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? It's you thet's to decide; Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's 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, God's 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 poet's eyes, and said, 'Come into Evan's and I'll 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.