Chapter 3

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT THE MOST ARDENT SPIRITS ARE MORE ORNAMENTAL THAN USEFUL

Many a speculating wight Came by express-trains, day and night, To see if Knott would 'sell his right,' 550 Meaning to make the ghosts a sight-- What they call a 'meenaygerie;' One threatened, if he would not 'trade,' His run of custom to invade, (He could not these sharp folks persuade That he was not, in some way, paid,) And stamp him as a plagiary, By coming down, at one fell swoop, With THE ORIGINAL KNOCKING TROUPE, Come recently from Hades, 560 Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) Would ne'er rap out a hasty word Whence any blame might be incurred From the most fastidious ladies; The late lamented Jesse Soule, To stir the ghosts up with a pole And be director of the whole, Who was engaged the rather For the rare merits he'd combine, Having been in the spirit line, 570 Which trade he only did resign, With general applause, to shine, Awful in mail of cotton fine, As ghost of Hamlet's father! Another a fair plan reveals Never yet hit on, which, he feels, To Knott's religious sense appeals-- 'We'll have your house set up on wheels, A speculation pious; For music, we can shortly find 580 A barrel-organ that will grind Psalm-tunes--an instrument designed For the New England tour--refined From secular drosses, and inclined To an unworldly turn, (combined With no sectarian bias;) Then, travelling by stages slow, Under the style of Knott & Co., I would accompany the show As moral lecturer, the foe 590 Of Rationalism; while you could throw The rappings in, and make them go Strict Puritan principles, you know, (How _do_ you make 'em? with your toe?) And the receipts which thence might flow, We could divide between us; Still more attractions to combine, Beside these services of mine, I will throw in a very fine (It would do nicely for a sign) 600 Original Titian's Venus.' Another offered handsome fees If Knott would get Demosthenes (Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease) To rap a few short sentences; Or if, for want of proper keys, His Greek might make confusion, Then just to get a rap from Burke, To recommend a little work On Public Elocution. 610 Meanwhile, the spirits made replies To all the reverent _whats_ and _whys_, Resolving doubts of every size, And giving seekers grave and wise, Who came to know their destinies, A rap-turous reception; When unbelievers void of grace Came to investigate the place, (Creatures of Sadducistic race, With grovelling intellects and base,) 620 They could not find the slightest trace To indicate deception; Indeed, it is declared by some That spirits (of this sort) are glum, Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, And (out of self-respect) quite mum To skeptic natures cold and numb Who of _this_ kind of Kingdom Come Have not a just conception: True, there were people who demurred 630 That, though the raps no doubt were heard Both under them and o'er them, Yet, somehow, when a search they made, They found Miss Jenny sore afraid, Or Jenny's lover, Doctor Slade, Equally awestruck and dismayed, Or Deborah, the chambermaid, Whose terrors not to be gainsaid In laughs hysteric were displayed, Was always there before them; This had its due effect with some Who straight departed, muttering, Hum! 642 Transparent hoax! and Gammon! But these were few: believing souls, Came, day by day, in larger shoals, As the ancients to the windy holes 'Neath Delphi's tripod brought their doles, Or to the shrine of Ammon.

The spirits seemed exceeding tame, Call whom you fancied, and he came; 650 The shades august of eldest fame You summoned with an awful ease; As grosser spirits gurgled out From chair and table with a spout, In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout The senses of the rabble rout, Where'er the gimlet twirled about Of cunning Mephistopheles, So did these spirits seem in store, Behind the wainscot or the door, Ready to thrill the being's core Of every enterprising bore 662 With their astounding glamour; Whatever ghost one wished to hear, By strange coincidence, was near To make the past or future clear (Sometimes in shocking grammar) By raps and taps, now there, now here-- It seemed as if the spirit queer Of some departed auctioneer 670 Were doomed to practise by the year With the spirit of his hammer: Whate'er you asked was answered, yet One could not very deeply get Into the obliging spirits' debt, Because they used the alphabet In all communications, And new revealings (though sublime) Rapped out, one letter at a time, With boggles, hesitations, 680 Stoppings, beginnings o'er again, And getting matters into train, Could hardly overload the brain With too excessive rations, Since just to ask _if two and two Really make four? or, How d' ye do_? And get the fit replies thereto In the tramundane rat-tat-too, Might ask a whole day's patience.

'Twas strange ('mongst other things) to find 690 In what odd sets the ghosts combined, Happy forthwith to thump any Piece of intelligence inspired, The truth whereof had been inquired By some one of the company; For instance, Fielding, Mirabeau, Orator Henley, Cicero, Paley, John Ziska, Marivaux, Melancthon, Robertson, Junot, 699 Scaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, Odin, Arminius, Charles _le gros_, Tiresias, the late James Crow, Casabianca, Grose, Prideaux, Old Grimes, Young Norval, Swift, Brissot, Malmonides, the Chevalier D'O, Socrates, Fénelon, Job, Stow. The inventor of _Elixir pro_, Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, 710 Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, Came (as it seemed, somewhat _de trop_) With a disembodied Esquimaux, To say that it was so and so, With Franklin's expedition; One testified to ice and snow, One that the mercury was low, One that his progress was quite slow, One that he much desired to go, One that the cook had frozen his toe, 720 (Dissented from by Dandolo, Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, La Hontan, and Sir Thomas Roe,) One saw twelve white bears in a row, One saw eleven and a crow, With other things we could not know (Of great statistic value, though,) By our mere mortal vision.

Sometimes the spirits made mistakes, And seemed to play at ducks and drakes. 730 With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes In science or in mystery: They knew so little (and that wrong) Yet rapped it out so bold and strong, One would have said the unnumbered throng Had been Professors of History; What made it odder was, that those Who, you would naturally suppose, Could solve a question, if they chose, As easily as count their toes, 740 Were just the ones that blundered; One day, Ulysses happening down, A reader of Sir Thomas Browne And who (with him) had wondered What song it was the Sirens sang, Asked the shrewd Ithacan--_bang! bang!_ With this response the chamber rang, 'I guess it was Old Hundred.' And Franklin, being asked to name The reason why the lightning came, 750 Replied, 'Because it thundered.'

On one sole point the ghosts agreed One fearful point, than which, indeed, Nothing could seem absurder; Poor Colonel Jones they all abused And finally downright accused The poor old man of murder; 'Twas thus; by dreadful raps was shown Some spirit's longing to make known A bloody fact, which he alone 760 Was privy to, (such ghosts more prone In Earth's affairs to meddle are;) _Who are you?_ with awe-stricken looks, All ask: his airy knuckles he crooks, And raps, 'I _was_ Eliab Snooks, That used to be a pedler; Some on ye still are on my books!' Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, (More fearing this than common spooks) Shrank each indebted meddler; Further the vengeful ghost declared 771 That while his earthly life was spared, About the country he had fared, A duly licensed follower Of that much-wandering trade that wins Slow profit from the sale of tins And various kinds of hollow-ware; That Colonel Jones enticed him in, Pretending that he wanted tin, There slew him with a rolling-pin, Hid him in a potato-bin, 781 And (the same night) him ferried Across Great Pond to t'other shore, And there, on land of Widow Moore, Just where you turn to Larkin's store, Under a rock him buried; Some friends (who happened to be by) He called upon to testify That what he said was not a lie, And that he did not stir this 790 Foul matter, out of any spite But from a simple love of right;-- Which statements the Nine Worthies, Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, Seth, Golley Gibber, General Wayne, Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain, The owner of a castle in Spain, Jehanghire, and the Widow of Nain, (The friends aforesaid,) made more plain And by loud raps attested; 800 To the same purport testified Plato, John Wilkes, and Colonel Pride Who knew said Snooks before he died, Had in his wares invested, Thought him entitled to belief And freely could concur, in brief, In everything the rest did.

Eliab this occasion seized, (Distinctly here the spirit sneezed,) To say that he should ne'er be eased 810 Till Jenny married whom she pleased, Free from all checks and urgin's, (This spirit dropt his final g's) And that, unless Knott quickly sees This done, the spirits to appease, They would come back his life to tease, As thick as mites in ancient cheese, And let his house on an endless lease To the ghosts (terrific rappers these And veritable Eumenides) 820 Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins!

Knott was perplexed and shook his head, He did not wish his child to wed With a suspected murderer, (For, true or false, the rumor spread,) But as for this roiled life he led, 'It would not answer,' so he said, 'To have it go no furderer.' At last, scarce knowing what it meant, Reluctantly he gave consent 830 That Jenny, since 'twas evident That she _would_ follow her own bent, Should make her own election; For that appeared the only way These frightful noises to allay Which had already turned him gray And plunged him in dejection.

Accordingly, this artless maid Her father's ordinance obeyed, 839 And, all in whitest crape arrayed, (Miss Pulsifer the dresses made And wishes here the fact displayed That she still carries on the trade, The third door south from Bagg's Arcade,) A very faint 'I do' essayed And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, From which time forth, the ghosts were laid, And ne'er gave trouble after; But the Selectmen, be it known, Dug underneath the aforesaid stone, 850 Where the poor pedler's corpse was thrown, And found thereunder a jaw-bone, Though, when the crowner sat thereon, He nothing hatched, except alone Successive broods of laughter; It was a frail and dingy thing, In which a grinder or two did cling, In color like molasses, Which surgeons, called from far and wide. Upon the horror to decide, 860 Having put on their glasses, Reported thus: 'To judge by looks, These bones, by some queer hooks or crooks, May have belonged to Mr. Snooks, But, as men deepest read in books Are perfectly aware, bones, If buried fifty years or so, Lose their identity and grow From human bones to bare bones.'

Still, if to Jaalam you go down, You'll find two parties in the town, 871 One headed by Benaiah Brown, And one by Perez Tinkham; The first believe the ghosts all through And vow that they shall never rue The happy chance by which they knew That people in Jupiter are blue, And very fond of Irish stew, Two curious facts which Prince Lee Boo 879 Rapped clearly to a chosen few-- Whereas the others think 'em A trick got up by Doctor Slade With Deborah the chambermaid And that sly cretur Jinny. That all the revelations wise, At which the Brownites made big eyes, Might have been given by Jared Keyes, A natural fool and ninny, And, last week, didn't Eliab Snooks Come back with never better looks, 890 As sharp as new-bought mackerel hooks, And bright as a new pin, eh? Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers (Though to be mixed in parish stirs Is worse than handling chestnut-burrs) That no case to his mind occurs Where spirits ever did converse, Save in a kind of guttural Erse, (So say the best authorities;) And that a charge by raps conveyed 900 Should be most scrupulously weighed And searched into, before it is Made public, since it may give pain That cannot soon be cured again, And one word may infix a stain Which ten cannot gloss over, Though speaking for his private part, He is rejoiced with all his heart Miss Knott missed not her lover.

FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED POEM

I am a man of forty, sirs, a native of East Haddam, And have some reason to surmise that I descend from Adam; But what's my pedigree to you? That I will soon unravel; I've sucked my Haddam-Eden dry, therefore desire to travel, And, as a natural consequence, presume I needn't say, I wish to write some letters home and have those letters p---- [I spare the word suggestive of those grim Next Morns that mount _Clump, Clump_, the stairways of the brain with--'_Sir, my small account_,' And, after every good we gain--Love, Fame, Wealth, Wisdom--still, As punctual as a cuckoo clock, hold up their little bill, 10 The _garçons_ in our Café of Life, by dreaming us forgot-- Sitting, like Homer's heroes, full and musing God knows what,-- Till they say, bowing, _S'il vous plait, voila, Messieurs, la note!_] I would not hint at this so soon, but in our callous day, The Tollman Debt, who drops his bar across the world's highway, Great Cæsar in mid-march would stop, if Cæsar could not pay; Pilgriming's dearer than it was: men cannot travel now Scot-free from Dan to Beersheba upon a simple vow; Nay, as long back as Bess's time,--when Walsingham went over Ambassador to Cousin France, at Canterbury and Dover 20 He was so fleeced by innkeepers that, ere he quitted land, He wrote to the Prime Minister to take the knaves in hand. If I with staff and scallop-shell should try my way to win, Would Bonifaces quarrel as to who should take me in? Or would my pilgrim's progress end where Bunyan started his on, And my grand tour be round and round the backyard of a prison? I give you here a saying deep and therefore, haply true; 'Tis out of Merlin's prophecies, but quite as good as new: The question boath for men and meates longe voyages yt beginne Lyes in a notshell, rather saye lyes in a case of tinne. 20 But, though men may not travel now, as in the Middle Ages, With self-sustaining retinues of little gilt-edged pages, Yet one may manage pleasantly, where'er he likes to roam, By sending his small pages (at so much per small page) home; And if a staff and scallop-shell won't serve so well as then, Our outlay is about as small--just paper, ink, and pen. Be thankful! Humbugs never die, more than the wandering Jew; Bankrupt, they publish their own deaths, slink for a while from view, Then take an _alias_, change the sign, and the old trade renew; Indeed, 'tis wondrous how each Age, though laughing at the Past, 40 Insists on having its tight shoe made on the same old last; How it is sure its system would break up at once without The bunion which it _will_ believe hereditary gout; How it takes all its swans for geese, nay, stranger yet and sadder, Sees in its treadmill's fruitless jog a heavenward Jacob's-ladder, Shouts, _Lo, the Shining Heights are reached! One moment, more aspire!_ Trots into cramps its poor, dear legs, gets never an inch the higher, And like the others, ends with pipe and mug beside the fire. There, 'tween each doze, it whiffs and sips and watches with a sneer The green recruits that trudge and sweat where it had swinked whilere, 50 And sighs to think this soon spent zeal should be in simple truth, The only interval between old Fogyhood and Youth: 'Well,' thus it muses, 'well, what odds? 'Tis not for us to warn; 'Twill be the same when we are dead, and was ere we were born; Without the Treadmill, too, how grind our store of winter's corn? Had we no stock, nor twelve per cent received from Treadmill shares, We might ... but these poor devils at last will get our easy chairs. High aims and hopes have great rewards, they, too, serene and snug, Shall one day have their soothing pipe and their enlivening mug; From Adam, empty-handed Youth hath always heard the hum 60 Of Good Times Coming, and will hear until the last day come; Young ears Hear forward, old ones back, and, while the earth rolls on, Full-handed Eld shall hear recede the steps of Good Times Gone; Ah what a cackle we set up whene'er an egg was laid! _Cack-cack-cack-cackle!_ rang around, the scratch for worms was stayed, _Cut-cut-ca-dah-cut!_ from _this_ egg the coming cock shall stalk! The great New Era dawns, the age of Deeds and not of Talk! And every stupid hen of us hugged close his egg of chalk, Thought,--sure, I feel life stir within, each day with greater strength, When lo, the chick! from former chicks he differed not a jot, 70 But grew and crew and scratched and went, like those before, to pot!' So muse the dim _Emeriti_, and, mournful though it be, I must confess a kindred thought hath sometimes come to me, Who, though but just of forty turned, have heard the rumorous fame Of nine and ninety Coming Men, all--coming till they came. Pure Mephistopheles all this? the vulgar nature jeers? Good friend, while I was writing it, my eyes were dim with tears; Thrice happy he who cannot see, or who his eyes can shut, Life's deepest sorrow is contained in that small word there--But!

