celebrate his fiftieth birthday. The celebration took place at Lowell's house, Elmwood, near Cambridge, Massachusetts. The New York Galaxy had a pretty poem on the event by one of his friends, Mr. Cranch, in which, with a literal truth not always to be found in poetic compliment, Mr. Lowell is described as

"Still young in wit and song;

His hair unbleached, his eye undimmed, his frame
Robust; a scholar ripe, a teacher strong."

The poet and scholar is now in his fifty-sixth year, but
would be set down by any stranger for at least ten years
younger. There is not a great deal to be said about the
history of his quiet life. He was born in 1819, and be
comes of a family distinguished in Massachusetts. His
father was eminent as a divine. One of the family founded
the thriving city of Lowell; another founded the Lowell
Institute at Boston. One of James Russell Lowell's
nephews, a young officer of great promise, was killed when
leading a charge of cavalry against the Southern Seces-
sionists in 1864. I believe, indeed, that a second nephew of
Lowell's also lost his life in the war; and I cannot forget
having heard Mr. Lowell speak more in melancholy than
in actual bitterness, of the feelings awakened within him
when, immediately after he had learnt what his family had
sacrificed to the country, he received an English paper
with a leading article informing its readers that the men of
the Northern States kept back from the war themselves,
and had all the fighting done for them by "the scum of
Europe." Mr. Lowell graduated at Harvard and was
admitted to the bar, but very soon renounced law and
published his first collection of poems in 1844. This
volume contains several poems of a considerably older
date, and most of them have to be regarded as the work
of a very young man. Mr. Lowell's maturer writings
his poems composed when he was fifty years old · have
not only far greater grace and strength, but even, as it
seems to me, a much deeper poetic feeling and a richer
fancy than the products of his youth. Readers, especially
in this country, have often asked whether Lowell is in very
truth a poet, or only a man of high thought and exquisite
culture, moulding his sentiments into verse. I certainly
should be disposed to declare him a genuine poet on the
strength of his later productions only. There is a great
deal of original thought, for instance, in the "Prometheus,”
which bears date 1843, and considering what men had
already dealt with that eternal theme, it was a remarkable
feat to give it novelty and freshness once more. It is
curious how poor Prometheus on his rock has been grad-
ually changing and modernizing with the poets who take
up his cause. The Prometheus of Eschylus would not
know himself in the passionate young iconoclast and dev-
otee of modern Liberty whom Shelley pictured. "I
erence thee?" says Goethe's Prometheus indignantly ad-
dressing Zeus, "Wherefore? Hast thou ever lightened
the load of the heavily-laden, or dried the tears of the
anguished?" There we have a Prometheus after Goethe's
own heart and out of Goethe's own head; a Prometheus who
troubles himself little about the grand words of Liberty and
Humanity, and the scorn of priestcraft and tyranny, which
soothe the monotony and bondage of Shelley's Titan, and
is only concerned about man's peace, happiness, and cult-
ure. But Lowell's Prometheus is a Boston transcenden-
talist, and an out-and-out abolitionist. He has evidently
heard Theodore Parker and Emerson. He talks of the
true, and "the sure supremeness of the beautiful," and
proclaims that tyranny is always weakness. "Thou and
all strength shall crumble except Love," is a fine line, with
a really poetic ring in it; but we seem to lose the Titan
and come back to Boston, where we find Prometheus
claiming to be -

"A great voice,

Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight

rev

By Truth and Freedom ever waged with wrong." There is more genuine poetry, perhaps, in the "Legend of Brittany," published at the same time. These two verses, for example, are surely poetry :

:

"As if a lark should suddenly drop dead,
While the blue air yet trembled with its song,
So snapped at once that music's golden thread
Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along
From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread
With instantaneous shiver through the throng,
So that some glanced behind, as half aware,
A hideous shape of dread were standing there.
"As when a crowd of pale men gather round,
Watching an eddy in the leaden deep,
From which they deem the body of one drowned
Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep
An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound,
Until the horror, with a ghastly leap,
Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly,
Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea.'

