James Russell Lowell to Charles Eliot Norton, August 18, 1864

Elmwood, Thursday, Aug. 18, 1864.

My dear Charles, — The other day Field¹ came to see us, and told me that he was going to Ashfield next Saturday, whereupon I thought we could not do better than come together. He will at least mitigate my dulness, which, for several weeks, has neighboured on idiocy, having had a headache all the time — which makes it lucky ’twas vacation.

I believe Fanny wrote to Jane how (like a fool) I went down East with a notion of exploring the Coast of Maine in the company of a Congressional Committee. I saw the chairman — who seemed amazed to see me — and a roomful of his satellites (of the clean-dicky and dirty-shirt kind); found that we were to be trotted round on show like a menagerie; and came straight home again, wiser, hotter, and headachier. I find that one's ears grow with his growth.

Except this insane escapade, I have not stirred from my study since vacation began — unless I count one dinner at the Club. To-day I am going to help dine Mr. Chase. I shall come home sorry that I went, I know; but hope always gets the better of experience with me. I almost think I should be willing to live over again — though I ought to know better by this time.

O Frances Dobbs!

This life is cobs

Without one grain of corn:

’Tis wake and eat—

Sleep — then repeat,

Since ever I was born!

And yet we fear

Our tread-mill here

May cease its weary round,

And think ’tis not

All one to rot

Above or under ground!

This dining, by the way, is a funny thing. Did it ever occur to mortal man to give a dinner to some one who really wanted it? I think it would be rather a good lark to dine the hungriest man in Boston. Wouldn't I like to dine old Farragut (feragut) though! By Jove! the sea-service hasn't lost its romance, in spite of iron turtles. And isn't wood, after all, the thing? I believe the big guns will bring us back to wooden ships again. For one lucky shot may sink one of these hogs in armour. By the way, Sir Richard Hawkins discusses this very matter of big shot two hundred and fifty years ago, and decides in favour of large bores, because the ball will make a leak that can't be stopped. ...

I believe I was glad to see that Arthur was a prisoner. He is safe, at any rate for the present, which is a comfort. He did all a man could in going. He offered his life, and if Fate will not take it we ought to be thankful. ... As John [Holmes] says (he has dined with us twice this week !), “It's better to suffer from too little bread than from too much lead.” . . .

_______________

¹ The late John W. Field, a man of singular friendliness, of whom Lowell, shortly after making his acquaintance, wrote:

“Few things to charm me more can nature yield

Than a broad, open, breezy, high-viewed Field."”

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 380-2

James Russell Lowell to John L. Motley, July 28, 1864

Cambridge, July 28, 1864,

My dear Motley, — I write you on a matter of business. You may have heard that Norton and I have undertaken to edit the North American— a rather Sisyphian job, you will say. It wanted three chief elements to be successful. It wasn't thoroughly, that is, thick and thinly, loyal, it wasn't lively, and it had no particular opinions on any particular subject.

It was an eminently safe periodical, and accordingly was in great danger of running aground. It was an easy matter, of course, to make it loyal — even to give it opinions (such as they were), but to make it alive is more difficult. Perhaps the day of the quarterlies is gone by, and those megatheria of letters may be in the mere course of nature withdrawing to their last swamps to die in peace. Anyhow, here we are with our megatherium on our hands, and we must strive to find what will fill his huge belly, and keep him alive a little longer. You see what's coming. Pray imagine all the fine speeches and God-bless-your-honours, and let me proceed at once to hold out the inevitable hat. Couldn't you write us an article now and then? It would be a great help to us, and you shall have carte blanche as to subject. Couldn't you write on the natural history of that diplomatic cuttlefish of Schleswig-Holstein without forfeiting your ministerial equanimity? The creature has be-muddled himself with such a cloud of ink that he is almost indiscernable to the laic eye. Or on recent German literature? Or on Austria and its resources? Or, in short, on anything that may be solemn in topic and entertaining in treatment? Our pay isn't much, but you shall have five dollars a page, and the object is, in a sense, patriotic. If the thought be dreadful, see if you can't find also something pleasing in it, as Young managed to do in "Eternity." Imagine the difference in the tone of the Review. If you are a contributor, of course it will always be "Our amiable and accomplished minister at the Court of Vienna, who unites in himself," etc., etc., etc.; or else, "In such a state of affairs it was the misfortune of this country to be represented at Vienna by a minister as learned in Low Dutch as he was ignorant of high statesmanship," etc., etc. I pull my beaver over my eyes and mutter "Bewa-r-re!" etc. But, seriously, you can help us a great deal, and I really do not care what you write about if you will only write.

