MR. LOWELL'S POEMS. From The Cornhill Magazine. on the splashy India-rubber-like marshes of native Jaalam." And truly, though MANY years ago, being in profound the phrase be intentionally grotesque, it ignorance of all things American, we is but a quaint exaggeration of the truth. happened to stumble upon a copy of the It was impossible even for readers scanBiglow Papers, then fresh from the press. dalously ignorant of the real meaning of The allusions to contemporary political the great warfare in which he was an details were as obscure to us as an effective combatant, not to recognize the Egyptian hieroglyphic. We should have genuine literary force concealed under been hopelessly floored by the questions this eccentric mask. Later familiarity, which will probably be set in some exam- enlightened by the course of that warfare, ination paper of the future. What was has only increased our affection for the that "darned Proviso matter " about Biglow Papers. Indeed, we find it diffiwhich a distinguished candidate " never cult to think of any exact parallel for had a grain of doubt"? Who was "Da- their characteristic merits. The now vis of Miss."? and why was he likely to half-forgotten "Rolliad" and the poetry place the perfection of bliss in "skinning of the "Anti-Jacobin" are to some exthat same old coon"? What was the tent of a similar character. The "Rolplan which "chipped the shell at Buffalo liad" is full of satire, brilliant enough, as of setting up old Van"? Upon these one might have thought, to escape the and numberless other difficulties, some common doom of most merely personal of which, it may be added, still remain invective. The "Anti-Jacobin" is perburied for us in the profoundest night, haps wittier, as to Englishmen it is still we could only look in the spirit which more intelligible than the Biglow Papers. causes a youthful candidate to twist his The ode of the "Needy Knife-grinder," hair into knots, and vaguely interrogate for example, has a fine quality of wit, which universal space in hopes of an answer. has given it a permanent place in popuBut dark as the allusions might be, there lar memory, and it will probably be prewas a spirit and humour in Mr. Biglow's ferred by literary critics even to the utterutterances which shone through all su- ances of Mr. John P. Robinson. But perficial perplexities. Whatever might there is a characteristic difference bebe the cause of his excitement, there tween the two, which tells on the oppocould be no doubt of the amazing shrewd-site side. The "Knife-grinder" is subness of his homely satire. John P. Rob-tantially an expression of the contempt inson, in particular, became a cherished with which the have-alls regard both the favourite, and his immortal saying about lack-alls and the wicked demagogues who the ignorance of certain persons "down would trade upon their discontent. in Judee was a household word thence- Translated into prose, it would run someforward. In short, we enjoyed the rare what to this effect: "I, the poet, have a pleasure of the revelation of a new intel- large share of the loaves and fishes, and lectual type, and one of no common vig-you, who grind my knives, have only our and originality. "Through coarse enough to keep body and soul together. Thersites' cloak," says the pseudo-Car- If anybody should try to persuade you lyle, the best parody of the original we that this arrangement is not part of the ever encountered, whose critique is pre- everlasting order of things, he is a fixed to the collected poems, we have wretched humbug, who really wants, by revelation of the heart, world-glowing, trading upon your discontent, to get a world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely larger share of the said loaves and fishes he grapples with the life-problem as it for himself." Now this may be, and, presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, with certain limitations, it probably is, careless of the 'nicer proprieties,' inex-most excellent common sense, but it can pert of 'elegant diction,' yet with voice scarcely be called a generous or elevated audible enough to whoso hath ears, up sentiment. The fishwife preaching to there on the gravelly side-hills, or down the eels to lie still whilst she is skinning 66 we them is always more or less in a false po- the Biglow Papers that even in the puresition; and, consequently, such poetry ly ludicrous parts—in the adventures, as that of the "Anti-Jacobin "is doomed for example, of Birdofredum Sawin to remain in the regions of satire, and feel that the laugher is no mere cynic; can hardly rise into true poetry. Con- under his rough outside and his Quaker tempt for human misery, and even for garb there bursts a touch of the true humbug which trades upon misery, is not Tyrtæus or Körner fire. This distinthe raw material of which one can make guishes the Biglow Papers from the more an ode or a war-song. Hosea Biglow, on recent exhibitions of what is called Yankee the other hand, has a most deep and humour. The man must be straitlaced genuine sentiment running through all beyond all reasonable limits, who would his quaint and even riotous humour. His refuse to laugh at some of the "goaks" politics may strike some readers as fanat- of Artemus Ward or even of Mark Twain. ical, and his views of war as formed too But we laugh and have done with it. much upon the Quaker model. But every The fun of such writers is rapidly beline he writes contains a protest against coming a mere trick, and, to say the