"

But in truth the political emotions of the time when Lowell was young had a good deal to do with the lack of genuine inspiration of a poetic kind which is to be observed in many or most of these earlier productions. It is to the unfading honor, however, of Lowell's character that the slavery struggle filled his soul too much to allow him to be a mere poet. Instead of poetry he threw off passionate leading articles in verse. What Wendell Phillips would have spoken with that marvellous voice, ranging over all the moods of pathos, scorn, pity, and anger, from the platform of Faneuil Hall; what Theodore Parker would have preached from his pulpit, that Lowell put into verse. Indignation against slavery made verse for him, but sometimes unmade poetry. "Weary on the war!" says the good dame in "Old Mortality;""many's the fair cheek it has spoiled." Weary on slavery, we might say, were it for nothing but the fair poetic fancies it must have spoiled. It seems terrible and cruel waste now, that burning-up of so much precious poetic material to make the fire of popular indignation blaze against that national sin. The Carthaginian girl lending her hair to make bowstrings with, does not seem to have sacrificed so much to her cause as the poet who, in his youth, gives out his inspirations to be cut up into lengths of rhythmic leading articles.

Lowell, however, did not believe he was making any sacrifice, and even if he did, would never have heeded it. He lent all his energy and his anger to the cause. He turned away from law, and practically even from literature, and became one of the agitators of the great new movement. In fact, Lowell began his career in active life - if such a life as his can properly be called active as an anti-slavery politician. There is a curious notion accepted in this country about the cultivated intellect of America keeping always aloof from politics. I suppose the meaning is that highly educated Americans do not often go into Congress. That is true to a great extent, though not to anything like the extent that people here commonly believe. But that highly-educated Americans keep away from participation in political life because they are highly educated is not true; is, indeed, as Carlyle would say, curiously the reverse of the truth. I presume a man can hardly be said to hold aloof from politics who conducts a political journal and takes part in the political organization of his party. I suppose a man who for years and years is an incessant writer of political articles will hardly be said to keep aloof from politics. Congress does not constitute the great political platform of the United States to anything like the degree that Parliament constitutes the great political platform of this country. But I am inclined to think that if on the one hand there is, or lately was, a greater proportion of highly-educated men in Parliament than in Congress, on the other hand, there is a larger proportion of highly-educated Americans engaged in politics outside Congress, than of highly-educated Englishmen similarly engaged outside Parliament. I do not suppose there is in America any culture higher than that represented by Mr. Bryant, Mr. George William Curtis, Mr. Bayard Taylor, Mr. Parke Godwin, and other political journalists and writers of New York; or that represented by Mr. Motley, Mr. Wendell Phillips, and the late Mr. Charles Sumner of Boston, or Mr. Wentworth Higginson of

--

Newport. I must not forget Mr. Bancroft, Mr. Marsh, and Mr. Boker, all now, or until recently, engaged in the diplomatic service. I have already casually mentioned Mr. John Bigelow, and I might add the name, well known now to so many Londoners, of Mr. Stillman, lately American Consul in Crete. All these gentlemen, and many more, whom I could name, are precisely among the number whom any intelligent American would pick out as representing the intellectual culture of his country; and they are politicians far more properly so called than half the members of our House of Commons, for probably, at least, half of our representatives have been returned to Parliament by this or that interest, of family, land, railway, trade, or other influence, quite independent of political services, or even political predilections. In this sense, therefore, Mr. Lowell may be fairly said to have begun his career as a politician, and a very earnest one. I confess that I do not greatly admire the graver poems which he contributed to the anti-slavery struggle as poems, that is to say. "The Present Crisis," written in December, 1845, is said to have produced a profound sensation through all the Northern States. Under the circumstances one can well believe it. But as we read the strong imperious lines that with such fervor called upon America to decide for good or evil, for or against slavery. we find great eloquence but little poetry in them. Mr. Lowell, however, soon found a way to give expression to some of the very rarest qualities of his genius in his rhymed leading articles against slavery, its politics, and its politicians. He turned his indignation into humor. Pascal might have preached many a noble sermon against the Jesuits, which would seem cold enough to the long posterity that delights in the satire of the "Provincial Letters." Voltaire's finest contributions to the "Encyclopédie" would never have kept his memory green like "Zadig" and "Candide." Not many readers, probably even in America, are greatly interested now in Lowell's Anti-Slavery Poems of the graver class. But the "Biglow Papers," by far the greatest humorous and satirical poem (we may view the whole collection as one humorous epic), struck in their day a tremendous blow as a political weapon, and have been ever since admired with increasing admiration as a literary masterpiece. They are indeed the Provincial Letters of the controversy that ended in the extinction of slavery.

