IN ACKNOWLEDGING A TOAST TO THE SMITH PROFESSOR by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
At a formal dinner, James Russell Lowell is asked to give a toast and spends most of the poem humorously complaining about the pressure of being put on the spot.
The poem
I rise, Mr. Chairman, as both of us know, With the impromptu I promised you three weeks ago, Dragged up to my doom by your might and my mane, To do what I vowed I'd do never again: And I feel like your good honest dough when possest By a stirring, impertinent devil of yeast. 'You must rise,' says the leaven. 'I can't,' says the dough; 'Just examine my bumps, and you'll see it's no go.' 'But you must,' the tormentor insists, ''tis all right; You must rise when I bid you, and, what's more, be light.' 10 'Tis a dreadful oppression, this making men speak What they're sure to be sorry for all the next week; Some poor stick requesting, like Aaron's, to bud Into eloquence, pathos, or wit in cold blood, As if the dull brain that you vented your spite on Could be got, like an ox, by mere poking, to Brighton. They say it is wholesome to rise with the sun, And I dare say it may be if not overdone; (I think it was Thomson who made the remark 'Twas an excellent thing in its way--for a lark;) 20 But to rise after dinner and look down the meeting On a distant (as Gray calls it) prospect of Eating, With a stomach half full and a cerebrum hollow As the tortoise-shell ere it was strung for Apollo, Undercontract to raise anerithmon gelasma With rhymes so hard hunted they gasp with the asthma, And jokes not much younger than Jethro's phylacteries, Is something I leave you yourselves to characterize. I've a notion, I think, of a good dinner speech, Tripping light as a sandpiper over the beach, 30 Swerving this way and that as the wave of the moment Washes out its slight trace with a dash of whim's foam on 't, And leaving on memory's rim just a sense Something graceful had gone by, a live present tense; Not poetry,--no, not quite that, but as good, A kind of winged prose that could fly if it would. 'Tis a time for gay fancies as fleeting and vain As the whisper of foam-beads on fresh-poured champagne, Since dinners were not perhaps strictly designed For manoeuvring the heavy dragoons of the mind. 40 When I hear your set speeches that start with a pop, Then wander and maunder, too feeble to stop, With a vague apprehension from popular rumor There used to be something by mortals called humor, Beginning again when you thought they were done, Respectable, sensible, weighing a ton, And as near to the present occasions of men As a Fast Day discourse of the year eighteen ten, I--well, I sit still, and my sentiments smother, For am I not also a bore and a brother? 50 And a toast,--what should that, be? Light, airy, and free, The foam-Aphrodite of Bacchus's sea, A fancy-tinged bubble, an orbed rainbow-stain, That floats for an instant 'twixt goblet and brain; A breath-born perfection, half something, half naught, And breaks if it strike the hard edge of a thought. Do you ask me to make such? Ah no, not so simple; Ask Apelles to paint you the ravishing dimple Whose shifting enchantment lights Venus's cheek, And the artist will tell you his skill is to seek; 60 Once fix it, 'tis naught, for the charm of it rises From the sudden bopeeps of its smiling surprises. I've tried to define it, but what mother's son Could ever yet do what he knows should be done? My rocket has burst, and I watch in the air Its fast-fading heart's-blood drop back in despair; Yet one chance is left me, and, if I am quick, I can palm off, before you suspect me, the stick. Now since I've succeeded--I pray do not frown-- To Ticknor's and Longfellow's classical gown, 70 And profess four strange languages, which, luckless elf, I speak like a native (of Cambridge) myself, Let me beg, Mr. President, leave to propose A sentiment treading on nobody's toes, And give, in such ale as with pump-handles _we_ brew, Their memory who saved us from all talking Hebrew,-- A toast that to deluge with water is good, For in Scripture they come in just after the flood: I give you the men but for whom, as I guess, sir, Modern languages ne'er could have had a professor, 80 The builders of Babel, to whose zeal the lungs Of the children of men owe confusion of tongues; And a name all-embracing I couple therewith, Which is that of my founder--the late Mr. Smith.
At a formal dinner, James Russell Lowell is asked to give a toast and spends most of the poem humorously complaining about the pressure of being put on the spot. He jokes about the pitfalls of bad after-dinner speeches, describes what a great toast should truly feel like, and shares his own struggle to deliver one. He concludes with a punchline: he toasts the builders of the Tower of Babel, noting that without their confusion of human language, there wouldn’t be a need for a professor of modern languages — which is precisely his role.
Line-by-line
I rise, Mr. Chairman, as both of us know, / With the impromptu I promised you three weeks ago,
'Tis a dreadful oppression, this making men speak / What they're sure to be sorry for all the next week;
They say it is wholesome to rise with the sun, / And I dare say it may be if not overdone;
I've a notion, I think, of a good dinner speech, / Tripping light as a sandpiper over the beach,
When I hear your set speeches that start with a pop, / Then wander and maunder, too feeble to stop,
And a toast,--what should that, be? Light, airy, and free, / The foam-Aphrodite of Bacchus's sea,
I've tried to define it, but what mother's son / Could ever yet do what he knows should be done?