hypocrisy, time-serving, and tyranny in truth, a very offensive trick. The esthe name of the noblest of human feel- sence of that mechanical product which ings. Justice to the poor and down- now calls itself Yankee humour is a simtrodden awakes his enthusiasm; and the ple cynicism which holds that there is demagogues whom he attacks are those something essentially funny in brutality who flatter the tyrant, not those who ap-or irreverence. A man fancies that he is peal, however erroneously, to his victims. a delicate humourist because he has Poetry is not necessarily the better because its moral is sounder; and some of the dullest of all human beings have been martyrs to the best of causes. But the combination of deep and generous sym-travesties of all that has stirred the impathy with a keen perception of the ludi-aginations of mankind, in poking fun at crous is the substratum of the finest kind antiquity, and sticking a cigar in the of humour; and it is that which enables mouth of a Greek statue, is surely not Biglow to pass without any sense of dis-in an enviable condition. Some wisecord from pure satire into strains of gen- acres, it appears, found fault with the uine poetry. The first of his poems, Biglow Papers upon this score; and comcomposed after the parental Ezekiel had plained of such phrases as retired to bed, caused him, as we may remember, to stamp about his room, thrashin' round like a short-tailed bull in fly-time." And the attack on the "'cruitin' sargeant " passes naturally into a burst of strong patriotic feeling. Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! learnt the art of talking of murders as comic incidents, and mixing sacred feelings with vulgarizing associations. The mind which finds permanent pleasure in Ef you take a sword and dror it God 'll send the bill to you. We Mr. Lowell condescended to answer such criticisms in the introduction of the later series of Biglow Papers. should have been sorry for the unnecessary apology were his motives not tolerably transparent. Mr. Lowell, in fact, as we shall presently see, is an enthusiastic lover of old literature, and he could not resist the temptation of quoting parand Dryden. The last is the closest apallel passages from St. Bernard, Latimer, If all humour means a subtle blending of serious with the comic, the poetical humour is that in which the groundwork proach to Biglow's phrase : is not mere shrewd sense but ennobling And beg of Heaven to charge the bill on me! passion. And it is the special merit of | says a character in "Don Sebastian." But we should be sorry that Mr. Lowell for human rights and a belief in a Provishould rely in such a matter upon the dential government of the world, passing authority of Dryden. The case is sim-into fanaticism and obscured by a grople enough, being in fact, one of those tesque shell of uncouth phraseology, in which, for a wonder, the proverb about and at times, it may be, justifying the extremes meeting is tolerably true. The aversion or the fear, but never the conintermixture of the divine with familiar tempt, of its adversaries. circumstances may imply either a habit- That blood is best which hath most iron in't, ual tendency to regard all common events as in some sense sacred, or to regard all sacred things as common and therefore fair game for the jester. The two sentiments, though verbally approximating, are at the opposite poles of thought. And the difference between Biglow's fa miliar use of sacred allusions and the profanity of many later American facetic is the difference between a genuine old Scotch peasant of the Davie Deans type; who believes that God is about his bed and about his path, and the rowdy at a New York drinking-bar, who breaks the third commandment twice in every sen tence. This, indeed, is the essence of Mr. Biglow and his little circle. Mr. Lowell wrote, as he tells us, in a mother-tongue, and was reviving "the talk of Sam and Job over their jug of blackstrap under the shadow of the ash-tree, which still dapples the grass whence they have been gone so long." Sam and Job were close relations of John Brown, whose soul went marching on to such startling effect to such startling effect through four years of deadly civil war. Mr. Lowell did not take up the language of malice aforethought with a view to literary effect, but his thoughts when heated to a certain degree of fervour ran spontaneously into that mould. He loves the dialect as a patriot, not as a professor with a theory about the advantages of the "Anglo-Saxon element" in the language. If he wished to burn body, it would be the first newspaper correspondent who instead of saying that a man was hanged, reported that he was launched into eternity. Such a villain is poisoning the wells of pure vernacular, and deserves no quarter. Hosea Biglow and the excellent Mr. Wilbur are incarnations of the higher elements of the true New England character-those which are embodied in a deep respect any says Mr. Lowell elsewhere, and of that material, at any rate, there was no lack in the descendants of Cromwell's Ironsides. The difficulty, however, of elevating a vernacular dialect, however pithy and rich in compressed imagina The tion, into a literary expression, is enornumber of successful attempts. mously great, if we may judge from the the greatest master, and in which Engterse, masculine style, of which Swift is lish literature is incomparably rich, has generally been written by men of considerable cultivation. The uneducated man, whose talk delights you