"
"Throth then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
"Throth then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v16 - Lev to Mai
either living and working hard to
return a rich man, or else as a corpse surrendered by the sea, so
that she might at least know a certainty.
Sometimes she was seized with the thought of a ship appear-
ing suddenly upon the horizon; the Léopoldine hastening home.
Then she would suddenly make an instinctive movement to rise,
and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true.
But she would fall back. Alas! where was this Léopoldine
now? Where could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of
Iceland, forsaken, crushed, and lost.
## p. 9212 (#224) ###########################################
9212
PIERRE LOTI
All ended by a never-fading vision appearing to her, an
empty, sea-tossed wreck, slowly and gently rocked by the silent
gray and rose-streaked sea; almost with soft mockery, in the
midst of the vast calm of deadened waters.
Two o'clock in the morning.
It was at night especially that she kept attentive to approach-
ing footsteps; at the slightest rumor or unaccustomed noise her
temples vibrated: by dint of being strained to outward things,
they had become fearfully sensitive.
Two o'clock in the morning. On this night as on others,
with her hands clasped and her eyes wide open in the dark, she
listened to the wind sweeping in never-ending tumult over the
heath.
-
Suddenly a man's footsteps hurried along the path! At this
hour who would pass now? She drew herself up, stirred to the
very soul, her heart ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door, and came up the small
stone steps.
He! O God! -he! Some one had knocked, it could be no
other than he! She was up now, barefooted; she, so feeble for
the last few days, had sprung up as nimbly as a kitten, with her
arms outstretched to wind round her darling. Of course the Léo-
poldine had arrived at night, and anchored in Pors-Even Bay,
and he had rushed home; she arranged all this in her mind with
the swiftness of lightning. She tore the flesh off her fingers in
her excitement to draw the bolt, which had stuck.
"Eh ? »
She slowly moved backward, as if crushed, her head falling on
her bosom. Her beautiful insane dream was over. She could
just grasp that it was not her husband, her Yann, and that noth-
ing of him, substantial or spiritual, had passed through the air;
she felt plunged again into her deep abyss, to the lowest depths
of her terrible despair.
-
-
――――
Poor Fantec-for it was he stammered many excuses: his
wife was very ill, and their child was choking in its cot, suddenly
attacked with a malignant sore throat; so he had run over to beg
for assistance on the road to fetch the doctor from Paimpol.
What did all this matter to her? She had gone mad in her
own distress, and could give no thoughts to the troubles of oth-
ers. Huddled on a bench, she remained before him with fixed
glazed eyes, like a dead woman's; without listening to him, or
## p. 9213 (#225) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9213
What to her was
even answering at random or looking at him.
the speech the man was making?
He understood it all, and guessed why the door had been
opened so quickly to him; and feeling pity for the pain he had
unwittingly caused, he stammered out an excuse.
"Just so: he never ought to have disturbed her—her in par-
ticular. "
"I! " ejaculated Gaud quickly, "why should I not be disturbed
particularly, Fantec ? »
Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish
to appear in despair before others. Besides, she pitied him now;
she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and
see to his little child.
-
At four o'clock in the morning, when she returned to throw
herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out.
But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her
mind, which in spite of all was permanent; she awoke soon with
a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting-she knew
not what. News had come to her about her Yann. In the midst
of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what
it could be; but there was nothing save Fantec's interruption.
For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss,
nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Yet in that short, hopeful moment, she had felt him so near
to her that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto
her, what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and
she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting
that some one might come to her to speak of him.
Just as the day broke, Yann's father entered. He took off
his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in
curls like Yann's, and sat down by Gaud's bedside.
His heart ached heavily too; for Yann, his tall, handsome
Yann, was his first-born, his favorite and his pride: but he did
not despair yet. He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affection-
ate way.
To begin with, those who had last returned from Ice-
land spoke of the increasing dense fogs, which might well have
delayed the vessel; and then too an idea struck him,- they
might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on
their homeward course, whence letters were so long in traveling.
This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own
poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.
## p. 9214 (#226) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9214
The Léopoldine was such a good boat,—next to new,— and her
crew were such able-bodied seamen.
Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head: the distress
of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength.
and reason. She tidied up the place, glancing from time to time
at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite
wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black
bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last
offspring, she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed
through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her
heart.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her
large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old
sire, who so much resembled her beloved one: merely to have
him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the
younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her
tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passion-
ate prayers to the "Star of the Sea. "
A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very
likely event. She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed
as if she might fairly expect him. All then was not lost, if a
seaman, his own father, did not yet despair. And for a few days
she resumed looking out for him again.
Autumn at last arrived, a late autumn too,-its gloomy
evenings making all things appear dark in the old cottage; and
all the land looked sombre too.
-
The very daylight seemed a sort of twilight; immeasurable
clouds, passing slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at
broad noon. The wind blew constantly with the sound of a great
cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane, despairing
dirges; at other times the noise came close to the door, like the
howling of wild beasts.
She had grown pale,-aye, blanched, and bent more than
ever; as if old age had already touched her with its featherless
wing. Often did she finger the wedding clothes of her Yann,
folding them and unfolding them again and again like some
maniac, especially one of his blue woolen jerseys which still
had preserved his shape: when she threw it gently on the table,
it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed
it by itself in a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that
it might forever rest unaltered.
## p. 9215 (#227) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9215
Every night the cold mists sank upon the land, as she gazed
over the depressing heath through her little window, and watched
the thin puffs of white smoke arise from the chimneys of other
cottages scattered here and there on all sides. There the hus-
bands had returned, like wandering birds driven home by the
frost. Before their blazing hearths the evenings passed, cozy
and warm; for the springtime of love had begun again in this
land of North Sea fishermen.
Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might
perhaps have lingered, she was buoyed up by a kind hope, and
expected him home any day.
*
*
But he never returned. One August night, out off gloomy
Iceland, mingled with the furious clamor of the sea, his wedding
with the sea was performed. It had been his nurse; it had
rocked him in his babyhood and had afterwards made him big
and strong; then, in his superb manhood, it had taken him back
again for itself alone. Profoundest mystery had surrounded this
unhallowed union. While it went on, dark curtains hung pall-
like over it as if to conceal the ceremony, and the ghoul howled
in an awful, deafening voice to stifle his cries. He, thinking
of Gaud, his sole, darling wife, had battled with giant strength
against this deathly rival, until he at last surrendered, with a
deep death-cry like the roar of a dying bull, through a mouth
already filled with water; and his arms were stretched apart and
stiffened forever.
All those he had invited in days of old were present at his
wedding. All except Sylvestre, who had gone to sleep in the
enchanted gardens far, far away, at the other side of the earth.
## p. 9216 (#228) ###########################################
9216
SAMUEL LOVER
(1797-1868)
HE lovable Irishman who wrote The Low-Backed Car,' 'The
Irish Post-Boy,' and 'Widow Machree,' was, as Renan said,
kissed by a fairy at his birth. He had that indomitable joy-
ousness of spirit which neither stress of circumstances, nor personal
sorrows, nor long-continued illness could abate. Besides this charm-
ing gayety, the generous fairy godmother bestowed on him the most
various talents. He was a miniature-painter, a marine-painter, a clever
etcher in the days when good etching was little practiced, a carica-
turist, a composer, an accomplished singer,
a novelist, and a dramatist. And with all
this versatility, he possessed an immense
capacity for hard work.
He was born in 1797, in Dublin, where
his father was a comfortable stock-broker.
From his mother, whom he worshiped, he
inherited his musical talents, his sensitive
temperament, and his upright character.
She died when he was twelve years old, but
her influence never left him.
SAMUEL LOVER
Stockbroker Lover wished to make a
good business man of his clever son; who
however, if he consented to add columns of
figures and to correct stock lists by day,
consoled himself with the practice of music and painting by night.
The disgusted father sent him off to a London business house of the
Gradgrind order, which had had much success in uprooting any va-
grant flowers of fancy from the minds of its apprentices. But in this
instance the experiment failed. At the age of seventeen, young Lover
resolved to turn his back forever on day-book and ledger and set up
as an artist, although he had yet to learn his craft.
