James Russell Lowell.
In the great American Civil War Mr. J. S. Lowell was a warm partisan of the Northern cause, and his most popular poems, The Biglow Papers, were written in favour of the emancipation of the slaves, and the suppression of the Southern, or Confederate States. The Biglow Papers have been principally parodied, in this country, by the Liberal newspapers, and of these only a few examples are sufficiently good to bear quoting.
THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED.
I du believe in Freedom’s cause,
Ez fur away ez Paris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Pharisees,
It’s wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an’ triggers,—
But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
That don’t agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an’ coffees,
Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt—
Purvidin’ I’m in office;
Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets
An’ Uncle Sam[128] I reverence,
Partic’larly his pockets.
I du believe in any plan
O’ levyin’ the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest what I axes;
I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
Because it kind o’ rouses
The folks to vote—an’ keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses,
I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;—
I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann.
Nine thousan’ more fer outfit,
An’ me to recommend a man
The place ’ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways
O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’;
The bread comes back in many days
An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;—
I mean in preyin’ till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An’ in convartin’ public trusts
To very privit uses.
I du believe hard coin the stuff
For ’lectioneers to spout on;
The people’s ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An gives a good-sized junk to all—
I don’t care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press’s Freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An’ in the traces lead ’em;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin’,
An’ withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov’ment printin’!
I du believe thet I should give
Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar,
For its by him I move an’ live,
Frum him my bread an’ cheese air;
I du believe thet all o’ me
Doth bear his souperscription—
Will, conscience, honor, honesty,
An’ things o’ thet description.
I du believe in prayer an’ praise
To him thet hez the grantin’
O’ jobs—in every thin’ thet pays.
But most of all in Cantin’;
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o’ sin to rest—
I don’t believe in princerple,
But, O, I du in interest.
I du believe in bein’ this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t’other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin’;
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied—
I scent wich pays the best, an’ then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin’ slaves
Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I could’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
’ll keep the people in blindness—
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness,
Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me.
From The Biglow Papers.
The Pious Chancellor’s Creed.
(Formulated by Prince Von Bismarck.)
I do believe in Providence,
On grounds most firm and valid;
Its rulings have shown strength and sense,
And with my views have tallied.
’Tis ever on the stronger side,
And while my side’s the stronger,
I shall acknowledge it with pride
(But not a moment longer).
I hold to faith robust and stout,
And, Heaven and I agreeing,
All duffers who presume to doubt,
Deserve eternal d—ing.
I’m sole exponent of the truth,
Of genuine Christianity,
Cleared from all cant of love and ruth,
And humbug of humanity.
I do believe in days and dates,
As I’m a (sort of) sinner;
I hold those fools defy the fates
Who sit thirteen at dinner,
That Friday ventures badly fare,
For reasons past explaining;
That he’s an ass who has his hair
Cut when the moon is waning.
I do believe most men are fools,
And need despotic ruling
By one past-master in the schools
Of force and clever fooling;
That dangers which beset the State,
And risk that Kings environ,
Demand a will as stern as fate,
A rule of blood and iron.
* * * * *
I do believe free Parliament
Means dawdling, drivelling, doting,
Save only when it is content
With silent money-voting.
I hold, of all pretenders crass
Who ever claimed dominion,
The worst is that gregarious ass
Nicknamed “Public opinion.”
In fine, I do believe in Force
(Of fight, or faith, or feeding)
Uncramped by conscience, ruth, remorse,
Good-nature, or good-breeding,
That strength should sway in council, fray,
Love, piety, or potting,
Is Providence’s special way
And Heaven’s own allotting.
Punch. December 7, 1878.
The Jingo’s Creed.
I do believe that Gladstone likes
The triumph of our enemies.
Look how his tongue at “Interests” strikes
It simply full of venom is.
Now this belief, I’ll freely own,
Is what some folks would term “hot;”
But when has Gladstone ever shown
The spirit of Macdermott?
I do believe the Russian Czar’s
A tyrant scarcely human;
I do believe that each Pasha’s
A gentle and a true man.