* * * * *

We're pretty nearly crazy here with change and go ahead, 80 With flinging our caught bird away for two i' th' bush instead, With butting 'gainst the wall which we declare _shall_ be a portal, And questioning Deeps that never yet have oped their lips to mortal; We're growing pale and hollow-eyed, and out of all condition, With _mediums_ and prophetic chairs, and crickets with a mission, (The most astounding oracles since Balaam's donkey spoke,-- 'Twould seem our furniture was all of Dodonean oak.) Make but the public laugh, be sure 'twill take you to be somebody; 'Twill wrench its button from your clutch, my densely earnest glum body; 'Tis good, this noble earnestness, good in its place, but why 90 Make great Achilles' shield the pan to bake a penny pie? Why, when we have a kitchen-range, insist that we shall stop, And bore clear down to central fires to broil our daily chop? Excalibur and Durandart are swords of price, but then Why draw them sternly when you wish to trim your nails or pen? Small gulf between the ape and man; you bridge it with your staff; But it will be impassable until the ape can laugh;-- No, no, be common now and then, be sensible, be funny, And, as Siberians bait their traps for bears with pots of honey, From which ere they'll withdraw their snouts, they'll suffer many a club-lick, 100 So bait your moral figure-of-fours to catch the Orson public. Look how the dead leaves melt their way down through deep-drifted snow; They take the sun-warmth down with them--pearls could not conquer so; There _is_ a moral here, you see: if you would preach, you must Steep all your truths in sunshine would you have them pierce the crust; Brave Jeremiah, you are grand and terrible, a sign And wonder, but were never quite a popular divine; Fancy the figure you would cut among the nuts and wine! I, on occasion, too, could preach, but hold it wiser far To give the public sermons it will take with its cigar, 110 And morals fugitive, and vague as are these smoke-wreaths light In which ... I trace ... a ... let me see--bless me! 'tis out of sight.

* * * * *

There are some goodish things at sea; for instance, one can feel A grandeur in the silent man forever at the wheel, That bit of two-legged intellect, that particle of drill, Who the huge floundering hulk inspires with reason, brain, and will, And makes the ship, though skies are black and headwinds whistle loud, Obey her conscience there which feels the loadstar through the cloud; And when by lusty western gales the full-sailed barque is hurled, Towards the great moon which, setting on, the silent underworld, 120 Rounds luridly up to look on ours, and shoots a broadening line, Of palpitant light from crest to crest across the ridgy brine, Then from the bows look back and feel a thrill that never stales, In that full-bosomed, swan-white pomp of onward-yearning sails; Ah, when dear cousin Bull laments that you can't make a poem, Take him aboard a clipper-ship, young Jonathan, and show him A work of art that in its grace and grandeur may compare With any thing that any race has fashioned any where; 'Tis not a statue, grumbles John; nay, if you come to that, We think of Hyde Park Corner, and concede you beat us flat 130 With your equestrian statue to a Nose and a Cocked hat; But 'tis not a cathedral; well, e'en that we will allow, Both statues and cathedrals are anachronistic now; Your minsters, coz, the monuments of men who conquered you, You'd sell a bargain, if we'd take the deans and chapters too; No; mortal men build nowadays, as always heretofore, Good temples to the gods which they in very truth adore; The shepherds of this Broker Age, with all their willing flocks, Although they bow to stones no more, do bend the knee to stocks, And churches can't be beautiful though crowded, floor and gallery, 140 If people worship preacher, and if preacher worship salary; 'Tis well to look things in the face, the god o' the modern universe, Hermes, cares naught for halls of art and libraries of puny verse, If they don't sell, he notes them thus upon his ledger--say, _per Contra_ to a loss of so much stone, best Russia duck and paper; And, after all, about this Art men talk a deal of fudge, Each nation has its path marked out, from which it must not budge; The Romans had as little art as Noah in his ark, Yet somehow on this globe contrived to make an epic mark; 149 Religion, painting, sculpture, song--for these they ran up jolly ticks With Greece and Egypt, but they were great artists in their politics, And if we make no minsters, John, nor epics, yet the Fates Are not entirely deaf to men who _can_ build ships and states; The arts are never pioneers, but men have strength and health Who, called on suddenly, can improvise a commonwealth, Nay, can more easily go on and frame them by the dozen, Than you can make a dinner-speech, dear sympathizing cousin; And, though our restless Jonathan have not your graver bent, sure he Does represent this hand-to-mouth, pert, rapid nineteenth century; This is the Age of Scramble; men move faster than they did 160 When they pried up the imperial Past's deep-dusted coffin-lid, Searching for scrolls of precedent; the wire-leashed lightning now Replaces Delphos--men don't leave the steamer for the scow; What public, were they new to-day, would ever stop to read The Iliad, the Shanàmeh, or the Nibelungenlied? _Their_ public's gone, the artist Greek, the lettered Shah, the hairy Graf-- Folio and plesiosaur sleep well; _we_ weary o'er a paragraph; The mind moves planet-like no more, it fizzes, cracks, and bustles; From end to end with journals dry the land o'ershadowed rustles, As with dead leaves a winter-beech, and, with their breath-roused jars 170 Amused, we care not if they hide the eternal skies and stars; Down to the general level of the Board of Brokers sinking, The Age takes in the newspapers, or, to say sooth unshrinking, The newspapers take in the Age, and stocks do all the thinking.

AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE

Somewhere in India, upon a time, (Read it not Injah, or you spoil the verse,) There dwelt two saints whose privilege sublime It was to sit and watch the world grow worse, Their only care (in that delicious clime) At proper intervals to pray and curse; Pracrit the dialect each prudent brother Used for himself, Damnonian for the other.

One half the time of each was spent in praying For blessings on his own unworthy head, 10 The other half in fearfully portraying Where certain folks would go when they were dead; This system of exchanges--there's no saying To what more solid barter 'twould have led, But that a river, vext with boils and swellings At rainy times, kept peace between their dwellings.

So they two played at wordy battledore And kept a curse forever in the air, Flying this way or that from shore to shore; Nor other labor did this holy pair, 20 Clothed and supported from the lavish store Which crowds lanigerous brought with daily care; They toiled not, neither did they spin; their bias Was tow'rd the harder task of being pious.

Each from his hut rushed six score times a day, Like a great canon of the Church full-rammed With cartridge theologic, (so to say,) Touched himself off, and then, recoiling, slammed His hovel's door behind him in away That to his foe said plainly,--_you'll_ be damned; 30 And so like Potts and Wainwright, shrill and strong The two D---- D'd each other all day long.

One was a dancing Dervise, a Mohammedan, The other was a Hindoo, a gymnosophist; One kept his whatd'yecallit and his Ramadan, Laughing to scorn the sacred rites and laws of his Transfluvial rival, who, in turn, called Ahmed an Old top, and, as a clincher, shook across a fist With nails six inches long, yet lifted not His eyes from off his navel's mystic knot. 40

'Who whirls not round six thousand times an hour Will go,' screamed Ahmed, 'to the evil place; May he eat dirt, and may the dog and Giaour Defile the graves of him and all his race; Allah loves faithful souls and gives them power To spin till they are purple in the face; Some folks get you know what, but he that pure is Earns Paradise and ninety thousand houris.'

'Upon the silver mountain, South by East, Sits Brahma fed upon the sacred bean; 30 He loves those men whose nails are still increased, Who all their lives keep ugly, foul, and lean; 'Tis of his grace that not a bird or beast Adorned with claws like mine was ever seen; The suns and stars are Brahma's thoughts divine, Even as these trees I seem to see are mine.'

'Thou seem'st to see, indeed!' roared Ahmed back; 'Were I but once across this plaguy stream, With a stout sapling in my hand, one whack On those lank ribs would rid thee of that dream! 60 Thy Brahma-blasphemy is ipecac To my soul's stomach; couldst thou grasp the scheme Of true redemption, thou wouldst know that Deity Whirls by a kind of blessed spontaneity.

'And this it is which keeps our earth here going With all the stars.'--'Oh, vile! but there's a place Prepared for such; to think of Brahma throwing Worlds like a juggler's balls up into Space! Why, not so much as a smooth lotos blowing Is e'er allowed that silence to efface 70 Which broods round Brahma, and our earth, 'tis known, Rests on a tortoise, moveless as this stone.'

So they kept up their banning amoebæan, When suddenly came floating down the stream A youth whose face like an incarnate pæan Glowed, 'twas so full of grandeur and of gleam; 'If there _be_ gods, then, doubtless, this must be one,' Thought both at once, and then began to scream, 'Surely, whate'er immortals know, thou knowest, Decide between us twain before thou goest!' 80

The youth was drifting in a slim canoe Most like a huge white water-lily's petal, But neither of our theologians knew Whereof 'twas made; whether of heavenly metal Seldseen, or of a vast pearl split in two And hollowed, was a point they could not settle; 'Twas good debate-seed, though, and bore large fruit In after years of many a tart dispute.

There were no wings upon the stranger's shoulders. And yet he seemed so capable of rising 90 That, had he soared like thistle-down, beholders Had thought the circumstance noways surprising; Enough that he remained, and, when the scolders Hailed him as umpire in their vocal prize-ring, The painter of his boat he lightly threw Around a lotos-stem, and brought her to.

The strange youth had a look as if he might Have trod far planets where the atmosphere (Of nobler temper) steeps the face with light, Just as our skins are tanned and freckled here; 100 His air was that of a cosmopolite In the wide universe from sphere to sphere; Perhaps he was (his face had such grave beauty) An officer of Saturn's guards off duty.

Both saints began to unfold their tales at once, Both wished their tales, like simial ones, prehensile, That they might seize his ear; _fool! knave!_ and _dunce!_ Flew zigzag back and forth, like strokes of pencil In a child's fingers; voluble as duns, They jabbered like the stones on that immense hill 110 In the Arabian Nights; until the stranger Began to think his ear-drums in some danger.

In general those who nothing have to say Contrive to spend the longest time in doing it; They turn and vary it in every way, Hashing it, stewing it, mincing it, _ragouting_ it; Sometimes they keep it purposely at bay, Then let it slip to be again pursuing it; They drone it, groan it, whisper it and shout it, Refute it, flout it, swear to 't, prove it, doubt it. 120

Our saints had practised for some thirty years; Their talk, beginning with a single stem, Spread like a banyan, sending down live piers, Colonies of digression, and, in them, Germs of yet new dispersion; once by the ears, They could convey damnation in a hem, And blow the pinch of premise-priming off Long syllogistic batteries, with a cough.

Each had a theory that the human ear A providential tunnel was, which led 130 To a huge vacuum (and surely here They showed some knowledge of the general head,) For cant to be decanted through, a mere Auricular canal or mill-race fed All day and night, in sunshine and in shower, From their vast heads of milk-and-water-power.

The present being a peculiar case, Each with unwonted zeal the other scouted, Put his spurred hobby through its every pace, 139 Pished, pshawed, poohed, horribled, bahed, jeered, sneered, flouted, Sniffed, nonsensed, infideled, fudged, with his face Looked scorn too nicely shaded to be shouted, And, with each inch of person and of vesture, Contrived to hint some most disdainful gesture.

At length, when their breath's end was come about, And both could now and then just gasp 'impostor!' Holding their heads thrust menacingly out, As staggering cocks keep up their fighting posture, The stranger smiled and said, 'Beyond a doubt 'Tis fortunate, my friends, that you have lost your 150 United parts of speech, or it had been Impossible for me to get between.

'Produce! says Nature,--what have you produced? A new strait-waistcoat for the human mind; Are you not limbed, nerved, jointed, arteried, juiced, As other men? yet, faithless to your kind, Rather like noxious insects you are used To puncture life's fair fruit, beneath the rind Laying your creed-eggs, whence in time there spring Consumers new to eat and buzz and sting. 160

'Work! you have no conception how 'twill sweeten Your views of Life and Nature, God and Man; Had you been forced to earn what you have eaten, Your heaven had shown a less dyspeptic plan; At present your whole function is to eat ten And talk ten times as rapidly as you can; Were your shape true to cosmogonic laws, You would be nothing but a pair of jaws.

'Of all the useless beings in creation The earth could spare most easily you bakers 170 Of little clay gods, formed in shape and fashion Precisely in the image of their makers; Why it would almost move a saint to passion, To see these blind and deaf, the hourly breakers Of God's own image in their brother men, Set themselves up to tell the how, where, when,

'Of God's existence; one's digestion's worse-- So makes a god of vengeance and of blood; Another,--but no matter, they reverse Creation's plan, out of their own vile mud 180 Pat up a god, and burn, drown, hang, or curse Whoever worships not; each keeps his stud Of texts which wait with saddle on and bridle To hunt down atheists to their ugly idol.

'This, I perceive, has been your occupation; You should have been more usefully employed; All men are bound to earn their daily ration, Where States make not that primal contract void By cramps and limits; simple devastation Is the worm's task, and what he has destroyed 190 His monument; creating is man's work, And that, too, something more than mist and murk.'