As to our situation here, you are doubtless well informed. My own feeling has always been confident, and it is now hopeful. If Mr. Lincoln is re-chosen, I think the war will soon be over. If not, there will be attempts at negotiation during which the rebels will recover breath, and then war again with more chances in their favour. Just now everything looks well. The real campaign is clearly in Georgia, and Grant has skilfully turned all eyes to Virginia by taking the command there in person. Sherman is a very able man, in dead earnest, and with a more powerful army than that of Virginia. It is true that the mercantile classes are longing for peace, but I believe the people are more firm than ever. So far as I can see, the opposition to Mr. Lincoln is both selfish and factious, but it is much in favour of the right side that the Democratic Party have literally not so much as a single plank of principle to float on, and the sea runs high. They don't know what they are in favour of — hardly what they think it safe to be against. And I doubt if they will gain much by going into an election on negatives. I attach some importance to the peace negotiation at Niagara (ludicrous as it was) as an indication of despair on the part of the rebels, especially as it was almost coincident with Clanricarde's movement in the House of Lords. Don't be alarmed about Washington. The noise made about it by the Copperheads is enough to show there is nothing dangerous in any rebel movements in that direction. I have no doubt that Washington is as safe as Vienna. What the Fremont defection may accomplish I can't say, but I have little fear from it. Its strength lies solely among our German Radicals, the most impracticable of mankind. If our population had been as homogeneous as during the Revolutionary war, our troubles would have been over in a year. All our foreign trading population have no fatherland but the till, and have done their best to destroy our credit. All our snobs, too, are Secesh. But I always think of Virgil's

“Pur a noi converrà vincer la punga

. . . se non — tal ne s' offerse.”

We have the promise of God's Word and God's nature on our side. Moreover, I have never believed, do not now believe, in the possibility of separation. The instinct of the people on both sides is against it. Is not the "coup de grace" of the Alabama refreshing? That an American sloop of war should sink a British ship of equal force, manned by British sailors and armed with British guns in the British Channel! There is something to make John Bull reflect.

Now do write something for us, if you can, and with kindest remembrances to Mrs. Motley,

Believe me always,

Cordially yours,

J. R. Lowell.

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 374-8

James Russell Lowell to James T. Fields, November 30, 1863

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

James Russell Lowell to Thomas Hughes, September 9, 1863

Harvard College, Sept. 9, 1863.

My dear Hughes, — Will you do anything that lies in your way for my young friend Mr. Lincoln, and very much oblige me thereby? He wishes particularly to see you, and would like a few hints about employing his very short time in London well. He has been one of our tutors here.

To almost any other Englishman I should think it needful to explain that he is not President Lincoln, you are all so “shady” in our matters. The Times, I see, has now sent over an “Italian” to report upon us — a clever man, but a double foreigner, as an Italian with an English wash over him. Pray, don't believe a word he says about our longing to go to war with England. We are all as cross as terriers with your kind of neutrality, but the last thing we want is another war. If the rebel iron-clads are allowed to come out, there might be a change.

If you can give Mr. Lincoln any hints or helps for seeing Oxford you would be doing him a great kindness, and adding another to the many you have done me.

Cordially yours,

J. R. Lowell

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 372-3

James Russell Lowell to Sarah Blake Sturgis Shaw, August 28, 1863

Elmwood, Aug. 28, 1863.

