Despite the sometimes harsh criticism which the Biglow papers evoked, Mr. Lowell kept on sending them out at regular intervals, knowing that every blow struck was a blow in the cause of right, and every attack was an attack on the meannesses of the time. The flexible dialect seemed to add honesty to the poets invective. The satire was oftentimes savage enough, but the vehicle by which it was conveyed, carried it off. There was danger that Lowell might exceed his limit, but the excess so nearly reached, never came. The papers aroused the whole country, said Whittier, and did as much to free the slave, almost, as Grants guns. In one of the numbers, Mr. Lowell produced, quite by accident, as it were, his celebrated poem of The Courtin. This was in the second series, begun in the Atlantic Monthly, of which he was, in 1857, one of the founders, and editor. This series was written during the time of the American Civil War, and the object was to ridicule the revolt of the Southern States, and show up the demon of secession in its true colors. Birdofredum Sawin, now a secessionist, writes to Hosea Biglow, and the poem is, of course, introduced as usual, by the parson. The humor is more grim and sardonic, for the war was a stern reality, and Mr. Lowell felt the need of making his work tell with all the force that he could put into it. In response to a request for enough copy to fill out a certain editorial page, Lowell wrote rapidly down the verses which became, at a bound, so popular. He added, from time to time, other lines. This is the story of the Yankee courtship of Zekle and Huldy:
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm fom floor to ceilin,
An she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin.
He kin o litered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o the sekle,
His heart kep goin pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An yit she gin her chair a jerk
As though she wished him furder,
An on her apples kep to work,
Parin away like murder.
You want to see my pa, I spose?
Wall,noI come dasignin
To see my ma? Shes sprinklin clos
Agin to-morrers inin.
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or dont ould be prosumin,
Mebby to mean yes an say no
Comes natural to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on tother,
An on which one he felt the wust
He couldnt ha told ye nuther.
Says he, Id better call agin;
Says she, Think likely, mister;
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
Anwall, he up an kist her.
When ma bimeby upon em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin o smily roun the lips
An teary roun the lashes.
For she was jes the quiet kind
Whose natures never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer wind
Snow-hid in Janooary.
The blood clost roun her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin,
Till mother see how matters stood,
An gin em both her blessin.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o Fundy,
An all I know is they war cried
In meetin come nex Sunday.
During the war, Great Britain sided principally with the South. This the North resented, and the Trent affair only added fuel to the flame. It was in one of the Biglow papers that Mr. Lowell spoke to England, voicing the sentiments and feelings of the Northern people. That poem was called Jonathan to John, and it made a great impression on two continents. It was full of the keenest irony, and though bitter, there was enough common sense in it, to make men read it, and think. It closes thus patriotically:
Shall it be love, or hate, John?
Its you thets to decide;
Aint your bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the worlds beside?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, I guess
Wise men forgive, sez he,
But not forgit; an some time yit
Thet truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an me!
God means to make this land, John,
Clear, then, from sea to sea.
Believe an understand, John,
The wuth o bein free.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, I guess,
Gods price is high, sez he;
But nothin else than wut He sells
Wears long, an thet J. B.
May larn, like you an me!
The work concludes with notes, a glossary of Yankee terms, and a copious index. The chapter which tells of the death of Parson Wilbur is one of the most exquisite things that Lowell has done in prose. The reader who has followed the fortunes of the Reverend Homer, is profoundly touched by the reflection that he will see him no more. He had grown to be a real personage, and long association with him had made him a friend. On this point, Mr. Underwood relates an incident, which is worth quoting here:
The thought of grief for the death of an imaginary person is not quite so absurd as it might appear. One day, while the great novel of The Newcomes was in course of publication, Lowell, who was then in London, met Thackeray on the street. The novelist was serious in manner, and his looks and voice told of weariness and affliction. He saw the kindly inquiry in the poets eyes, and said, Come into Evans and Ill tell you all about it. I have killed the Colonel.
So they walked in and took a table in a remote corner, and then Thackeray, drawing the fresh sheets of manuscript from his breast pocket, read through that exquisitely touching chapter which records the death of Colonel Newcome. When he came to the final Adsum, the tears which had been swelling his lids for some time trickled down upon his face, and the last word was almost an inarticulate sob.
The volume Under the Willows, which contains the poems written at intervals during ten or a dozen years, includes such well-remembered favorites as The First Snowfall, for an autograph A Winter Evening Hymn to My Fire, The Dead House (wonderfully beautiful it is), The Darkened Mind, In the Twilight, and the vigorous Villa Franca so full of moral strength. It appeared in 1869. Mr. Lowells pen was always busy about this time and earlier. He was a regular contributor to the Atlantic in prose and verse. He was lecturing to his students and helping Longfellow with his matchless translation of Dante, besides having other irons in the fire.
It is admitted that the greatest poem of the Civil War was, by all odds, Mr. Lowells noble commemoration ode. In that blood-red struggle several of his kinsmen were slain, among them Gen. C. R. Lowell, Lieut. I. I. Lowell, and Lieutenant Putnam, all nephews. His ode which was written in 1865, and recited July 21, at the Harvard commemoration services, is dedicated To the ever sweet and shining memory of the ninety-three sons of Harvard College, who have died for their country in the war of nationality. It is, in every way, a great effort, and the historic occasion which called it forth will not be forgotten. The audience assembled to listen to it was very large. No hall could hold the company, and so the ringing words were spoken in the open air. Meade, the hero of Gettysburg, stood at one side, and near him were Story, poet and sculptor, fresh from Rome, and General Devens, afterwards judge, and fellows of Lowells own class at college. The most distinguished people of the Commonwealth lent their presence to the scene. There was a hushed silence while Lowell spoke, and when he uttered the last grand words of his ode, every heart was full, and the old wounds bled afresh, for hardly one of that vast throng had escaped the badge of mourning, for a son, or brother, or father, lost in that war.