So having said, the youth was seen no more, And straightway our sage Brahmin, the philosopher, Cried, 'That was aimed at thee, thou endless bore, Idle and useless as the growth of moss over A rotting tree-trunk!' 'I would square that score Full soon,' replied the Dervise, 'could I cross over And catch thee by the beard. Thy nails I'd trim And make thee work, as was advised by him. 200

'Work? Am I not at work from morn till night Sounding the deeps of oracles umbilical Which for man's guidance never come to light, With all their various aptitudes, until I call?' 'And I, do I not twirl from left to right For conscience' sake? Is that no work? Thou silly gull, He had thee in his eye; 'twas Gabriel Sent to reward my faith, I know him well.'

'Twas Vishnu, thou vile whirligig!' and so The good old quarrel was begun anew; 210 One would have sworn the sky was black as sloe, Had but the other dared to call it blue; Nor were the followers who fed them slow To treat each other with their curses, too, Each hating t'other (moves it tears or laughter?) Because he thought him sure of hell hereafter.

At last some genius built a bridge of boats Over the stream, and Ahmed's zealots filed Across, upon a mission to (cut throats And) spread religion pure and undefiled; 220 They sowed the propagandist's wildest oats, Cutting off all, down to the smallest child, And came back, giving thanks for such fat mercies, To find their harvest gone past prayers or curses.

All gone except their saint's religious hops, Which he kept up with more than common flourish; But these, however satisfying crops For the inner man, were not enough to nourish The body politic, which quickly drops Reserve in such sad junctures, and turns currish; 230 So Ahmed soon got cursed for all the famine Where'er the popular voice could edge a damn in.

At first he pledged a miracle quite boldly. And, for a day or two, they growled and waited; But, finding that this kind of manna coldly Sat on their stomachs, they erelong berated The saint for still persisting in that old lie, Till soon the whole machine of saintship grated, Ran slow, creaked, stopped, and, wishing him in Tophet, They gathered strength enough to stone the prophet. 240

Some stronger ones contrived (by eatting leather, Their weaker friends, and one thing or another) The winter months of scarcity to weather; Among these was the late saint's younger brother, Who, in the spring, collecting them together, Persuaded them that Ahmed's holy pother Had wrought in their behalf, and that the place Of Saint should be continued to his race.

Accordingly, 'twas settled on the spot That Allah favored that peculiar breed; 250 Beside, as all were satisfied, 'twould not Be quite respectable to have the need Of public spiritual food forgot; And so the tribe, with proper forms, decreed That he, and, failing him, his next of kin, Forever for the people's good should spin.

THE BIGLOW PAPERS

FIRST SERIES

NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS

[I have observed, reader (bene-or male-volent, as it may happen), that it is customary to append to the second editions of books, and to the second works of authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, under the title of _Notices of the Press_. These, I have been given to understand, are procurable at certain established rates, payment being made either in money or advertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate outlay of servility on the part of the author. Considering these things with myself, and also that such notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial accompaniment of literature, and resembling certificates to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I conceived that it would be not only more economical to prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also more immediately subservient to the end in view to prefix them to this our primary edition rather than to await the contingency of a second, when they would seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the _bobs_ until the second attempt at flying the kite would indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. Neither has it escaped my notice nor failed to afford me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a caravan is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send forward large and highly ornamented bills of performance, to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, truly, the boys also (in whom I find it impossible to repress, even during school-hours, certain oral and telegraphic communications concerning the expected show), upon some fine morning the band enters in a gayly painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets. Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, 'whose looks were as a breeching to a boy.' Then do I perceive, with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage of a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the revolving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes for the first time credible to me (albeit confirmed by the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the period of his exit), as I behold how those strains, without pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, whom I follow into the street, chiefly lest some mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of such a band, I send forward the following notices of domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if our little craft, _cymbula sutilis_, shall seem to leave port with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually existing specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of natural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied with tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own discourses, which, from its superior tone and appearance of vast experience, I concluded to have been written by a man at least three hundred years of age, though I recollected no existing instance of such antediluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterwards discovered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for the ministry under the direction of one of my brethren in a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinctively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have been forced to omit, from its too great length.--H.W.]

* * * * *

_From the Universal Littery Universe_.

Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader.... Under a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which should be committed to the memory and engraven on the heart of every moral and social being.... We consider this a _unique_ performance.... We hope to see it soon introduced into our common schools.... Mr. Wilbur has performed his duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment.... This is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted.... We hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward the formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, native, and American literature. We rejoice to meet with an author national enough to break away from the slavish deference, too common among us, to English grammar and orthography.... Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make extracts.... On the whole, we may call it a volume which no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to place upon its shelves.

* * * * *

_From the Higginbottomopolis Snapping-turtle_.

A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it was ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vulgar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We use strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them!) they will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallum-brozer, or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up.... We should like to know how much _British gold_ was pocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest patriots.

* * * * *

_From the Oldfogrumville Mentor_.

We have not had time to do more than glance through this handsomely printed volume, but the name of its respectable editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a sufficient guaranty for the worth of its contents.... The paper is white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and attractive size.... In reading this elegantly executed work, it has seemed to us that a passage or two might have been retrenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction was susceptible of a higher polish.... On the whole, we may safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is, for the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expression, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with advantage.... The work is admirably got up.... This work will form an appropriate ornament to the centre table. It is beautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality.

* * * * *

_From the Dekay Bulwark_.

We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that tremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a man, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us by 'The Biglow Papers' to pass by without entering our earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas! too common) at demoralizing the public sentiment. Under a wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social glass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored institutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the respectable and religious portion of our community should be aroused to the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sansculottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread nature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion and virtue are given from under the cloak (_credite, posteri!_) of a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the patriot and Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely so called,--they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred precincts of the pulpit.... On the whole, we consider this volume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted would spring out of the late French 'Revolution' (!)

* * * * *

_From the Bungtown Copper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try-weakly family journal)_.

Altogether an admirable work.... Full of humor, boisterous, but delicate,--of wit withering and scorching, yet combined with a pathos cool as morning dew,--of satire ponderous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Saladin.... A work full of 'mountain-mirth,' mischievous as Puck, and lightsome as Ariel.... We know not whether to admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and compass of style, at once both objective and subjective.... We might indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a wonderful _pose_, which flits from flower to flower, and bears the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Ganymede) to the 'highest heaven of invention.' ... We love a book so purely objective ... Many of his pictures of natural scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidelity.... In fine, we consider this as one of the most extraordinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English author who could have written it. It is a work to which the proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up the star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the punier efforts of enslaved Europe.... We hope soon to encounter our author among those higher walks of literature in which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame. Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position in the bright galaxy of our American bards.

* * * * *

_From the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom._

A volume in bad grammar and worse taste.... While the pieces here collected were confined to their appropriate sphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered them wholly beneath contempt, but, as the author has chosen to come forward in this public manner, he must expect the lash he so richly merits.... Contemptible slanders.... Vilest Billingsgate.... Has raked all the gutters of our language.... The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians not safe from his malignant venom.... General Cushing comes in for a share of his vile calumnies.... The _Reverend_ Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth....

* * * * *

_From the World-Harmonic-Æolian-Attachment_.

Speech is silver: silence is golden. No utterance more Orphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, we reverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten, we have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) record the thing that is revealed.... Under mask of quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh ship-wracked) soul, thunder-scarred, semi-articulate, but ever climbing hopefully toward the peaceful summits of an Infinite Sorrow.... Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with Hebrew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laughingest mirth. Conceivable enough! Through coarse Thersites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the life-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, careless of the 'nicer proprieties,' inexpert of 'elegant diction,' yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, indiarubber-like salt-marshes of native Jaalam. To this soul also the _Necessity of Creating_ somewhat has unveiled its awful front. If not Oedipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then in God's name Birdofredum Sawins! These also shall get born into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsistence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. Yet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses-wanderings, and Divine Comedies,--if only once he could come at them! Therein lies much, nay all; for what truly is this which we name _All_, but that which we do _not_ possess?... Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not without paternal pride, as is the wont of such. A brown, parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, gray-eyed, we fancy, _queued_ perhaps, with much weather-cunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair in good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more.... Of 'Rev. Homer Wilbur, A.M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam,' we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in him of his Melesigenes namesake, save, haply, the--blindness! A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long practice and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations (somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, there, 'Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam,' our Hosea presents himself as a quite inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A rich poverty of Latin and Greek,--so far is clear enough, even to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial spectacles,--but naught farther? O purblind, well-meaning, altogether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him incommunicable by stroke of birch! Did it ever enter that old bewildered head of thine that there was the _Possibility of the Infinite_ in him? To thee, quite wingless (and even featherless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever come? 'Talented young parishioner'? Among the Arts whereof thou art _Magister_, does that of _seeing_ happen to be one? Unhappy _Artium Magister!_ Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wildernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild-glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. In heaven's name, go not near him with that flybite crook of thine! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go to the appointed place of departed Artillery-Election Sermons, Right-hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort; thou too, shalt have thy reward; but on him the Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger-threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems; for him paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing unwelcome bit; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far-flashing splendors await.

* * * * *

_From the Onion Grove Phoenix._

A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that eminent man with a copy of the 'Biglow Papers.' The next morning he received the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for publication. We prefer to print it _verbatim_, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into which the lllustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our language.

'HIGH-WORTHY MISTER!

'I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken full-worthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be upset.

'Pardon my in the English-speech un-practice!

'Von Humbug.'

He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on 'Cosmetics,' to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Department. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and world-renowned German. We love to see these reciprocations of good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race.

[The following genuine 'notice' having met my eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more especially as it contains one of Mr. Biglow's poems not elsewhere printed.--H.W.]

_From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss._

... But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. The title of it is 'The Courtin'.'

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back frum Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about The chlny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, Araspin' on the scraper,-- All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the seekle; His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work Ez ef a wager spurred her.

'You want to see my Pa, I spose?' 'Wall, no; I come designin'--' 'To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrow's i'nin'.'

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on tother, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye, nuther.

Sez he, 'I'd better call agin;' Sez she,'Think likely, _Mister;_' The last word pricked him like a pin, An'--wal, he up and kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kind o'smily round the lips An' teary round the lashes.

Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they wuz cried In meetin', come nex Sunday.

SATIS multis sese emptores futuros libri professis, Georgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiæ naturalis, cum titulo sequente, videlicet:

_Conatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonnihil perfectiorem Scarabæi Bombilatoris, vulgo dicti_ HUMBUG, ab HOMERO WILBUR, Artium Magistro, Societatis historico-naturalis Jaalamensis Præside (Secretario, Socioque (eheu!) singulo), multarumque aliarum Societatum eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tam domesticarum quam transmarinarum Socio--forsitan futuro.

PROEMIUM

LECTORI BENEVOLO S.

Toga scholastica nondum deposita, quum systemata varia entomologica, a viris ejus scientiæ cultoribus studiosissimis summa diligentia ædificata, penitus indagassem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti perciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum (Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nec ab isto labore, [Greek: daimonios] imposito, abstinui antequam tractatulum sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula perfeceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro ineptiæ [Greek: ton bibliopolon] (necnon 'Publici Legentis') nusquam explorato, me composuisse quod quasi placentas præfervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent credidi. Sed, quum huic et alio bibliopolæ MSS. mea submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa in Musæum meum retulissem, horror ingens atque misericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cerebris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin 'Mundus Scientificus' (ut aiunt) crumenam meam ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo parvulo segetem demessui præter gaudium vacuum bene de Republica merendi. Iste panis meus pretiosus super aquas literarias fæculentas præfidenter jactus, quasi Harpyiaram quarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse tali victu ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo æque ac pueri naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argâ meam chartaceam fluctibus laborantem a quæsitu velleris aurei, ipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida revocavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, _boomarangam_ meam a scopo aberrantem, retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione ministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast mihi, talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille [Greek: paidoboros], liberos intellectûs mei depascere fidenti, casus miserandus, nec antea inauditus, supervenit. Nam, ut ferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimoniæ, parentes suos mortuos devorâsse, sic filius hic meus primogenitus, Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nec tamen hac de causa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque potius habui, cibumque ad eam satiandam, salva paterna mea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad æs etiam concoquendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde æs alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi. Rebus ita se habentibus, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doolittie, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relinquendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus pervenissem. Tune ego, salvum facere patronum meum munificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primæ editionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in omne ævum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo meo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, curæ vociferantes familiæ singulis annis crescentis eo usque insultabant ut nunquam tam carum pignus e vinculis istis aheneis solvere possem.

Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios consanguineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenissem, erectis auribus verba talia sequentia accepi: 'Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepotem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi experientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, beneficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur,--ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in illum magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranominato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nec ponderabiles nec computabiles meas quæ sequuntur, scilicet: quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravit dictus Homerus, anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi opus istud "scientificum" (quod dicunt) suum, si sic elegerit. Tamen D.O.M, precor oculos Homeri nepotis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos in bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus tuto abscondat.'

His verbis vix credibilibus, auditis, cor meum in pectore exsultavit. Deinde, quoniam tractatus Anglice scriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studium Historiæ Naturalis in Republica nostra inter factionis strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statui, et eo potius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo diplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum omnino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste [Greek: panourgos] Guilielmus Cobbett) nos faciant.

Et mihi adhue superstes est tota illa editio prima, quam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos dentibam retineo.

* * * * *

OPERIS SPECIMEN

(_Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologiæ_)

12. S.B. _Militaris_, WILBUR. _Carnifex_, JABLONSK. _Profanus_, DESFONT.

[Male hanece speciem _Cyclopem_ Fabricius vocat, ut qui singulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero Isaacus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit]

Habitat civitat. Americ. austral.

Aureis lineis splendidus; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote lanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima conatione detruditur. _Candidatus_ ergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam publicam callide mulget; abdomen enorme; facultas suctus haud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus; ferox nihilominus, semperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit.

Capite sæpe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimentum etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram.

Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi; nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis pæne humanæ demonstrans.