My dear Sarah, — Not a day has passed since I heard the dreadful news¹ that I have not thought tenderly of you and yours; but I could not make up my mind to write you, and the longer I put it off the harder it grew. I have tried several times, and broken down. I knew you would be receiving all manner of consolation, and, as I know that consolation is worse than nothing, I would not add mine. There is nothing for such a blow as that but to bow the head and bear it. We may think of many things that in some measure make up for such a loss, but we can think of nothing that will give us back what we have lost. The best is that, so far as he was concerned, all was noble and of the highest example.

I have been writing something about Robert, and if, after keeping a little while, it should turn out to be a poem, I shall print it; but not unless I think it some way worthy of what I feel, however far the best verse falls short of noble living and dying such as his.

I would rather have my name known and blest, as his will be, through all the hovels of an outcast race, than blaring from all the trumpets of repute. . . .

If the consolation of the best is wearisome, it is yet something to have the sympathy of every one, as I know you and Frank have. God bless and sustain you!

Your always loving

J. R. Lowell.

_______________

¹ Of the death of her only son, the gallant Colonel Shaw, one of the most heroic of the youths who offered their lives in the Civil War to their country and to freedom.

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 366-7

James Russell Lowell to Charles Eliot Norton, December 25, 1862

Elmwood, Xmas Night, 1862.

. . . . I send the poor verses.¹ You will see that I accepted your criticism and left out the crowding stanza. I have also made some corrections—chiefly because I altered the last stanza but one in order to get in “feed every skill,” and then found the same rhymes staring at me from the last. So, as I could not copy it again and did not like to send anything with corrections in it, I e'en weakened the last stanza a little to make all square. You see what it is to write in rhyme, and not to remember what you have written. It is safer to repeat one's self in prose.

I hope all of you have had a good Christmas. I don't see why any national misfortunes should prevent our being glad over the birth of Good into the world eighteen centuries and a half ago. To me it is always a delightful day, and I, dull as I may be, come to dinner with a feeling that at least I am helping in the traditional ceremonies. One can say at least with a good conscience, as he lays his head on his pillow, like one of My Lord Tennyson's jurymen, Caput apri detuli — I brought the bore's head. With which excellent moral, and love to all,

I am always your loving

J. R. L.

Asked in the very friendliest way

      To send some word prolific,

Some pearl of wit, from Boston Bay

      To astonish the Pacific,

I fished one day and dredged the next,

      And, when I had not found it,

"Our bay is deep," I murmured, vext,

      "But has vast flats around it!"

You fancy us a land of schools,

      Academies, and colleges,

That love to cram our emptiest fools

      With 'onomies and 'ologies,

Till, fired, they rise and leave a line

      Of light behind like rockets—

Nay, if you ask them out to dine,

      Bring lectures in their pockets.

But, 'stead of lecturing other folks,

      To be yourself the topic;

To bear the slashes, jerks, and pokes

      Of scalpels philanthropic—

It makes one feel as if he'd sold,

      In some supreme emergence,

His corpus vile, and were told,

      "You're wanted by the surgeons!"

I felt, when begged to send a verse

      By way of friendly greeting,

As if you'd stopped me in my hearse

      With " Pray, address the meeting!"

For, when one's made a lecture's theme,

      One feels, in sad sincerity,

As he were dead, or in a dream

      Confounded with posterity.

I sometimes, on the long-sloped swells

      Of deeper songs careening,

Shaking sometimes my cap and bells,

      But still with earnest meaning,

Grow grave to think my leaden lines

      Should make so long a journey,

And there among your golden mines

      Be uttered by attorney.

What says the East, then, to the West,

      The old home to the new one,

The mother-bird upon the nest

      To the far-flown, but true one?

Fair realm beneath the evening-star,

      Our western gate to glory,

You send us faith and cheer from far;

      I send you back a story.

We are your Past, and, short or long,

      What leave Old Days behind them

Save bits of wisdom and of song

      For very few to find them?

So, children, if my tale be old,

      My moral not the newest,

Listen to Grannam while they're told,

      For both are of the truest.

                        _____

Far in a farther East than this,

      When Nature still held league with

Man, And shoots of New Creation's bliss

      Through secret threads of kindred ran;

When man was more than shops and stocks,

      And earth than dirt to fence and sell,

Then all the forests, fields, and rocks

      Their upward yearning longed to tell.

