A PRELIMINARY NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This is James Russell Lowell's clever and self-reflective preface to the second edition of *The Biglow Papers*, presented in both verse and prose.
The poem
Though it well may be reckoned, of all composition, the species at once most delightful and healthy, is a thing which an author, unless he be wealthy and willing to pay for that kind of delight, is not, in all instances, called on to write, though there are, it is said, who, their spirits to cheer, slip in a new title-page three times a year, and in this way snuff up an imaginary savor of that sweetest of dishes, the popular favor,--much as if a starved painter should fall to and treat the Ugolino inside to a picture of meat. You remember (if not, pray turn, backward and look) that, in writing the preface which ushered my book, I treated you, excellent Public, not merely with a cool disregard, but downright cavalierly. Now I would not take back the least thing I then said, though I thereby could butter both sides of my bread, for I never could see that an author owed aught to the people he solaced, diverted, or taught; and, as for mere fame, I have long ago learned that the persons by whom it is finally earned are those with whom _your_ verdict weighed not a pin, unsustained by the higher court sitting within. But I wander from what I intended to say,--that you have, namely, shown such a liberal way of thinking, and so much æsthetic perception of anonymous worth in the handsome reception you gave to my book, spite of some private piques (having bought the first thousand in barely two weeks), that I think, past a doubt, if you measured the phiz of yours most devotedly, Wonderful Quiz, you would find that its vertical section was shorter, by an inch and two tenths, or 'twixt that and a quarter. You have watched a child playing--in those wondrous years when belief is not bound to the eyes and the ears, and the vision divine is so clear and unmarred, that each baker of pies in the dirt is a bard? Give a knife and a shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mud-puddle over the street, his fancy, in purest good faith, will make sail round the globe with a puff of his breath for a gale, will visit, in barely ten minutes, all climes, and do the Columbus-feat hundreds of times. Or, suppose the young poet fresh stored with delights from that Bible of childhood, the Arabian Nights, he will turn to a crony and cry, 'Jack, let's play that I am a Genius!' Jacky straightway makes Aladdin's lamp out of a stone, and, for hours, they enjoy each his own supernatural powers. This is all very pretty and pleasant, but then suppose our two urchins, have grown into men, and both have turned authors,--one says to his brother, 'Let's play we're the American somethings or other,--say Homer or Sophocles, Goethe or Scott (only let them be big enough, no matter what). Come, you shall be Byron or Pope, which you choose: I'll be Coleridge, and both shall write mutual reviews.' So they both (as mere strangers) before many days send each other a cord of anonymous bays. Each piling his epithets, smiles in his sleeve to see what his friend can be made to believe; each, reading the other's unbiased review, thinks--Here's pretty high praise, but no more than my due. Well, we laugh at them both, and yet make no great fuss when the same farce is acted to benefit us. Even I, who, it asked, scarce a month since, what Fudge meant, should have answered, the dear Public's critical judgment, begin to think sharp-witted Horace spoke sooth when he said that the Public _sometimes_ hit the truth. In reading these lines, you perhaps have a vision of a person in pretty good health and condition; and yet, since I put forth my primary edition, I have been crushed, scorched, withered, used up and put down (by Smith with the cordial assistance of Brown), in all, if you put any faith in my rhymes, to the number of ninety-five several times, and, while I am writing,--I tremble to think of it, for I may at this moment be just on the brink of it,--Molybdostom, angry at being omitted, has begun a critique,--am I not to be pitied?[1] Now I shall not crush _them_ since, indeed, for that matter, no pressure I know of could render them flatter; nor wither, nor scorch them,--no action of fire could make either them or their articles drier; nor waste time in putting them down--I am thinking not their own self-inflation will keep them from sinking; for there's this contradiction about the whole bevy,--though without the least weight, they are awfully heavy. No, my dear honest bore, _surdo fabulam narras_, they are no more to me than a rat in the arras. I can walk with the Doctor, get facts from the Don, or draw out the Lambish quintessence of John, and feel nothing more than a half-comic sorrow, to think that they all will be lying to-morrow tossed carelessly up on the waste-paper shelves, and forgotten by all but their half-dozen selves. Once snug in my attic, my fire in a roar, I leave the whole pack of them outside the door. With Hakluyt or Purchas I wander away to the black northern seas or barbaric Cathay; get _fou_ with O'Shanter, and sober me then with that builder of brick-kilnish dramas, rare Ben; snuff Herbert, as holy as a flower on a grave; with Fletcher wax