BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This editorial note is crafted in prose by the fictional Reverend Homer Wilbur, who is the made-up editor of James Russell Lowell's *Biglow Papers*.
The poem
[Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I trust with some mutual satisfaction. I say _patient_, for I love not that kind which skims dippingly over the surface of the page, as swallows over a pool before rain. By such no pearls shall be gathered. But if no pearls there be (as, indeed the world is not without example of books wherefrom the longest-winded diver shall bring up no more than his proper handful of mud), yet let us hope that an oyster or two may reward adequate perseverance. If neither pearls nor oysters, yet is patience itself a gem worth diving deeply for. It may seem to some that too much space has been usurped by my own private lucubrations, and some may be fain to bring against me that old jest of him who preached all his hearers out of the meeting-house save only the sexton, who, remaining for yet a little space, from a sense of official duty, at last gave out also, and, presenting the keys, humbly requested our preacher to lock the doors, when he should have wholly relieved himself of his testimony. I confess to a satisfaction in the self act of preaching, nor do I esteem a discourse to be wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or unintelligent auditory. I cannot easily believe that the Gospel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be read in the Latin tongue to the Canadian savages, upon his first meeting with them, fell altogether upon stony ground. For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermon appreciable by dullest intellects and most alien ears. In this wise did Episcopius convert many to his opinions, who yet understood not the language in which he discoursed. The chief thing is that the messenger believe that he has an authentic message to deliver. For counterfeit messengers that mode of treatment which Father John de Plano Carpini relates to have prevailed among the Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps, deserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim to so much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led me to go into banishment with those clergymen whom Alphonso the Sixth of Portugal drave out of his kingdom for refusing to shorten their pulpit eloquence. It is possible, that, I having been invited into my brother Biglow's desk, I may have been too little scrupulous in using it for the venting of my own peculiar doctrines to a congregation drawn together in the expectation and with the desire of hearing him. I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental organization which impels me, like the railroad-engine with its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance in order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself to one fishing from the rocks when the sea runs high, who, misinterpreting the suction of the undertow for the biting of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that he has _caught bottom_, hauling in upon the end of his line a trail of various _algæ_, among which, nevertheless, the naturalist may haply find somewhat to repay the disappointment of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously endeavored to adapt myself to the impatient temper of the age, daily degenerating more and more from the high standard of our pristine New England. To the catalogue of lost arts I would mournfully add also that of listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we have been abridged into a race of pygmies. For, truly, in those of the old discourses yet subsisting to us in print, the endless spinal column of divisions and subdivisions can be likened to nothing so exactly as to the vertebræ of the saurians, whence the theorist may conjecture a race of Anakim proportionate to the withstanding of these other monsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because there seem reasons for supposing that the race of those whose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped in clouds (which that name imports) will never become extinct. The attempt to vanquish the innumerable _heads_ of one of those aforementioned discourses may supply us with a plausible interpretation of the second labor of Hercules, and his successful experiment with fire affords us a useful precedent. But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this regard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence. Looking out through my study-window, I see Mr. Biglow at a distance busy in gathering his Baldwins, of which, to judge by the number of barrels lying about under the trees, his crop is more abundant than my own,--by which sight I am admonished to turn to those orchards of the mind wherein my labors may be more prospered, and apply myself diligently to the preparation of my next Sabbath's discourse.--H.W.]
This editorial note is crafted in prose by the fictional Reverend Homer Wilbur, who is the made-up editor of James Russell Lowell's *Biglow Papers*. In this note, Wilbur bids farewell to the reader, justifies his tendency to ramble, and humorously critiques both himself and the dwindling patience of today's audiences. Lowell employs this pompous fictitious preacher to poke fun at lengthy writing while also indulging in his own deliberately humorous verbosity.
Line-by-line
Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I trust with some mutual satisfaction.
It may seem to some that too much space has been usurped by my own private lucubrations...
I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental organization which impels me, like the railroad-engine...
Yet have I conscientiously endeavored to adapt myself to the impatient temper of the age...
But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this regard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence.
Tone & mood
The tone is comic and self-aware from start to finish. Wilbur writes with the ornate style of a nineteenth-century New England clergyman, but Lowell ensures the reader catches the joke — every lofty classical reference and intricate metaphor doubles as a punchline. Beneath the grandiosity, there's a genuine warmth, and the piece never veers into mean-spirited satire. It feels like a man who fully understands himself and has come to terms with it.
Symbols & metaphors
- Pearl diving — Wilbur uses pearl diving to illustrate the importance of careful, deep reading. A reader who merely skims the surface gains nothing, while someone who dives in patiently may discover something valuable—or they might just pull up mud. This is an honest acknowledgment that the book doesn't always yield rewards for effort, but putting in that effort remains the right way to engage.
