the old elm, and
one for the Fourth of July, 1876, followed. The Concord ode appears to
be the more striking and brilliant of the three, but all are
satisfactory specimens, measured by the standard which governs the
lyric.
"Heartsease and Rue," is the graceful title of Mr. Lowell's last
volume of verse. A good many of his personal poems are included in the
collection, such as his charming epistle to George William Curtis, the
elegant author of "Prue and I," one of the sweetest books ever
written, inscribed to Mrs. Henry W. Longfellow, in memory of the happy
hours at our castles in Spain; the magnificent apostrophe to Agassiz;
the birthday offering to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes; the lines to
Whittier on his seventy-fifth birthday; the verses on receiving a copy
of Mr. Austin Dobson's "Old World Idyls," and Fitz Adam's story,
playful, humorous, and idyllic.
In his young days, Mr. Lowell wrote much for the newspapers and
serials. To the _Dial_, the organ of the transcendentalists, he
contributed frequently, and his poems and prose will be found
scattered through the pages of _The Democratic Review_, _The North
American Review_, of which he ultimately became editor, _The
Massachusetts Quarterly Review_, and the Boston _Courier_. His prose
was well received by scholars. It is terse and strong, and whatever
position history may assign to him as a poet there can never be any
question about his place among the ablest essayists of his century.
"Fireside Travels," the first of the brilliant series of prose works
that we have, attract by their singular grace and graciousness. The
picture of Cambridge thirty years ago, is full of charming
reminiscences that must be very dear to Cambridge men and women. "The
Moosehead Journal," and "Leaves from the Journal in Italy, Happily
Turned," are rich in local color. "Among My Books," and "My Study
Windows," the addresses on literary and political topics, and the
really able paper on Democracy, which proved a formidable answer to
his critics, fill out the list of Mr. Lowell's prose contributions.
The literary essays are especially well done. Keats tinged his poetry
when he was quite a young man. He never lost taste of Endymion or the
Grecian urn, and his estimate of the poet, whose "name was writ in
water," is in excellent form and full of sympathy. Wordsworth, too, he
read and re-read with fresh delight, and it is interesting to compare
his views of the lake poet with those of Matthew Arnold. The older
poets, such as Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Dryden, and Pope
in English, and Dante in Italian, find in Mr. Lowell a penetrating and
helpful critic. His analyses are made with rare skill and nice
discrimination. He is never hasty in giving expression to his opinion,
and every view that he gives utterance to, exhibits the process by
which it reached its development. The thought grows under his hand,
apparently. The paper on Pope, with whose writings he was familiar at
an early age, is a most valuable one, being especially rich in
allusion and in quality. He finds something new to say about the bard
of Avon, and says it in a way which emphasizes its originality.
Indeed, every essay is a strong presentation of what Lowell had in his
mind at the time. He is not content to confine his observation to the
name before him. He enlarges always the scope of his paper, and runs
afield, picking up here and there citations, and illustrating his
points, by copious drafts on literature, history, scenery, and
episode. He was well equipped for his task, and his wealth of
knowledge, his fine scholarly taste, his remarkable grasp of
everything that he undertook, his extensive reading, all within call,
added to a captivating style, imparted to his writings the tone which
no other essayist contemporary with him, save Matthew Arnold, was able
to achieve. Thoreau and Emerson are adequately treated, and the
library of old authors is a capital digest, which all may read with
profit. The paper on Carlyle, which is more than a mere review of the
old historian's "Frederick the Great," is a noble bit of writing,
sympathetic in touch, and striking as a portrait. It was written in
1866. And then there are papers in the volumes on Lessing, Swinburne's
Tragedies, Rousseau, and the Sentimentalists, and Josiah Quincy, which
bring out Mr. Lowell's critical acumen even stronger. Every one who
has read anything during the last fifteen years or so, must remember
that bright _Atlantic_ essay on "A Certain Condescension in
Foreigners." It is Mr. Lowell's serenest vein, hitting right and left
skilful blows, and asserting constantly his lofty Americanism. The
essay was needed. A lesson had to be given, and no better hands could
have imparted it. Mr. Lowell was a master of form in literary
composition,--that is in his prose, for he has been caught napping,
occasionally, in his poetry,--and his difficulty was slight in
choosing his words.
As a speaker he was successful. His addresses before noted gatherings
in Britain and elsewhere are highly artistic. In Westminster Abbey he
pronounced two, one on Dean Stanley, and the other on Coleridge,
which, though brief, could scarcely be excelled, so perfect, so
admirable, so dignified are they. The same may be said of the
addresses on General Garfield, Fielding, Wordsworth, and Don Quixote.