24. S.B. _Criticus_, WILBUR. _Zoilus_, FABRIC. _Pygmæus_, CARLSEN.

[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctato (Fabric. 64-109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi microscopicæ subjeci, nunquam tamen unum ulla indicia puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.]

Præcipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima anonyma sese abscondit, _we, we_, creberrime stridens. Ineptus, segnipes.

Habitat ubique gentium; in sicco; nidum suum terebratione indefessa ædificans. Cibus. Libros depascit; siccos præcipue.

MELIBOEUS-HIPPONAX

* * * * *

THE

Biglow Papers

EDITED,

WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, GLOSSARY, AND COPIOUS INDEX,

BY

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.,

PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF MANY LITERARY, LEARNED, AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES,

(_for which see page 227_.)

The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. _Quarles's Emblems_, B. ii. E. 8.

Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti: en, siliquas accipe. _Jac. Car. Fil. ad Pub. Leg._ Section 1.

NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE

It will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary appendages to the editorial name which not only add greatly to the value of every book, but whet and exacerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and scientific societies implies a certain amount of necessary distinction on the part of the recipient of such decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more entirely to an author who writes under the fearful responsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies as the _S. Archæol. Dahom._ or the _Acad. Lit. et Scient. Kamtschat_. I cannot but think that the early editions of Shakespeare and Milton would have met with more rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of their respective title-pages; and I believe that, even now, a publisher of the works of either of those justly distinguished men would find his account in procuring their admission to the membership of learned bodies on the Continent,--a proceeding no whit more incongruous than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feeling of the importance of this precaution which induced Mr. Locke to style himself 'Gent.' on the title-page of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentleman.

Nevertheless, finding that, without descending to a smaller size of type than would have been compatible with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I could not compress my intended list within the limits of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my private closet, and there not only exhibit to him the diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, without undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the reach of human ambition and attainment. And I am the rather induced to this from the fact that my name has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial catalogue of our beloved _Alma Mater_. Whether this is to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, the matter being in course of painful investigation. But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, enriched the library of the Jaalam Athenæum with the old one then in my possession, by which means it has come about that my children will be deprived of a never-wearying winter evening's amusement in looking out the name of their parent in that distinguished roll. Those harmless innocents had at least committed no--but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping of my private diary, intended for posthumous publication. I state this fact here, in order that certain nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch congratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly incensed posterity will apply to their memories.

The careful reader will note that, in the list which I have prepared, I have included the names of several Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and genius, but also because I have never been able to perceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my researches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally reach America, I have discovered no generic difference between the antipodal _Fogrum Japonicum_ and the _F. Americanum_, sufficiently common in our own immediate neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the popular belief that distinctions of this sort are enhanced in value by every additional mile they travel, I have intermixed the names of some tolerably distant literary and other associations with the rest.

I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it may be the more readily understood by those persons especially interested therein, I have written in that curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the writing and reading of which they are accustomed.

OMNIB. PER TOT. ORB. TERRAR. CATALOG. ACADEM, EDD.

Minim. gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest. orans, vir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant. glor. nom. meum (dipl. fort. concess.) catal. vest. temp. futur. affer., ill. subjec., addit. omnib. titul. honorar. qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put.

*** _Litt. Uncial, distinx. ut Præs. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal_.

HOMERUS WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam, S.T.D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et Neo-Cæs. et Brun. et Gulielm. 1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridimont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst. et Watervill. et S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, et S. And. Scot. 1854. et Nashvill. et Dart. et Dickins. et Concord. et Wash. et Columbian. et Charlest. et Jeff. et Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab. et Cæt. 1855. P.U.N.C.H. et J.U.D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et Acad. BORE US. Berolin. Soc., et SS. RR. Lugd. Bat. et Patav. et Lond. et Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr. et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S.H.S et S.P.A. et A.A.S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. Aliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et H.P.C. et I.O.H, et [Greek: A.D.Ph.] et [Greek: P.K.P.] et [Greek: Ph.B.K.] et Peucin. et Erosoph. et Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit. et [Greek: S.T.] et S. Archæolog. Athen. et Acad. Scient, et Lit. Panorm. et SS.R.H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M.S. Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P.D. Gott. et LL.D. 1852, et D.C.L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 1860, et M.M.S.S. et M.D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgl. Piggl. et LL.B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz. Moschet. Soc. et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc. Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. General. Tenebr. Secret. Corr.

INTRODUCTION

When, more than three years ago, my talented young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and submitted to my animadversions the first of his poems which he intended to commit to the more hazardous trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered my imagination to conceive that his productions would ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into the august presence of the reading public by myself.

So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict the event! I confess that there is to me a quite new satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleeping partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For there is always this drawback from the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough to make a separate volume, those religious and godly-minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them so) of the brain must at first be buried in an undistinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapped with a score of others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of distinction than the word '_Miscellaneous_' printed upon the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I know myself, I am measurably free from the itch of vanity; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not backward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery, acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point which, in our rustic phrase, is termed _shut-eyed_) flavor, not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own, here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and authorship.[9]

I was at first inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's attempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, who might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest friends and relatives. But thinking, on a further experience that there was a germ of promise in him which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds from about it, I thought it best to set before him the acknowledged examples of English composition in verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With this view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, he brought me some verses written upon that model, a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objectionable to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortunate education began in a country village. And, first, let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school-dame.

'Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their _a-b abs_ against the dame. Daughter of Danaus, who could daily pour In treacherous pipkins her Pierian store, She, mid the volleyed learning firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could divine at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.

'There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there, Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or without the points pleased her the same; If any tyro found a name too tough. And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.

'Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees; Rewards of merit, too, full many a time, Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme, And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gay About my neck (to be restored next day) I carried home, rewards as shining then As those that deck the lifelong pains of men, More solid than the redemanded praise With which the world beribbons later days.

'Ah, dear old times! how brightly ye return! How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces burn! The ramble schoolward through dewsparkling meads, The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds, The impromptu pin-bent hook, the deep remorse O'er the chance-captured minnow's inchlong corse; The pockets, plethoric with marbles round, That still a space for ball and peg-top found, Nor satiate yet, could manage to confine Horsechestnuts, flagroot, and the kite's wound twine, Nay, like the prophet's carpet could take in, Enlarging still, the popgun's magazine; The dinner carried in the small tin pail, Shared with some dog, whose most beseeching tail And dripping tongue and eager ears belied The assumed indifference of canine pride; The caper homeward, shortened if the cart Of Neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the mart, O'ertook me,--then, translated to the seat I praised the steed, how stanch he was and fleet, While the bluff farmer, with superior grin, Explained where horses should be thick, where thin, And warned me (joke he always had in store) To shun a beast that four white stockings wore. What a fine natural courtesy was his! His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss; How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor rapt, Its curve decorous to each rank adapt! How did it graduate with a courtly ease The whole long scale of social differences, Yet so gave each his measure running o'er, None thought his own was less, his neighbor's more; The squire was flattered, and the pauper knew Old times acknowledged 'neath the threadbare blue! Dropped at the corner of the embowered lane, Whistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again, While eager Argus, who has missed all day The sharer of his condescending play, Comes leaping onward with a bark elate And boisterous tail to greet me at the gate; That I was true in absence to our love Let the thick dog's-ears in my primer prove.'

I add only one further extract, which will possess a melancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to glean the materials of revolutionary history from the lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, continued the supply in an adequate proportion to the demand.

'Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery lip the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, As, every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one un-captured stick, And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a redcoat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly with his sense of right, And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.'

I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Harvard _Gratulatio_ on the accession of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young friend could never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue,--that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-stricken _tick, tick_, after all,--and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius.

Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a further effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided by the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows:--

THE TWO GUNNERS

A FABLE

Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe, One Sundy mornin' 'greed to go Agunnin' soon 'z the bells wuz done And meetin' finally begun, So'st no one wouldn't be about Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out.

Joe didn't want to go a mite; He felt ez though 'twarn't skeercely right, But, when his doubts he went to speak on, Isrel he up and called him Deacon, An' kep' apokin' fun like sin An' then arubbin' on it in, Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrong Than bein' laughed at, went along.

Past noontime they went trampin' round An' nary thing to pop at found, Till, fairly tired o' their spree, They leaned their guns agin a tree, An' jest ez they wuz settin' down To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' And see (acrost lots in a pond That warn't mor'n twenty rod beyond) A goose that on the water sot Ez ef awaitin' to be shot.

Isrel he ups and grabs his gun; Sez he, 'By ginger, here's some fun!' 'Don't fire,' sez Joe, 'it ain't no use, Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wil'-goose:' Sez Isrel, 'I don't care a cent. I've sighted an' I'll let her went;' _Bang!_ went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped His wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped.

Sez Joe, 'I wouldn't ha' been hired At that poor critter to ha' fired, But since it's clean gin up the ghost, We'll hev the tallest kind o' roast; I guess our waistbands'll be tight 'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight.'

'I won't agree to no such bender,' Sez Isrel; 'keep it tell it's tender; 'Tain't wuth a snap afore it's ripe.' Sez Joe, 'I'd jest ez lives eat tripe; You _air_ a buster ter suppose I'd eat what makes me hol' my nose!'

So they disputed to an' fro Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe, 'Don't le's stay here an' play the fool, Le's wait till both on us git cool, Jest for a day or two le's hide it, An' then toss up an' so decide it.' 'Agreed!' sez Joe, an' so they did, An' the ole goose wuz safely hid.

Now 'twuz the hottest kind o' weather, An' when at last they come together, It didn't signify which won, Fer all the mischief hed been done: The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul, Joe wouldn't ha' tetched it with a pole; But Isrel kind o' liked the smell on 't An' made _his_ dinner very well on 't.

My own humble attempt was in manner and form following, and I print it here, I sincerely trust, out of no vainglory, but solely with the hope of doing good.

LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN

A TALE

BY HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair, Together dwelt (no matter where), To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one, Had left a house and farm in common. The two in principles and habits Were different as rats from rabbits; Stout Farmer North, with frugal care, Laid up provision for his heir, Not scorning with hard sun-browned hands To scrape acquaintance with his lands; Whatever thing he had to do He did, and made it pay him, too; He sold his waste stone by the pound, His drains made water-wheels spin round, His ice in summer-time he sold, His wood brought profit when 'twas cold, He dug and delved from morn till night, Strove to make profit square with right, Lived on his means, cut no great dash, And paid his debts in honest cash.

On tother hand, his brother South Lived very much from hand to mouth. Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands, Borrowed North's money on his lands, And culled his morals and his graces From cock-pits, bar-rooms, fights, and races; His sole work in the farming line Was keeping droves of long-legged swine, Which brought great bothers and expenses To North in looking after fences, And, when they happened to break through, Cost him both time and temper too, For South insisted it was plain He ought to drive them home again, And North consented to the work Because he loved to buy cheap pork.

Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast; His farm became too small at last; So, having thought the matter over, And feeling bound to live in clover And never pay the clover's worth, He said one day to Brother North:--

'Our families are both increasing, And, though we labor without ceasing, Our produce soon will be too scant To keep our children out of want; They who wish fortune to be lasting Must be both prudent and forecasting; We soon shall need more land; a lot I know, that cheaply can be bo't; You lend the cash, I'll buy the acres. And we'll be equally partakers.'

Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon blood Gave him a hankering after mud, Wavered a moment, then consented, And, when the cash was paid, repented; To make the new land worth a pin, Thought he, it must be all fenced in, For, if South's swine once get the run on 't No kind of farming can be done on 't; If that don't suit the other side, 'Tis best we instantly divide.'

But somehow South could ne'er incline This way or that to run the line, And always found some new pretence 'Gainst setting the division fence; At last he said:-- 'For peace's sake, Liberal concessions I will make; Though I believe, upon my soul, I've a just title to the whole, I'll make an offer which I call Gen'rous,--we'll have no fence at all; Then both of us, whene'er we choose, Can take what part we want to use; If you should chance to need it first, Pick you the best, I'll take the worst.'

'Agreed!' cried North; thought he, This fall With wheat and rye I'll sow it all; In that way I shall get the start, And South may whistle for his part. So thought, so done, the field was sown, And, winter haying come and gone, Sly North walked blithely forth to spy, The progress of his wheat and rye; Heavens, what a sight! his brother's swine Had asked themselves all out to dine; Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving, The soil seemed all alive and moving, As for his grain, such work they'd made on 't, He couldn't spy a single blade on 't.

Off in a rage he rushed to South, 'My wheat and rye'--grief choked his mouth: 'Pray don't mind me,' said South, 'but plant All of the new land that you want;' 'Yes, but your hogs,' cried North;

'The grain Won't hurt them,' answered South again; 'But they destroy my crop;'

'No doubt; 'Tis fortunate you've found it out; Misfortunes teach, and only they, You must not sow it in their way;' 'Nay, you,' says North, 'must keep them out;' 'Did I create them with a snout?' Asked South demurely; 'as agreed, The land is open to your seed, And would you fain prevent my pigs From running there their harmless rigs? God knows I view this compromise With not the most approving eyes; I gave up my unquestioned rights For sake of quiet days and nights; I offered then, you know 'tis true, To cut the piece of land in two.' 'Then cut it now,' growls North;

'Abate Your heat,' says South, 'tis now too late; I offered you the rocky corner, But you, of your own good the scorner, Refused to take it: I am sorry; No doubt you might have found a quarry, Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know, Containing heaps of native rhino; You can't expect me to resign My rights'--

'But where,' quoth North, 'are mine?' '_Your_ rights,' says tother, 'well, that's funny, _I_ bought the land'-- '_I_ paid the money;' 'That,' answered South, 'is from the point, The ownership, you'll grant, is joint; I'm sure my only hope and trust is Not law so much as abstract justice, Though, you remember, 'twas agreed That so and so--consult the deed; Objections now are out of date, They might have answered once, but Fate Quashes them at the point we've got to; _Obsta principiis_ that's my motto.' So saying, South began to whistle And looked as obstinate as gristle, While North went homeward, each brown paw Clenched like a knot of natural law, And all the while, in either ear, Heard something clicking wondrous clear.