The forests muse of keel and oar;

      The field awaits the ploughshare's seam;

The rock in palace-walls would soar;

      To rise by service all things dream.

And so, when Brahma walked the earth,

      The golden vein beneath the sward

Cried, "Take me, Master; all my worth

      Lies but in serving thee, my lord!

"Without thee gold is only gold,

      A sullen slave that waits on man,

Sworn liegeman of the Serpent old

      To thwart the Maker's nobler plan;

But, ductile to thy plastic will,

      I yield as flexible as air,

Speak every tongue, feed every skill,

      Take every shape of good and fair.

"The soul of soul is loyal hope,

      The wine of wine is friendship's juice,

The strength of strength is gracious scope,

      The gold of gold is nobler use;

Through thee alone I am not dross!

      Through thee, O master-brain and heart!

I climb to beauty and to art,

      I bind the wound and bear the Cross,"

_______________

¹ To be read at a lecture on himself, which was to be given in California, by the Rev. T. Starr King.

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 361-5

James Russell Lowell to James T. Fields, August 2, 1862

Elmwood, Saturday, Aug. 2, 1862.

My dear Fields, — I have an idea—nay, I honestly believe even two ideas (which is perhaps more than in fairness falls to a single person); but I can't persuade the words to marry either of them — such matches are made in heaven. Did you ever (when you were a boy) play “Bat, bat, come into my hat”? I have since I was I won't say how old, and under the most benign conditions — fine evening, smooth lawn, lovely woman to inspire, and, more than all, a new hat. The bat that can resist all these inducements must be little better than a brick-bat, and yet who ever knew one of those wayward, noctivagant creatures to condescend even to such terms? They will stoop towards the soaring Castor, they will look into that mysterious hollow which some angry divinity has doomed us to wear, which is the Yankee's portmanteau and travelling-safe; but they will not venture where we venture the most precious (or most worthless) part of our person twenty times a day. Yet an owl will trap you one in a minute and make no bones of it. Well, I have been pestering my two ideas (one for a fable by Mr. Wilbur, the other a dialogue with a recruiting-drum by Mr. Biglow — with such a burthen to it!) just in that way, but I might as well talk to Egg Rock. If I were an owl (don't you see?) I should have no trouble. I shouldn't consult the wishes of my bat, but just gobble him up and done with it.

Truth is, my dear Fields, I am amazed to think how I ever kept my word about the six already caught. I look back and wonder how in great H. I ever did it. But Sunday is always a prosperous day with me; so pray wait till Monday, and then I shall either have done my job or shall know it can't be done.

But what shall one say? Who feels like asking more recruits to go down into McClellan's beautiful trap, from which seventy thousand men can't get away? Hasn't he pinned his army there like a bug in a cabinet? — only you don't have to feed your bug! I feel “blue as the blue forget-me-not,” and don't see how we are to be saved but by a miracle, and miracles aren't wrought for folks without heads, at least since the time of St. Denys.

I am much obliged to you for introducing me to Dr. Brown's book, which I like very much. There is a soul in it somehow that one does not find in many books, and he seems to me a remarkably good critic, where his Scoticism doesn't come in his way.

Give me a victory and I will give you a poem; but I am now clear down in the bottom of the well, where I see the Truth too near to make verses of.

Truly yours,

J. R. L.

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 359-61

James Russell Lowell to James T. Fields, January 1, 1862

Elmwood, Jan. 1, 1862.

My dear Fields, — I sent number two to Mr. Nichols this morning. If I am not mistaken it will take. ’Tis about Mason and Slidell, and I have ended it with a little ballad with a refrain that I hope has a kind of tang to it.

Do you want any more literary notices? I have some Calderon translations I should like to say a few words about.

I wish you and Ticknor a Happy New Year, and remain

Truly yours,

J. R. Lowell

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 357

Johnathan to John

[by James Russell Lowell]

It don't seem hardly right, John,

      When both my hands was full,

To stump me to a fight, John, —

      Your cousin, tu, John Bull!

            Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess

            We know it now," sez he,

"The lion's paw is all the law,

      Accordin' to J. B.,

      Thet 's fit for you an' me!"

You wonder why we 're hot, John?

      Your mark wuz on the guns,

The neutral guns, thet shot, John,

      Our brothers an' our sons:

            Ole Uncle S. sez he," I guess

            There's human blood," sez he,

"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts,

            Though 't may surprise J. B.

            More 'n it would you an' me."

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,

      On your front-parlor stairs,

Would it jest meet your views, John,

      To wait an' sue their heirs?

            Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess,

            I on'y guess," sez he,

"Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell,

      'T would kind o' rile J. B.,

      - Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John:

      You mus' n' take it hard,

Ef we can't think with- you, John,

            It's jest your own back-yard.

            Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess,

      Ef thet's his claim," sez he,

"The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough

            To bust up friend J. B.,

            Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We give the critters back, John,

      Cos Abram thought 't was right;

It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,

      Provokin' us to fight.

            Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess

            We 've a hard row," sez he,

"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,

            May happen to J. B.,

            Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,

      With twenty million people,

An' close to every door, John,

      A school-house an' a steeple.

            Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

            It is a fact," sez he,

"The surest plan to make a man

            Is, Think him so, J. B.,

            Ez much ez you or me!"

SOURCE: John M. Forbes, Editor, An Old Scrap-book: With Additions, p. 595-7

James Russell Lowell to Sibyl Norton, September 28, 1861

Elmwood, the day before you wrote

your last letter; viz., Sep. 28, 1861.

My dear Sibyl, — Will you kindly tell me what has happened next week, so that I may be saved from this daily debauch of newspapers? How many “heroic Mulligans” who, “meurent et ne se rendent pas" to the reporters, with the privilege of living and surrendering to the enemy? How many “terrific conflicts” near Cheat Mountain (ominous name), with one wounded on our side, and enemy's loss supposed to be heavy? How many times we are to save Kentucky and lose our self-respect? How many times the Potomac is to be “hermetically sealed”? How often Mr. Seward is to put newspaper correspondents on the level of Secretaries of State? etc., etc. I ask all these questions because your so-welcome letter, which I received on Wednesday the 25th, was dated to-morrow the 29th. There is something very impressive to the imagination in a letter from the future, and to be even a day in advance of the age is a good deal — how much more five or six! How does it seem to come back? Is not everything weary and stale? Or do you live all the time in a balloon, thus seeing over the lines of Time, the old enemy of us all? Pray tell me how much foolisher I shall be this day twelve-month. Well, at any rate, you can't see far enough to find the day when your friendship shall not be one of my dearest possessions. . . .

Has it begun to be cold with you? I had a little Italian bluster of brushwood fire yesterday morning, but the times are too hard with me to allow of such an extravagance except on the brink of gelation. The horror of my tax-bill has so infected my imagination that I see myself and all my friends begging entrance to the P.H. (From delicacy I use initials.) I fancy all of you gathering fuel on the Newport beaches. I hope you will have lots of wrecks—Southern privateers, of course. Don't ever overload yourself. I can't bear to think of your looking like the poor women I met in the Pineta at Ravenna just at dusk, having the air of moving druidical altars or sudden toadstools.

Our trees are beginning to turn — the maples are all ablaze, and even in our ashes live their wonted fires. The Virginia creeper that I planted against the old horse-chestnut stump trickles down in blood as if its support were one of Dante's living wood. The haze has begun, and the lovely mornings when one blesses the sun. I confess our summer weather too often puts one in mind of Smithfield and the Book of Martyrs.