- The railroad engine running backward — This image reflects Wilbur's tendency, and that of the long-winded preacher, to take a long run-up before getting to the point. It serves as a self-assessment of his rhetorical style, conveyed with such good humor that it feels more like a confession than a complaint.
- Biglow's apple harvest — The image of Biglow assembling his Baldwins at the end represents practical, down-to-earth productivity. This stands in stark contrast to Wilbur's constant intellectual wandering and serves as a gentle reminder to both him and the reader that straightforward effort accomplishes more than elaborate explanations of that effort.
- The dinosaur vertebrae (saurian spinal column) — Old Puritan sermons, with their countless divisions, resemble the backbones of ancient reptiles — large, extinct, and suited for a world that has vanished. This comparison reflects Lowell's belief that the culture of attentive, lengthy listening is as extinct as the dinosaurs.
- The sexton and the empty meeting-house — The story about the preacher who clears out the church but continues his sermon highlights the risk of prioritizing self-expression over the audience's presence. Wilbur shares this tale to admit his own habit of preaching even when no one is left to listen.
Historical context
James Russell Lowell published *The Biglow Papers* in two parts (1848 and 1867) to poke fun at American politics—first regarding the Mexican-American War, then focusing on the Civil War era. The twist is that a simple farmer from Massachusetts named Hosea Biglow writes pointed political verses in a Yankee dialect, which are then edited and annotated by his pretentious local minister, the Reverend Homer Wilbur, who adds lengthy scholarly commentary. The humor works on two levels: Biglow's straightforward language exposes political hypocrisy, while Wilbur's grandiloquent style mocks the self-important intellectual elite. This closing note, credited to Wilbur, was included at the end of the first series. At the time, Lowell was already a well-known poet and a figure connected to Harvard, and the *Biglow Papers* gained significant readership and political sway, playing a role in shaping Northern views against the spread of slavery into new territories.
FAQ
It’s prose, not verse — and that’s on purpose. The *Biglow Papers* combine dialect poetry from the fictional Hosea Biglow with lengthy prose editorial notes from the fictional Reverend Wilbur. This piece is one of those notes. Lowell chose the title for the collection to intentionally blur the distinction between high and low literary forms, and the prose sections are just as thoughtfully written as the poetry.
Wilbur is a completely fictional character created by Lowell to be Biglow's pompous editor. He embodies the stereotypical over-educated, verbose New England clergyman-intellectual that Lowell saw as both relatable and somewhat absurd. The humor lies in the fact that Wilbur's complicated commentary often conveys less than Biglow's straightforward poetry.
On the surface, Wilbur is poking fun at himself — his tendency to be verbose and stray off-topic. However, Lowell is using Wilbur to lampoon a group of New England intellectuals who confuse length and knowledge with true wisdom. He also humorously critiques the dwindling Puritan sermon tradition, viewing it as both genuinely lost and not entirely worthy of lament.
The *Biglow Papers* is a two-part satirical work by Lowell, published from 1848 to 1867. The first series criticizes the Mexican-American War and the spread of slavery, while the second focuses on the Civil War. They gained significant popularity and had a considerable political impact—Abraham Lincoln is said to have quoted them. Additionally, they are considered a milestone in American dialect writing.
Lucubrations refer to writings or studies created through long and hard work, often with a humorous twist that implies excessive intellectual effort done late at night by candlelight. Wilbur humorously adopts this term to poke fun at his own editorial musings, which is amusing since the word itself reflects the kind of overly fancy vocabulary he's always trying to use.
Wilbur uses this historical anecdote to suggest that the sincerity of a speaker is more important than the audience's understanding of the words. This defends the value of preaching to an audience that may not be engaged or may not grasp the message. However, Lowell subtly critiques this reasoning—his extreme example actually weakens, rather than bolsters, Wilbur's argument.
The Anakim are a group of giants referenced in the Hebrew Bible. Wilbur employs them to argue that the traditional marathon Puritan sermons were intended for a spiritually and intellectually more robust audience than what we have today. It's a mock-heroic lament, suggesting that modern readers are like pygmies next to the giants who could endure a two-hour sermon. The punchline is that Wilbur himself is still attempting to write for those giants.
It's a striking closing image. After pages of elaborate self-justification, Wilbur looks out the window and sees Biglow engaged in straightforward, productive work — and reaping a better harvest than Wilbur. It's a visual punchline: the down-to-earth farmer-poet is more successful than the talkative intellectual. Lowell uses this moment to deflate Wilbur's ego one last time.