To turn now to other matters, there are two things upon which it should seem fitting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place,--the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil.

New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto thirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, if the Greek might boast his Thermopylæ, where three hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invincible _storge_ that drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west-wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown.

As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud be long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long a-healing, and an east-wind of hard times puts a new ache into every one of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmistress, Necessity. Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half-master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will _do_, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no [Greek: pou sto] but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthusiasm, such sour-faced-humor, such close-fisted-generosity. This new _Græculus esuriens_ will make a living out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterward. _In coelum, jusseris, ibit_,--or the other way either,--it is all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remains. He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in the world of the Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan.

* * * * *

*** TO THE INDULGENT READER

My friend, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, having been seized with a dangerous fit of illness, before this Introduction had passed through the press, and being incapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his notes, memoranda, &c., and requested me to fashion them into some shape more fitting for the general eye. This, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of his manuscripts, I have felt wholly unable to do; yet being unwilling that the reader should be deprived of such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished, and not well discerning how to segregate these from the rest, I have concluded to send them all to the press precisely as they are.

COLUMBUS NYE,

_Pastor of a Church in Bungtown Corner._

It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, first, it may be premised, in a general way, that any one much read in the writings of the early colonists need not be told that the far greater share of the words and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and local there, were brought from the mother country. A person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary discourse, many words now noted in English vocabularies as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use about the time of the King James translation of the Bible. Shakespeare stands less in need of a glossary to most New-Englanders than to many a native of the Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country where reading is so universal and newspapers are so multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is transplanted in the mail-bags to every remotest corner of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation.

The English have complained of us for coining new words. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones by them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life presents itself here in the New World; and, indeed, wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to the ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question, is to be its great home and centre. And not only is it already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a far higher popular average of correctness than in Britain. The great writers of it, too, we might claim as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of readers and lovers.

As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say that the reader will not find one which is not (as I believe) either native or imported with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical portion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the spelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me over-particular remember this caution of Martial:--

'Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus; Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.'

A few further explanatory remarks will not be impertinent.

I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance.

1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the _r_ when he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel.

2. He seldom sounds the final _g_, a piece of self-denial, if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of the final _d_, as _han'_ and _stan'_ for _hand_ and _stand_.

3. The _h_ in such words as _while, when, where,_ he omits altogether.

4. In regard to _a_, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a close and obscure sound, as _hev_ for _have, hendy_ for _handy, ez_ for _as, thet_ for _that_, and again giving it the broad sound it has in _father_, as _hânsome_ for _handsome._

5. To the sound _ou_ he prefixes an _e_ (hard to exemplify otherwise than orally).

The following passage in Shakespeare he would recite thus:--

'Neow is the winta uv eour discontent Med glorious summa by this sun o'Yock, An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour heouse In the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried; Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths; Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce; Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins, Eour dreffle marches to delighfle masures. Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front, An' neow, instid o' mountin' bare-bid steeds To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, He capers nimly in a lady's chămber, To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot.'

6. _Au_, in such words as _daughter_ and _slaughter_, he pronounces _ah_.

7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl _ad libitum_.

[Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary.--C.N.]

[Greek: a]. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious reader might be gratified with a sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice between two was offered,--the one a profile (entirely black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a native artist of much promise. The first of these seemed wanting in expression, and in the second a slight obliquity of the visual organs has been heightened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part of the artist) into too close an approach to actual _strabismus_. This slight divergence in my optical apparatus from the ordinary model--however I may have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much of directness and personal application to my discourses as met the wants of my congregation, without risk of offending any by being supposed to have him or her in my eye (as the saying is)--seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid painting. We read of many who either absolutely refused to allow the copying of their features, as especially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius, Palæottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell.

[Greek: b.] Yet was Cæsar desirous of concealing his baldness. _Per contra_, my Lord Protector's carefulness in the matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally more desirous of being _improved_ in their portraits than characters. Shall probably find very unflattered likenesses of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery.

[Greek: g.] Whether any of our national peculiarities may be traced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the lips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness of disposition seldom roused to open flame? An unrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hakluyt, III. 468,--but Popish priests not always reliable authority.

To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by attacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was justifiable in preserving this class of insects?

[Greek: d]. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the creative faculty.

His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression.

[Greek: e]. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest said to be a _wild boar_, whence, perhaps, the name. (?) A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham (_quasi_ wild boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth following up. In 1677, John W.m. Expect----, had issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire.

'Here lyes y'e bodye of Mrs. Expect Wilber, Ye crewell salvages they kil'd her Together w'th other Christian soles eleaven, October y'e ix daye, 1707. Y'e stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore And now expeacts me on y'e other shore: I live in hope her soon to join; Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine.'

_From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish._

This is unquestionably the same John who afterward (1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Ragg.

But if this were the case, she seems to have died early; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we have evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of Lieutenant Tipping.

He seems to have been a man of substance, for we find him in 1696 conveying 'one undivided eightieth part of a salt-meadow' in Yabbok, and he commanded a sloop in 1702.

Those who doubt the importance of genealogical studies _fuste potius quam argumento erudiendi_.

I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In that year he was chosen selectman.

No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new hearse-house was built, 1802.

He was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop. circa 1642.

This first John was a man of considerable importance, being twice mentioned with the honorable prefix of _Mr._ in the town records. Name spelt with two _l-s_.

'Hear lyeth y'e bod [_stone unhappily broken_.] Mr. Ihon Wilber [Esq.] [_I inclose this in brackets as doubtful. To me it seems clear_.] Ob't die [_illegible; looks like xviii_.].... iii [_prob. 1693_.] ... paynt ... deseased seinte: A friend and [fath]er untoe all y'e opreast, Hee gave y'e wicked familists noe reast, When Sat[an bl]ewe his Antinomian blaste. Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste. [A]gaynst y'e horrid Qua[kers] ...'

It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of the stone during the war of Independence. How odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moody Pyram, who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be recovered.

THE BIGLOW PAPERS

No. I

A LETTER

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

JAYLEM, june 1846.

MISTER EDDYTER:--Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo 's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery[10] ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

* * * * *

Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-- 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- 10 Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't, Ef you must wear humps like these, S'posin' you should try salt hay fer't, It would du ez slick ez grease.

'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; 20 May be it's all right ez preachin', But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin' O' them nigger-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it's nater To take sarse an' not be riled;-- 30 Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God. 40

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, God'll send the bill to you.

Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 50 Ef it's right to go amowin' Feller-men like oats an' rye? I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,-- It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; 60 They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to get the Devil's thankee Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, 70 Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu. Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame. Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same. 80

'Taint by turnln' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color, 'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye? I expect you'll hev to wait; 90 Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'late; S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose! 100 She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow,-- Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Aint_ they a prime lot o' fellers? 'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout 110 (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out.

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! 120

Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless W'ile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen? Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz? 130 _Wut_'ll make ye act like freemen? _Wut_'ll git your dander riz? Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix. They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; 140 Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:--

'I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cuss o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- Here I stand a tyrant hater, 151 An' the friend o' God an' Peace!'

Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther We should go to work an part, They take one way, we take t'other, Guess it wouldn't break my heart; Man hed ough' to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I shouldn't gretly wonder Ef there's thousands o' my mind. 160

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job as _going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it._ Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that _it was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time_. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be [Greek: kat exochaen] that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that 'God would consider a _gentleman_ and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in'? It may be said of us all, _Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus_.--H.W.]

No. II

A LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J.T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammetieus to have been in favor of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships of _defensive_ warfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights, even unto death _pro aris et focis_, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.--H.W.]

MISTER BUCKINUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife, it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a _pong shong_ for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[11] ses he, I _du_ like a feller that aint a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thar. We're a kind o'prest with Hayin.

Ewers respecfly HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin', An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n' I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o' the Cornwallis?[12]

This sort o' thing aint _jest_ like thet,--I wish thet I wuz furder,[13]-- Ninepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder, 10 (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins.) There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so naturel to think about a hempen collar; It's glory,--but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But wen it comes to _bein'_ killed,--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time 't ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, 'Thet's furder 'an you can go.' 20 'None o' your sarse,' sez I; sez he, 'Stan' back!' 'Aint you a buster?' Sez I, 'I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenorcetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez his'n be, by golly!' An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly, The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle, 30 (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,[14] thet writ the prize peace essay. Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay,) An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put _his_ foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin it,-- Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em; Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em), About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), 40 About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,-- I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin', An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.[15] 50 This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal dlskiver (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Salt-river); The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good blue-nose tater, The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin' Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin. He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on 't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, 'Wut air ye at?'[16] 60 You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a _scarabæus pilularius_[17] big ez a year old elephant), The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin off with Cunnle Wright,--'twuz jest a common _cimex lectularius._

One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, _His_ bellowses is sound enough,--ez I'm a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg--'twuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter! Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito,-- (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' _go_ my toe! 70 My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't, I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't,) Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans worn't human beans,[18]--an ourang outang nation, A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on 't arter, No more 'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know 's a kind o' national; But wen I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be, 80 An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses; Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon, The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' to; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez ain proper; 90 He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An' thet it's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know thet 'every man' don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeters, Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, 100 Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on 't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on 't.

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef 't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin! I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aiut wut they wuz afore they left the Bay-state; Then it wuz 'Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye:' 110 But now it's 'Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an' fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!' Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin'-- But I must close my letter here, fer one on 'em 's ahollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers,--wal, taint no use ajawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.

[Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath Satan been to seek for attorneys?) who have maintained that our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken not so much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for the spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism. _Capita vix duabus Anticyris medenda!_ Verily I admire that no pious sergeant among these new Crusaders beheld Martin Luther riding at the front of the host upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that former invasion of Mexico, the zealous Gomara (spawn though he were of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision of St. James of Compostella, skewering the infidels upon his apostolical lance. We read, also, that Richard of the lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar errand of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the throats of such Paynims as refused to swallow the bread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter incapacitated for swallowing the filthy gobbets of Mahound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and his knights,_--Seigneurs, tuez! tuez!_ providentially using the French tongue, as being the only one understood by their auditors. This would argue for the pantoglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the other hand, the Devil, _teste_ Cotton Mather, is unversed in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a semeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible to every people and kindred by signs; no other discourse, indeed, being needful, than such as the mackerel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other bait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the end of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such piscatorial persuasion is Satan cunning in. Before one he trails a hat and feather, or a bare feather without a hat; before another, a Presidential chair or a tide-waiter's stool, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us, dangling there over our heads, they seem junkets dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped in nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits of fuzzy cotton.

This, however, by the way. It is time now _revocare gradum_. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched by eye-witnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, not to speak of Echetlæus at Marathon and those _Dioscuri_ (whom we must conclude imps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first American crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered our armies. This opens the question, whether, when our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of our enemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively certain that this might is added to us from above, or whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may not have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which his meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sanctifier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late war? Do we not know from Josephus, that, careful of His decree, a certain river in Judaea abstained from flowing on the day of Rest? Or has that day become less an object of His especial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a providence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer to whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with him were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, 'which was enough to serve 'em; only on _Saturdays_ they still catched a couple, and on the _Lord's Days_ they could catch none at all'? Haply they might have been permitted, by way of mortification, to take some few sculpins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which unseemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being known in the rude dialect of our mariners as _Cape Cod Clergymen_.

It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of dancing, and I own myseif to be so far of that mind, that I could not but set my face against this Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential piping with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country should be seized with another such mania _pro propaganda fide_, I think it would be wise to fill our bombshells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Testament, the reading of which is denied to those who sit in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary missionary. I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure pickerel, taking their unwary _siesta_ beneath the lily-pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. Why not, then, since gunpowder was unknown in the time of the Apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), suit our metaphor to the age in which we live, and say _shooters_ as well as _fishers_ of men?

I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then with a Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our horror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest Protestants have been made by this war,--I mean those who protested against it. Fewer they were than I could wish, for one might imagine America to have been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is _No_ to us all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. A mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering in expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Public Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to protest against _e corde cordium_. And by what College of Cardinals is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, elected? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of the grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this wags the senator's tongue. This decides what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away into the Apocrypha. According to that sentence fathered upon Solon, [Greek: Onto daemosion kakon erchetai oikad ekasto] This unclean spirit is skilful to assume various shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum we call popular sentiment could carry about the name of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a stab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy,--'Our country, right or wrong,'--by tracing its original to a speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown Fencibles.--H.W.]

No. III

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

[A few remarks on the following verses will not be out of place. The satire in them was not meant to have any personal, but only a general, application. Of the gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw the letter itself. The position of the satirist is oftentimes one which he would not have chosen, had the election been left to himself. In attacking bad principles, he is obliged to select some individual who has made himself their exponent, and in whom they are impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, through ambiguity, be dissipated _tenues in auras._ For what says Seneca? _Longum iter per præcepta, breve et efficace per exempla_. A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men can read at sight, namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons. It is one of the cunningest fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly to our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbor or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, the while he patches up a truce with our conscience.

Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget that, the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his arm,--_aliquid sufflaminandus erat_. I have never thought it good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform with _aqua fortis_, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up. _Est ars etiam maledicendi_, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that 'one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions.'--H.W.]

Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez be wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet gives places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- He's ben true to _one_ party,--an' thet is himself;-- So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, _he_ is our country. An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry;_ An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum;_ An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing: an' of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

[The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sentiment,--'Our country, right or wrong.' It is an abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much more, certain personages, elevated for the time being to high station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen a single one of those ties by which we are united to the spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect due to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the function of Justice of the Peace, having been called thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. _Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior_ is best qualified with this,--_Ubi libertas, ibi patria_. We are inhabitants of two worlds, and owe a double, but not a divided, allegiance. In virtue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland. There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves us from our other and terrene fealty. Our true country is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, and the like. Our terrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so fair a model, and all they are verily traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this their original intendment. When, therefore, one would have us to fling up our caps and shout with the multitude,--'_Our country, however bounded!_' he demands of us that we sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she oversteps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's-breadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather to be looked upon _quasi noverca_. That is a hard choice when our earthly love of country calls upon us to tread one path and our duty points us to another. We must make as noble and becoming an election as did Penelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling our faces, we must take silently the hand of Duty to follow her.

