manufactures, and from whom the city of Lowell took its name.  Another son, and thus also an uncle of the poet, was John Lowell, Jr., whose wise and far-sighted provision gave to Boston that powerful centre of intellectual influence, the Lowell Institute.  Of the Rev. Charles Lowell, his son said, in a letter written in 1844, “He is Doctor Primrose in the comparative degree, the very simplest and charmingest of sexagenarians, and not without a great deal of the truest magnanimity.”  It was characteristic of Lowell thus to go to The Vicar of Wakefield for a portrait of his father.  Dr. Lowell lived till 1861, when his son was forty-two.

[Illustration:  Elmwood, Mr. Lowell’s home in Cambridge.]

Mrs. Harriet Spence Lowell, the poet’s mother, was of Scotch origin, a native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  She is described as having “a great memory, an extraordinary aptitude for language, and a passionate fondness for ancient songs and ballads.”  It pleased her to fancy herself descended from the hero of one of the most famous ballads, Sir Patrick Spens, and at any rate she made a genuine link in the Poetic Succession.  In a letter to his mother, written in 1837, Lowell says:  “I am engaged in several poetical effusions, one of which I have dedicated to you, who have always been the patron and encourager of my youthful muse.”  The Russell in his name seems to intimate a strain of Jewish ancestry; at any rate Lowell took pride in the name on this account, for he was not slow to recognize the intellectual power of the Hebrew race.  He was the youngest of a family of five, two daughters and three sons.  An older brother who outlived him a short time, was the Rev. Robert Traill Spence Lowell, who wrote besides a novel, The New Priest in Conception Bay, which contains a delightful study of a Yankee, some poems, and a story of school-boy life.

Not long before his death, Lowell wrote to an English friend a description of Elmwood, and as he was very fond of the house in which he lived and died, it is agreeable to read words which strove to set it before the eyes of one who had never seen it. “’Tis a pleasant old house, just about twice as old as I am, four miles from Boston, in what was once the country and is now a populous suburb.  But it still has some ten acres of open about it, and some fine old trees.  When the worst comes to the worst (if I live so long) I shall still have four and a half acres left with the house, the rest belonging to my brothers and sisters or their heirs.  It is a square house, with four rooms on a floor, like some houses of the Georgian era I have seen in English provincial towns, only they are of brick, and this is of wood.  But it is solid with its heavy oaken beams, the spaces between which in the four outer walls are filled in with brick, though you mustn’t fancy a brick-and-timber house, for outwardly it is sheathed with wood.  Inside there is much wainscot (of deal) painted white