in a village inn, or at the side of a fishing-stream, generally thinks it necessary to cramp his sturdy fist in kid gloves before he takes a pen in hand. Here and there a Burns may be found who dares to keep mainly to his own language, though he blunders terribly when he aims at being literary; or a Cobbett, who can be simple and masculine, till he strains his voice in the good old pithy phrase disappears spouting on platforms. But as a rule, along with some other good things, as civilization advances. As the noble savage becomes a drunken vagrant, and the native art of half-civilized countries is ousted by imitations of Manchester goods, so the vernacular is superseded by the vulgar; for a genuine patois we have a barbarous slang, and the penny-a-liner is the chosen interpreter of popular feeling. An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way, Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger; Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay When book-froth seems to whet your hunger; For puttin' in a downright lick 'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther's few can metch it, An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hetchet. But alas! it is gone, and we may be thankful that before the true old country phrase of New England had been quite shut out by the intrusion of the Brummagem slang of modern cities, a writer appeared to whom it was a native dialect, and who had yet the fine taste to feel its power, and took the opportunity to turn it to the best account. "Most likely," he says, "I have spoiled it." We do not say that he has; but, it may be from old association, we are at least glad that both forms are preserved, so that readers may choose that which they prefer. In the old shape, and possibly in the new, it is a charming example of a very rare form of excellence. It is as dainty as an English song of the seventeenth century; and the Yankee dialect gives it the true rustic flavour, in place of the old spice of pastoral affectation. The most obvious comparison in modern times is to some of Mr. Barnes's Dorsetshire poems; but we confess to preferring the rather stronger flavour of the American humour. Unluckily, these few verses remain almost unique; though Mr. Lowell has approached the same tone of sentiment in some of the later Biglow Papers; and we can fully sympathize with Clough's desire for some more Yankee pastorals. A man can hardly hope to repeat such a success as that of the Biglow Papers. They are vigorous jets of song, evolved by an excitement powerful enough to fuse together many heterogeneous elements. Strong sense, grotesque humour, hatred for humbug, patriotic fervour, and scorn of tyranny predominate alternately. It is only when an electric flash of emotion is passing through a nation that such singular products of spiritual chemistry are produced. Even if a similar combination of external conditions recurs, the poet has probably changed. His mind has grown more rigid; his intellect is more Before the Biglow Papers, Mr. Lowell separate from his emotions; his humour had already published some serious poethas perhaps mastered his imagination; ry. He showed a different kind of power and the inevitable self-consciousness may in another contemporary performance. deprive a second attempt of the essential In the "Fable for Critics," he strung tospontaneity. And therefore perhaps it is gether, on a very slight thread, and in a that many of the best patriotic songs hand-gallop of loose verses, which show as, for example, the "Marseillaise," or a faculty for queer rhymes, resembling the "Burial of Sir John Moore " - have that of Barham, a series of criticisms been written by men who have done noth- upon contemporary American poets. We ing else. In the first series of Biglow may say, as the poet or the critic pretty Papers, however, there was at least one frankly avows, that the number of native plain indication of powers applicable to poets destined to enduring reputation at poetry of a different order. The little that period was not excessive. But the fragment, called "The Courtin'," which, poem we should rather call it the as Mr. Lowell informs us, was struck off rhymed critique. was a proof that Mr. to fill up a blank page, is simply perfect Lowell possessed in a high degree a in its kind. We need only quote the rather dangerous faculty. He is an infirst verses to refresh our readers' mem-cisive critic; but, in the saying which ory. Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, The chiny on the dresser; Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. We need not continue, and still less quote the head and tail which Mr. Lowell added to his poem in the later series. Mr. Disraeli did not originate, a critic is a poet who has failed. The statement may be taken to mean that indulgence in criticism is a dangerous habit for a poet. When a man begins to talk about the principles of art, it is generally a proof that the spontaneous impulse is failing in him. We can hardly fancy Mr. Hosea Biglow in an editorial chair. The essence of his poetry is that he trusts to his impulses, and cares nothing for the polished gentlemen who calmly analyze the sources of his power, and are always tempted to prune away the eccentric growths of his queer idiosyncrasy. Mr. Lowell, it is true, has the merit as a critic of fully appreciating, or rather of heartily loving, whatever is racy of the soil. He enjoys good homely language all the more if it breaks Priscian's head; and is, if |