I have had an adventure. I have dined with a prince. After changing my mind twenty times, I at last sat down desperately and “had the honour to accept.” And I was glad of it — for H.I.H.’s resemblance to his uncle is something wonderful. I had always supposed the portraits of the elder Nap imperialized, but Jerome N. looks as if he had sat for that picture where the emperor lies reading on a sofa — you remember it. A trifle weaker about the mouth, suggesting loss of teeth; but it is not so, for his teeth are exquisite. He looks as you would fancy his uncle if he were Empereur de Ste. Hélène, roi d’Yvetôt. I sat next to Colonel Ragon, who led the forlorn hope at the taking of the Malakoff and was at the siege of Rome. He was a very pleasant fellow. (I don't feel quite sure of my English yet — J'ai tant parlé Français que je trouve beaucoup de difficulté à m'y déshabituer.) Pendant — I mean during — the dinner Ooendel Homes récitait des vers vraiment jolis. Il arrivait déjà au bout, quand M. Ragon, se tournant vers moi d'un air mêlé d'intelligence et d'interrogation, et à la même fois d'un Colomb qui fait la découverte d'un monde tout nouveau, s'écria, “C'est en vers, Monsieur, n'est ce pas?” St'anegdot charmang j'ai rahcontay ah Ooendell daypwee, avec days eclah de reer. (See Bolmar.) Mr. Everett made a speech où il y avait un soupçon de longueur. The prince replied most gracefully, as one

"Who saying nothing yet saith all."

He speaks French exquisitely — foi de professeur. Ho parlato anche Italiano col Colonello, chi è stato sei anni in Italia, and I believe I should have tried Hebrew with the secretary of legation, who looked like a Jew, if I had had the chance. After dinner the prince was brought up and presented to me!  Please remember that when we meet. The political part of our conversation of course I am not at liberty to repeat (! !), but he asked me whether I myself occupied of any work literary at present? to which I answered, no. Then he spoke of the factories at Lowell and Lawrence, and said how much the intelligence of the operatives had interested him, etc., etc. He said that Boston seemed to have much more movement intellectual than the rest of the country (to which I replied, nous le croyons, au moins); astonished himself at the freedom of opinion here, etc., at the absence of Puritanism and the like. I thought him very intelligent and thanked him for his bo deescoor o saynah Frongsay shure lays ahfair deetahlee. (See Bolmar again, which I took in my pocket.) . . .

Ever yours,

J. R. L.

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 352-5

James Russell Lowell to Charles Nordhoff, December 31, 1860

Cambridge, Dec. 31, 1860.

My Dear Sir, — I owe you a great many thanks for your letters, both for their personal kindness towards myself and for the trouble you have taken in sending the Yankeeisms — nearly all of which were new to me, and whose salt-sea flavour has its own peculiar tang in it. I have now to thank you also for your pamphlet, so timely and spirited, and which I read with great satisfaction on its own account, and more for the sake of the author.

I do not well know what to make of the present posture of affairs — whether to believe that we have not succeeded in replacing the old feeling of loyalty with the better one of Public Spirit, and whether this failure be due to our federal system — whose excellence as a drag on centralization in the general government is balanced by its evil of disintegration, giving as it does to the citizens of each State separate interests and what the Italians call belfry patriotism; or whether it be due to the utter demoralization of the Democratic party, which has so long been content to barter principle for office; or whether to the want of political training and foresight, owing to our happy-go-lucky style of getting along hitherto. All this puzzles me, I confess. But one thing seems to me clear—that we have been running long enough by dead-reckoning, and that it is time to take the height of the sun of righteousness.

Is it the effect of democracy to make all our public men cowards? An ounce of pluck just now were worth a king's ransom. There is one comfort, though a shabby one, in the feeling that matters will come to such a pass that courage will be forced upon us, and that when there is no hope left we shall learn a little self-confidence from despair. That in such a crisis the fate of the country should be in the hands of a sneak! If the Republicans stand firm we shall be saved, even at the cost of disunion. If they yield, it is all up with us and with the experiment of democracy.

As for new “Biglow Papers,” God knows how I should like to write them, if they would only make me as they did before. But I am so occupied and bothered that I have no time to brood, which with me is as needful a preliminary to hatching anything as with a clucking hen. However, I am going to try my hand, and see what will come of it. But what we want is an hour of Old Hickory, or Old Rough and Ready — some man who would take command and crystallize this chaos into order, as it is all ready to do round the slenderest thread of honest purpose and unselfish courage in any man who is in the right place. They advise us to be magnanimous, as if giving up what does not belong to us were magnanimity — to be generous, as if there were generosity in giving up a trust reposed in us by Providence. God bless Major Anderson for setting us a good example!