He had saved a little money; he found music-copying and occas-
ional sketching to do; and after three frugal years of close study,
he exhibited some excellent miniatures and asked for patronage. Be-
fore the invention of the daguerreotype and the photograph, every
"genteel" household had its collection of portraits on ivory; and the
young painter made his way at once, on the score of being a capi-
tal good fellow. He could sing to his own accompaniment songs of
## p. 9217 (#229) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9217
his own composing; he could draw caricatures of an entire dinner-
company; he could recite in the richest brogue, Irish stories of his
own writing: and every social assemblage welcomed him.
In 1832 he had the good fortune to paint an admirable miniature
of Paganini, which the best critics pronounced a study worthy of
Gerard Dow. The admiration it excited in London led in time to his
removal thither. His gift for friendship soon attracted to his fireside
clever personages like Talfourd, Campbell, Jerrold, Mahony, Barham,
Mrs. Jamieson, Allan Cunningham, Lady Blessington, Sydney Smith,
Maclise, and Wilkie. Moore was already an old friend. The beauti-
ful Malibran and the clever Madame Vestris became his patrons, and
his work was soon the fashion.
He had already published illustrated by his own etchings—a
successful series of Irish sketches, containing that delightful absurdity
'The Gridiron,' and 'Paddy the Piper. ' After settling in London he
brought out a second volume of the 'Legends and Tales,' and became
a contributor to the new Bentley's Miscellany. His three-volume
novel of 'Rory O'More' appeared in 1836. Of the title character
Mahony wrote: "Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful, and
courageous, Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant,—the humble
hero who embodies so much of the best of the national character,
and almost lifts simple emotion to the same height as ripened mind. "
This novel Lover dramatized with immense success; which encouraged
him to write The White Horse of the Peppers,' three or four other
plays, two or three operettas for Madame Vestris, and both the words
and music of Il Paddy Whack in Italia,' a capital whimsicality.
His portrait was included in Maclise's 'Gallery of Celebrities'; and
Blackwood "discovered" him as "a new poet who is also musician,
painter, and novelist, and therefore quadruply worth wondering at. »
It was his clever countrywoman, Lady Morgan, who first prompted
him to the writing of Irish songs. His 'Rory O'More' took the gen-
eral fancy. To its strains the Queen at her coronation was escorted
to Buckingham Palace. To its strains the peasant baby in its box
cradle fell asleep. To its strains Phelim O'Shea footed the reel. at
Limerick Fair, and the ladies at Dublin Castle trod their quadrille.
'Molly Carew,' a better piece of work, would doubtless have at-
tracted equal favor, had not the music been more difficult. 'Widow
Machree,' written for the whimsical tale of 'Handy Andy,' is full of
Irish character. What Will Ye Do, Love? ' written also for 'Handy
Andy,' fairly sings itself; and 'How to Ask and Have' is as pretty a
piece of coquetry as any gray-eyed and barefooted beauty ever devised.
'The Road of Life,' which is the song of the Irish post-boy, was
Lover's own favorite, because of its note of unobtrusive pathos. In
another group are included the laughing 'Low-Backed Car,' 'The Girl
I Left Behind Me,' 'Mary of Tipperary,' 'Molly Bawn,' and 'The
XVI-577
―
## p. 9218 (#230) ###########################################
9218
SAMUEL LOVER
Bowld Sojer Boy. ' In all, Lover published two hundred and sixty-
three songs, for more than two hundred of which he wrote or adapted
the music.
'Handy Andy,' his best novel, was published in 1842. It is almost
without a plot; but unrivaled as a sketch of the blundering, stupid,
inconsequent peasant, whose heart is as kind as his head is dense.
In 1844 appeared Lover's most elaborate novel, Treasure Trove';
not so good a piece of work as its predecessors. His eyesight had
begun to fail, and his purse was light. He therefore invented an
entertainment called "Irish Evenings," in which he read his own
stories and sang his own songs. Successful in England and Ireland,
he decided in 1846 to try his fortune in the United States, where he
traveled from Boston to New Orleans and back to Montreal, appear-
ing before delighted audiences. On his return to England in 1848 he
produced "American Evenings," whose Yankee songs and backwoods
stories met with great favor.
During the last years of his life he wrote songs and magazine
papers, and painted pictures; but attempted no continuous literary
work. His health was delicate; and the need of constant labor, hap-
pily, was over. He removed to the soft climate of St. Helier's, on
the Isle of Jersey; and there the kindly gentleman and accomplished.
artist faded gently out of life. He died in the midsummer of 1868,
and was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery. He loved his race with
an affection not the less fond that it was not uncritical; and it is
his merit to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the
best Irish peasant songs in the language.
THE LOW-BACKED CAR
HEN first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day;
WH
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there
That could compare
To the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in her low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll-
But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car!
## p. 9219 (#231) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9219
In battle's wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of Death, in warlike cars!
But Peggy-peaceful goddess-
Has darts in her bright eye
That knock men down
In the market town,
As right and left they fly!
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far;
For the doctor's art
Cannot cure the heart
That is hit from that low-backed car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
By far outnumber these;
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,—
Well worth the cage,
I do engage,
Of the blooming god of Love.
While she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin'
While she sits in the low-backed car.
I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would be beside me,
With my arm around her waist,
As we drove in the low-backed car
To be married by Father Maher.
Oh, my heart would beat high,
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car.
## p. 9220 (#232) ###########################################
9220
SAMUEL LOVER
WIDOW MACHREE
ow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree:
WIDOW
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown.
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear
'Tis destroying your hair,
—
Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! widow machree!
Widow machree, now the summer is come,-
Och hone! widow machree,—
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?
Och hone! widow machree!
See, the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares.
Why, even the bears
Now in couples agree.
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,-
Och hone! widow machree!
-
Widow machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! widow machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree!
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! widow machree!
And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! widow machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld?
Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled.
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see
## p. 9221 (#233) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9221
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, "Och hone! widow machree! »
Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree;
And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire;
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree!
HOW TO ASK AND HAVE
H, 'TIS time I should talk to your mother,
"O" Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry who marry
At leisure repent. "
"Then suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my father, he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go-
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No. '»
"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I:
"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die! "
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see:
Since my parents are both so contrary-
You'd better ask me. "
## p. 9222 (#234) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9222
THE GRIDIRON
OR, PADDY MULLOWNEY'S TRAVELS IN FRANCE
"B
Y-THE-BY, Sir John," said the master, addressing a distin-
guished guest, "Pat has a very curious story which some-
thing you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember,
Pat" (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus
paid to himself), "you remember that queer adventure you had
in France? "
"Throth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.
"What! " exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, "was Pat
ever in France ? »
"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and
farther, plaze your Honor. "
"I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, "Pat told me a
story once that surprised me very much respecting the ignorance
of the French. "
"Indeed! " rejoins the baronet; "really, I always supposed the
French to be a most accomplished people.
"
"Throth then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphati-
cally.
"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic? "
says the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading
into the "full and true account" (for Pat had thought fit to visit
North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the
year 'ninety-eight).
"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic";- a favorite phrase
of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the
Atlantic itself. "It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad
Atlantic, a-comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital;
"whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd
think the Colleen Dhas (that was her name) would not have a
mast left but what would rowl out of her.
"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the boord at last, and
the pumps were choaked (divil choak them for that same), and
av coorse the wather gained an us; and throth, to be filled with
wather is neither good for man or baste; and she was sinkin'
fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it; and faith, I never was
good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor
ever: accordingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the
## p. 9223 (#235) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9223
boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag
o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little mat-
thers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we wor in-and
faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint, the Colleen
Dhas went down like a lump o' lead afore we wor many sthrokes
o' the oar away from her.
"Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we
put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and
then we sailed iligant; for we darn't show a stitch o' canvas the
night before, bekase it was blowin' like bloody murther, savin'
your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't
swally'd alive by the ragin' sae.