I shouldn’t really like to try
And have one as a neighbour;
But, cutting Russian windpipes—why
They’ve saved us lots of labour.
I do believe, as Elcho says,
Ketchwayo’s a gorilla—
A brute who in his wars displays
The fury of a Scylla.
So just for peace, it’s evident
(The thing is gospel per se)
Our missionary troops are sent
To slay him without mercy.
I do believe in Beaconsfield,
In Bartle Frere, and Lytton;
I do believe all men should yield
T’ the half-almighty Briton.
We’re born to rule the human race,
And futurity shall see, oh,
’Mid the world’s heroes take their place
That half-immortal Trio.
Funny Folks. September 27, 1879.
The Unionist Editor’s Creed.
We du believe in freedom’s cause,
Except when it in Dublin is;
We do detest Coercion laws,
But not when Erin troublin’ is.
It’s wal enough for men to spout
Of justice—in elections—
But when you’re snuffin’ Home Rule out—
You’re bound to make corrections!
We du believe the Irish want
To do away with juries—
And, for our methods, now we can’t
See what on airth more pure is.
When we bring men to common sense
We coax ’em—yes—with fetters.
But other things we reverence—
Partic’larly forged letters.
We du believe with all our hearts
In the great Press’s freedom;
We hit out straight—but poisoned darts
Reserve for such as need’ em.
Palsied the arm that forges lies!
Cussed be calumniators!
[N.B.—This rule nohow applies
When you fight agitators.]
We du believe whatever trash
’ll keep the people in blindness;
Thet we the Irishmen can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet Balfour’s bill, an’ powder an’ ball,
Air goodwill’s strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets!
G. W.
Pall Mall Gazette. April 28, 1887.
“J. C.” to Himself.
From his favourite Poet.
“I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions;
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;
I mean ‘£3,900’ per ann.,
‘Two thousan’’ more for outfit,
An’ me to recommend the man
The place ’ould jest about fit.”
The Right Hon.
PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN,
G.C.B., M.P., ETC., ETC.,
Returns to town after a short voyage.
PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN
Undertakes any Fishy Business for the
Nobility, Clergy, or Gentry,
In the most distant
Foreign or Colonial Terri-tories.
| Terms:— | |
| First Mission | £3,900, G.C.B., and Baronetcy. |
| Second “ | £10,900, Dukedom, and all the Orders. |
| Third “ | £100,900, and the Reversion of the Crown. |
| N.B.—The American language spoken. | |
The Liberal and Radical. March 10, 1888.
——:o:——
When Doctors Disagree, &c.
A number of doctors, with zeal hyperbolic,
Have gravely consulted, and grandly decreed—
The improper prescription of things alcoholic
Is really very improper indeed:—
But Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
This pompous announcement is fiddledee!
For you cannot prescribe—here he deals in ironics—
To skilful practitioners what they should give;
And the question must frequently turn upon topics
Of whether the patient’s to die, or to live.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
An empiric’s a quack though you write him M.D.
Let the Saturday shriek about drawing-room topers,
And tell us our wives ne’er go sober to bed;
I’ll laugh at such medical fumblers and gropers,
And list to what skill and experience have said.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
With that manifesto he cannot agree.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
ON RECRUITING.
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;—
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
To stuff out a soger’s chest:
Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
Ef you must wear humps like these
Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth,
(Helped by Yankee renegaders[129])
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s nater
To take sarse an’ not be riled;—
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 thet;
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.
Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’
Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
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.
* * * * *
From The Biglow Papers.
Renegaders.
Thrash away, you’ll have to rattle
On that “Union” drum o’ “yourn”;
“’Tain’t” a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
That gets ketched with mouldy corn.
Put it stiff you turn-coat fellows,
You’re a darned nice liberal (?) set,—
Gone to blow the tory bellows
Now they want their irons “het,”
While their trusty chief’s been trying
To keep “the old state ship” afloat,
These backsliders ’ave been hieing
Into Joseph’s scuttled boat,
“Aint” they a prime set o’ fellows,
When they think on’t won’t they sprout,
Like a peach that’s got the “yellows”
With the meanness “bustin” out.