Mr. Lowell on such occasions always acquitted himself gracefully. He
had few gestures, his voice was sweet, and the beauty of his language,
his geniality, and courteous manner drew every one towards him. He was
a great student, and preacher, and teacher of reform. He was in favor
of the copyright law, and did his utmost to bring it about. He worked
hard to secure tariff reform, and a pet idea of his was the
reformation of the American civil service system. On all these
subjects he spoke and wrote to the people with sincerity and
earnestness. When aroused he could be eloquent, and even in later
life, sometimes, some of the fire of the early days when he fought the
slaveholders and the oppressors, would burst out with its old time
energy. He was ever outspoken and fearless, regardless, apparently, of
consequences, so long as his cause was just.
As professor of _belles-lettres_ at Harvard University, he had ample
opportunity for cultivating his literary studies, and though he
continued to take a lively interest always in the political changes
and upheavals constantly going on about him, he never applied for
office. In politics he was a Republican. His party offered him the
mission to Russia, but he declined the honor. During the Hayes
administration, however, when his old classmate, General Devens, had a
seat in the Cabinet, the government was more successful with him. He
was tendered the post of Minister to Spain. This was in 1877, and he
accepted it, somewhat half-heartedly, to be sure, for he had
misgivings about leaving his lovely home at Elmwood, the house he was
born in, the pride and glory of his life, the _locale_ of many of his
poems, the historic relic of royalist days. And then again, he did not
care to leave the then unbroken circle of friends, for Dr. Holmes,
John Holmes, Agassiz, Longfellow, Norton, Fields, John Bartlett,
Whipple, Hale, James Freeman Clarke, and others of the famous Saturday
club, he saw almost every day. And then, yet again, there was the
whist club, how could he leave that? But he was overcome, and he went
to Spain, and began, among the grandees and dons, his diplomatic
career. His fame had preceded him, and he knew the language and
literature of Cervantes well. It was not long before he became the
friend of all with whom he came into contact. But no great diplomatic
work engaged his attention, for there was none to do. The Queen
Mercedes died, during his term, much beloved, and Mr. Lowell wrote in
her memory one of his most chaste and beautiful sonnets:--
"Hers all that earth could promise or bestow,--
Youth, Beauty, Love, a crown, the beckoning years,
Lids never wet, unless with joyous tears,
A life remote from every sordid woe,
And by a nation's swelled to lordlier flow.
What lurking-place, thought we, for doubts or fears,
When, the day's swan, she swam along the cheers
Of the Acala, five happy months ago?
The guns were shouting Io Hymen then
That, on her birthday, now denounce her doom;
The same white steeds that tossed their scorn of men
To-day as proudly drag her to the tomb.
Grim jest of fate! yet who dare call it blind,
Knowing what life is, what our humankind?"
In 1880, he was transferred to London, as "his excellency, the
ambassador of American literature to the court of Shakespeare," as a
writer in the _Spectator_ deliciously put it. He had a good field to
work in, but, as the duties were light, he had ample time on his
hands. He went about everywhere, the idol of all, the most engaging of
men. Naturally, his tastes led him among scholars who in their turn
made much of him. He was asked frequently to speak or deliver
addresses and he always responded with tact. The universities of
Oxford and Cambridge conferred on him their highest honors and the
ancient Scottish University of Saint Andrew elected him rector,--a
rare compliment, Emerson only being the other citizen of the United
States so marked out for academic distinction. Some of his compatriots
hinted that his English life was making him un-American. Others more
openly asserted that the United States minister was fast losing the
republic feelings which he took from America, and was becoming a
British Conservative. The reply to those innuendoes and charges will
be found in his spirited address on Democracy, which proves undeniably
his sturdy faith in American institutions, American principles, and
American manhood. Mr. Lowell maintained to the letter the political
and national views which had long guided his career. His admirable
temper and agreeable manner won the hearts of the people, but no
effort was made to win him away from his allegiance, nor would he have
permitted it had it been tried. In addition to being a great man and a
well-informed statesman, he was a gentleman of culture and refinement.
His gentleness and amiability may have been misconstrued by some, but
be that as it may, the fact remains, he never showed weakness in the
discharge of his diplomatic duties. He represented the United States
in the fullest sense of the term. In 1885, he returned to America, Mr.
E. J. Phelps taking his place, under President Cleveland. Though a
Republican, Mr. Lowell differed from his party on the presidential
candidate question. He favored the election of the Democrat nominee.