Shortly after the publication of the foregoing poem, there appeared some comments upon it in one of the public prints which seemed to call for animadversion. I accordingly addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of the Boston Courier, the following letter.

JAALAM, November 4, 1847.

'_To the Editor of the Courier:_

'RESPECTED SIR,--Calling at the post-office this morning, our worthy and efficient postmaster offered for my perusal a paragraph in the Boston Morning Post of the 3d instant, wherein certain effusions of the pastoral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. James Russell Lowell. For aught I know or can affirm to the contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be a very deserving person and a youth of parts (though I have seen verses of his which I could never rightly understand); and if he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be free from any proclivity to appropriate to himself whatever of credit (or discredit) may honestly belong to another. I am confident, that, in penning these few lines, I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that young gentleman, whose silence hitherto, when rumor pointed to himward, has excited in my bosom mingled emotions of sorrow and surprise. Well may my young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet,

"Sic vos non vobis," &c.;

though, in saying this, I would not convey the impression that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue,--the tongue, I might add, of a Horace and a Tully.

'Mr. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say, for any lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the carnal plaudits of men, _digito monstrari, &c_. He does not wait upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart mean _merces_. But I should esteem myself as verily deficient in my duty (who am his friend and in some unworthy sort his spiritual _fidus Achates_, &c.), if I did not step forward to claim for him whatever measure of applause might be assigned to him by the judicious.

'If this were a fitting occasion, I might venture here a brief dissertation touching the manner and kind of my young friend's poetry. But I dubitate whether this abstruser sort of speculation (though enlivened by some apposite instances from Aristophanes) would sufficiently interest your oppidan readers. As regards their satirical tone, and their plainness of speech, I will only say, that, in my pastoral experience, I have found that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing better than to be treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual being, and that there is no _apage Sathanas!_ so potent as ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must have a button of good-nature on the point of it.

'The productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized in some quarters as unpatriotic; but I can vouch that he loves his native soil with that hearty, though discriminating, attachment which springs from an intimate social intercourse of many years' standing. In the ploughing season, no one has a deeper share in the well-being of the country than he. If Dean Swift were right in saying that he who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before confers a greater benefit on the state than he who taketh a city, Mr. B. might exhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General Scott himself. I think that some of those disinterested lovers of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers have never touched anything rougher than the dollars of our common country, would hesitate to compare palms with him. It would do your heart good, respected Sir, to see that young man mow. He cuts a cleaner and wider swath than any in this town.

'But it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very clear that my young friend's shot has struck the lintel, for the Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of that paper is a strenuous advocate of the Mexican war, and a colonel, as I am given to understand. I presume, that, being necessarily absent in Mexico, he has left his journal in some less judicious hands. At any rate, the Post has been too swift on this occasion. It could hardly have cited a more incontrovertible line from any poem than that which it has selected for animadversion, namely,--

"We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage."

'If the Post maintains the converse of this proposition, it can hardly be considered as a safe guide-post for the moral and religious portions of its party, however many other excellent qualities of a post it may be blessed with. There is a sign in London on which is painted,--"The Green Man." It would do very well as a portrait of any individual who should support so unscriptural a thesis. As regards the language of the line in question, I am bold to say that He who readeth the hearts of men will not account any dialect unseemly which conveys a sound, and pious sentiment. I could wish that such sentiments were more common, however uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that _veritas a quocunque_ (why not, then, _quomodocunque?) dicatur, a, spiritu sancto est_. Digest also this of Baxter: "The plainest words are the most profitable oratory in the weightiest matters."

'When the paragraph in question was shown to Mr. Biglow, the only part of it which seemed to give him any dissatisfaction was that which classed him with the Whig party. He says, that, if resolutions are a nourishing kind of diet, that party must be in a very hearty and flourishing condition; for that they have quietly eaten more good ones of their own baking than he could have conceived to be possible without repletion. He has been for some years past (I regret to say) an ardent opponent of those sound doctrines of protective policy which form so prominent a portion of the creed of that party. I confess, that, in some discussions which I have had with him on this point in my study, he has displayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto detected in his composition. He is also (_horresco referens_) infected in no small measure with the peculiar notions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies I take every proper opportunity of combating, and of which, I thank God, I have never read a single line.

'I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they appeared in print, and there _is_ certainly one thing in them which I consider highly improper. I allude to the personal references to myself by name. To confer notoriety on an humble individual who is laboring quietly in his vocation, and who keeps his cloth as free as he can from the dust of the political arena (though _voe mihi si non evangelizavero_), is no doubt an indecorum. The sentiments which he attributes to me I will not deny to be mine. They were embodied, though in a different form, in a discourse preached upon the last day of public fasting, and were acceptable to my entire people (of whatever political views), except the postmaster, who dissented _ex officio_. I observe that you sometimes devote a portion of your paper to a religious summary. I should be well pleased to furnish a copy of my discourse for insertion in this department of your instructive journal. By omitting the advertisements, it might easily be got within the limits of a single number, and I venture to insure you the sale of some scores of copies in this town. I will cheerfully render myself responsible for ten. It might possibly be advantageous to issue it as an _extra_. But perhaps you will not esteem it an object, and I will not press it. My offer does not spring from any weak desire of seeing my name in print; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by turning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University, where it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics with which those of my calling are distinguished.

'I would simply add, that I continue to fit ingenuous youth for college, and that I have two spacious and airy sleeping apartments at this moment unoccupied. _Ingenuas didicisse_, &c. Terms, which vary according to the circumstances of the parents, may be known on application to me by letter, post-paid. In all cases the lad will be expected to fetch his own towels. This rule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no exceptions.

'Respectfully, your obedient servant,

'HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

'P.S. Perhaps the last paragraph may look like an attempt to obtain the insertion of my circular gratuitously. If it should appear to you in that light, I desire that you would erase it, or charge for it at the usual rates, and deduct the amount from the proceeds in your hands from the sale of my discourse, when it shall be printed. My circular is much longer and more explicit, and will be forwarded without charge to any who may desire it. It has been very neatly executed on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, who attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable specimen of the typographic art. I have one hung over my mantelpiece in a neat frame, where it makes a beautiful and appropriate ornament, and balances the profile of Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady born without arms.

'H.W.'

I have in the foregoing letter mentioned General Scott in connection with the Presidency, because I have been given to understand that he has blown to pieces and otherwise caused to be destroyed more Mexicans than any other commander. His claim would therefore be deservedly considered the strongest. Until accurate returns of the Mexicans killed, wounded, and maimed be obtained, it will be difficult to settle these nice points of precedence. Should it prove that any other officer has been more meritorious and destructive than General S., and has thereby rendered himself more worthy of the confidence and support of the conservative portion of our community, I shall cheerfully insert his name, instead of that of General S., in a future edition. It may be thought, likewise, that General S. has invalidated his claims by too much attention to the decencies of apparel, and the habits belonging to a gentleman. These abstruser points of statesmanship are beyond my scope. I wonder not that successful military achievement should attract the admiration of the multitude. Rather do I rejoice with wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is losing its hold upon the popular mind. It is related of Thomas Warton, the second of that honored name who held the office of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, when one wished to find him, being absconded, as was his wont, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled to traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of which inspiring music would be sure to draw the Doctor from his retirement into the street. We are all more or less bitten with this martial insanity. _Nescio qua dulcedine ... cunctos ducit_. I confess to some infection of that itch myself. When I see a Brigadier-General maintaining his insecure elevation in the saddle under the severe fire of the training-field, and when I remember that some military enthusiasts, through haste, inexperience, or an over-desire to lend reality to those fictitious combats, will sometimes discharge their ramrods, I cannot but admire, while I deplore, the mistaken devotion of those heroic officers. _Semel insanivimus omnes_. I was myself, during the late war with Great Britain, chaplain of a regiment, which was fortunately never called to active military duty. I mention this circumstance with regret rather than pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare, I trust that I might have been strengthened to bear myself after the manner of that reverend father in our New England Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, who, as we are told in Turell's life of him, when the vessel in which he had taken passage for England was attacked by a French privateer, 'fought like a philosopher and a Christian, ... and prayed all the while he charged and fired.' As this note is already long, I shall not here enter upon a discussion of the question, whether Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it sufficiently evident, that, during the first two centuries of the Christian era, at least, the two professions were esteemed incompatible. Consult Jortin on this head,--H.W.]

No. IV

REMARKS OF INCREASE D. O'PHACE, ESQUIRE,

AT AN EXTRUMPERY CAUCUS IN STATE STREET, REPORTED BY MR. H. BIGLOW

[The ingenious reader will at once understand that no such speech as the following was ever _totidem verbis_ pronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded wits, for the satisfying of which such an explanation may be needful. For there are certain invisible lines, which as Truth successively overpasses, she becomes Untruth to one and another of us, as a large river, flowing from one kingdom into another, sometimes takes a new name, albeit the waters undergo no change, how small soever. There is, moreover, a truth of fiction more veracious than the truth of fact, as that of the Poet, which represents to us things and events as they ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky glass of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes the speech of Antonius, though originally spoken in no wider a forum than the brain of Shakespeare, more historically valuable than that other which Appian has reported, by as much as the understanding of the Englishman was more comprehensive than that of the Alexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the present instance, has only made use of a license assumed by all the historians of antiquity, who put into the mouths of various characters such words as seem to them most fitting to the occasion and to the speaker. If it be objected that no such oration could ever have been delivered, I answer, that there are few assemblages for speech-making which do not better deserve the title of _Parliamentum Indoctorum_ than did the sixth Parliament of Henry the Fourth, and that men still continue to have as much faith in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a merry tale of a certain ambassador of Queen Elizabeth, who, having written two letters,--one to her Majesty, and the other to his wife,--directed them at cross-purposes, so that the Queen was beducked and bedeared and requested to send a change of hose, and the wife was beprincessed and otherwise unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared for the wits of her ambassador, and the other for those of her husband. In like manner it may be presumed that our speaker has misdirected some of his thoughts, and given to the whole theatre what he would have wished to confide only to a select auditory at the back of the curtain. For it is seldom that we can get any frank utterance from men, who address, for the most part, a Buncombe either in this world or the next. As for their audiences, it may be truly said of our people, that they enjoy one political institution in common with the ancient Athenians: I mean a certain profitless kind of, _ostracism_, wherewith, nevertheless, they seem hitherto well enough content. For in Presidential elections, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I observe that the _oysters_ fall to the lot of comparatively few, the _shells_ (such as the privileges of voting as they are told to do by the _ostrivori_ aforesaid, and of huzzaing at public meetings) are very liberally distributed among the people, as being their prescriptive and quite sufficient portion.

The occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr. Palfrey's refusal to vote for the Whig candidate for the Speakership.--H.W.]

No? Hez he? He haint, though? Wut? Voted agin him? Ef the bird of our country could ketch him, she'd skin him; I seem 's though I see her, with wrath in each quill, Like a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill, An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater, To pounce like a writ on the back o' the traitor. Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be het, But a crisis like this must with vigor be met; Wen an Arnold the star-spangled banner bestains, Holl Fourth o' Julys seem to bile in my veins. 10

Who ever'd ha' thought sech a pisonous rig Would be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig? 'We knowed wut his princerples wuz 'fore we sent him'? Wut wuz there in them from this vote to prevent him? A marciful Providunce fashioned us holler O' purpose thet we might our princerples swaller; It can hold any quantity on 'em, the belly can, An' bring 'em up ready fer use like the pelican, Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger) Puts her family into her pouch wen there's danger. 20 Aint princerple precious? then, who's goin' to use it Wen there's resk o' some chap's gittin' up to abuse it? I can't tell the wy on 't, but nothin' is so sure Ez thet princerple kind o' gits spiled by exposure;[19] A man that lets all sorts o' folks git a sight on 't Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on 't; Ef he cant keep it all to himself wen it's wise to, He aint one it's fit to trust nothin' so nice to.

Besides, ther's a wonderful power in latitude To shift a man's morril relations an' attitude; 30 Some flossifers think thet a fakkilty's granted The minnit it's proved to be thoroughly wanted, Thet a change o' demand makes a change o' condition, An' thet everythin' 's nothin' except by position; Ez, for instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin' Wen p'litikle conshunces come into wearin', Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to fail, Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail; So, wen one's chose to Congriss, ez soon ez he's in it, A collar grows right round his neck in a minnit, 40 An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict In bein' himself, when he gits to the Deestrict, Fer a coat thet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts, Wen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets.

Resolves, do you say, o' the Springfield Convention? Thet's precisely the pint I was goin' to mention; Resolves air a thing we most gen'ally keep ill, They're a cheap kind o' dust fer the eyes o' the people; A parcel o' delligits jest git together An' chat fer a spell o' the crops an' the weather, 50 Then, comin' to order, they squabble awile An' let off the speeches they're ferful'll spile; Then--Resolve,--Thet we wunt hev an inch o' slave territory; Thet President Polk's holl perceedins air very tory; Thet the war is a damned war, an' them thet enlist in it Should hev a cravat with a dreffle tight twist in it; Thet the war is a war fer the spreadin' o' slavery; Thet our army desarves our best thanks fer their bravery; Thet we're the original friends o' the nation, All the rest air a paltry an' base fabrication; 60 Thet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, an' C, An' ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, an' G. In this way they go to the eend o' the chapter, An' then they bust out in a kind of a raptur About their own vartoo, an' folks's stone-blindness To the men thet 'ould actilly do 'em a kindness,-- The American eagle,--the Pilgrims thet landed,-- Till on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded. Wal, the people they listen an' say, 'Thet's the ticket; Ez fer Mexico, 'taint no great glory to lick it, 70 But 'twould be a darned shame to go pullin' o' triggers To extend the aree of abusin' the niggers.'