―
"Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin'
before our two good-lookin' eyes but the canophy iv heaven and
the wide ocean, - the broad Atlantic; not a thing was to be seen
but the sae and the sky: and though the sae and the sky is
mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things
when you've nothin' else to look at for a week together; and the
barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim.
And then soon enough, throth-our provisions began to run
low; the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum,-throth that was
gone first of all,- God help uz: and oh! it was thin that starva-
tion began to stare us in the face. 'Oh, murther, murther,
captain darlint,' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,'
says I.
"More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, 'for
sich a good wish; and throth it's myself wishes the same. '
"Oh,' says I, 'that it may plaze you, sweet queen iv heaven,
supposing it was only a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid
Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christians as to refuse us
a bit and a sup. '
"Whisht, whisht, Paddy,' says the captain, 'don't be talkin'
bad of any one,' says he; 'you don't know how soon you may
want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to
quarters in th' other world all of a suddint,' says he.
"Thrue for you, captain darlint,' says I,-I called him darlint
and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all
equal,—'thrue for you, captain jewel: God betune uz and harm,
I owe no man any spite;'-and throth that was only thruth.
Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and by gor, the wather
itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld.
## p. 9224 (#236) ###########################################
9224
SAMUEL LOVER
Well, at the break o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the
waves that was as bright as silver and as clear as chrysthal. But
it was only the more cruel upon us, for we wor beginnin' to feel
terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land.
By gor I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit,
and 'Thunder an turf, captain,' says I, 'look to leeward,' says I.
"What for? ' says he.
<<<I think I see the land,' says I.
"So he ups with his bring-'m-near (that's what the sailors call
a spy-glass, sir), and looks out, and sure enough it was.
«Hurrah! ' says he, 'we're all right now: pull away, my
boys,' says he.
"Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a
fog-bank, captain darlint,' says I.
"Oh no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest. '
"Oh then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain? '
says I: 'maybe it id be in Roosia, or Proosia, or the Jarman
Oceant? ' says I.
"Tut, you fool,' says he,- for he had that consaited way
wid him, thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else, 'tut, you
fool,' says he, 'that's France,' says he.
"Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? and how do
you know it's France it is, captain dear? ' says I.
«Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now,' says he.
"Throth I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, 'by the rowl it
has; for I often heerd av it in regard of that same:' and throth
the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and with the help
o' God, never will.
-
"Well, with that my heart began to grow light: and when I
seen my life was safe I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever;
so says I, 'Captain jewel, I wish we had a gridiron. '
"Why, then,' says he, 'thunder and turf,' says he, 'what
puts a gridiron into your head? '
«Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I.
"And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you couldn't ate a
gridiron,' says he, 'barrin you wor a pelican o' the wildherness,'
says he.
"Ate a gridiron! ' says I; 'och, in throth I'm not sich a
gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure if we had a grid-
iron we could dress a beefsteak,' says I.
"Arrah! but where's the beefsteak? ' says he.
## p. 9225 (#237) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9225
"Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork? ' says I.
"Be gor, I never thought o' that,' says the captain. "You're
a clever fellow, Paddy,' says he, laughin'.
"Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' says I.
"Thrue for you, Paddy,' says he.
"Well, then,' says I, 'if you put me ashore there beyant'
(for we were nearing the land all the time), 'and sure I can ax
thim for to lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I.
"Oh, by gor, the butther's comin' out o' the stirabout in
airnest now,' says he: 'you gommoch,' says he, 'sure I towld
you before that's France, and sure they're all furriners there,'
says the captain.
"'Well,' says I, 'and how do you know but I'm as good a
furriner myself as any o' thim? '
"What do you mane? ' says he.
"I mane,' says I, 'what I towld you: that I'm as good a fur-
riner myself as any o' thim. ’
"Make me sinsible,' says he.
"By dad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater nor me,
could do,' says I;- and we all began to laugh at him, for I
thought I'd pay him off for his bit o' consait about the Jarman
Oceant.
"Lave aff your humbuggin',' says he, 'I bid you; and tell
me what it is you mane, at all at all. '
"Parly voo frongsay? ' says I.
"Oh, your humble sarvant,' says he: 'why, by gor, you're a
scholar, Paddy. '
like.
«<<Throth, you may say that,' says I.
"Why, you're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says the captain, jeerin'
"You're not the first that said that,' says I, 'whether you
joke or no. '
"Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain; 'and do you tell
me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you spake Frinch? '
"Parly voo frongsay? ' says I.
"By gor, that bangs Banagher; and all the world knows
Banagher bangs the divil. I never met the likes o' you, Paddy,'
says he: 'pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore, and maybe we
won't get a good bellyful before long. '
"So with that it was no sooner said nor done; they pulled
away and got close into shore in less than no time, and run the
## p. 9226 (#238) ###########################################
9226
SAMUEL LOVER
boat up in a little creek, and a beautiful creek it was, with a
lovely white sthrand,—an iligant place for ladies to bathe in the
summer, and out I got: and it's stiff enough in my limbs I was,
afther bein' cramped up in the boat, and perished with the cowld
and hunger; but I conthrived to scramble on, one way or t'other,
towards a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the
smoke curlin' out of it, quite timptin' like.
« ་
"By the powdhers o' war, I'm all right,' says I,-'there's a
house there;' and sure enough there was, and a parcel of men,
women, and childher ating their dinner round a table quite con-
vaynient. And so I wint up to the door, and I thought I'd be
very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty
p'lite intirely — and I thought I'd show them I knew what good
manners was.
"So I took aff my hat, and making a low bow, says I, ‘God
save all here,' says I.
"Well, to be sure, they all stopped ating at wanst, and begun
to stare at me; and faith they almost looked me out of counte-
nance; and I thought to myself it was not good manners at all—
more betoken from furriners, which they call so mighty p'lite:
but I never minded that, in regard o' wantin' the gridiron; and
so says I, I beg your pardon,' says I, 'for the liberty I take,
but it's only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, 'that
I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan
of a gridiron,' says I, 'I'd be entirely obleeged to ye. '
"By gor, they all stared at me twice worse nor before; and
with that says I (knowin' what was in their minds), 'indeed, it's
thrue for you,' says I, 'I'm tatthered to pieces, and God knows
I look quare enough; but it's by raison of the storm,' says I,
'which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin',' says I.
"So then they began to look at each other agin; and myself,
seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they
tuk me for a poor beggar comin' to crave charity, -with that
says I, 'Oh! not at all,' says I, 'by no manes: we have plenty
o' mate ourselves there below, and we'll dhress it,' says I, 'if
you would be pleased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I,
makin' a low bow.
«< Well, sir, with that, throth they stared at me twice worse
nor ever: and faith, I began to think that maybe the captain was
wrong, and that it was not France at all at all; and so says I,
'I beg pardon, sir,' says I, to a fine ould man with a head of
## p. 9227 (#239) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9227
hair as white as silver,-'maybe I'm undher a mistake,' says I,
'but I thought I was in France, sir: aren't you furriners? ' says
I. Parly voo frongsay? '
"We, munseer,' says he.
"Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'if
you plase? '
"Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had seven
heads: and faith, myself began to feel flusthered like, and onaisy;
and so says I, makin' a bow and scrape agin, 'I know it's a lib-
erty I take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of bein' cast
away; and if you plase, sir,' says I, Parly voo frongsay?
"We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp.
"Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron? ' says I,
'and you'll obleege me. '
"Well, sir, the ould chap began to 'munseer' me; but the
divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gi' me: and so I began to think
they wor all neygars, for all their fine manners; and throth my
blood begun to rise, and says I, 'By my sowl, if it was you was
in disthriss,' says I, 'and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's
not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but some-
thing to put an it too, and the dhrop o' drink into the bargain,
and cead mile failte. '
"Well, the words cead mile failte seemed to sthreck his heart,
and the ould chap cocked his ear: and so I thought I'd give an-
other offer, and make him sinsible at last; and so says I wanst
more, quite slow, that he might understand, 'Parly-voo-frong-
say, munseer? ›
"We, munseer,' says he.
«Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and bad
scram to you. '
"Well, bad win to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the ould
chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other
about long tongs.
«Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your tongs,' says I: 'I
don't want a tongs at all at all; but can't you listen to raison? '
says I: 'Parly voo frongsay? '
«་ 'We, munseer. '
"Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and howld
your prate. '
"Well, what would you think but he shook his owld noddle
as much as to say he wouldn't; and so says I, 'Bad cess to the
## p. 9228 (#240) ###########################################
9228
SAMUEL LOVER
likes o' that I ever seen,-throth if you wor in my country it's
not that-a-way they'd use you: the curse o' the crows an you,
you owld sinner,' says I, 'the divil a longer I'll darken your
door. '
"So he seen I was vexed; and I thought, as I was turnin'
away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his conscience throub-
led him; and says I, turnin' back, 'Well, I'll give you one chance
more, you ould thief,- are you a Chrishthan at all at all? are
you a furriner? ' says I, 'that all the world calls so p'lite. Bad
luck to you, do you undherstand your own language? -parly voo
frongsay? ' says I.
"We, munseer,' says he.
"Then thunder an turf,' says I, will you lind me the loan
of a gridiron ? ›
"Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd gi' me: and so
with that, 'the curse o' the hungry an you, you ould negarly
villian,' says I; 'the back o' my hand and the sowl o' my fut to
you, that you may want a gridiron yourself yit,' says I; 'and
wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,'
says I and with that I left them there, sir, and kem away-and
in throth it's often sence that I thought that it was remarkable. ”
-
## p. 9228 (#241) ###########################################
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## p. 9229 (#245) ###########################################
9229
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
(1819-1891)
BY HENRY JAMES
塞
HE formula would not be hard to find which would best, at
the outset, introduce to readers the author of the following
extracts and specimens. With a certain close propriety that
seems to give him, among Americans of his time, the supreme right,
James Russell Lowell wears the title of a man of letters. He was a
master of verse and a political disputant; he was to some extent a
journalist, and in a high degree an orator; he administered learning
in a great university; he was concerned, in his later years, with pub-
lic affairs, and represented in two foreign countries the interests
of the United States. Yet there is only one term to which, in an
appreciation, we can without a sense of injustice give precedence over
the others. He was the American of his time most saturated with
literature and most directed to criticism; the American also whose
character and endowment were such as to give this saturation and
this direction-this intellectual experience, in short-most value.
He added to the love of learning the love of expression; and his
attachment to these things-to poetry, to history, to language, form,
and style was such as to make him, the greater part of his life,
more than anything a man of study: but his temperament was proof
against the dryness of the air of knowledge, and he remained to the
end the least pale, the least passionless of scholars.
He was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on February 22, 1819,
and died in the same house on August 12th, 1891. His inheritance of
every kind contributed to the easy play of his gifts and the rich uni-
formity of his life. He was of the best and oldest New England –
of partly clerical-stock; a stock robust and supple, and which has
given to its name many a fruit-bearing branch. We read him but
dimly in not reading into him, as it were, everything that was pres-
ent, around him, in race and place; and perhaps also in not seeing
him in relation to some of the things that were absent. He is one
more instance of the way in which the poet's message is almost
always, as to what it contains or omits, a testimony to personal
circumstance, a communication of the savor of the mother soil. He
as New
figures to us thus more handsomely than any competitor -
-
## p. 9230 (#246) ###########################################
9230
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
England conscious of its powers and its standards, New England
accomplished and articulate. He grew up in clerical and collegiate
air, at half an hour's walk from the cluster of homely halls that
are lost to-day in the architectural parade of the modernized Harvard.
He spent fifty years of his life in the shade, or the sunshine, of Alma
Mater; a connection which was to give his spirit just enough of the
unrest of responsibility, and his style just too much perhaps of the
authority of the pedagogue. His early years unfolded with a secur-
ity and a simplicity that the middle ones enriched without disturbing;
and the long presence of which, with its implications of leisure, of
quietude, of reflection and concentration, supplies in all his work an
element of agreeable relish not lessened by the suggestion of a cer-
tain meagreness of personal experience. He took his degree in 1838;
he married young, in 1844, then again in 1857; he inherited, on the
death of his father in 1861, the commodious old house of Elmwood
(in those days more embowered and more remote), in which his life
was virtually to be spent. With a small family — a single daughter —
but also a small patrimony, and a deep indifference — his abiding char-
acteristic to any question of profit or fortune, the material con-
dition he had from an early time to meet was the rather blank face
turned to the young American who in that age, and in the consecrated
phrase, embraced literature as a profession. The embrace, on Lowell's
part as on that of most such aspirants, was at first more tender than
coercive; and he was no exception to the immemorial rule of pro-
pitiating the idol with verse. This verse took in 1841 the form of his
first book; a collection of poems elsewhere printed and unprinted, but
not afterwards republished.
His history from this time, at least for many years, would be
difficult to write save as a record of stages, phases, dates too particu-
lar for a summary. The general complexion of the period is best
presented in the simple statement that he was able to surrender on
the spot to his talent and his taste. There is something that fairly
charms, as we look at his life, in the almost complete elimination of
interference or deviation: it makes a picture exempt from all shadow
of the usual image of genius hindered or inclination blighted. Drama
and disaster could spring as little from within as from without; and
no one in the country probably led a life-certainly for so long a
time-of intellectual amenity so great in proportion to its intensity.
There was more intensity perhaps for such a spirit as Emerson's: but
there was, if only by that fact, more of moral ravage and upheaval;
there was less of applied knowledge and successful form, less of the
peace of art.
Emerson's utterance, his opinions, seem to-day to give
us a series, equally full of beauty and void of order, of noble exper-
iments and fragments. Washington Irving and Longfellow, on the
## p. 9231 (#247) ###########################################
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
9231
other hand, if they show us the amenity, show us also, in their
greater abundance and diffusion, a looseness, an exposure; they sit as
it were with open doors, more or less in the social draught. Haw-
thorne had further to wander and longer to wait; and if he too, in
the workshop of art, kept tapping his silver hammer, it was never
exactly the nail of thought that he strove to hit on the head. What
is true of Hawthorne is truer still of Poe; who, if he had the peace
of art, had little of any other. Lowell's evolution was all in what I
have called his saturation, in the generous scale on which he was
able to gather in and to store up impressions. The three terms of
his life for most of the middle time were a quiet fireside, a quiet
library, a singularly quiet community. The personal stillness of the
world in which for the most part he lived, seems to abide in the
delightful paper-originally included in 'Fireside Travels' on 'Cam-
bridge Thirty Years Ago. ' It gives the impression of conditions.
in which literature might well become an alternate world, and old
books, old authors, old names, old stories, constitute in daily com-
merce the better half of one's company. Complications and dis-
tractions were not, even so far as they occurred, appreciably his own
portion; except indeed for their being-some of them, in their degree
- of the general essence of the life of letters. If books have their
destinies, they have also their antecedents; and in the face of the
difficulty of trying for perfection with a rough instrument, it cannot
of course be said that even concentration shuts the door upon pain.
If Lowell had all the joys of the scholar and the poet, he was also,
and in just that degree, not a stranger to the pangs and the weari-
ness that accompany the sense of exactitude, of proportion, and of
beauty; that feeling for intrinsic success, which in the long run
becomes a grievous burden for shoulders that have in the rash con-
fidence of youth accepted it,- becomes indeed in the artist's breast
the incurable, intolerable ache.
But such drama as could not mainly, after all, be played out
within the walls of his library, came to him, on the whole, during
half a century, only in two or three other forms. I mention first the
subordinate, which were all, as well, in the day's work: the long
grind of teaching the promiscuous and preoccupied young, and those.
initiations of periodical editorship which, either as worries or as tri-
umphs, may never perhaps be said to strike very deep. In 1855 he
entered, at Harvard College, upon the chair just quitted by Longfel
low: a comprehensive professorship in literature, that of France and
that of Spain in particular. He conducted on its foundation, for four
years, the Atlantic Monthly; and carried on from 1862, in conjunc-
tion with Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, the North American Review, in
which his best critical essays appeared.
return a rich man, or else as a corpse surrendered by the sea, so
that she might at least know a certainty.
