one day show it. I do not fear criticism as
much as I love truth. Nay, I do not fear it at all. In short, I am
happy. Maria fills my ideal and I satisfy her. And I mean to live as
one beloved by such a woman should live. She is every way noble.
People have called 'Irene' a beautiful piece of poetry. And so it is.
It owes all its beauty to her."

It is very plain that she was on the side of the poet, not of the
worldly-minded persons who advocated the law, business, money-making.
She did not dread the prospect of being a poor man's wife. To be the
wife of a poet, a man of courage and ambition and nobleness of heart,
was far more to her. The turning point in Lowell's life was past; and
he had been led to that turning point by the little woman who was soon
to become his wife.

CHAPTER VI

THE UNCERTAIN SEAS OF LITERATURE

As far as is known, Lowell never earned a dollar by the law. He soon
began to pick up a five or a ten dollar bill here and there by writing
for current periodicals. His book brought him some reputation, but not
much. A few hundred copies were sold, and most of the reviews and
criticisms were favorable. He received a slating from the _Morning
Post_ in Boston, however, just as an inkling of what a literary man
might expect.

Three years of hard literary work now followed. Lowell wrote
assiduously and heroically, getting what happiness he could in the
meantime out of his love. He was young and strong, and life was not a
burden. He tells us of having spent an evening at the house of a
friend "where Maria is making sunshine just now," and he declared that
he had been exceedingly funny. He had in the course of the evening
recited "near upon five hundred extempore macaronic verses; composed
and executed an oratorio and opera" upon a piano without strings,
namely the center-table; drawn "an entirely original view of Nantasket
Beach"; made a temperance address; and given vent to "innumerable
jests, jokes, puns, oddities, quiddities and nothings," interrupted by
his own laughter and that of his hearers. Besides this, he had eaten
"an indefinite number of raisins, chestnuts(!), etc., etc., etc.,
etc., etc."

In 1842 Lowell and Cobert G. Carter, who was about the same sort of a
business man as the poet himself, started a periodical which they
called the _Pioneer_. They had no capital; but they did have literary
connections, and they were able to get together for the three numbers
they published a la