So they march in percession, an' git up hooraws, An' tramp thru the mud far the good o' the cause, An' think they're a kind o' fulfillin' the prophecies, Wen they're on'y jest changin' the holders of offices; Ware A sot afore, B is comf'tably seated, One humbug's victor'ous an' t' other defeated, Each honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes, An' the people,--their annooal soft-sodder an' taxes. 80

Now, to keep unimpaired all these glorious feeturs Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' creeturs, Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam, An' stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place, To the manifest gain o' the holl human race, An' to some indervidgewals on 't in partickler, Who love Public Opinion an' know how to tickle her,-- I say thet a party with gret aims like these Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full o' bees. 90

I'm willin' a man should go tollable strong Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind o' wrong Is ollers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied, Because it's a crime no one never committed; But he mus'n't be hard on partickler sins, Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own shins; On'y look at the Demmercrats, see wut they've done Jest simply by stickin' together like fun; They've sucked us right into a mis'able war Thet no one on airth aint responsible for; 100 They've run us a hundred cool millions in debt (An' fer Demmercrat Horners there's good plums left yet); They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one, An' so coax all parties to build up their Zion; To the people they're ollers ez slick ez molasses, An' butter their bread on both sides with The Masses, Half o' whom they've persuaded, by way of a joke, Thet Washinton's mantlepiece fell upon Polk.

Now all o' these blessin's the Wigs might enjoy, Ef they'd gumption enough the right means to imploy;[20] 110 Fer the silver spoon born in Dermoc'acy's mouth Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South; Their masters can cuss 'em an' kick 'em an' wale 'em. An' they notice it less 'an the ass did to Balaam; In this way they screw into second-rate offices Wich the slaveholder thinks 'ould substract too much off his ease; The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles, Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their files. Wal, the Wigs hev been tryin' to grab all this prey frum 'em An' to hook this nice spoon o' good fortin' away frum 'em, 120 An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely ez not, In lickin' the Demmercrats all round the lot, Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithful Wigs were their knees on, Some stuffy old codger would holler out,--'Treason! You must keep a sharp eye on a dog thet hez bit you once, An' _I_ aint agoin' to cheat my constitoounts,'-- Wen every fool knows thet a man represents Not the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence,-- Impartially ready to jump either side An' make the fust use of a turn o' the tide,-- 130 The waiters on Providunce here in the city, Who compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy, Constitoounts air hendy to help a man in, But arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin, Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle Sam's pus, So they've nothin' to du with 't fer better or wus; It's the folks thet air kind o' brought up to depend on 't Thet hev any consarn in 't, an' thet is the end on 't. Now here wuz New England ahevin' the honor Of a chance at the Speakership showered upon her;-- 140 Do you say, 'She don't want no more Speakers, but fewer; She's hed plenty o' them, wut she wants is a _doer'_? Fer the matter o' thet, it's notorous in town Thet her own representatives du her quite brown. But thet's nothin' to du with it; wut right hed Palfrey To mix himself up with fanatical small fry? Warn't we gittin' on prime with our hot an' cold blowin', Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep' it agoin'? We'd assumed with gret skill a commandin' position. On this side or thet, no one couldn't tell wich one, 150 So, wutever side wipped, we'd a chance at the plunder An' could sue fer infringin' our paytented thunder; We were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible, Ef on all pints at issoo he'd stay unintelligible. Wal, sposin' we hed to gulp down our perfessions. We were ready to come out next mornin' with fresh ones; Besides, ef we did, 'twas our business alone, Fer couldn't we du wut we would with our own? An' ef a man can, wen pervisions hev riz so, Eat up his own words, it's a marcy it is so. 160 Wy, these chaps frum the North, with back-bones to 'em, darn 'em, 'Ould be wuth more 'an Gennle Tom Thumb is to Barnum: Ther's enough thet to office on this very plan grow, By exhibitin' how very small a man can grow; But an M.C. frum here ollers hastens to state he Belongs to the order called invertebraty, Wence some gret filologists judge primy fashy Thet M.C. is M.T. by paronomashy; An' these few exceptions air _loosus naytury_ Folks 'ould put down their quarters to stare at, like fury. 170 It's no use to open the door o' success, Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or less; Wy, all o' them grand constitootional pillers Our fore-fathers fetched with 'em over the billers, Them pillers the people so soundly hev slep' on, Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they were swep' on, Wile our Destiny higher an' higher kep' mountin' (Though I guess folks'll stare wen she hends her account in), Ef members in this way go kickin' agin 'em, They wunt hev so much ez a feather left in 'em. 180

An', ez fer this Palfrey,[21] we thought wen we'd gut him in, He'd go kindly in wutever harness we put him in; Supposin' we _did_ know thet he wuz a peace man? Does he think he can be Uncle Sammle's policeman, An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a riot, Lead him off to the lockup to snooze till he's quiet? Wy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef It leads to the fat promised land of a tayriff; _We_ don't go an' fight it, nor aint to be driv on, Nor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut to live on; 190 Ef it aint jest the thing thet's well pleasin' to God, It makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad; The Rooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie An' shakes both his heads wen he hears o' Monteery; In the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster, An' reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry Buster; An' old Philip Lewis--thet come an' kep' school here Fer the mere sake o' scorin his ryalist ruler On the tenderest part of our kings _in futuro_-- Hides his crown underneath an old shut in his bureau, 200 Breaks off in his brags to a suckle o' merry kings, How he often hed hided young native Amerrikins, An' turnin' quite faint in the midst of his fooleries, Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front door o' the Tooleries.[22] You say, 'We'd ha' seared 'em by growin' in peace, A plaguy sight more then by bobberies like these'? Who is it dares say thet our naytional eagle Won't much longer be classed with the birds thet air regal, Coz theirn be hooked beaks, an' she, arter this slaughter, 'll bring back a bill ten times longer 'n she'd ough' to? 210 Wut's your name? Come, I see ye, you up-country feller, You've put me out severil times with your beller; Out with it! Wut? Biglow? I say nothin' furder, Thet feller would like nothin' better 'n a murder; He's a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut ruther worse is, He puts all his ath'ism in dreffle bad verses; Socity aint safe till sech monsters air out on it, Refer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it; Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes, Agin sellin' wild lands 'cept to settlers with axes, 220 Agin holdin' o' slaves, though he knows it's the corner Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able scorner! In short, he would wholly upset with his ravages All thet keeps us above the brute critters an' savages, An' pitch into all kinds o' briles an' confusions The holl of our civerlized, free institutions; He writes fer thet ruther unsafe print, the Courier, An' likely ez not hez a squintin' to Foorier; I'll be----, thet is, I mean I'll be blest, Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a pest; 230 I sha'nt talk with _him_, my religion's too fervent. Good mornin', my friends, I'm your most humble servant.

[Into the question whether the ability to express ourselves in articulate language has been productive of more good or evil, I shall not here enter at large. The two faculties of speech and of speech-making are wholly diverse in their natures. By the first we make ourselves intelligible, by the last unintelligible, to our fellows. It has not seldom occurred to me (noting how in our national legislature everything runs to talk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil be unpropitious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming handsome heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the earliest mill erected for the manufacture of gabble. In these days, what with Town Meetings, School Committees, Boards (lumber) of one kind and another, Congresses, Parliaments, Diets, Indian Councils, Palavers, and the like, there is scarce a village which has not its factories of this description driven by milk-and-water power. I cannot conceive the confusion of tongues to have been the curse of Babel, since I esteem my ignorance of other languages as a kind of Martello-tower, in which I am safe from the furious bombardments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have ever preferred the study of the dead languages, those primitive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks I sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear, though it rain figures (_simulacra_, semblances) of speech forty days and nights together, as it not uncommonly happens. Thus is my coat, as it were, without buttons by which any but a vernacular wild bore can seize me. Is it not possible that the Shakers may intend to convey a quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their outer garments with hooks and eyes?

This reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no Commentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an excellent deacon of my congregation (being infected with the Second Advent delusion) assured me that he had received a first instalment of the gift of tongues as a small earnest of larger possessions in the like kind to follow. For, of a truth, I could not reconcile it with my ideas of the Divine justice and mercy that the single wall which protected people of other languages from the incursions of this otherwise well-meaning propagandist should be broken down.

In reading Congressional debates, I have fancied, that, after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in the brain which result from such exercises, I detected a slender residuum of valuable information. I made the discovery that _nothing_ takes longer in the saying than anything else, for as _ex nihilo nihil fit_, so from one polypus _nothing_ any number of similar ones may be produced. I would recommend to the attention of _viva voce_ debaters and controversialists the admirable example of the monk Copres, who, in the fourth century, stood for half an hour in the midst of a great fire, and thereby silenced a Manichæan antagonist who had less of the salamander in him. As for those who quarrel in print, I have no concern with them here, since the eyelids are a divinely granted shield against all such. Moreover, I have observed in many modern books that the printed portion is becoming gradually smaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they are called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency of literature continue, books will grow more valuable from year to year, and the whole Serbonian bog yield to the advances of firm arable land.

The sagacious Lacedæmonians, hearing that Tesephone had bragged that he could talk all day long on any given subject, made no more ado, but forthwith banished him, whereby they supplied him a topic and at the same time took care that his experiment upon it should be tried out of earshot.

I have wondered, in the Representatives' Chamber of our own Commonwealth, to mark how little impression seemed to be produced by that emblematic fish suspended over the heads of the members. Our wiser ancestors, no doubt, hung it there as being the animal which the Pythagoreans reverenced for its silence, and which certainly in that particular does not so well merit the epithet _cold blooded_, by which naturalists distinguish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with ditch-water on the brain, who take occasion to tap themselves in Faneuil Halls, meeting-houses, and other places of public resort.--H.W.]

No. V

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT

SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME

[The incident which gave rise to the debate satirized in the following verses was the unsuccessful attempt of Drayton and Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and women, fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had Tripoli, instead of Washington, been the scene of this undertaking, the unhappy leaders in it would have been as secure of the theoretic as they now are of the practical part of martyrdom. I question whether the Dey of Tripoli is blessed with a District Attorney so benighted as ours at the seat of government. Very fitly is he named Key, who would allow himself to be made the instrument of locking the door of hope against sufferers in such a cause. Not all the waters of the ocean can cleanse the vile smutch of the jailer's fingers from off that little Key. _Ahenea clavis_, a brazen Key indeed!

Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this burlesque, seems to think that the light of the nineteenth century is to be put out as soon as he tinkles his little cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is touched, he sets up his scarecrow of dissolving the Union. This may do for the North, but I should conjecture that something more than a pumpkin-lantern is required to scare manifest and irretrievable Destiny out of her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot let go the apron-string of the Past. The Past is a good nurse, but we must be weaned from her sooner or later, even though, like Plotinus, we should run home from school to ask the breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths. It will not do for us to hide our faces in her lap, whenever the strange Future holds out her arms and asks us to come to her.

But we are all alike. We have all heard it said, often enough, that little boys must not play with fire; and yet, if the matches be taken away from us, and put out of reach upon the shelf, we must needs get into our little corner, and scowl and stamp and threaten the dire revenge of going to bed without our supper. The world shall stop till we get our dangerous plaything again. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than enough household matters to mind, goes bustling hither and thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her that this or that kettle of hers is boiling over, and before bedtime we are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down our dignity along with it.

Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a great statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put lance in rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age with the certainty of being next moment hurled neck and heels into the dust amid universal laughter, he deserves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our modern chivalry. He should remember the old Scandinavian mythus. Thor was the strongest of gods, but he could not wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of the great snake which bound the universe together; and when he smote the Earth, though with his terrible mallet, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while it seemed to Thor that he had only been wrestling with an old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a stupid giant on the head.

And in old times, doubtless, the giants _were_ stupid, and there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots and Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great blundering heads with enchanted swords. But things have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, nowadays, that have the science and the intelligence, while the chivalrous Don Quixotes of Conservatism still cumber themselves with the clumsy armor of a bygone age. On whirls the restless globe through unsounded time, with its cities and its silences, its births and funerals, half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure to swing round into the happy morning at last. With an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip his pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of it to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of the Past.--H.W.]

TO MR. BUCKENAM

MR. EDITER, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little nussry sot out a year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit cum inter my mine An so i took & Sot it to wut I call a nussry rime. I hev made sum onnable Gentlemun speak thut dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense the seeson is dreffle backerd up This way

ewers as ushul

HOSEA BIGLOW.

'Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef 't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he:-- 'Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more 'n the man in the moon,' sez he.

'The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin,' An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; 10 We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're _used_ to layin' the string on our slaves,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Foote, 'I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!' sez he.

'Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's--wha' d' ye call it?--divine,-- An' the slaves thet we ollers _make_ the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,' 20 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Fer all that,' sez Mangum, ''Twould be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon,' sez he.

'The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Thet's ez plain,' sez Cass, 30 'Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon,' sez he.

'Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Yes,' sez Davis o' Miss., 'The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' thet same old coon,' sez he. 40

'Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe?' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, 'Thet exception is quite oppertoon,' sez he.

'Gennle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, _Your_ merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, 50 At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color; You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Jarnagin, 'They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon,' sez he.

'The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin,' North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance; No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they _du_ sell themselves, ef they git a good chance,' 60 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Atherton here, 'This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon,' sez he.

'It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Yes, the North,' sez Colquitt, 70 'Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon,' sez he.

'Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Yes,' sez Johnson, 'in France They're beginnin' to dance Beëlzebub's own rigadoon,' sez he. 80

'The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Oh,' sez Westcott o' Florida, 'Wut treason is horrider Then our priv'leges tryin' to proon?' sez he.

'It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; 90 We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Ah,' sez Dixon H. Lewis, 'It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon,' sez he.

[It was said of old time, that riches have wings; and, though this be not applicable in a literal strictness to the wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South, yet it is clear that their possessions have legs, and an unaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly direction. I marvel that the grand jury of Washington did not find a true bill against the North Star for aiding and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It would have been quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by the South on other questions connected with slavery. I think that no ship of state was ever freighted with a more veritable Jonah than this same domestic institution of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three millions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope by this one mighty argument,--_Our fathers knew no better!_ Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall we try the experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe place, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam of him? Let us, then, with equal forethought and wisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in pious confidence, the certain result. Perhaps our suspicious passenger is no Jonah after all, being black. For it is well known that a superintending Providence made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, to be devoured by the Caucasian race.

