Dickinson

It just doesn't make any sense.

No, the Whigs have controlled this district for years.

Never lost an election. How could this suddenly turn into a dogfight?

The winds of change are blowing, I suppose.

Winds?

More like an earthquake.

Like the whole country is just falling apart.

No, I'm...

So...

have you cast your ballot already?

I did. On my way here.

Can the Whig party count on your support?

I don't often vote a straight party line ticket.

I'm more of an independent.

Yes, well, I suppose it's good for a man to think for himself.

- I agree. - Mm.

Mrs. Dickinson, who would you be voting for?

- If you could. - Me?

What a funny question. I've never thought about it.

Really? I thought you were a suffragette.

How dare you insult me like that.

- Dad. Dad, Dad, Dad! - Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

- It's so exciting. It's so exciting! - Oh, my God!

Yes, it is exciting.

- It's election day. Of course. - What? No, we're not talking about that.

Who cares about an election when you can't even vote?

We are talking about...

- the circus! - The circus is coming to Amherst!

Yes, it starts today! They're setting up the big tent now!

- They've got lions... - Lions.

...and tigers and...

Oh, Siamese twins. They've got Siamese twins.

You know? You know Siamese twins.

Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?

The circus?

How depraved.

"Depraved"? What do you mean?

Circuses are dens of depravity.

They're vile and crude and utterly unsuitable for polite young ladies.

No. Do you know there was a circus in Ohio where so much violence was incited,

half the town was seriously injured and the other half went to jail.

No, circuses are full of thieves and hucksters, gypsies...

And how about those ladies though?

Those so called "acrobats,"

scantily-clad, who will certainly be roaming about,

flaunting themselves like common h... I'm not going to say it.

No. Circus is no place for you girls.

So will you take us?

- Ithamar, we need to talk. - Yes, that's why I'm here.

Well, let's take a little walk. Perambulate with me.

- It's close. - I know it's close.

- You don't have to tell me it's close. - It wasn't supposed to be close.

No, I know it wasn't. The Democrats barely put up a fight.

Your hat, sir. You left it in the carriage.

Thank you. I love this hat.

Right, but it's not the Democrats.

- It's the Know-Nothings. - The what now?

The Know-Nothings. You don't know about the Know-Nothings?

No, I know everything about the Know-Nothings.

- Okay then. - Well, how about you give me a refresher?

So you don't know.

There's just too many parties to keep track of. Why can't there be two?

On the other hand, maybe you do know and you're saying you don't

because when a member of the Know-Nothings is asked about their movement,

they're supposed to say they know nothing.

- Confusing. - Yes.

So I could be asking you about it right now

and you could be saying you know nothing,

and that could actually be your way of telling me

you're secretly a member of the party.

Well, let's just assume for a moment that I'm not.

- Tell me why I'm not a shoo-in. - Because these Know-Nothings?

It turns out they know something about winning.

They might win!

Great scones. Did you know the scone was invented in the 16th century?

- I'm sorry, did you say they might win? - Yes.

- As in beat me? - Yes, Edward, I'm afraid so.

But that's impossible. This is Massachusetts.

The Whig candidate has won this district since the founding of the republic.

Yes, well, times change.

Oh, Mr. Dickinson!

- What should we have for dinner tonight? - I don't care, woman. Surprise me.

Well, how would you feel about woodcock?

Or game hen? Or snipe, pheasant, plovers, grouse,

roasted hare, or haunch of venison?

Is there any way for me to get out of this conversation?

The Know-Nothings have built a platform on populist economic rhetoric

and anti-immigrant nativist anxiety.

- It's a heady brew. - And noxious.

Yes, but it's working.

And you mean people are actually voting for these clowns?

Indeed.

It turns out people like it when you tell them who to blame for their problems.

- And the Know-Nothings are blaming... - Immigrants, Roman Catholics, the Irish...

- And we're not blaming anyone. - Exactly. We haven't picked an enemy.

- That seems like an oversight. - In retrospect, yes.

So after all this, I still might lose?

- I don't know. It's close. - Close?

God dammit.

If it's gonna be close then let it be. Do you know what, Ithamar?

I believe in this country and I believe in the good guys.

That at the end of the day, the good guys win because we love America.

And when immigrants come here to join us, we throw our arms wide open and we say,

"Welcome. Grab a seat. Eat a hot dog."

We don't kick people out.

No.

And as far as these Know-Nothings go,

it sounds to me like what they need to know something about

is a little thing called patriotism.

And generosity. And pride.

God, Maggie, what's wrong?

It's me brothers.

They were casting their votes at the polls this morning when they were attacked.

One of 'em was beaten half to death.

Beaten by whom?

The Know-Nothings!

They hate us for being Irish.

You see, Edward? Things are getting out of hand.

You know, Mr. Dickinson,

me brothers and I, we came to America to escape persecution.

"The land of the free," they told us.

But it's the same here as it was in Ireland.

Maybe we should just go back home.

Maggie, don't lose faith in this nation just yet.

You'll see.

Honor and decency will prevail.

Soon, I'll be elected and I'll represent you and your brothers.

And I'll make sure something like this never happens again.

I hope you're right.

I know I'm right.

Who cares if I never see an elephant?

I saw a cloud that looked like an elephant once.

I'm sorry your dad won't let you go.

He doesn't let me to do anything.

You may have noticed.

Yeah, no reading, no swimming...

And no circuses.

So... what are you gonna do instead?

- For fun, you mean? - Yes.

How will Emily Dickinson entertain herself?

Mm.

I don't know.

I might stick around the house.

Maybe have a conversation with a moth.

Hm. Well, here's something.

What's that?

Poetry contest.

It says today is the deadline to enter.

"We seek the undiscovered lyrical genius of Amherst."

That's you. I mean, based on what I've read of yours, it could be.

I know about the contest.

You do? So have you entered already?

Remember that conversation we were just having? About my father.

- Oh. - Yeah.

No reading, no swimming, no circuses, and no poetry.

At least not in public.

Do you really think that he would care if you entered a poetry contest?

I guess you don't really know him yet.

I guess not.

My father says women who seek literary fame are no better than...

well...

let's just say, "acrobats."

Well, that's a shame because...

I think if you entered that contest,

you would win.

"Nobody knows this little Rose"

There you are.

God.

I've looked everywhere.

Hey, Em.

What are you doing here? I thought staring at gravestones was my thing.

- We have a problem. - What is it?

Somebody's buried in Sue's spot.

Who the cripes is Ichabod Beecher?

Oh, that's the Beecher baby.

One of the Beecher babies, I should say.

God, that poor family. So many babies. Every single one of them died.

Well, why is this dead Beecher baby buried so close to our plot?

I guess they lost so many babies they ran out of room.

Well, that sucks, but I'm supposed to be buried right here

and Sue, as my wife, should be buried next to me.

Shouldn't she?

Why don't you just move the baby?

What?

I can't move a dead baby.

What would the Beechers say?

Uh, nothing.

They haven't lived in Amherst for years. They all moved back to England.

Uh-huh.

Plus that baby died 27 years ago. He's basically an adult now.

Oh.

- That's true. - Mm-hmm.

Okay, so I've solved your problem. I need you to solve mine.

What is it?

The Springfield Republican is holding a poetry contest.

- Today's the last day to enter it. - Well, you're not gonna enter, are you?

- Of course not. Dad would kill me. - No, I know he would.

Which is why I want you to enter it.

My poem under your name.

Me?