Chapter II: Lowell’s Character

‘I am a kind of twins myself, divided between grave and gay,’ said Lowell, in one of those rare moments when he condescended to self-analysis. The duality of temperament here pointed at is one secret of the fascination he exerted on all who were privileged to know him intimately. The fascination was certainly great and the tributes to it numerous. Lowell’s personality was so winning, and the man was so genuine, human, and lovable, that it is difficult to speak of him in terms having even the semblance of impartiality. Although strong-willed and positive, not indisposed now and then to indulge himself in the luxury of stubbornness, he was open-minded, wholly unselfish, kind-hearted, affectionate, and gentle; and while he had his reserves he was democratic in all the best senses of the word, for his democracy sprang from the depths of his nature. Changeable in his moods, he could be teasing, whimsical, irritating; but when he was most mocking and perverse he was most delightful.

There is something very attractive in Lowell’s attitude toward literature and literary fame. Books were an essential part of his life. He had mastered that difficult art of _reading_ as few men have mastered it. He was rarely endowed as a poet and prose-writer. And yet Lowell, the most complete illustration we have of the literary man, showed no inclination to magnify the importance of letters.

As to his individual achievements, he not only never thought of himself more highly than he ought to think, but was the rather inclined to place too low an estimate on the value of his work. Self-distrust increased with years. Nevertheless, Lowell indulged himself in no philosophy of despair. He had had much to be grateful for. ‘I have always believed that a man’s fate is born with him, and that he cannot escape from it nor greatly modify it’ (Lowell once wrote to his friend Charles Eliot Norton) ‘and that consequently every one gets in the long run exactly what he deserves, neither more nor less.’ Lowell goes on to say that the creed is a ‘cheerful’ one; he might have added that it is no less sensible and manly than it is cheerful.

Whether he found his creed satisfactory at all times or was always conscious that he had a creed, we cannot know, but he could be the blithest of fatalists when it pleased him to be.