Elmwood, Nov. 30, 1863.
My dear Fields, — You know I owe you a poem — two in
my reckoning, and here is one of them. If this is not to your mind, I can
hammer you out another. I have a feeling that some of it is good — but
is it too long? I want to fling my leaf on dear Shaw's grave. Perhaps I was
wrong in stiffening the feet of my verses a little, in order to give them a
kind of slow funeral tread. But I conceived it so, and so it would be. I wanted
the poem a little monumental, perhaps I have made it obituary. But
tell me just how it strikes you, and don't be afraid of my nerves. They can
stand much in the way of friendly frankness, and, besides, I find I am
acquiring a vice of modesty as I grow older. I used to try the trumpet now and
then; I am satisfied now with a pipe (provided the tobacco is good).
I have been reading the “Wayside
Inn” with the heartiest admiration. The introduction is masterly — so
simple, clear, and strong. Let 'em put in all their ifs and buts; I
don't wonder the public are hungrier and thirstier for his verse than for that
of all the rest of us put together. Curtis's article was excellent. I read also
Hale's story with singular pleasure, increased when I learned whose it was. Get
more of him. He has that lightness of touch and ease of narration that are
worth everything. I think it the cleverest story in the Atlantic since “My
Double” (also his), which appeared in my time. I confess I am rather
weary of the high-pressure style.
Yours always,
J. R. L.
SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of
James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 373-4
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