Had he been in America during the campaign, he would have been found
with Mr. George William Curtis, and his friends, opposing the return
of Mr. Blaine. From 1885 to the date of his death, he added little to
the volume of his literary work. He spent part of his time in England,
and part in the United States. A poem, a brief paper, or an address or
two, came from his pen, at irregular intervals. He edited a complete
edition of his writings in ten volumes, and left behind him an
unfinished biography of Hawthorne, which he was preparing for the
American Men of Letters Series.
HEALING THROUGH MIND.
BY HENRY WOOD.
Truth may be considered as a rounded unit. Truths have various and
unequal values, but each has its peculiar place, and if it be missing
or distorted, the loss is not only local but general. Unity is made up
of variety, and therein is completeness. Any honest search after truth
is profitable, for thereby is made manifest the Kingdom of the Real.
During the fifteen years just past, but more especially within the
last third of that period, a widespread interest has been developed in
the question: Can disease be healed through mental treatment? If so,
under what conditions and subject to what limitations? Has mental
healing a philosophical and scientific basis, or is it variously
composed of quackery, superstition, and assumption? In the simplest
terms, how much truth does it contain? Any candid inquirer will admit
that even if a minimum of its claims can be established, the world
needs it. If it can be of service in lessening or mitigating the
appalling aggregation of human suffering, disease, and woe, it should
receive not only recognition, but a cordial welcome.
At the outset, it is proper to state that I have no professional nor
pecuniary interest in any method of healing. The evolution of truth is
my only object. To this end, critical and impartial investigation is
necessary. While a personal experience of great practical benefit
first aroused my interest in the subject, I have cultivated
conservatism and incredulity in forming opinions, which are made up
from a careful investigation of its literature, its philosophy, and
its practical demonstrations.
The first point noticeable is the peculiar attitude of popular
sentiment toward this movement. The unreasonable prejudice which has
been displayed, and the flippant condemnation that it has generally
received in advance of any investigation, illy befit the boasted
impartiality and liberality of the closing decade of the nineteenth
century. When the "Fatherhood of God" and the "Brotherhood of Man"
are so much on men's lips, and when the spirit of altruism is supposed
to be at the floodtide, here is what claims to be the essential
quality of them all denied even a hearing. The testimony of hundreds
of clergymen, philanthropists, Christians, and humanitarians, is
classed as "delusion," and the experience of thousands who have
received demonstrations in their own persons [information of which is
accessible to any candid investigator], is passed by as an idle tale.
It furnishes material for satire to the writer for the religious
weekly, and a prolific butt for jokes to the paragrapher of the daily
journal. The news of its failures is spread broadcast in bold
head-lines by the sensational press. The fact that other kinds of
treatment denominated "regular" also fail, seems never to be thought
of. The mental healer, regardless of his success, is looked upon as an
enthusiast, or worse, and even the citizen who modestly accepts the
theory of possible mind-healing, is regarded as credulous and
visionary by those who pride themselves upon their practicality. Why
does this prejudice exist, when advancement in physical science
uniformly meets with a friendly reception?
Perhaps the most important reason why "there is no room in the inn"
for truth of the higher realm, is the prevailing materialism. Our
western civilization prides itself upon its practicality; but
externality would better define it. We forget that immaterial forces
rule not only the invisible but the visible universe. Things to look
real to us must be cognizant to the physical senses. Matter, whether
in the vegetable, animal, or human organism, is moulded, shaped, and
its quality determined by unseen forces back of and higher than
itself.
We rely upon the drug, because we can feel, taste, see, and smell it.
We are color-blind to invisible potency of a higher order, and
practically conclude that it is nonexistent.
One reason for the prevailing adverse prejudice is that this new
thought disturbs the foundation-stones of existing and time-honored
systems and creeds. The literalism and externality of formulated
theology are rebuked by the simplicity of the spiritual and internal
forces which are here brought to light. The barrenness of intellectual
scholasticism is in sharp contrast with the overflowing love and
simple transparency which reveal the image of God in every man, and as
an incidental result, possible health and harmony.
History ever repeats itself in the uniform suspicion with which
advanced thought has been received by existing institutions. It seems
difficult to learn the lesson, that the human apprehension of truth is
ever expanding, while creeds are but "arrested developments, frozen
into fixed forms." As might be inferred, the clergy and the religious
press, as a rule, are distrustful of this advance, and see little that
is good in it. It is fair to admit that this disposition is often due
more to misunderstanding, than to intentional injustice.