Tell you just the end I’ve come to
After ciphering pretty smart,—
And it makes a handy sum too,
Any “gump” may learn by heart.
Labouring man and labouring woman
Have one glory and one shame,
Every thing that’s done inhuman
Injures all of them the same,
“’Tain’t” by letting landlords loot folks,—
Nor the people being brained,—
Nor police being set to shoot folks,
That your own rights are maintained.
Those who Ireland hold in fetters,
Sure as one and one make two,
When they’ve used you (their abettors),
They’ll try hard to fetter you.
“The People’s Tribune,” God forgive him!—
He’s a kneeling with the rest,
He that ought to ha’ clung while livin’
In his grand old eagle-nest,
He that ought to stand so fearless
While the wrecks around are hurled,—
Holding up a beacon peerless
To the oppressed of all the world—
Gone, to help the stealer stealing
Bigger pens to cram with slaves,—
Help the men who’re always dealing
Insults on their father’s graves,—
Help the strong to grind the feeble,—
Wrong the many for the few,—
Helping those who’d not be able,
Renegaders, but for you!
Let our staunch old leader proudly
Still plead on with trumpet tongue,
And proclaim for justice loudly
For the weak against the strong.
Clang the bells in every steeple,
Call all true men to disown
The traducers of the people,—
The deserters of their own.
Wm. Guise.
The Liberal and Radical. January 14, 1888.
——:o:——
The Official Explanation.
Anent the account of the interview with James Russell Lowell published by Julian Hawthorne, the Chicago News had the following clever verses in imitation of Hosea Biglow:—
One night aside the fire at hum,
Ez I wus settin’ nappin’,
Deown from the lower hall there come
The seound of some one rappin’.
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he—
Julian, I think his name wuz—
Uv course he feound a friend in me,
Not knowin’ what his game wuz.
And ez we visited a spell.
Our talk ranged wide an’ wider.
And ef we struck dry subjects—well,
We washed ’em deown with cider.
Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru
My system an’ a playin’
Upon my tongue, I hardly knew
Just what I was a sayin’.
I kin remember that I spun
A hifalutin’ story
Abeout the Prince of Wales, an’ one
About old Queen Victory.
But sakes alive! I never dreamed
The cuss would get it printed—
(By that old gal I’m much esteemed,
Ez she hez often hinted).
Oh, if I had that critter neow,
You bet your boots I’d larn him
In mighty lively fashion heow
To walk the chalk, gol darn him!
Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine
The breach grows wide an’ wider,
And, by the way, it’s my design
To give up drinkin’ cider.
Received from the Milwaukee Public Library. December 24, 1886.
——:o:——
Tennyson’s Latest.
(After Mr. Russell Lowell’s “The Rose.”)
In his chamber sat the poet,
Striving to make verses free.
“I’ve a poem,” said he; “I’ll show it—
They’ll stand anything from me!
Public praise I know is hollow,
But to publish I’m opprest;
Cash will publication follow,
And I’ve had too long a rest.”
Hies a reader on the morrow
Through the busy street called “Strand”;
Sees the notice—hastes to borrow
From a friend the verses grand.
Gets them—reads them; thinks he, “Surely,
Tennyson, not this your own?
‘Hands all Round’—’tis nonsense, purely,
Worthy Salisbury alone!”
In his chamber sits the poet—
Pale his face, his eye is dim;
See the table—gold o’erflows it—
Publishers have sent it him.
For a time no word he utters—
Fullest hearts the slowest speak—
But at length he feebly mutters,
“I’m astonished at my cheek!”
J. T. G.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.
——:o:——
The Saga of Ahab Doolittle.
Who hath not thought himself a poet? Who,
Feeling the stubbed pin-feathers pricking through
His greenish gosling-down, but straight misdeems
Himself anointed? They must run their course,
These later measles of the fledgling mind,
Pitting the adolescent rose with brown,
And after, leaving scars; and we must bear,
Who come of other stirp, no end of roil,
Slacken our strings, disorient ourselves,
And turn our ears to huge conchyliar valves
To hear the shell-hum that would fain be sea.
