Home Life of Great Authors Part 22

The first of the Biglow Papers had appeared even before this,--as early as 1846, during the progress of the Mexican war,--and had showed his countrymen very plainly where he was to be found in the coming struggle.

These brilliant coruscations of wit were the first gleams of light which irradiated the sombre anti-slavery struggle. The Abolitionists were men too much in earnest to enliven their arguments with wit or humor, and the whole conflict thus far had been stern and solemn in the extreme.

This had prevented much popular enthusiasm, except in natures as earnest as their own; and many men who had before been indifferent to the subject were at once attracted and interested by the raillery and satire of Lowell. They enjoyed his keen thrusts, and began to talk with one another about them, and unconsciously imbibed a little of their spirit.

Some of the more jingling rhymes caught the ear of the street, and in a little while

"John P.

Robinson he Sez he wun't vote for Governor B."

was heard on every hand. And even across the sea, we are told, travellers would hear some one repeating the catch,--

"But John P.

Robinson he Sez they didn't know everything down in Judee."

The first series of these papers undoubtedly had a powerful influence in forming public opinion upon the subject of the abolition of slavery; and the second series exerted a still more potent influence in favor of sustaining the government in the prosecution of the war, and in urging it to the emanc.i.p.ation of the slaves. Early in the war he wrote,--

"It's slavery that's the fangs and thinkin' head, And ef you want salvation, cresh it dead."

He suffered much in his own family from the war, three of his favorite nephews being killed,--one at Winchester, one at Seven Pines, and one at Ball's Bluff. Another relative was the gallant Colonel Shaw, who led the colored troops in the a.s.sault on Fort Wagner, and who there gave up his heroic life. In the "Commemoration Ode"--the greatest poem which Lowell has ever written--he celebrates the death of these young heroes in fitting verse, and gives their names to immortality. The effect of the poem at the time was simply overpowering, so many other hearts were bleeding with his own; and it at once took its place as one of the n.o.blest poems in the language. The poet William W. Story came over from Rome purposely to hear Lowell deliver this ode, and felt abundantly paid for the journey by the pathos and sublimity of the scene, which has seldom been equalled in this country.

Mr. Underwood tells us that--

"In person Lowell is of medium height, rather slender, but sinewy and active. His movements are deliberate rather than impulsive, indicating what athletes call staying qualities. His hair at maturity was dark auburn or ruddy chestnut in color, and his full beard rather lighter and more glowing in tint. The eyes of men of genius are seldom to be cla.s.sified in ordinary terms, though it is said their prevailing color is gray. . . . Lowell's eyes in repose have clear blue and gray tones, with minute, dark mottlings. In expression they are strongly indicative of his moods. When fixed upon study, or while listening to serious discourse, they are grave and penetrating; in ordinary conversation they are bright and cheery; in moments of excitement they have a wonderful l.u.s.tre.

Nothing could be finer than his facial expression while telling a story or tossing a repartee. The features are alive with intelligence; and eyes, looks, and voice appear to be working up dazzling effects in concert, like the finished artists of the Comedie Francaise."

As a conversationalist Mr. Lowell is unrivalled. His wit is apparently inexhaustible, and irradiates his whole conversation, as it does all his writing except his serious poetry. His "Fireside Travels" was p.r.o.nounced by Bryant the wittiest book ever written; and it is not more witty than much of his conversation. The brilliancy of his conversation and the charm of his manners unite to make him one of the most fascinating companions in the world; and this charm is felt by all who come in contact with the man, and is not a thing reserved for his more favored companions. One who has witnessed an encounter of wit between Lowell and Dr. Holmes has witnessed one of the finest exhibitions of mental pyrotechnics of the day. His reading has been wide and varied, and he has all his resources at command. His observation of men and things has also been keen, and every variety of anecdote and ill.u.s.tration come forth from apparently inexhaustible sources as the needs of the moment demand. His love of Nature and his observation of all her finer moods make him a most delightful out-of-doors companion. In the beautiful environs of Cambridge he used to take those long walks which furnished him with such a fund of accurate observation of the sights and sounds of the natural world. No man has a keener eye for a bird than he, nor a quicker ear to distinguish between their songs; and no unusual sound of insect life escapes his scrutiny,--he is keenly alert to know what is going on under his feet as well as over his head. The most modest flower does not escape his eye, nor any peculiarly marked leaf, nor any rich bed of leafy mould. He sees everything with his poet's eye, even to "those rifts where unregarded mosses be." He has never been what is called a society man, though latterly he has gone more into general society. Formerly, dinner-parties and b.a.l.l.s were his pet aversions, as one might suspect from his poem "Without and Within:"--

"My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the sidelight of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,--but only more.

"Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot; Blows on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.

"Meanwhile, I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old c.o.o.n; And envy him outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon.

"I envy him the ungyved prance By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chain and dance,-- The galley-slave of dreary forms.

"Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet!--past a doubt, 'T would still be one man bored within, And just another bored without."