I hear one piece of good news. Our governor, in his speech to the General Court, is going to recommend that the State be instantly put on a war footing — so that, in case there should be need to order out the militia at the call of the general government, they may be ready to march at a moment's notice. If we can only get one or two Free States to show that they are in earnest, it will do a world of good.

If you should see a “Biglow Paper” before long, try to like it for auld lang syne's sake. I must run over to hear my classes, so good-bye, and a Happy New Year from your

Cordial friend,

J. R. Lowell.

P.S. 1862. I think the letter rather curious than otherwise now — we have got on so.

[The foregoing letter was not sent, as appears from the following note, until more than a year had passed after its writing.]

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 346

Charles Russell Lowell to Senator Charles Sumner, April 23, 1861

Washington, April 23, '61.

Dear Sir, — Have you at your disposal any appointment in the Army which you would be willing to give me?

I speak and write English, French, and Italian, and read German and Spanish: knew once enough of Mathematics to put me at the head of my class in Harvard — though now I may need a little rubbing up: am a tolerable proficient with the small sword and the singlestick: and can ride a horse as far and bring him in as fresh as any other man. I am twenty-six years of age, and believe I possess more or less of that moral courage about taking responsibility which seems at present to be found only in Southern officers.

I scarcely know to whom to refer you, — but either Mr. J. M. Forbes, or my Uncle, James Russell Lowell, will put you in the way of hearing more about my qualifications.

If you have no appointment at your disposal, perhaps you could get me one from Iowa or even Maryland. I have been living in the latter State for a little over six months, in charge of a rolling mill at Mount Savage. I heard of the trouble at Baltimore and of the action of Governor Hicks on Saturday, and at once gave up my place and started for Washington, and was fortunate enough to get through here yesterday, after several detentions.

I am trying to get an appointment on the Volunteer staff — my companion, Mr. Stewart, an Englishman, was yesterday named aide-decamp to Colonel Stone in command of the district troops: it was a lucky hit, and I fear I shall not make as good a one.

Whether the Union stands or falls, I believe the profession of arms will henceforth be more desirable and more respected than it has been hitherto: of course, I should prefer the artillery. I believe, with a week or two of preparation, I could pass the examinations.

Our mails are cut off — but Gurowski tells me he has means of getting letters through, and I shall ask him to enclose this. Any reply might be addressed to Gurowski's care.¹

Yours respectfully,

Charles Russell Lowell, Jr.

_______________

¹ Count Adam Gurowski, a Polish patriot, exiled for his part in revolutionary politics at home, came to America and became a student and man of letters.

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 201-2, 402

James Russell Lowell to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, October 24, 1859

Cambridge, Oct. 24, 1859.

My dear Higginson, — You prevent my wishes. I was going to ask you for something. Editorially, I am a little afraid of [John] Brown, and Ticknor¹ would be more so. But perhaps I misunderstand you. Anyhow, as long as I edit I want you to write.

I don't quite agree with you about the last number. I think “Dog Talk” one of the cleverest articles I have printed — just on an easy, gentlemanlike level that fitted the topic. It was written, I believe, by an officer in the English army — the same who wrote “The Perilous Bivouac” and “The Walker of the Snow.” I liked them all. But heavens! could you look into my drawers! I do the best I can. As to my notice of Bartlett² — it would have been better had I ever kept notes of Yankeeisms. Groping for them in one's memory won't do, and I wrote with the printer's devil waiting in my best easy-chair and reading my newspaper before I had looked at it — perhaps the best Americanism of the lot.

Always truly yours,

J. R. Lowell.

_______________

¹ Messrs Ticknor & Fields had now become the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly.

² Bartlett's “Dictionary of Americanisms.”

SOURCE: Charles Eliot Norton, Editor, Letters of James Russell Lowell, Volume 1, p. 333-4