O guarding thorn of life’s dehiscent bud,
Exasperation! Did we clip thee close,
Disarm ourselves with non-resistent shears,
And leave our minds demassachusetted,
What fence ’gainst inroad of the spouting throng?
For Fame’s a bird that in her wayward sweep
Gossips to all; then, raven-like, comes home
Hoarse-voiced as autumn, and, as autumn leaves
Behind her, blown by all the postal winds,
Letters and manuscripts from unknown hands.
Thus came not Ahab’s: his he brought himself,
One morn, so clear with impecunious gold.
I said: “Chaucer yet lives, and Calderon!”
And, letting down the gangways of the mind
For shipment from the piers of common life,
O’er Learning’s ballast meant some lighter freight
To stow, for export to Macarian Isles
But it was not to be: a tauroid knock
Shook the ash-panels of my door with pain,
And to my vexed “Come in! “Ahab appeared.
Homespun, at least,—thereat I swiftly felt
Somewhat of comfort,—tall, knock-kneed, and gaunt:
Face windy-red, hands horny, large, and loose,
That groped for mine, and finding, dropped at once
As half ashamed: and thereupon he grinned.
I waited, silent, till the silence grew
Oppressive: but he bore it like a man;
Then, as my face still queried, opened wide
The stiff portcullis of his rustic speech,
Whence issued words: “You’d hardly kalkelate
That I’m a poet, but I kind o’ guess
I be one; so the people say to hum.”
Then from his cavernous armpit drew and gave
The singing leaves, not such as erst I knew.
But strange, disjointed, where the unmeasured feet
Staggered allwhither in pursuit of rhyme,
And could not find it: assonance instead,
Cases and verbs misplaced—remediable those—
Broad-shouldered coarseness, fondly meant for wit.
I turned the leaves; his small, gray, hungry eye
Stuck like a burr; agape with hope his mouth.
What could I say? the worn conventional phrase
We use on such occasions,—better wait,
Verse must have time; its seed, like timothy-grass,
Sown in the fall to sprout the following spring,
Is often winter-killed: none can decide;
A single rain-drop prints the eocene,
While crowbars fail on lias: so with song:
The Doom is born in each thing’s primitive stuff.
Perchance he understood not; yet I thrust
Some hypodermic hope within his flesh,
Unconsciously; erelong he came again.
Would I but see his latest? I did see;
Shuddered and answered him in a sterner wise.
I love to put the bars up, shutting out
My pasture from the thistle-cropping beasts
Or squealing hybrids, who have range enough
On our New England commons,—whom the Fiend,
Encouragement-of-Native-Talent, feeds,
With windy provender, in Waverley,
And Flag, and Ledger, weakly manger-racks.
Months passed: the catbird on the elm-tree sang
What “Free from Ahab!” seemed, and I believed.
But, issuing forth one autumn morn, that shone
As earth were made October twenty-seventh
(Some ancient Bible gives the date), he shot
Across my path as sped from Ensign’s bow,
More grewsome, haggard-seeming than before.
Ere from his sinister armpit his right hand
Could pluck the sheets, I thundered forth, “Aroint!”
Not using the Anglo-Saxon shibboleth,
But exorcismal terms, unusual, fierce,
Such as would make a saint disintimate.
The witless terror in his face nigh stayed
My speech, but I was firm and passed him by.
Ah, not three weeks were sped ere he again
Waylaid me in the meadows, with these words:
“I saw thet suthin’ riled you, the last time;
Be you in sperrits now?”—and drew again—
But why go on? I met him yesterday,
The nineteenth time,—pale, sad, but patient still.
When Hakon steered the dragons, there was place,
Though but a thrall’s, beside the eagle-helms,
For him who rhymed instead of rougher work,
For speech is thwarted deed: the Berserk fire
But smoulders now in strange attempts at verse,
While hammering sword-blows mend the halting rhyme,
Give mood and tense unto the well-thewed arm,
And turn these ignorant Ahabs into bards!
From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.
These somewhat ponderous lines are written in imitation of Lowell’s serious poems, such as “The Cathedral.”