tender, o'er Chapman grow brave; with Marlowe or Kyd take a fine poet-rave; in Very, most Hebrew of Saxons, find peace; with Lycidas welter on vext Irish seas; with Webster grow wild, and climb earthward again, down by mystical Browne's Jacob's-ladder-like brain, to that spiritual Pepys (Cotton's version) Montaigne; find a new depth in Wordsworth, undreamed of before, that marvel, a poet divine who can bore. Or, out of my study, the scholar thrown off, Nature holds up her shield 'gainst the sneer and the scoff; the landscape, forever consoling and kind, pours her wine and her oil on the smarts of the mind. The waterfall, scattering its vanishing gems; the tall grove of hemlocks, with moss on their stems, like plashes of sunlight; the pond in the woods, where no foot but mine and the bittern's intrudes, where pitcher-plants purple and gentians hard by recall to September the blue of June's sky; these are all my kind neighbors, and leave me no wish to say aught to you all, my poor critics, but--pish! I've buried the hatchet: I'm twisting an allumette out of one of you now, and relighting my calumet. In your private capacities, come when you please, I will give you my hand and a fresh pipe apiece. As I ran through the leaves of my poor little book, to take a fond author's first tremulous look, it was quite an excitement to hunt the _errata_, sprawled in as birds' tracks are in some kinds of strata (only these made things crookeder). Fancy an heir that a father had seen born well-featured and fair, turning suddenly wry-nosed, club-footed, squint-eyed, hair-lipped, wapper-jawed, carrot-haired, from a pride become an aversion,--my case was yet worse. A club-foot (by way of a change) in a verse, I might have forgiven, an _o_'s being wry, a limp in an _e_, or a cock in an _i_,--but to have the sweet babe of my brain served in _pi!_ I am not queasy-stomached, but such a Thyestean banquet as that was quite out of the question. In the edition now issued no pains are neglected, and my verses, as orators say, stand corrected. Yet some blunders remain of the public's own make, which I wish to correct for my personal sake. For instance, a character drawn in pure fun and condensing the traits of a dozen in one, has been, as I hear, by some persons applied to a good friend of mine, whom to stab in the side, as we walked along chatting and joking together, would not be _my_ way. I can hardly tell whether a question will ever arise in which he and I should by any strange fortune agree, but meanwhile my esteem for him grows as I know him, and, though not the best judge on earth of a poem, he knows what it is he is saying and why, and is honest and fearless, two good points which I have not found so rife I can easily smother my love for them, whether on my side or t'other. For my other _anonymi_, you may be sure that I know what is meant by a caricature, and what by a portrait. There _are_ those who think it is capital fun to be spattering their ink on quiet, unquarrelsome folk, but the minute the game changes sides and the others begin it, they see something savage and horrible in it. As for me I respect neither women nor men for their gender, nor own any sex in a pen. I choose just to hint to some causeless unfriends that, as far as I know, there are always two ends (and one of them heaviest, too) to a staff, and two parties also to every good laugh.
This is James Russell Lowell's clever and self-reflective preface to the second edition of *The Biglow Papers*, presented in both verse and prose. He humorously mocks the critics who harshly criticized his first edition, brushing off their comments with a light-hearted attitude, and clarifies some misconceptions about the characters he created. It's like a writer openly rolling his eyes at negative reviews while quietly acknowledging that the positive feedback was quite gratifying.
Line-by-line
Though it well may be reckoned, of all composition, the species at once / most delightful and healthy...
You remember (if not, pray turn, backward and look) that, in writing the / preface which ushered my book...
But I wander from what I intended to say,--that you have, namely, shown / such a liberal way of thinking...
You have watched a child playing--in those wondrous years when belief is / not bound to the eyes and the ears...
In reading these lines, you perhaps have a vision / of a person in pretty good health and condition...
Now I shall not crush _them_ since, indeed, for that matter, / no pressure I know of could render them flatter...
As I ran through the leaves of my poor little book, / to take a fond author's first tremulous look...
In the edition now issued no pains are neglected, / and my verses, as orators say, stand corrected.
Tone & mood
The tone is playful, self-assured, and slightly combative — the voice of someone who has faced criticism in print and found it more entertaining than hurtful. Lowell writes with the confidence of someone who understands his value and doesn't rely on critics' approval, yet he's too good-natured to hold any bitterness. Beneath the humor, there's a warmth, particularly in the sections reflecting on childhood imagination and the extensive list of cherished books. The overall impression is of a very intelligent person enjoying himself at the expense of everyone else, including himself.