The "Biglow Papers" it is not necessary to criticise, even if this paper were meant for an elaborate literary criticism, which it is not, being much rather a string of remarks about the author himself than about his works. But in any case a writer might now be held as fairly exempt from the necessity of analyzing the merits of the "Biglow Papers," as from pointing out the humors of Sam Weller, or expounding the satirical purpose of the "Tale of a Tub." Hosea Biglow took the English mind wonderfully, when we remember how many of the names and allusions, and even of the historical events to which he refers, are dark some mysteries to the ordinary British reader. The broad features of the conflict between slavery and freedom were, of course, intelligible to everybody, and challenged at once sympathetic attention. But how many persons, in an ordinary English drawing-room, or lecture-room, know anything about the history of the Mexican War in which the spirited "Birdofredum Sawin," at first so readily and hopefully engaged, or have any clear idea what way their sympathies ought to go? How many youths who at the Oxford and Cambridge Middle-class Examinations compete for distinctions could give any intelligible account of John C. Calhoun and what he did, and why the author of the "Biglow Papers" does not seem exactly to have approved of his career? The very names of places must often have been a puzzle. The English edition of the "Biglow Papers" with which I am acquainted is provided with a copious glossary at the back, and has explanatory notes on every page. The glossary sometimes seems to trouble itself about giving instruction which is surely rather superfluous. Even a very unimaginative and literal reader might guess that "airth," means "earth," that "argify" meant to argue; "argufy," I fancy, is common enough in

England to-day, and is certainly familiar enough in Dibdin's sailor songs; that "bimeby" is intended to represent "by and by," and that "aree "stands for " area." I do not know what nation the glossary writer can himself belong to, who supposes that an English reader needs the information that "all my eye" is "an ejaculation of incredulity," that" chock ful" means "brimful"- Mrs. Gamp would probably require to be told that "brimful" meant "chockful"-that to "blurt out" is to "speak bluntly," and that to be "done brown" is to be victimized or humbugged. I have taken all these illustrations of superfluous instruction from the very first page of the glossary, and I have been discouraged from going any farther by perceiving that on the next page the glossary explains for the benefit of its English readers a recondite allusion of Hosea Biglow's to "Day and Martin" by mentioning that these are the names of "the eminent London blacking-merchants." I feared to go any farther lest I should find an account of the Three Tailors of Tooley Street, or have to learn from a glossary of the New England dialect that "roast beef" is a dish frequently served in England the old. But it is certain that there are allusions and expressions in almost every page of the Biglow Papers which no ordinary English reader could be expected to understand. I do not mean merely the satirical personal allusions, although these are numerous enough to form a serious stumbling-block to most admirers. When the gallant Birdofredum Sawin is prevented by a sentinel from straggling out of camp in Mexico, he indignantly replies, —

"You ain't agoin' to eat us.

Caleb hain't no monopoly to court the seenoritas."