Sometimes she was seized with the thought of a ship appear-
ing suddenly upon the horizon; the Léopoldine hastening home.
Then she would suddenly make an instinctive movement to rise,
and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true.
But she would fall back. Alas! where was this Léopoldine
now? Where could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of
Iceland, forsaken, crushed, and lost.
## p. 9212 (#224) ###########################################
9212
PIERRE LOTI
All ended by a never-fading vision appearing to her, an
empty, sea-tossed wreck, slowly and gently rocked by the silent
gray and rose-streaked sea; almost with soft mockery, in the
midst of the vast calm of deadened waters.
Two o'clock in the morning.
It was at night especially that she kept attentive to approach-
ing footsteps; at the slightest rumor or unaccustomed noise her
temples vibrated: by dint of being strained to outward things,
they had become fearfully sensitive.
Two o'clock in the morning. On this night as on others,
with her hands clasped and her eyes wide open in the dark, she
listened to the wind sweeping in never-ending tumult over the
heath.
-
Suddenly a man's footsteps hurried along the path! At this
hour who would pass now? She drew herself up, stirred to the
very soul, her heart ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door, and came up the small
stone steps.
He! O God! -he! Some one had knocked, it could be no
other than he! She was up now, barefooted; she, so feeble for
the last few days, had sprung up as nimbly as a kitten, with her
arms outstretched to wind round her darling. Of course the Léo-
poldine had arrived at night, and anchored in Pors-Even Bay,
and he had rushed home; she arranged all this in her mind with
the swiftness of lightning. She tore the flesh off her fingers in
her excitement to draw the bolt, which had stuck.
"Eh ? »
She slowly moved backward, as if crushed, her head falling on
her bosom. Her beautiful insane dream was over. She could
just grasp that it was not her husband, her Yann, and that noth-
ing of him, substantial or spiritual, had passed through the air;
she felt plunged again into her deep abyss, to the lowest depths
of her terrible despair.
-
-
――――
Poor Fantec-for it was he stammered many excuses: his
wife was very ill, and their child was choking in its cot, suddenly
attacked with a malignant sore throat; so he had run over to beg
for assistance on the road to fetch the doctor from Paimpol.
What did all this matter to her? She had gone mad in her
own distress, and could give no thoughts to the troubles of oth-
ers. Huddled on a bench, she remained before him with fixed
glazed eyes, like a dead woman's; without listening to him, or
## p. 9213 (#225) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9213
What to her was
even answering at random or looking at him.
the speech the man was making?
He understood it all, and guessed why the door had been
opened so quickly to him; and feeling pity for the pain he had
unwittingly caused, he stammered out an excuse.
"Just so: he never ought to have disturbed her—her in par-
ticular. "
"I! " ejaculated Gaud quickly, "why should I not be disturbed
particularly, Fantec ? »
Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish
to appear in despair before others. Besides, she pitied him now;
she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and
see to his little child.
-
At four o'clock in the morning, when she returned to throw
herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out.
But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her
mind, which in spite of all was permanent; she awoke soon with
a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting-she knew
not what. News had come to her about her Yann. In the midst
of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what
it could be; but there was nothing save Fantec's interruption.
For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss,
nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Yet in that short, hopeful moment, she had felt him so near
to her that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto
her, what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and
she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting
that some one might come to her to speak of him.
Just as the day broke, Yann's father entered. He took off
his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in
curls like Yann's, and sat down by Gaud's bedside.
His heart ached heavily too; for Yann, his tall, handsome
Yann, was his first-born, his favorite and his pride: but he did
not despair yet. He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affection-
ate way.
To begin with, those who had last returned from Ice-
land spoke of the increasing dense fogs, which might well have
delayed the vessel; and then too an idea struck him,- they
might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on
their homeward course, whence letters were so long in traveling.
This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own
poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.
## p. 9214 (#226) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9214
The Léopoldine was such a good boat,—next to new,— and her
crew were such able-bodied seamen.
Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head: the distress
of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength.
and reason. She tidied up the place, glancing from time to time
at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite
wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black
bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last
offspring, she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed
through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her
heart.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her
large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old
sire, who so much resembled her beloved one: merely to have
him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the
younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her
tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passion-
ate prayers to the "Star of the Sea. "
A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very
likely event. She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed
as if she might fairly expect him. All then was not lost, if a
seaman, his own father, did not yet despair. And for a few days
she resumed looking out for him again.
Autumn at last arrived, a late autumn too,-its gloomy
evenings making all things appear dark in the old cottage; and
all the land looked sombre too.
-
The very daylight seemed a sort of twilight; immeasurable
clouds, passing slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at
broad noon. The wind blew constantly with the sound of a great
cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane, despairing
dirges; at other times the noise came close to the door, like the
howling of wild beasts.
She had grown pale,-aye, blanched, and bent more than
ever; as if old age had already touched her with its featherless
wing. Often did she finger the wedding clothes of her Yann,
folding them and unfolding them again and again like some
maniac, especially one of his blue woolen jerseys which still
had preserved his shape: when she threw it gently on the table,
it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed
it by itself in a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that
it might forever rest unaltered.
## p. 9215 (#227) ###########################################
PIERRE LOTI
9215
Every night the cold mists sank upon the land, as she gazed
over the depressing heath through her little window, and watched
the thin puffs of white smoke arise from the chimneys of other
cottages scattered here and there on all sides. There the hus-
bands had returned, like wandering birds driven home by the
frost. Before their blazing hearths the evenings passed, cozy
and warm; for the springtime of love had begun again in this
land of North Sea fishermen.
Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might
perhaps have lingered, she was buoyed up by a kind hope, and
expected him home any day.
*
*
But he never returned. One August night, out off gloomy
Iceland, mingled with the furious clamor of the sea, his wedding
with the sea was performed. It had been his nurse; it had
rocked him in his babyhood and had afterwards made him big
and strong; then, in his superb manhood, it had taken him back
again for itself alone. Profoundest mystery had surrounded this
unhallowed union. While it went on, dark curtains hung pall-
like over it as if to conceal the ceremony, and the ghoul howled
in an awful, deafening voice to stifle his cries. He, thinking
of Gaud, his sole, darling wife, had battled with giant strength
against this deathly rival, until he at last surrendered, with a
deep death-cry like the roar of a dying bull, through a mouth
already filled with water; and his arms were stretched apart and
stiffened forever.
All those he had invited in days of old were present at his
wedding. All except Sylvestre, who had gone to sleep in the
enchanted gardens far, far away, at the other side of the earth.
## p. 9216 (#228) ###########################################
9216
SAMUEL LOVER
(1797-1868)
HE lovable Irishman who wrote The Low-Backed Car,' 'The
Irish Post-Boy,' and 'Widow Machree,' was, as Renan said,
kissed by a fairy at his birth. He had that indomitable joy-
ousness of spirit which neither stress of circumstances, nor personal
sorrows, nor long-continued illness could abate. Besides this charm-
ing gayety, the generous fairy godmother bestowed on him the most
various talents. He was a miniature-painter, a marine-painter, a clever
etcher in the days when good etching was little practiced, a carica-
turist, a composer, an accomplished singer,
a novelist, and a dramatist. And with all
this versatility, he possessed an immense
capacity for hard work.
He was born in 1797, in Dublin, where
his father was a comfortable stock-broker.
From his mother, whom he worshiped, he
inherited his musical talents, his sensitive
temperament, and his upright character.
She died when he was twelve years old, but
her influence never left him.
SAMUEL LOVER
Stockbroker Lover wished to make a
good business man of his clever son; who
however, if he consented to add columns of
figures and to correct stock lists by day,
consoled himself with the practice of music and painting by night.