Now since I've succeeded--I pray do not frown-- / To Ticknor's and Longfellow's classical gown,
Tone & mood
The tone is playfully self-deprecating throughout. Lowell pretends to be reluctant while clearly savoring every moment. There's a light satirical quality targeting pretentious after-dinner speeches, but it never becomes harsh — the humor always circles back to him. The style shifts between mock-heroic (with Greek quotes and classical references) and intentionally straightforward language, creating a contrast where much of the humor resides.
Symbols & metaphors
- Yeast and dough — The yeast making the dough rise represents social obligation taking precedence over personal hesitation. Lowell is like the dough — inactive and resistant — while the invitation to speak is the yeast he can't refuse.
- The sandpiper and the wave — The sandpiper skimming the shoreline represents Lowell's vision of the perfect after-dinner speech: it’s quick, light, and leaves hardly any trace. This illustrates the notion that the best wit is something you feel rather than something you remember verbatim.
- Champagne foam and the bubble — Bubbles and foam appear as symbols of the ideal toast — lovely, fleeting, and gone the moment you try to grasp them. They reflect the irony that the more you strive to be clever, the less clever you actually are.
- The rocket — The spent rocket — bursting with its 'heart's-blood' falling back to earth — symbolizes the speech itself, which has reached its peak and is losing momentum. Lowell employs this imagery to show that he's aware he’s losing the audience, preparing them for his final trick.
- The Tower of Babel — The Tower of Babel serves as both the comic climax and the central symbol of the poem. By raising a toast to its builders, Lowell transforms a biblical disaster into the cornerstone of his academic field, blending sacred history with a touch of professional self-mockery into one absurd joke.
Historical context
James Russell Lowell recited this poem at a Harvard dinner, likely during the 1850s or 1860s, while serving as Smith Professor of Modern Languages—a position he took on in 1855 after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who had succeeded George Ticknor. The Smith Professorship was funded through a bequest from the merchant Thomas Smith, and honoring the founder was a customary practice at these gatherings. Lowell was a prominent literary figure in antebellum America, helped establish *The Atlantic Monthly*, and was known for his sharp wit. After-dinner poetry was a popular form in Victorian literary culture, and Lowell excelled in it. The poem is filled with classical and literary references—Homer, Gray, Thomson, Apelles, Aphrodite—that a Harvard audience would have recognized immediately, adding to the humor: Lowell uses this wealth of knowledge to humorously suggest that learning has no place in a proper toast.
FAQ
Lowell was invited to deliver a toast at a Harvard dinner celebrating the Smith Professorship—his own academic position. The poem he wrote serves as his toast, yet it largely expresses his frustration about being asked to give one. He explores what makes a toast good, confesses his inability to meet that standard, and concludes with a punchline: he raises a glass to the builders of the Tower of Babel, arguing that without them, modern languages wouldn't exist, and there would be no need for a Smith Professor.
Thomas Smith was the merchant whose donation created the Smith Professorship of Modern Languages at Harvard. Lowell occupied that chair starting in 1855. During such dinners, it was customary to toast the founder, and Lowell humorously noted that he honors Smith by linking him—through the Tower of Babel—to the root of all language confusion.
It’s a Greek phrase from Aeschylus's *Prometheus Bound*, often translated as "the countless laughter of the sea." Lowell uses it to poke fun at the expectation that a dinner speaker should always deliver endless wit — and to flaunt his own knowledge, which adds to the humor about the overly educated Harvard men.
George Ticknor and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow were the two Smith Professors who came before Lowell. By mentioning them, Lowell aligns himself with a notable lineage while subtly downplaying the prestige of the role — he claims he speaks the four languages of the chair 'like a native (of Cambridge) myself,' suggesting that his fluency is more academic than authentic.
It’s Lowell’s vision of the ideal toast. Aphrodite emerged from sea-foam, so 'foam-Aphrodite' represents something beautiful that springs up naturally from the sea of wine (with *Bacchus* as the wine god). This image embodies the essence of a toast: stunning, effortless, and fleeting.
In the Bible, Aaron's rod miraculously budded overnight as a sign of divine favor. Lowell uses this story to poke fun at the notion that someone can be told to suddenly become eloquent and witty—as if inspiration were a miracle that could be summoned at will.
It’s his idea of the perfect after-dinner speech: something that isn’t exactly poetry but isn’t dull prose either. It captures the lightness and energy of poetry without being bound by strict rules. He envisions it as something that “could fly if it would,” suggesting it has the ability to soar but opts to remain grounded and relevant to the moment.
Yes, absolutely. It's a humorous poem crafted for a particular occasion, aimed at entertaining a crowd of Harvard scholars. The comedy operates on multiple levels: there's the self-deprecation, the mock-heroic references to classical literature, the meta-joke about dedicating an entire speech to explaining why you can't deliver a good one, and the ridiculous final toast to the Tower of Babel.