MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Hosea Biglow, the fictional Yankee farmer-poet created by Lowell, responds to the editor of *The Atlantic Monthly* to share how the war has stifled his creativity.
The poem
DEAR SIR,--Your letter come to han' Requestin' me to please be funny; But I ain't made upon a plan Thet knows wut's comin', gall or honey: Ther' 's times the world does look so queer, Odd fancies come afore I call 'em; An' then agin, for half a year, No preacher 'thout a call's more solemn. You're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute, Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish, 10 An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit, I'd take an' citify my English. I _ken_ write long-tailed, ef I please,-- But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee; Then, fore I know it, my idees Run helter-skelter into Yankee. Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin'; The parson's books, life, death, an' time Hev took some trouble with my schoolin'; 20 Nor th' airth don't git put out with me, Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman; Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree But half forgives my bein' human. An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger; Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay, While book-froth seems to whet your hunger; For puttin' in a downright lick 'twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it, 30 An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick Ez stret-grained hickory does a hetchet. But when I can't, I can't, thet's all, For Natur' won't put up with gullin'; Idees you hev to shove an' haul Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein: Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards, Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts Feel thet th' old arth's a-wheelin' sunwards. 40 Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick Ez office-seekers arter 'lection, An' into ary place 'ould stick Without no bother nor objection; But sence the war my thoughts hang back Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em, An' subs'tutes,--_they_ don't never lack, But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em. Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz; I can't see wut there is to hender, 50 An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz, Like bumblebees agin a winder; 'fore these times come, in all airth's row, Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in, Where I could hide an' think,--but now It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'. Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number, An' creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white, Walk the col' starlight into summer; 60 Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer Than the last smile thet strives to tell O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer. I hev been gladder o' sech things Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, They filled my heart with livin' springs, But now they seem to freeze 'em over; Sights innercent ez babes on knee, Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 70 Jes' coz they be so, seem to me To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. Indoors an' out by spells I try; Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin', But leaves my natur' stiff and dry Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same, Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin' An' findin' nary thing to blame, Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 80 Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant, But I can't hark to wut they're say'n', With Grant or Sherman ollers present; The chimbleys shudder in the gale, Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. Under the yaller-pines I house, When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, 90 An' hear among their furry boughs The baskin' west-wind purr contented, While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow, Further an' further South retreatin'. Or up the slippery knob I strain An' see a hundred hills like islan's Lift their blue woods in broken chain Out o' the sea o' snowy silence; 100 The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth, Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin' Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth Of empty places set me thinkin'. Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, An' rattles di'mon's from his granite; Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, An' into psalms or satires ran it; But he, nor all the rest thet once Started my blood to country-dances, 110 Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies. Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet Thet follered once an' now are quiet,-- White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't, No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin', 120 Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? Didn't I love to see 'em growin', Three likely lads ez wal could be, Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'? I set an' look into the blaze Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, An' half despise myself for rhymin'. Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth On War's red techstone rang true metal, 130 Who ventered life an' love an' youth For the gret prize o' death in battle? To him who, deadly hurt, agen Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? 'Tain't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: 140 Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' _thet_ world seems so fur from this Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in! My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners; I pity mothers, tu, down South, For all they sot among the scorners: I'd sooner take my chance to stan' At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, 150 Than at God's bar hol' up a han' Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis! Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud, With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted! Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt, An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. 160 Come, while our country feels the lift Of a gret instinct shoutin' 'Forwards!' An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men, A nation saved, a race delivered! No. XI
Hosea Biglow, the fictional Yankee farmer-poet created by Lowell, responds to the editor of *The Atlantic Monthly* to share how the war has stifled his creativity. He reflects on how the once-inspiring beauty of New England's nature now only brings to mind the young men who lost their lives in the Civil War. The poem concludes with an ardent call for a Peace that comes not from defeat, but from the pride of a nation that has truly earned its freedom.
Line-by-line
DEAR SIR,--Your letter come to han' / Requestin' me to please be funny;
You're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute, / Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,
Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, / I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin';
An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way / Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger;
But when I can't, I can't, thet's all, / For Natur' won't put up with gullin';
Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick / Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,
Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz; / I can't see wut there is to hender,
Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, / When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
I hev been gladder o' sech things / Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
Indoors an' out by spells I try; / Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane / The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
Under the yaller-pines I house, / When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented,
Or up the slippery knob I strain / An' see a hundred hills like islan's
Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, / An' rattles di'mon's from his granite;
Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street / I hear the drummers makin' riot,
Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? / Didn't I love to see 'em growin',
Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth / On War's red techstone rang true metal,
'Tain't right to hev the young go fust, / All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces,
My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth / Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;
Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed / For honor lost an' dear ones wasted,
Come, while our country feels the lift / Of a gret instinct shoutin' 'Forwards!'
