In the course of time the "Biglow Papers" were published in book form.
Not only was Lowell"s name not yet connected publicly with the Yankee humor, but the poems were provided with an elaborate introduction, notes and comments, by the learned pastor of the church at Jaalam, Homer Wilbur. His notes and introduction are filled with Latin quotations, and he appears as much a scholar as Hosea Biglow does a natural. He says he tried to teach Hosea better English, but decided to let him work out his own ideas in his own way. Still, he endorses Hosea"s principles, and is in every way thoroughly his friend.
This Parson Wilbur is almost as much of a character in the book as Hosea himself, and his prose, printed at the beginning and end of each poem in small type, is almost as clear and effective and interesting as Hosea"s poems. We are always tempted to skip anything printed in small type, and placed in brackets; but in this case that would be a great mistake.
Speaking of "What Mr. Robinson Thinks," Parson Wilbur says, "A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men can read at sight, namely the life and character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons....
"Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood, and as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may put on his boxing gloves, and yet forget that the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through the dust of the ring which obscures Truth"s wreath of simple leaves."
There is another very interesting pa.s.sage which is said to be an extract from one of the Parson"s sermons, describing the modern newspaper.
"Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper.
To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theater, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold the huge earth sent to me hebdomidally in a brown paper wrapper."
You see that what he says is very learned in its choice of words; but if you read it carefully you will find it interesting.
But after all, Parson Wilbur is a humorous character, though he has his sense, too. At the end of his introduction are some fragmentary notes which are intended as a general satire on editors of books. He goes on at some length to say that he thought he ought to have his picture printed in the book which he professes to be editing. But he has only two likenesses, one a black profile, the other a painting in which he is made cross-eyed. He speaks of it as "strabismus," which sounds very learned of course, and he goes on to explain that in actual fact this is not a bad thing, for he can preach very directly at his congregation, and no one will think the preacher has him particularly in his eye. He also says Mrs. Wilbur objected to having a cross-eyed picture reproduced, and he is therefore driven to take the position of those great people who refuse to have their features copied at all. Then he puts in a lot of absurd genealogical notes.
At the beginning of the book there are also a number of imaginary notices of "the independent press." Of course there are no such papers as those mentioned, and the praise and the blame are alike satirical.
In the original volume of "Biglow Papers," part of a page at the end of these "Notices of the Press" remained unfilled, and the printer asked Lowell if he could not send in something to occupy that s.p.a.ce.
As poetry came easiest, Lowell wrote a number of stanzas about "Zekle"s Courtin"." There were only six stanzas in the original edition. Lowell wrote more, but told the printer to break off when the page was filled. This the printer did, and the stanzas which were not put in type were lost, as Lowell had kept no copy. This piece became so popular that friends urged the poet to finish the story, and he wrote a few more stanzas. Then he wrote still others. In the course of time it developed into the long poem printed with the second series of "Biglow Papers," under the t.i.tle of "The Courtin"."
This is the way it runs in the first version; but you will want to read it also in its complete form:
Zekle crep" up quite unbeknown, An" peeked in thru the winder, An" there sot Huldy all alone, "ith no one nigh to hender.
He kin" o" l"itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o" the sekle, His heart kep" goin" pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.
He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on tother, An" on which one he felt the wust He could n"t ha" told ye, nuther.
Sez he, "I"d better call agin;"
Sez she, "Think likely, _Mister_;"
The last word p.r.i.c.ked him like a pin, An"--wal, he up and kist her.
When in the course of the publication of the second series of "Biglow Papers," twenty years after the first, it was announced that Parson Wilbur was dead, people who had read the first series felt very much as though they had lost a personal friend. The public had learned to love the pedantic, vain old man as if he were a real human being.
Lowell had created in him a great character of fiction, almost as if he were a novelist instead of a poet.
CHAPTER IX
A FABLE FOR CRITICS
Lowell"s next attempt in the satirical and humorous line was a long poem written somewhat after the style of the old Latin fable writers, and hence called "A Fable for Critics." It was written in double rhymes, for the most part, which are very hard to make, and not altogether easy to read; but they help the humorous impression.
This poem was published anonymously, and in it the author hits off all the prominent authors of the day, speaking as the G.o.d Apollo. Of course he did not attach his name to it, and as it appeared anonymously he felt that he could say what he liked--in other words, tell the truth about his friends and acquaintances, or at least give his opinion of them. Incidentally, he pokes fun at the literary fads of the day.
Among other things, to give the impression that he was not the author of the poem, he puts in a free criticism of himself:
There is Lowell, who"s striving Parna.s.sus to climb With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rhyme.
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can"t with that bundle he has on his shoulders.
The top of the hill he will never come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction "twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he"d rather by half make a drum of the sh.e.l.l, And rattle away till he"s old as Mathusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.
Evidently he thought that he paid too much attention to politics, as in the "Biglow Papers," and to lecturing, and various side issues, when he ought to be cultivating pure poetry more a.s.siduously; or rather, he would have liked to be a simple poet and do nothing else, not even earn a living.
The way he characterizes in this poem the great writers whom we know is both amusing and interesting, and he generally tells the truth. For instance, he writes--
There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge.
The best of his criticisms are not satirical, but true and appreciative.
Thus, Hawthorne:
There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, So earnest, so graceful, so lithe, and so fleet, Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet.
His reference to Whittier, too, is a n.o.ble tribute by one poet to another:
There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect.
Bryant was the oldest of the American poets, and the generation to which Lowell belonged had been taught to look up to him as the head of American poetical literature. Of course the younger poets felt that they ought to receive a share of the homage, and perhaps they were a little jealous of Bryant.
There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, As a smooth, silent iceberg that never is ignified, Save when by reflection "t is kindled o" nights With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights.
This is not at all complimentary, it would seem, but a little farther along Lowell makes up for it in part by saying--
But, my dear little bardlings, don"t p.r.i.c.k up your ears, Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers; If I call him an iceberg I don"t mean to say, There is nothing in that which is grand in its way; He is almost the one of your poets that knows How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose.
You will remember that in one of his college letters, written while he was at Concord because rusticated, Lowell did not seem to care for Emerson. He afterward became his great admirer, and in this fable leads off with Emerson, saying:
There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, Is some of it pr--No, "tis not even prose.
Irving and Holmes are two more of his favorites. Of the first he says:
What! Irving? Thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair.
Holmes he happily hits off thus:
There"s Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden jar always full charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit.
His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric; In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foe"s.
And he ends by saying:
Nature fits all her children with something to do; He who would write and can"t write, can surely review, Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies.
Lowell was a good critic, and clearly saw the merit of the really great writers of his time. We have quoted his characterizations of those he admires. His keen thrusts at those who are not half as great as they would have us believe are both amusing and true, and no doubt made their victims smart sharply enough, for instance that--
One person whose portrait just gave the least hint Its original had a most horrible squint.