THE BIGLOW PAPERS THE COURTIN'1 SECOND SERIES GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, A fireplace filled the room's one side ΤΟ 1 The only attempt I had ever made at anything like a pastoral (if that may be called an attempt which was the result almost of pure accident) was in 'The Courtin',' While the Introduction to the First Series was going through the press, I received word from the printer that there was a blank page left which must be filled. I sat down at once and improvised another fictitious notice of the press,' in which, because verse would fill up space more cheaply than prose, I inserted an extract from a supposed ballad of Mr. Biglow. I kept no copy of it, and the printer, as directed, cut it off when the gap was filled. Presently I began to receive letters asking for the rest of it, sometimes for the balance of it. I had none, but to answer such demands, I patched a conclusion upon it in a later edition. Those who had only the first continued to importune me. Afterward, being asked to write it out as an autograph for the Baltimore Sanitary Commission Fair, I added other verses, into some of which I infused a little more sentiment in a homely way, and after a fashion completed it by sketching in the characters and making a connected story. Most likely I have spoiled it, but I shall put it at the end of this Introduction, to answer once for all those kindly importunings. (LOWELL, in the Introduction' to the Biglow Papers, 1866.) He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spellsAll is, he could n't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, All ways to once her feelins flew He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 50 60 They're 'most too fur away, take too much time To visit of'en, ef it ain't in rhyme; the British mail-steamer Trent. On the way the Trent was stopped by Captain Wilkes, of the American manof-war San Jacinto, and the Confederate agents were transferred as prisoners to the latter vessel. The British Government at once proclaimed the act a great outrage,' and sent a peremptory demand for the release of the prisoners and reparation. At the same time, without waiting for any explanation, it made extensive preparations for hostilities. It seemed and undoubtedly was expedient for the United States to receive Lord Russell's demand as an admission that impressment of British seamen found on board neutral vessels was unwarrantable. Acting on the demand as an admission of the principle so long contended for by the United States, Mr. Seward disavowed the act of Wilkes and released the commissioners. But it was held then and has since been stoutly maintained by many jurists that the true principles of international law will not justify a neutral vessel in transporting the agents of a belligerent on a hostile mission. On the analogy of despatches they should be contraband. The difficulty of amicable settlement at that time, however, lay not so much in the point of law as in the intensity of popular feeling on both sides of the Atlantic. (F. B. Williams, in the Riverside and Cambridge Editions of Lowell's Poetical Works.) See also the long introductory letter of the Rev. Homer Wilbur, in the Cambridge Edition, pp. 228-233, and the Riverside Edition, vol. ii, pp 240-253. Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns; Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light, Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh, With the Stone Spike thet 's druv thru Bunker's Hill; Whether 't was so, or ef I on'y dreamed, I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed. THE BRIDGE Wal, neighbor, tell us wut's turned up thet's new? You're younger 'n I be, -nigher Boston, tu: An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin', Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'. There's sunthin' goin' on, I know: las' night The British sogers killed in our gret fight 70 (Nigh fifty year they hed n't stirred nor spoke) Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke: Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy THE MONIMENT 80 Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low You know them envys thet the Rebbles reply. 50 sent, An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent? THE BRIDGE Wut! they ha'n't hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone! Thet's the sure way to make a goose a swan! THE MONIMENT No: England she would hev 'em, Fee, Faw, Fum! (Ez though she hed n't fools enough to home), So they 've returned 'em It's you 're the sinner ollers, she's the saint; Wut's good 's all English, all thet is n't ain't; 120 Wut profits her is ollers right an' just, An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must; She 's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks There ain't no light in Natur when she winks; Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus ? Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus ? She ain't like other mortals, thet 's a fact: She never stopped the habus-corpus act, Nor specie payments, nor she never yet Cut down the int'rest on her public debt; 130 She don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed, An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede; She's all thet 's honest, honnable, an' fair, An' when the vartoos died they made her heir. THE MONIMENT But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law, The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. That 'ere 's most frequently the kin' o'talk 'Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay 100 To fear thet meaner bully, old ‘They 'll say'? Suppose they du say: words are dreffle bores, But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours. Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit Where it'll help to widen out our split: She's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to come An' lend the beetle thet 's to drive it home. For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle, When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle. |