Tone & mood
The tone shifts through various registers, and that shift is crucial. It begins in a conversational and slightly ironic manner—like a farmer justifying himself to a city editor. As Hosea recounts how the war has stifled his creativity, the tone grows more melancholic and restless. In the middle stanzas, it becomes genuinely elegiac and almost unbearably tender as he reflects on the New England landscape and mourns his dead sons. Then, it briefly transforms into righteous anger directed at Jefferson Davis. Ultimately, it rises to a near-prophetic urgency in the final call for Peace. Throughout, the use of Yankee dialect keeps the emotions grounded—this is grief and conviction articulated in the simplest terms, making the impact more profound than any formal language could achieve.
Symbols & metaphors
- The Yankee dialect — Hosea's everyday speech represents authenticity and democratic values. Lowell contrasts it with 'citified' English to suggest that the language of ordinary people holds more truth and impact than refined literary writing. The dialect isn't a constraint—it's a moral choice.
- The moonlit winter landscape — The snow-covered New England countryside reflects the peace and beauty that the war has made out of reach. Hosea can still see it and describe it beautifully, but he can no longer *feel* it. The landscape serves as a reminder of what has been lost.
- The drum roll — The military drum symbolizes the war interrupting civilian life. Whenever Hosea hears it, he remembers the young men who marched off to battle. It's the sound that disrupts every effort towards peace or creativity.
- The fire — The hearth fire that Hosea watches while thinking of his sons reflects their spirits—always reaching higher, always shining, burning upward as long as it exists. It’s a poignant image of lives taken too soon at their most vibrant.
- Peace (personified) — Lowell depicts Peace not as a gentle dove but as a warrior-daughter of Victory, coming in with her sword. This shifts the idea of peace to something achieved through struggle rather than given through surrender — a clear statement on the type of peace the Union should embrace.
- The wild geese flying south — The migrating geese, far off like the sound of church bells, symbolize the natural world moving through its cycles, unaffected by human conflicts. They embody beauty and freedom, and their journey south reflects the geography of the Civil War—an ironic twist that feels both quiet and unforced.
Historical context
James Russell Lowell wrote the Biglow Papers to express political satire, starting with the Mexican-American War (1846–48) and continuing with a second series during the Civil War (1862–66). Hosea Biglow, a fictional farmer from Massachusetts, speaks in a Yankee dialect that allows Lowell to address serious issues without sounding overly preachy. This particular poem, No. XI of the Second Series, was published in *The Atlantic Monthly* in 1866, close to the end of the war. Lowell personally experienced the loss of three nephews in the conflict, making the sorrow in this poem feel deeply real. It blends personal mourning with a broader public discourse: through Hosea's struggle with writer's block, Lowell reflects on how devastating violence not only affects individuals but also undermines a culture's ability to feel normally. The mention of "a race delivered" in the final stanza emphasizes emancipation as a key moral element of the Union cause.
FAQ
The dialect is at the heart of Lowell's artistic vision, serving more than just a comedic purpose. By adopting the voice of Hosea Biglow—a straightforward Yankee farmer—he conveys a directness and moral weight that more formal verse would undermine. The poem begins with a touch of wry, self-aware humor but soon delves into authentic grief and anger. The use of dialect enhances that grief, making it feel more genuine rather than diminished.
Hosea Biglow is a fictional character, and so his sons are too. However, Lowell personally lost three nephews during the Civil War, and the emotion in those stanzas comes from that real pain. The poem merges the invented farmer's sorrow with the poet's own experience.
It refers to the liberation of enslaved Black Americans. Lowell argues that the war's greatest moral success — aside from preserving the Union — was the end of slavery. The phrase 'a race delivered' presents abolition as the realization of the sacrifices made by Union soldiers and their families.
It's a striking moral reversal. Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederacy, embodies the slaveholding agenda. Lowell argues that the most oppressed and powerless individual in that system — an enslaved person — holds a higher moral standing before God than the man who waged a war to maintain their enslavement. This is one of the poem's most powerful political statements.
'Techstone' is Hosea's way of spelling 'touchstone' — a stone that tests the purity of gold or silver based on the mark it leaves. Lowell suggests that the war put the soldiers' faith and courage to the test, just as a touchstone does with metal, and they came through as genuine. This is a tribute to the fallen, highlighting how poetry can seem insufficient in comparison.
Because the contrast is overwhelming. The New England countryside is serene, pure, and beautiful — and that purity now feels like an accusation. Every quiet, lovely sight reminds him of what the war has taken away and what the fallen soldiers will never experience again. Nature’s indifference to human suffering seems almost cruel.
The Biglow Papers is a two-part satirical series that Lowell published over about twenty years. The first series, released in 1848, criticized the Mexican-American War, while the second series, spanning 1862 to 1866, focused on the Civil War. This poem, No. XI of the second series, was written close to the war's end and stands out as one of the most personal and least purely satirical pieces in the entire collection.
He's making a clever double joke. During the Civil War, a drafted man could legally hire someone else to take his place — and those hired substitutes often deserted. Lowell uses this to metaphorically illustrate forced poetic inspiration: shallow ideas, like paid substitutes, flee before you can actually use them. It's a biting piece of social critique wrapped up in a metaphor about writer's block.