But he was always fond of good company, and collected around him in Cambridge, in the old days, a brilliant circle of congenial friends. Of these, Longfellow, and Professor Felton, and Aga.s.siz, and Dr. Estes Howe his brother-in-law, were perhaps the closest; but John Holmes and Edmund Quincy and Robert Carter were very warm friends,--members of the famous Whist Club, and royal companions all. Dr. Holmes was not far away, and always a constant visitor at Cambridge; and James T. Fields was a cherished friend. William Page, the painter, and W. W. Story, the sculptor, were also among his earlier friends. It was to the latter that the series of letters collected under the t.i.tle of "Fireside Travels"

were addressed. But there is scarcely a man of note in the literary world whom he has not known in the course of his life; and he has made friends of nearly all he has known. He has been a busy worker, too, all his life,--industrious, concentrated, and indefatigable. A man who could write the whole of "Sir Launfal" in two days knows how to toil, and has been accustomed to concentrate his faculties. Mr. Lowell has an utter disbelief in the materialistic theory of the Universe, and expresses it many times in his later poems. He at least--

"envies science not her feat To make a twice-told tale of G.o.d."

And to his reverential eyes--

"The Ages one great minster seem, That throbs with praise and prayer."

And his hope for the world is expressed in "G.o.dminster Chimes," where he says:--

"O chime of sweet Saint Charity, Peal soon that Easter morn When Christ for all shall risen be, And in all hearts new born!

That Pentecost when utterance clear To all men shall be given, When all shall say _My Brother_ here, And hear _My Son_ in heaven!"

Of his own personal trust he gives a picture in "Sea-Weed:"--

"The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed, Far and more far the wave's receding shocks, Nor doubts, for all the darkness and the mist, That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst, And sh.o.r.eward lead again her foam-fleeced flocks.

"For the same wave that rims the Carib sh.o.r.e With momentary brede of pearl and gold, Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar Lorn weeds bound fast on rocks of Labrador, By love divine on one sweet errand rolled.

"And though Thy healing waters far withdraw, I too can wait, and feed on hope of Thee And of the clear recurrence of Thy law, Sure that the parting grace my morning saw Abides its time to come in search of me."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ROBERT AND ELIZABETH BROWNING.

Comparatively little has been known of the lives of these poets. The fact of their having lived in Italy throughout their married life kept them somewhat aloof from the gossip-loving writers of their own country; and the tourists, both from England and America, who were so fond of calling upon them there, seldom succeeded in establis.h.i.+ng anything like intimate relations with them.

The little that is known can be briefly stated. Browning's father was a gentleman of wealth and of original character, who allowed the striking individuality of his son Robert to develop itself in a natural way instead of attempting to cramp him into the mould of the other young Englishmen of his rank and time. At an early age he went to Italy, where he pa.s.sed several years in diligent study of the inst.i.tutions and art of that favored land as well as of her literature both ancient and modern.

Young Browning had a great pa.s.sion for these studies, and a great fondness for Italian life, with which he familiarized himself in all the different provinces and all the princ.i.p.al cities, living for long periods in each favorite resort where there was anything either in art or nature to please his fine critical taste. He studied both painting and music, and has always been a fine amateur in each. He wrote poetry from childhood, but published nothing until he was about twenty-three years old, when "Paracelsus," a dramatic poem, appeared. The genius of the writer was recognized at once, as well as those faults which have clung to him persistently through life. Two years after, a tragedy ent.i.tled "Strafford" was produced, and a little later, "Sordello." We are interested in these, for the purposes of this article, only as they made him known to Elizabeth Barrett, a young invalid in England, who at once felt the power of the high genius which had appeared in the literary world. She had written some poems herself, but was almost unknown, and, indeed, expected to live but a very short time. Returning to England at this time, Browning, through some knowledge of her poems, made her acquaintance, and a mutual attachment followed, which proved very strong and lasting. This love between two poets of such high rank is unique in the annals of literature. At first she is afraid of her own love, and bids him

"Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the suns.h.i.+ne as before, Without the sense of that which I forebore . . .

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream, include thee as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue G.o.d for myself, He hears that name of thine And sees within my eyes the tears of two."

The whole outlook of life soon changed to the gentle invalid, as she tells him later.

"The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I who thought to sink Was caught up into love and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole G.o.d gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, sweet with thee anear.

The name of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say."

The wonder of how she could have been able to live without him impresses her much.

"Beloved, my beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sat alone here in the snow And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink No moment at thy voice . . . but link by link Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand . . . why, thus I drink Of life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful, Never to feel thee thrill the day or night With personal act or speech, nor ever cull Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess G.o.d's presence out of sight."

But in order to tell the whole story we should have to quote all the "Sonnets from the Portuguese,"--and they would make an alluring chapter certainly,--but we must refrain. The result was that,

"As brighter ladies do not count it strange For love to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near, sweet view of Heaven for earth with thee."

The two poets were married, and removed at once to Italy, where the lady's health improved, and where they pa.s.sed many years of happy married life. Miss Barrett's father did not approve the marriage, and he cast her off in consequence, and never became reconciled to her, which was the one great grief of her happy and fortunate life. She had before marriage lost a favorite brother by drowning, for whom she had mourned so deeply as seriously to affect her health. These were the only abiding sorrows of her life, as far as the world knows. The perfect companions.h.i.+p of these two gifted souls has been described by Browning himself:--

"When if I think but deep enough You are wont to answer prompt as rhyme, And you too find without a rebuff The response your soul seeks, many a time Piercing its fine flesh stuff."

Their perfect union he describes thus:--

"My own, see where the years conduct.

At first 't was something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked Into each now, on the new stream rolls, Whatever rocks obstruct.