Another cause for its unwelcome reception is that it distrusts the
dominant medical systems. All honor to the multitude of noble and
brave men who from the old standpoint have battled with disease, and
who have ever been on the alert to utilize every possible balm, in
order to restore disordered humanity. But systems are tenacious of
life in proportion as they are hoary with age. They mould men to their
own shape; to break with them is difficult: tradition, pride,
professional honor, and loyalty, and often social and pecuniary
status, are all like strong cords, which bind even great men to their
conventional grooves.
A further ground for the general unbelief is found in the
peculiarities of the apostles and exponents of the new departure. A
division into schools and cliques, the out-cropping of personality,
exclusiveness, and internal criticism, statements of doctrine in forms
likely to be misunderstood, and a technical phraseology have, in a
measure, prevented a free and full understanding of principles, which
are really simple and transparent.
Popular distrust is also awakened by the fact that, as a rule, mental
healers have not regularly studied pathology, nor even anatomy. But it
will be seen that if the principle of mental causation for disease is
once admitted, mentality rather than physiology should furnish the
field for operations. In order to heal, the mind of the patient must
be brought into unison with that of the practitioner, and therefore,
the latter must wash his own mind clean of spectres and even of
studies of disease, and fill it to overflowing with ideals of health
and harmony.
Another reason for misapprehension is the fact that mind healing is
not demonstrable by argument. It is not intellectually apprehended. It
concerns the inner man and can only be grasped by the deeper vision of
intuitional and spiritual sense. It is like a cyclorama, the beauty of
which is all inside. An outside view is no view at all.
Is there a necessity for some radical reinforcement to conventional
instrumentalities to aid us in our warfare with human ills? Is it
desirable to find some new vantage ground, and some more effective
weapons? There can be but one answer. While surgery has been making
rapid strides toward the position of an exact science, confidence in
materia medica is on the wane. The surgeon is only a marvellously
skilful mechanic who adjusts the parts, and then the divine,
recuperative forces vitalize and complete his work. He only makes the
figures, while the principle solves the problem. The adaptability of
drugs to heal disease is becoming a matter of doubt, even among many
who have not yet studied deeper causation. Materia medica lacks the
exact elements of a science. The just preponderance for good or ill of
any drug upon the human system is an unsolved problem, and will so
remain. The fact that a fresh remedy seems to work well while it is
much talked about, and then gradually appears to lose its efficacy,
suggests that it is the atmosphere of general belief in the medicine,
and not the medicine itself that accomplishes the visible result. It
is well known that bread pills sometimes prove to be a powerful
cathartic, even from individual belief; but general belief would be
necessary in order to make them always reliable. General beliefs often
have a very slight original basis, but gradually grow until their
cumulative power is enormous. If scientific, the same remedies once
adopted should remain; but instead, there is a continual transition.
Fashions and fads are not significant of exact science. Elixirs of
life, lymphs, and other specifics have their short run, and then join
the endless procession to the rear. Many lives are sacrificed in
experiments, but no criticism is made because the treatment is
administered by those who are within the limits of the "regular"
profession. After centuries of professional research, in order to
perfect the "art of healing," diseases have steadily grown more subtle
and numerous. Combinations, distillations, extracts, and decoctions of
almost every known material substance have been experimented with, in
order to discover their true bearing upon that ever-receding ideal,
the banishment of disease. If materia medica were a science, disease
should be in a process of extermination. It does not look as if this
were expected, for doctors with diplomas are multiplying in a much
greater ratio than the population, and already we have more than three
times the proportionate quota of Germany. As our material civilization
recedes from nature and grows more artificial, diseases, doctors, and
remedies multiply. What can be more beautiful and perfect than the
human eye; yet how commonly this organ requires artificial aid. The
human senses are losing their tone, and if present tendencies
continue, it seems almost as if the future man would be not only bald,
but toothless and eyeless, unless he receives an entire artificial
equipment. Only when internal, divine forces come to be relied upon,
rather than outside reinforcement, will deterioration cease.
Scores of the most eminent physicians, who have risen above the
trammels of system, have vigorously expressed themselves regarding the
utterly unreliable character of the drug system. Emerson affirmed that
"The best part of health is a fine disposition." Said Plato, "You
ought not to attempt to cure the body without the soul." A
distinguished doctor of to-day remarked, "Of the nature of disease,
and from whence it comes, we still know nothing, but thanks to
chemistry we have new supplies of ammunition. For every drug of our
fathers, we have now a hundred. We have iodides, chlorides, and
bromides without number; sulphates, nitrates, hydrochlorates, and
prussiates beyond count. But we do not believe in heroic doses. We
give but little medicine at a time and change it often." With such
supplies of "ammunition," people within range are liable to get hit.