It would probably puzzle even some American readers now to explain the allusion to a distiguished living diplomatist, once a brigadier-general, which is contained in the remonstrance. But even apart from personal allusions, how many Englishmen can be supposed to know what "hoorawin in ole Funnel" means? "Ole Funnel" is Faneuil Hall, the famous place of public meeting in Boston, named after the merchant who presented it to the city; the "cradle of liberty," as it is called, because so many of the great meetings of citizens were held there at the time of the Declaration of Independence, and the cradle of liberty in another sense also, because it was there that Theodore Parker and Charles Sumner and Garrison and Wendell Phillips so often declaimed against Southern slavery. Difficulties like this bristle for the English reader upon every page and almost in every line. Yet in spite of all these difficulties the "Biglow Papers," when once they got a hearing here at all, forced themselves into the minds and hearts of English readers. Mr. Bright and other speakers quoted from them in the House of Commons, and made the shrewd and

homespun wit of Hosea Biglow familiar soon to all ears. We all learned how "a merciful providence" had fashioned some people "holler, o' purpose that we might our principles swaller." We were reminded that liberty's "a kind o' thing that don't agree with niggers," and that certain politicians could show that we must not be too pedantic in our adherence to the principles of the New Testament, for "they did n't know everything down Judee." Sometimes people were a little alarmed at the seeming irreverence of Hosea's way of putting a thing, as in his famous declaration that

"Ef you take a sword and dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment ain't to answer for it, God 'll send the bill to you."

Or his assurance that

"God hez sed so plump an' fairly; It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've got to git up airly

Ef you want to take in God."

n

But people very quickly saw the genuine reverence of meaning under the seeming irreverence of expression. Scriptural allusions in the New England States are frequently handled in a rough and odd way even by preachers

of the most serious mind. The Rev. Homer Wilbur, the kind, true-hearted, pedantic minister whom Mr. Lowell invented to be spiritual godfather to Hosea Biglow, observes that" He who readeth the hearts of men will not account any dialect unseemly which conveys a sound and pious sentiment." "Saint Ambrose affirms," pursues the worthy divine, "that veritas a quocunque (why not then quomodocunque ?) dicatur a Spiritu Sancto est." Digest also this of Baxter: "The plainest words are the most profitable oratory in the weightiest matters."

Lowell himself has said that when the "Biglow Papers' first made their fame, his graver poems were almost unread in his own country. Their success here and there has indeed overshadowed everything else he has written in whatever style. Much less known, for example, in England, and even in America, is the "Fable for Critics," the audacious little satire which Lowell threw before the public in 1848. The "Fable for Critics" is a sort of attack all round upon the poets, scholars, and essayists whom America was just then delighting to honor. Perhaps it is not quite fair to call it an attack, for in many instances the authors described receive the most liberal and genuine praise; and in no instance is there a tinge of bitterness or ill-nature. It is more, perhaps, in the spirit of Goldsmith's series of poetical epitaphs upon his friends than anything else one can think of. It analyzes with racy irreverence every person and reputation. In the preface, which, though printed as prose, is itself in rhyme, "the excellent public is hereby assured that the sale of my book is already secured." Here is the reason. "Now I find by a pretty exact calculation, there are something like ten thousand bards in the nation of that special variety whom the Review and Magazine critics call lofty and true, and about thirty thousand (this tribe is increasing) of the kinds who are termed full of promise and pleasing." Of course each poet, the author assumes, will take a copy or two to see himself spoken of, and his neighbours and rivals abused; and if any names are found to be omitted, it is promised that each new edition shall contain one name left out of former issues. The whole thing is a satire upon the manner in which American critics at that time hoisted up to lofty pedestals, here, there, and everywhere, each "poor singer of an idle day." The poem is a very stream of droll conceits, fantastic puns, and brilliant satirical touches. Among numberless keen sayings which since than have been ascribed to all manner of persons, and represented as arising out of every variety of conditions, take the following:

"If he boasted, 't was simply that he was self-made,
A position which I, for one, never gainsaid,
My respect for my Maker supposing a skill

In his works, which our hero would answer but ill."

