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by James Russell Lowell

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American Literature – American Poetry – James Russell Lowell
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The Biglow Papers – First Serie – No. I

No. I

A LETTER

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

JAYLEM, june 1846.

MISTER EDDYTER:—Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn’t gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo ‘s though he’d jest com down, so he cal’lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn’t take none o’ his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster’s tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I’d gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee’s gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don’t you Bee skeered, ses I, he’s oney amakin pottery[10] ses i, he’s ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o’ book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with ’em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call ’em hisn now, cos the parson kind o’ slicked off sum o’ the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn’t want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on ’em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o’ didn’t hear him, for I never hearn o’ nobody o’ that name in this villadge, and I’ve lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer ‘n I be.

If you print ’em I wish you’d jest let folks know who hosy’s father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it’s nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he’s a likely kind o’ lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

* * * * *

Thrash away, you’ll hev to rattle
  On them kittle-drums o’ yourn,—
‘Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
  Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
  Let folks see how spry you be,—
Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller
  ‘Fore you git ahold o’ me!

Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,
  Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;— 10
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
  To stuff out a soger’s chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
  Ef you must wear humps like these,
S’posin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
  It would du ez slick ez grease.

‘Twouldn’t suit them Southun fellers,
  They’re a dreffle graspin’ set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
  Wen they want their irons het; 20
May be it’s all right ez preachin’,
  But my narves it kind o’ grates,
Wen I see the overreachin’
  O’ them nigger-drivin’ States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
  Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
  Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s nater
  To take sarse an’ not be riled;— 30
Who’d expect to see a tater
  All on eend at bein’ biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,—
  There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
  Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez sed so plump an’ fairly,
  It’s ez long ez it is broad,
An’ you’ve gut to git up airly
  Ef you want to take in God. 40

‘Taint your eppyletts an’ feathers
  Make the thing a grain more right;
‘Taint afollerin’ your bell-wethers
  Will excuse ye in His sight;
Ef you take a sword an’ dror it,
  An’ go stick a feller thru,
Guv’ment aint to answer for it,
  God’ll send the bill to you.

Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’
  Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 50
Ef it’s right to go amowin’
  Feller-men like oats an’ rye?
I dunno but wut it’s pooty
  Trainin’ round in bobtail coats,—
But it’s curus Christian dooty
  This ‘ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.

They may talk o’ Freedom’s airy
  Tell they’re pupple in the face,—
It’s a grand gret cemetary
  Fer the barthrights of our race; 60
They jest want this Californy
  So’s to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an’ to scorn ye,
  An’ to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee
  Take sech everlastin’ pains,
All to get the Devil’s thankee
  Helpin’ on ’em weld their chains?
Wy, it’s jest ez clear ez figgers,
  Clear ez one an’ one make two, 70
Chaps thet make black slaves o’ niggers
  Want to make wite slaves o’ you.

Tell ye jest the eend I’ve come to
  Arter cipherin’ plaguy smart,
An’ it makes a handy sum, tu.
  Any gump could larn by heart;
Laborin’ man an’ laborin’ woman
  Hev one glory an’ one shame.
Ev’y thin’ thet’s done inhuman
  Injers all on ’em the same. 80

‘Taint by turnln’ out to hack folks
  You’re agoin’ to git your right,
Nor by lookin’ down on black folks
  Coz you’re put upon by wite;
Slavery aint o’ nary color,
  ‘Taint the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer in a feller
  ‘S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle me in, du ye?
  I expect you’ll hev to wait; 90
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
  You’ll begin to kal’late;
S’pose the crows wun’t fall to pickin’
  All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin’
  To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an’ ask our Nancy
  Wether I’d be sech a goose
Ez to jine ye,—guess you’d fancy
  The etarnal bung wuz loose! 100
She wants me fer home consumption,
  Let alone the hay’s to mow,—
Ef you’re arter folks o’ gumption,
  You’ve a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet’s crowin’
  Like a cockerel three months old,—
Don’t ketch any on ’em goin
  Though they be so blasted bold;
Aint they a prime lot o’ fellers?
  ‘Fore they think on ‘t guess they’ll sprout 110
(Like a peach thet’s got the yellers),
  With the meanness bustin’ out.

Wal, go ‘long to help ’em stealin’
  Bigger pens to cram with slaves,
Help the men thet’s ollers dealin’
  Insults on your fathers’ graves;
Help the strong to grind the feeble,
  Help the many agin the few,
Help the men thet call your people
  Witewashed slaves an’ peddlin’ crew! 120

Massachusetts, God forgive her,
  She’s akneelin’ with the rest,
She, thet ough’ to ha’ clung ferever
  In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough’ to stand so fearless
  W’ile the wracks are round her hurled,
Holdin’ up a beacon peerless
  To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha’n’t they sold your colored seamen?
  Ha’n’t they made your env’ys w’iz? 130
Wut‘ll make ye act like freemen?
  Wut‘ll git your dander riz?
Come, I’ll tell ye wut I’m thinkin’
  Is our dooty in this fix.
They’d ha’ done ‘t ez quick ez winkin’
  In the days o’ seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple,
  Call all true men to disown
The tradoocers of our people,
  The enslavers o’ their own; 140
Let our dear old Bay State proudly
  Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly
  In the ears of all the South:—

‘I’ll return ye good fer evil
  Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I wun’t go help the Devil
  Makin’ man the cuss o’ man;
Call me coward, call me traiter,
  Jest ez suits your mean idees,—
Here I stand a tyrant hater, 151
  An’ the friend o’ God an’ Peace!’

Ef I’d my way I hed ruther
  We should go to work an part,
They take one way, we take t’other,
  Guess it wouldn’t break my heart;
Man hed ough’ to put asunder
  Them thet God has noways jined;
An’ I shouldn’t gretly wonder
  Ef there’s thousands o’ my mind. 160

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that it was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be [Greek: kat exochaen] that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark’s chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that ‘God would consider a gentleman and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in’? It may be said of us all, Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus.—H.W.]

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The Biglow Papers – First Serie – No. II > > >

American Literature – American Poetry – James Russell Lowell

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