The disgusted father sent him off to a London business house of the
Gradgrind order, which had had much success in uprooting any va-
grant flowers of fancy from the minds of its apprentices. But in this
instance the experiment failed. At the age of seventeen, young Lover
resolved to turn his back forever on day-book and ledger and set up
as an artist, although he had yet to learn his craft.
He had saved a little money; he found music-copying and occas-
ional sketching to do; and after three frugal years of close study,
he exhibited some excellent miniatures and asked for patronage. Be-
fore the invention of the daguerreotype and the photograph, every
"genteel" household had its collection of portraits on ivory; and the
young painter made his way at once, on the score of being a capi-
tal good fellow. He could sing to his own accompaniment songs of
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SAMUEL LOVER
9217
his own composing; he could draw caricatures of an entire dinner-
company; he could recite in the richest brogue, Irish stories of his
own writing: and every social assemblage welcomed him.
In 1832 he had the good fortune to paint an admirable miniature
of Paganini, which the best critics pronounced a study worthy of
Gerard Dow. The admiration it excited in London led in time to his
removal thither. His gift for friendship soon attracted to his fireside
clever personages like Talfourd, Campbell, Jerrold, Mahony, Barham,
Mrs. Jamieson, Allan Cunningham, Lady Blessington, Sydney Smith,
Maclise, and Wilkie. Moore was already an old friend. The beauti-
ful Malibran and the clever Madame Vestris became his patrons, and
his work was soon the fashion.
He had already published illustrated by his own etchings—a
successful series of Irish sketches, containing that delightful absurdity
'The Gridiron,' and 'Paddy the Piper. ' After settling in London he
brought out a second volume of the 'Legends and Tales,' and became
a contributor to the new Bentley's Miscellany. His three-volume
novel of 'Rory O'More' appeared in 1836. Of the title character
Mahony wrote: "Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful, and
courageous, Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant,—the humble
hero who embodies so much of the best of the national character,
and almost lifts simple emotion to the same height as ripened mind. "
This novel Lover dramatized with immense success; which encouraged
him to write The White Horse of the Peppers,' three or four other
plays, two or three operettas for Madame Vestris, and both the words
and music of Il Paddy Whack in Italia,' a capital whimsicality.
His portrait was included in Maclise's 'Gallery of Celebrities'; and
Blackwood "discovered" him as "a new poet who is also musician,
painter, and novelist, and therefore quadruply worth wondering at. »
It was his clever countrywoman, Lady Morgan, who first prompted
him to the writing of Irish songs. His 'Rory O'More' took the gen-
eral fancy. To its strains the Queen at her coronation was escorted
to Buckingham Palace. To its strains the peasant baby in its box
cradle fell asleep. To its strains Phelim O'Shea footed the reel. at
Limerick Fair, and the ladies at Dublin Castle trod their quadrille.
'Molly Carew,' a better piece of work, would doubtless have at-
tracted equal favor, had not the music been more difficult. 'Widow
Machree,' written for the whimsical tale of 'Handy Andy,' is full of
Irish character. What Will Ye Do, Love? ' written also for 'Handy
Andy,' fairly sings itself; and 'How to Ask and Have' is as pretty a
piece of coquetry as any gray-eyed and barefooted beauty ever devised.
'The Road of Life,' which is the song of the Irish post-boy, was
Lover's own favorite, because of its note of unobtrusive pathos. In
another group are included the laughing 'Low-Backed Car,' 'The Girl
I Left Behind Me,' 'Mary of Tipperary,' 'Molly Bawn,' and 'The
XVI-577
―
## p. 9218 (#230) ###########################################
9218
SAMUEL LOVER
Bowld Sojer Boy. ' In all, Lover published two hundred and sixty-
three songs, for more than two hundred of which he wrote or adapted
the music.
'Handy Andy,' his best novel, was published in 1842. It is almost
without a plot; but unrivaled as a sketch of the blundering, stupid,
inconsequent peasant, whose heart is as kind as his head is dense.
In 1844 appeared Lover's most elaborate novel, Treasure Trove';
not so good a piece of work as its predecessors. His eyesight had
begun to fail, and his purse was light. He therefore invented an
entertainment called "Irish Evenings," in which he read his own
stories and sang his own songs. Successful in England and Ireland,
he decided in 1846 to try his fortune in the United States, where he
traveled from Boston to New Orleans and back to Montreal, appear-
ing before delighted audiences. On his return to England in 1848 he
produced "American Evenings," whose Yankee songs and backwoods
stories met with great favor.
During the last years of his life he wrote songs and magazine
papers, and painted pictures; but attempted no continuous literary
work. His health was delicate; and the need of constant labor, hap-
pily, was over. He removed to the soft climate of St. Helier's, on
the Isle of Jersey; and there the kindly gentleman and accomplished.
artist faded gently out of life. He died in the midsummer of 1868,
and was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery. He loved his race with
an affection not the less fond that it was not uncritical; and it is
his merit to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the
best Irish peasant songs in the language.
THE LOW-BACKED CAR
HEN first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day;
WH
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there
That could compare
To the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in her low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll-
But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car!
## p. 9219 (#231) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9219
In battle's wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of Death, in warlike cars!
But Peggy-peaceful goddess-
Has darts in her bright eye
That knock men down
In the market town,
As right and left they fly!
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far;
For the doctor's art
Cannot cure the heart
That is hit from that low-backed car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
By far outnumber these;
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,—
Well worth the cage,
I do engage,
Of the blooming god of Love.
While she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin'
While she sits in the low-backed car.
I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would be beside me,
With my arm around her waist,
As we drove in the low-backed car
To be married by Father Maher.
Oh, my heart would beat high,
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car.
## p. 9220 (#232) ###########################################
9220
SAMUEL LOVER
WIDOW MACHREE
ow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree:
WIDOW
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown.
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear
'Tis destroying your hair,
—
Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! widow machree!
Widow machree, now the summer is come,-
Och hone! widow machree,—
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?
Och hone! widow machree!
See, the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares.
Why, even the bears
Now in couples agree.
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,-
Och hone! widow machree!
-
Widow machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! widow machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree!
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! widow machree!
And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! widow machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld?
Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled.
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see
## p. 9221 (#233) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9221
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, "Och hone! widow machree! »
Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree;
And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire;
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree!
HOW TO ASK AND HAVE
H, 'TIS time I should talk to your mother,
"O" Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry who marry
At leisure repent. "
"Then suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my father, he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go-
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No. '»
"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I:
"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die! "
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see:
Since my parents are both so contrary-
You'd better ask me. "
## p. 9222 (#234) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9222
THE GRIDIRON
OR, PADDY MULLOWNEY'S TRAVELS IN FRANCE
"B
Y-THE-BY, Sir John," said the master, addressing a distin-
guished guest, "Pat has a very curious story which some-
thing you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember,
Pat" (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus
paid to himself), "you remember that queer adventure you had
in France? "
"Throth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.
"What! " exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, "was Pat
ever in France ? »
"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and
farther, plaze your Honor. "
"I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, "Pat told me a
story once that surprised me very much respecting the ignorance
of the French. "
"Indeed! " rejoins the baronet; "really, I always supposed the
French to be a most accomplished people.
"
"Throth then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphati-
cally.
"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic? "
says the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading
into the "full and true account" (for Pat had thought fit to visit
North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the
year 'ninety-eight).
"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic";- a favorite phrase
of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the
Atlantic itself. "It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad
Atlantic, a-comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital;
"whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd
think the Colleen Dhas (that was her name) would not have a
mast left but what would rowl out of her.
"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the boord at last, and
the pumps were choaked (divil choak them for that same), and
av coorse the wather gained an us; and throth, to be filled with
wather is neither good for man or baste; and she was sinkin'
fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it; and faith, I never was
good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor
ever: accordingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the
## p. 9223 (#235) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9223
boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag
o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little mat-
thers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we wor in-and
faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint, the Colleen
Dhas went down like a lump o' lead afore we wor many sthrokes
o' the oar away from her.
"Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we
put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and
then we sailed iligant; for we darn't show a stitch o' canvas the
night before, bekase it was blowin' like bloody murther, savin'
your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't
swally'd alive by the ragin' sae.
―
"Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin'
before our two good-lookin' eyes but the canophy iv heaven and
the wide ocean, - the broad Atlantic; not a thing was to be seen
but the sae and the sky: and though the sae and the sky is
mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things
when you've nothin' else to look at for a week together; and the
barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim.
And then soon enough, throth-our provisions began to run
low; the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum,-throth that was
gone first of all,- God help uz: and oh! it was thin that starva-
tion began to stare us in the face. 'Oh, murther, murther,
captain darlint,' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,'
says I.
"More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, 'for
sich a good wish; and throth it's myself wishes the same. '
"Oh,' says I, 'that it may plaze you, sweet queen iv heaven,
supposing it was only a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid
Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christians as to refuse us
a bit and a sup. '
"Whisht, whisht, Paddy,' says the captain, 'don't be talkin'
bad of any one,' says he; 'you don't know how soon you may
want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to
quarters in th' other world all of a suddint,' says he.
"Thrue for you, captain darlint,' says I,-I called him darlint
and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all
equal,—'thrue for you, captain jewel: God betune uz and harm,
I owe no man any spite;'-and throth that was only thruth.
Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and by gor, the wather
itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld.
## p. 9224 (#236) ###########################################
9224
SAMUEL LOVER
Well, at the break o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the
waves that was as bright as silver and as clear as chrysthal. But
it was only the more cruel upon us, for we wor beginnin' to feel
terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land.
By gor I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit,
and 'Thunder an turf, captain,' says I, 'look to leeward,' says I.
"What for? ' says he.
<<<I think I see the land,' says I.
"So he ups with his bring-'m-near (that's what the sailors call
a spy-glass, sir), and looks out, and sure enough it was.
«Hurrah! ' says he, 'we're all right now: pull away, my
boys,' says he.
"Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a
fog-bank, captain darlint,' says I.
"Oh no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest. '
"Oh then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain? '
says I: 'maybe it id be in Roosia, or Proosia, or the Jarman
Oceant? ' says I.
"Tut, you fool,' says he,- for he had that consaited way
wid him, thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else, 'tut, you
fool,' says he, 'that's France,' says he.
"Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? and how do
you know it's France it is, captain dear? ' says I.
«Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now,' says he.
"Throth I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, 'by the rowl it
has; for I often heerd av it in regard of that same:' and throth
the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and with the help
o' God, never will.
-
"Well, with that my heart began to grow light: and when I
seen my life was safe I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever;
so says I, 'Captain jewel, I wish we had a gridiron. '
"Why, then,' says he, 'thunder and turf,' says he, 'what
puts a gridiron into your head? '
«Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I.
"And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you couldn't ate a
gridiron,' says he, 'barrin you wor a pelican o' the wildherness,'
says he.
"Ate a gridiron! ' says I; 'och, in throth I'm not sich a
gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure if we had a grid-
iron we could dress a beefsteak,' says I.
"Arrah! but where's the beefsteak? ' says he.
## p. 9225 (#237) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9225
"Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork? ' says I.
"Be gor, I never thought o' that,' says the captain. "You're
a clever fellow, Paddy,' says he, laughin'.
"Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' says I.
"Thrue for you, Paddy,' says he.
"Well, then,' says I, 'if you put me ashore there beyant'
(for we were nearing the land all the time), 'and sure I can ax
thim for to lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I.
"Oh, by gor, the butther's comin' out o' the stirabout in
airnest now,' says he: 'you gommoch,' says he, 'sure I towld
you before that's France, and sure they're all furriners there,'
says the captain.
"'Well,' says I, 'and how do you know but I'm as good a
furriner myself as any o' thim? '
"What do you mane? ' says he.
"I mane,' says I, 'what I towld you: that I'm as good a fur-
riner myself as any o' thim. ’
"Make me sinsible,' says he.
"By dad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater nor me,
could do,' says I;- and we all began to laugh at him, for I
thought I'd pay him off for his bit o' consait about the Jarman
Oceant.
"Lave aff your humbuggin',' says he, 'I bid you; and tell
me what it is you mane, at all at all. '
"Parly voo frongsay? ' says I.
"Oh, your humble sarvant,' says he: 'why, by gor, you're a
scholar, Paddy. '
like.
«<<Throth, you may say that,' says I.
"Why, you're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says the captain, jeerin'
"You're not the first that said that,' says I, 'whether you
joke or no. '
"Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain; 'and do you tell
me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you spake Frinch? '
"Parly voo frongsay? ' says I.
"By gor, that bangs Banagher; and all the world knows
Banagher bangs the divil. I never met the likes o' you, Paddy,'
says he: 'pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore, and maybe we
won't get a good bellyful before long. '
"So with that it was no sooner said nor done; they pulled
away and got close into shore in less than no time, and run the
## p. 9226 (#238) ###########################################
9226
SAMUEL LOVER
boat up in a little creek, and a beautiful creek it was, with a
lovely white sthrand,—an iligant place for ladies to bathe in the
summer, and out I got: and it's stiff enough in my limbs I was,
afther bein' cramped up in the boat, and perished with the cowld
and hunger; but I conthrived to scramble on, one way or t'other,
towards a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the
smoke curlin' out of it, quite timptin' like.
« ་
"By the powdhers o' war, I'm all right,' says I,-'there's a
house there;' and sure enough there was, and a parcel of men,
women, and childher ating their dinner round a table quite con-
vaynient. And so I wint up to the door, and I thought I'd be
very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty
p'lite intirely — and I thought I'd show them I knew what good
manners was.
"So I took aff my hat, and making a low bow, says I, ‘God
save all here,' says I.
"Well, to be sure, they all stopped ating at wanst, and begun
to stare at me; and faith they almost looked me out of counte-
nance; and I thought to myself it was not good manners at all—
more betoken from furriners, which they call so mighty p'lite:
but I never minded that, in regard o' wantin' the gridiron; and
so says I, I beg your pardon,' says I, 'for the liberty I take,
but it's only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, 'that
I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan
of a gridiron,' says I, 'I'd be entirely obleeged to ye. '
"By gor, they all stared at me twice worse nor before; and
with that says I (knowin' what was in their minds), 'indeed, it's
thrue for you,' says I, 'I'm tatthered to pieces, and God knows
I look quare enough; but it's by raison of the storm,' says I,
'which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin',' says I.
"So then they began to look at each other agin; and myself,
seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they
tuk me for a poor beggar comin' to crave charity, -with that
says I, 'Oh! not at all,' says I, 'by no manes: we have plenty
o' mate ourselves there below, and we'll dhress it,' says I, 'if
you would be pleased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I,
makin' a low bow.
«< Well, sir, with that, throth they stared at me twice worse
nor ever: and faith, I began to think that maybe the captain was
wrong, and that it was not France at all at all; and so says I,
'I beg pardon, sir,' says I, to a fine ould man with a head of
## p. 9227 (#239) ###########################################
SAMUEL LOVER
9227
hair as white as silver,-'maybe I'm undher a mistake,' says I,
'but I thought I was in France, sir: aren't you furriners? ' says
I. Parly voo frongsay? '
"We, munseer,' says he.
"Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'if
you plase? '
"Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had seven
heads: and faith, myself began to feel flusthered like, and onaisy;
and so says I, makin' a bow and scrape agin, 'I know it's a lib-
erty I take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of bein' cast
away; and if you plase, sir,' says I, Parly voo frongsay?
"We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp.
"Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron? ' says I,
'and you'll obleege me. '
"Well, sir, the ould chap began to 'munseer' me; but the
divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gi' me: and so I began to think
they wor all neygars, for all their fine manners; and throth my
blood begun to rise, and says I, 'By my sowl, if it was you was
in disthriss,' says I, 'and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's
not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but some-
thing to put an it too, and the dhrop o' drink into the bargain,
and cead mile failte. '
"Well, the words cead mile failte seemed to sthreck his heart,
and the ould chap cocked his ear: and so I thought I'd give an-
other offer, and make him sinsible at last; and so says I wanst
more, quite slow, that he might understand, 'Parly-voo-frong-
say, munseer? ›
"We, munseer,' says he.
«Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and bad
scram to you. '
"Well, bad win to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the ould
chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other
about long tongs.
«Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your tongs,' says I: 'I
don't want a tongs at all at all; but can't you listen to raison? '
says I: 'Parly voo frongsay? '
«་ 'We, munseer. '
"Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and howld
your prate. '
"Well, what would you think but he shook his owld noddle
as much as to say he wouldn't; and so says I, 'Bad cess to the
## p. 9228 (#240) ###########################################
9228
SAMUEL LOVER
likes o' that I ever seen,-throth if you wor in my country it's
not that-a-way they'd use you: the curse o' the crows an you,
you owld sinner,' says I, 'the divil a longer I'll darken your
door. '
"So he seen I was vexed; and I thought, as I was turnin'
away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his conscience throub-
led him; and says I, turnin' back, 'Well, I'll give you one chance
more, you ould thief,- are you a Chrishthan at all at all? are
you a furriner? ' says I, 'that all the world calls so p'lite. Bad
luck to you, do you undherstand your own language? -parly voo
frongsay? ' says I.
"We, munseer,' says he.
"Then thunder an turf,' says I, will you lind me the loan
of a gridiron ? ›
"Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd gi' me: and so
with that, 'the curse o' the hungry an you, you ould negarly
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you, that you may want a gridiron yourself yit,' says I; 'and
wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,'
says I and with that I left them there, sir, and kem away-and
in throth it's often sence that I thought that it was remarkable. ”
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9229
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
(1819-1891)
BY HENRY JAMES
塞
HE formula would not be hard to find which would best, at
the outset, introduce to readers the author of the following
extracts and specimens. With a certain close propriety that
seems to give him, among Americans of his time, the supreme right,
James Russell Lowell wears the title of a man of letters. He was a
master of verse and a political disputant; he was to some extent a
journalist, and in a high degree an orator; he administered learning
in a great university; he was concerned, in his later years, with pub-
lic affairs, and represented in two foreign countries the interests
of the United States. Yet there is only one term to which, in an
appreciation, we can without a sense of injustice give precedence over
the others. He was the American of his time most saturated with
literature and most directed to criticism; the American also whose
character and endowment were such as to give this saturation and
this direction-this intellectual experience, in short-most value.
He added to the love of learning the love of expression; and his
attachment to these things-to poetry, to history, to language, form,
and style was such as to make him, the greater part of his life,
more than anything a man of study: but his temperament was proof
against the dryness of the air of knowledge, and he remained to the
end the least pale, the least passionless of scholars.
He was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on February 22, 1819,
and died in the same house on August 12th, 1891. His inheritance of
every kind contributed to the easy play of his gifts and the rich uni-
formity of his life. He was of the best and oldest New England –
of partly clerical-stock; a stock robust and supple, and which has
given to its name many a fruit-bearing branch. We read him but
dimly in not reading into him, as it were, everything that was pres-
ent, around him, in race and place; and perhaps also in not seeing
him in relation to some of the things that were absent. He is one
more instance of the way in which the poet's message is almost
always, as to what it contains or omits, a testimony to personal
circumstance, a communication of the savor of the mother soil. He
as New
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9230
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
England conscious of its powers and its standards, New England
accomplished and articulate. He grew up in clerical and collegiate
air, at half an hour's walk from the cluster of homely halls that
are lost to-day in the architectural parade of the modernized Harvard.
He spent fifty years of his life in the shade, or the sunshine, of Alma
Mater; a connection which was to give his spirit just enough of the
unrest of responsibility, and his style just too much perhaps of the
authority of the pedagogue. His early years unfolded with a secur-
ity and a simplicity that the middle ones enriched without disturbing;
and the long presence of which, with its implications of leisure, of
quietude, of reflection and concentration, supplies in all his work an
element of agreeable relish not lessened by the suggestion of a cer-
tain meagreness of personal experience. He took his degree in 1838;
he married young, in 1844, then again in 1857; he inherited, on the
death of his father in 1861, the commodious old house of Elmwood
(in those days more embowered and more remote), in which his life
was virtually to be spent. With a small family — a single daughter —
but also a small patrimony, and a deep indifference — his abiding char-
acteristic to any question of profit or fortune, the material con-
dition he had from an early time to meet was the rather blank face
turned to the young American who in that age, and in the consecrated
phrase, embraced literature as a profession. The embrace, on Lowell's
part as on that of most such aspirants, was at first more tender than
coercive; and he was no exception to the immemorial rule of pro-
pitiating the idol with verse. This verse took in 1841 the form of his
first book; a collection of poems elsewhere printed and unprinted, but
not afterwards republished.
His history from this time, at least for many years, would be
difficult to write save as a record of stages, phases, dates too particu-
lar for a summary. The general complexion of the period is best
presented in the simple statement that he was able to surrender on
the spot to his talent and his taste. There is something that fairly
charms, as we look at his life, in the almost complete elimination of
interference or deviation: it makes a picture exempt from all shadow
of the usual image of genius hindered or inclination blighted. Drama
and disaster could spring as little from within as from without; and
no one in the country probably led a life-certainly for so long a
time-of intellectual amenity so great in proportion to its intensity.
There was more intensity perhaps for such a spirit as Emerson's: but
there was, if only by that fact, more of moral ravage and upheaval;
there was less of applied knowledge and successful form, less of the
peace of art.
Emerson's utterance, his opinions, seem to-day to give
us a series, equally full of beauty and void of order, of noble exper-
iments and fragments. Washington Irving and Longfellow, on the
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JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
9231
other hand, if they show us the amenity, show us also, in their
greater abundance and diffusion, a looseness, an exposure; they sit as
it were with open doors, more or less in the social draught. Haw-
thorne had further to wander and longer to wait; and if he too, in
the workshop of art, kept tapping his silver hammer, it was never
exactly the nail of thought that he strove to hit on the head. What
is true of Hawthorne is truer still of Poe; who, if he had the peace
of art, had little of any other. Lowell's evolution was all in what I
have called his saturation, in the generous scale on which he was
able to gather in and to store up impressions. The three terms of
his life for most of the middle time were a quiet fireside, a quiet
library, a singularly quiet community. The personal stillness of the
world in which for the most part he lived, seems to abide in the
delightful paper-originally included in 'Fireside Travels' on 'Cam-
bridge Thirty Years Ago. ' It gives the impression of conditions.
in which literature might well become an alternate world, and old
books, old authors, old names, old stories, constitute in daily com-
merce the better half of one's company. Complications and dis-
tractions were not, even so far as they occurred, appreciably his own
portion; except indeed for their being-some of them, in their degree
- of the general essence of the life of letters. If books have their
destinies, they have also their antecedents; and in the face of the
difficulty of trying for perfection with a rough instrument, it cannot
of course be said that even concentration shuts the door upon pain.
If Lowell had all the joys of the scholar and the poet, he was also,
and in just that degree, not a stranger to the pangs and the weari-
ness that accompany the sense of exactitude, of proportion, and of
beauty; that feeling for intrinsic success, which in the long run
becomes a grievous burden for shoulders that have in the rash con-
fidence of youth accepted it,- becomes indeed in the artist's breast
the incurable, intolerable ache.
But such drama as could not mainly, after all, be played out
within the walls of his library, came to him, on the whole, during
half a century, only in two or three other forms. I mention first the
subordinate, which were all, as well, in the day's work: the long
grind of teaching the promiscuous and preoccupied young, and those.
initiations of periodical editorship which, either as worries or as tri-
umphs, may never perhaps be said to strike very deep. In 1855 he
entered, at Harvard College, upon the chair just quitted by Longfel
low: a comprehensive professorship in literature, that of France and
that of Spain in particular. He conducted on its foundation, for four
years, the Atlantic Monthly; and carried on from 1862, in conjunc-
tion with Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, the North American Review, in
which his best critical essays appeared.