Symbols & metaphors
- The starved painter and the picture of meat — Represents the empty satisfaction of imagined success—an author who simply reprints the same book with a different title is merely indulging in an illusion rather than gaining anything substantial. This highlights Lowell's theme of genuine versus manufactured literary reputation.
- The child's mud-puddle fleet — Represents pure, untainted imagination — the type of creative belief that doesn't rely on outside approval. Lowell uses it to highlight the difference between true artistic vision and the adult game of mutual flattery among writers.
- Aladdin's lamp made from a stone — Represents the transformative power of imagination and play. In the poem's context, it also gently pokes fun at writers who bestow exaggerated reputations upon one another, much like how children bestow magical powers.
- The calumet (peace pipe) lit with a critic's review — A sharp image of dismissal transforms into reconciliation. Lowell literally burns a bad review to light his pipe — turning criticism into fuel — but then extends an olive branch by offering the critic a fresh pipe as a sign of goodwill. It’s both contempt and generosity at once.
- The deformed baby (the misprinted book) — Lowell's metaphor highlights the pain of seeing a text marred by typographical errors. He compares a book to an author's child, emphasizing the deep emotional impact of witnessing it disfigured by the printer. While this notion is humorous, it underscores the personal connection writers have with their work.
- The attic fire and the books — The warm study filled with books offers the genuine reward of a literary life: a personal connection with great writers throughout history, free from the influence of critics or public opinion. This is Lowell's response to the question of why he writes in the first place.
Historical context
James Russell Lowell released the first series of *The Biglow Papers* in 1848, featuring a collection of satirical poems written in Yankee dialect that critiqued the Mexican-American War and the spread of slavery. The work quickly became popular, selling out fast, and this preliminary note introduces the second edition. Lowell was writing during a time when American literary culture was still emerging—there were intense debates about whether the U.S. could create serious literature, and anonymous reviews (often penned by writers critiquing their friends or rivals) were a known issue. Lowell was a key figure in Boston's literary scene, co-founding *The Atlantic Monthly* in 1857. This preface, blending verse and prose, showcases his dual role as a satirist and a conscious player in the literary market he also critiqued.
FAQ
It's both. Lowell wrote it as the prefatory note to the second edition of *The Biglow Papers*, but much of it is in rhyming verse. He mixes prose and poetry throughout, which he intended as a stylistic choice — it maintains a light tone and shows that even the 'official' framing of the book is part of the joke.
Molybdostom is a fictional name created by Lowell for a critic who seemed upset about being excluded from the book's satire. The name has Greek origins that translate to something like 'lead-mouthed.' Lowell isn't genuinely afraid; his trembling is just a comedic act. He's poking fun at the notion that a negative review could actually affect him.
He refers to a writer's personal conscience and judgment. Lowell argues that the only verdict that truly counts is the one you come to on your own — whether you recognize that your work is good, no matter what critics or the public think. This reflects a Romantic belief in valuing artistic integrity over popularity.
Lowell contrasts children's imaginative play with the adult literary world's take on the same game. Kids pretend to be sea captains and genies, while adult writers assume the roles of Homer or Byron, crafting anonymous praise for one another. This suggests that the adult version lacks the honesty and innocence of childhood play, despite being structurally the same.
The list is his response to critics: rather than confront them, he finds solace in his study, diving into great literature. Each name serves as a nod to readers who will recognize them, creating the impression of a man so immersed in quality reading that negative reviews can't touch him. It's also a heartfelt tribute to the literary tradition he identifies with.
In 19th-century printing, 'pi' (or 'pie') referred to type that had been accidentally mixed up or scrambled — a compositor's nightmare. Lowell argues that the printer's biggest blunder wasn't an isolated typo but the chaotic scrambling of entire passages into unreadable disorder. He likens this to the myth of Thyestes, where a father was deceived into consuming his own children — a deliberately grotesque image that captures a very relatable frustration.
He's saying he doesn't cut anyone slack — or offer extra criticism — based on their sex when it comes to writing. If he satirizes someone, it’s due to their words or actions, not their identity. This is a direct reply to critics who might claim he's being unfair to certain individuals.
Partly. He references Horace to suggest that the public *sometimes* gets it right, which is a cautious concession. He isn’t taking back his previous dismissiveness — he still believes that personal self-judgment is more important. However, he’s honest enough to acknowledge that selling a thousand copies in two weeks felt great, and that pretending otherwise would be its own form of performance.