The poem is a purée of genius, animal spirits, drollery, humor, and genuine critical power. Some of the literary portraits are admirable. That of Theodore Parker is true and very high art. Every one may read, even now, with interest the sketches of Emerson, Whittier, Bryant, the latter a little unjust, though not ill-natured, - and Cooper, and the wonderful picture in little of Hawthorne. But there are not many Englishmen who would appreciate the vivacious sketch of John Neal, of Maine, or "Harry Franco" (Mr. Charles Briggs, of New York, an author and journalist, who once wrote under that nom de plume), or even Halleck, Brownson, and Dana. Perhaps the sharpest touches are bestowed upon "Miranda," an authoress who seems to have had a terrible effect upon Lowell's nerves, and in whom it is to be presumed we must recognize the late Margaret Fuller: —

"Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving
Up into a corner, in spite of their striving,
A small flock of terrified victims, and there
With an I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,
And a tone which, at least to my fancy, appears
Not so much to be entering as boxing your ears,
Is unfolding a tale of herself I surmise
For 't is dotted as thick as a peacock with I's."

Very clever, too, is the brief description of

"Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius, and two fifths sheer fudge!" Of course Lowell did not propose to acknowledge the authorship of the satire by leaving himself out of the game; and I do not know how criticism could deal more justly with his own defects than he has done himself when he says that

"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!" Years went on, however, and the political crisis intensified, and at last the war came, and Hosea Biglow rattled his drum this time around the ears of Old England; and then, when slavery passed away in the battle-smoke, Mr. Lowell subsided into the quiet scholar and poet we have known of later days. He had meanwhile been an assiduous literary worker: had been one of the editors of the North American Review and a constant writer for the Atlantic Monthly, and had succeeded his friend Longfellow as Professor of Modern Languages and Belles Lettres in Harvard University. Lowell is one of the few, one of the last of the genuine critics - the men with whom criticism is a culture and an art. I know no reading more delightful than his volume of essays called "Among my Books," or that rather fantastically entitled "My Study Windows." I remember being particularly charmed with a little essay of Lowell's which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, and was quaintly named "On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners." There is a light sub-acid flavor in this little essay which makes it none the less good reading even for Englishmen. Those who have seen Lowell and other Americans, as distinguished and as gifted, blandly patronized by third-class members of our British Parliament, during their six weeks' tour in the United States, will enjoy all the more the quiet humor of this paper.

It would be superfluous to say that Lowell has for more than twenty years been perhaps not always to his own satisfaction one of the celebrities of Boston and its neighborhood. Truly Boston is a place in which a reputation is worth having. The community is not too large to know its celebrities. A good thing said by a man echoes all round his sphere of existence; the men of letters all know each other, and are friends: the whole school of poets, philosophers, and humorists dine together frequently at one table; the "Saturday Club" gathers them all at its pleasant board. Boston seems to me to be a good deal like what Edinburgh must have been in its best days of literature. In London, and even to some extent in New York, people have to live in cliques and coteries. This is so even where they belong to the same profession, and would be friendly if they could. There are only local acquaintanceships and fellowships in a metropolis like ours. No fervor of friendship could conquer our distances; it is morally impossible that Kensington and Belsize Park could have frequent and familiar intercourse. But Boston is of delightful smallness; even if we take in Cambridge, it is still of charmingly convenient dimensions. Literary men can really know each other there, and have sympathies and friendships. There is something peculiarly friendly about the very aspect of the place. Its literary people, and indeed its people generally, are said to be rather conceited on the subject of their city and its dignity. The journals of other cities are never weary of making jokes about the Bostonian's faith in the theory that the world takes its time from Boston. It is commonly averred throughout many States of the Union that a Massachusetts man regards the Frog-pond on Boston Common as the noblest expanse of water in existence. "And now, Mr.-,” said a chief of Boston letters to an author from New York, who had just made a great literary success, "now, when are you coming to live in Boston?" The assumption was, of course, that as soon as a man had done anything to give him a genuine reputation, he must think himself en