In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the breakers, speak out! But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in danger of the justice; but if he steal my brother, I must be silent. Who says this? Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous consuetude of sixty years, and grasped in triumphant argument by the left hand of him whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. Justice, venerable with the undethronable majesty of countless æons, says,--SPEAK! The Past, wise with the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes,--SPEAK! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubilant encouragement, and cries,--SPEAK! From the soul's trembling abysses the still, small voice not vaguely murmurs,--SPEAK! But, alas! the Constitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., say--BE DUMB!

It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connection, whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., will be expected to take their places on the left as our hircine vicars.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus?

There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an ideal!

Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage to _rub and go?_ Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and others say shall _not_ cease. I would by no means deny the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such a wrestling match, I cannot help having my fears for them.

_Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos_.

H.W.]

No. VI

THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED

[At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the following satire with an extract from a sermon preached during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2: 'Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel.' Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was delivered, the editor of the 'Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss' has unaccountably absented himself from our house of worship.

'I know of no so responsible position as that of the public journalist. The editor of our day bears the same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls the Next Life. As if _next_ did not mean _nearest_, and as if any life were nearer than that immediately present one which boils and eddies all around him at the caucus, the ratification meeting, and the polls! Who taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as for some future era of which the present forms no integral part? The furrow which Time is even now turning runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he plant, or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and teach that we are _going_ to have more of eternity than we have now. This _going_ of his is like that of the auctioneer, on which _gone_ follows before we have made up our minds to bid,--in which manner, not three months back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of being a living force, has faded into an emblematic figure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion offers, he unkennels with a _staboy!_ "to bark and bite as 'tis their nature to," whence that reproach of _odium theologicum_ has arisen.

'Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among them! And from what a Bible can he choose his text,--a Bible which needs no translation, and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the laity,--the open volume of the world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Present is even now writing the annals of God! Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of [Greek: poimaen laon], which Homer bestows upon princes. He would be the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the new law here among factories and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order.

'Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton.

_Immemor, O, fidei, pecorumque oblite tuorum!_

For which reason I would derive the name _editor_ not so much from _edo_, to publish, as from _edo_, to eat, that being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself called. He blows up the flames of political discord for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and of these, how many have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great principles of _Tweedledum_, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel according to _Tweedledee_.'--H.W.]

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Payris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Phayrisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas an' coffees, 10 Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in _any_ plan O' levyin' the texes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes; 20 I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote,--an' keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, 30 An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin; I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses. 40

I du believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all,-- I don't care _how_ hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, 50 To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Cæsar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, Frum him my bread an' cheese air; 60 I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his superscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him that hez the grantin' O' jobs,--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest,-- 70 I _don't_ believe in princerple, But oh, I _du_ in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t'other hendiest is To ketch the people nappln'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied,-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded. 80

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt: Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, 'uthout I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- 90 Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets, Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; 100 This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed me.

[I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned discourse.

'Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold the whole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown-paper wrapper!

'Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in order to make out anything distinctly. That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England. That other, in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference from him in the present alarming juncture. At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motion, is an immense mass-meeting. Look sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity for the Infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world. And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into the dark Beyond.

'Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinities (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also.

'Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a season-ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by Death.

'Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then suddenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look! deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty;--I hold in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death among them? Are not here two who would have me know of their marriage? And, strangest of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me informed that he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins? But to none of us does the Present continue miraculous (even if for a moment discerned as such). We glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this sheet, (Acts x. 11, 12) in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken victuals.'--H.W.]

No. VII

A LETTER

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S.H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD

[Curiosity may be said to be the quality which preeminently distinguishes and segregates man from the lower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature downward, we find this faculty (as it may truly he called) of the mind diminished in the savage, and wellnigh extinct in the brute. The first object which civilized man proposes to himself I take to be the finding out whatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. _Nihil humanum a me alienum puto;_ I am curious about even John Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an opposite pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of communicating the unintelligence we have carefully picked up.

Men in general may be divided into the inquisitive and the communicative. To the first class belong Peeping Toms, eaves-droppers, navel-contemplating Brahmins, metaphysicians, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, the various societies for promoting Rhinothism, Columbuses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who present themselves to the mind as so many marks of interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sitting in studies and laboratories. The second class I should again subdivide into four. In the first subdivision I would rank those who have an itch to tell us about themselves,--as keepers of diaries, insignificant persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, autobiographers, poets. The second includes those who are anxious to impart information concerning other people,--as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong those who labor to give us intelligence about nothing at all,--as novelists, political orators, the large majority of authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the fourth come those who are communicative from motives of public benevolence,--as finders of mares'-nests and bringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls without feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway the whole barnyard shall know it by our cackle or our cluck. _Omnibus hoc vitium est_. There are different grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope toward a back-yard, another toward Uranus; one will tell you that he dined with Smith, another that he supped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be considered as belonging to the first grand division, inasmuch as they all seem equally desirous of discovering the mote in their neighbor's eye.

To one or another of these species every human being may safely be referred. I think it beyond a peradventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up a letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that, as there are certain persons who continually peep and pry at the keyhole of that mysterious door through which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there are doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other side of it, because they have no means of conveying back to this world the scraps of news they have picked up in that. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every question, the great law of _give and take_ runs through all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a standing advertisement of information wanted in regard to A.B., or that the friends of C.D. can hear something to his disadvantage by application to such a one.

It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and answering that epistolary correspondence was first invented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, there are those which are not letters at all--as letters-patent, letters dismissory, letters enclosing bills, letters of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, and Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome includes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, and letters generally, which are in no wise letters of mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, Cowper, Walpole, Howell, Lamb, D.Y., the first letters from children (printed in staggering capitals), Letters from New York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for the sake of the writer or the thing written. I have read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named Pinto, containing some curious gossip, and which I hope to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There are, besides, letters addressed to posterity,--as epitaphs, for example, written for their own monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The letter of our Saviour to King Abgarus, that which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year of grace 755, that of the Virgin to the magistrates of Messina, that of the Sanhedrim of Toledo to Annas and Caiaphas, A.D. 35, that of Galeazzo Sforza's spirit to his brother Lodovico, that of St. Gregory Thaumaturgus to the D----l, and that of this last-mentioned active police-magistrate to a nun of Girgenti, I would place in a class by themselves, as also the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate more fully in a note at the end of the following poem. At present _sat prata biberunt_. Only, concerning the shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to which general figures circular letters and round-robins also conform themselves.--H.W.]

Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about 'em. this here 1 wich I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy.--H.B.

Dear Sir,--You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Ez bein' mum or underhand; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head. An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin' An' come direcly to the pint, 10 I think the country's underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out o' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong, I wunt deny but wut I be so,-- An' fact, it don't smell very strong; 20 My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o' greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I'm an eclectic; ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesman say, who've planned 30 A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to _ware_ they'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it,-- I mean to say I kind o' du,-- Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru'; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart,-- But civlyzation _doos_ git forrid 39 Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt. Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So 'st no one couldn't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll jest answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil,-- Yes, Sir, I _am_ agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I'm an off ox at bein' druv, 50 Though I ain't one thet ary test shuns 'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' permiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle 61 Thet preudunt farmers don't turn out,-- Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer 'em to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In _my_ idees consarnin' them,-- _I_ think they air an Institution, A sort of--yes, jest so,--ahem: Do _I_ own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; 70 All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my princerples, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a canderdate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an'thin' in particler, Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-Wig. 80

P.S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer, An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in _your_ privit ear; Ef you git _me_ inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kin' o' 'nint By gittin' _you_ inside the Lighthouse Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, 90 I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost,-- Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

[And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two kinds,--namely, letters of acceptance, and letters definitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an election, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. Epistolary composition becomes then an epidemic, which seizes one candidate after another, not seldom cutting short the thread of political life. It has come to such a pass, that a party dreads less the attacks of its opponents than a letter from its candidate. _Litera scripta manet_, and it will go hard if something bad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, with the _cordon sanitaire_ of a vigilance committee. No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously deprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped carefully from the chimney-places; outposts of expert rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain limited distance of North Bend; and all domestic fowls about the premises were reduced to the condition of Plato's original man. By these precautions the General was saved. _Parva componere magnis_, I remember, that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about that result which I deemed most desirable. My stratagem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Complete Letter-Writer in the way of the candidate whom I wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and addressed a short note to his constituents, in which the opposite party detected so many and so grave improprieties (he had modelled it upon the letter of a young lady accepting a proposal of marriage), that he not only lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabellianism and I know not what (the widow Endive assured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain knowledge), was forced to leave the town. Thus it is that the letter killeth.

The object which candidates propose to themselves in writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptographies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a wonderful amount and variety of significance. _Omne ignotum pro mirifico_. How do we admire at the antique world striving to crack those oracular nuts from Delphi, Hammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged; that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have written six thousand books on the single subject of grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the labors of his successors, and which seems still to possess an attraction for authors in proportion as they can make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two hundred and three several interpretations, each lethiferal to all the rest. _Non nostrum est tantas componere lites_, yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the minds of my people. It is true that my views on this important point were ardently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Holden, the then preceptor of our academy, and in other particulars a very deserving and sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been lately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a sermon preached upon the Lord's day immediately succeeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made provision in his last will (being celibate) for the publication of a posthumous tractate in support of his own dangerous opinions.

I know of nothing in our modern times which approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, and this same prohibition on the part of Pythagoras to his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other explication, _quod videlicet sensus eo cibo obtundi existimaret_, though supported _pugnis et calcibus_ by many of the learned, and not wanting the countenance of Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial expressions, and knotty points generally, which is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to the questioning of candidates. And very properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to discover what a person in that position is, or what he will do, but whether he can be elected. _Vos exemplaria Græca nocturna versate manu, versate diurna_.

But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particular (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates will answer, whether they are questioned or not, I would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic correspondences of the Scythians an Macrobii, or confined to the language of signs, like the famous interview of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial of Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their respective constituencies. These answers would be susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the exigencies of the political campaign might seem to demand, and the candidate could take his position on either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if letters must be written, profitable use might be made of the Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to educe a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply posterity, with a very vast and various body of authentic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordinary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any style so compressed that superfluous words may not be detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that famous brevity of Cæsar's by two thirds, drawing his pen through the supererogatory _veni_ and _vidi_. Perhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and less of qualification in candidates. Already have statesmanship, experience, and the possession (nay, the profession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability to write will follow? At present, there may be death in pothooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may suffice for a bowstring, and all the dreadful heresies of Antislavery may lurk in a flourish.--H.W.]

No. VIII

A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ.

[In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning, a _miles emeritus_, to the bosom of his family. _Quantum mutatus!_ The good Father of us all had doubtless intrusted to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect development of Humanity. He had given him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. And this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the account of that stewardship? The State, or Society (call her by what name you will), had taken no manner of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, vile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of the bar-room,--an own child of the Almighty God! I remember him as he was brought to be christened, a ruddy, rugged babe; and now there he wallows, reeking, seething,--the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul,--a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss those parched, cracked lips; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns down to him,--and there he lies fermenting. O sleep! let me not profane thy holy name by calling that stertorous unconsciousness a slumber! By and by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say, 'My poor, forlorn foster-child! Behold here a force which I will make dig and plant and build for me'? Not so, but, 'Here is a recruit ready-made to my hand, a piece of destroying energy lying unprofitably idle.' So she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer.

I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of steel. And while I was admiring the adaptation of means to end, the harmonious involutions of contrivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals, a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul said within me, See there a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort of a child,--a force which not merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse all through the infinite future,--a contrivance, not for turning out pins, or stitching button-holes, but for making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with a pin; while the other, with its fire of God in it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon-ball. Unthrifty Mother State! My heart burned within me for pity and indignation, and I renewed this covenant with my own soul,--_In aliis mansuetus ero, at, in blasphemiis contra Christum, non ita._.--H.W.]

I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me, Exacly ware I be myself,--meanin' by thet the holl o' me. Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither, (The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither,) Now one on 'em's I dunno ware;--they thought I wuz adyin', An' sawed it off because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin'; I'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther, Wy one shoud take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n t'other, Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be; It took on so they took it off, an' thet's enough fer me: 10 There's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,-- The liquor can't git into it ez 't used to in the true one; So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller couldn't beg A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg; It's true a chap's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum, But all the march I'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.

I've lost one eye, but thet's a loss it's easy to supply Out o' the glory thet I've gut, fer thet is all my eye; An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it, To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it; 20 Off'cers I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins, Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins; So, ez the eye's put fairly out, I'll larn to go without it, An' not allow _myself_ to be no gret put out about it. Now, le' me see, thet isn't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam, To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em: Ware's my left hand? Oh, darn it, yes, I recollect wut's come on 't; I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet's gut jest a thumb on 't; It aint so bendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't. I've hed some ribs broke,--six (I b'lieve),--I haint kep' no account on 'em; 30 Wen pensions git to be the talk, I'll settle the amount on 'em. An' now I'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mind One thet I couldn't never break,--the one I lef' behind; Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your invention An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal pension, An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to be Consoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be; There's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet's wooden Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther's a puddin'.

I spose you think I'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder, 40 With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder; Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o' Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water, Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation, An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation, Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin', Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin'. Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em, An' desput rivers run about a beggin' folks to dam 'em; Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silver 50 Thet you could take, an' no one couldn't hand ye in no bill fer;-- Thet's wut I thought afore I went, thet's wut them fellers told us Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us; I thought thet gold-mines could be gut cheaper than Chiny asters, An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors; But sech idees soon melted down an' didn't leave a grease-spot; I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles wouldn't come nigh a V spot; Although, most anywares we've ben, you needn't break no locks, Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks. I 'xpect I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feeturs 60 O' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs, But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded) How one day you'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded. The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewter Our Preudence hed, thet wouldn't pour (all she could du) to suit her; Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so's not a drop 'ould dreen out, Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out, The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver 'ould all come down _kerswosh!_ ez though the dam bust in a river. Jest so 'tis here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather, 70 An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be a layin' heads together Ez t' how they'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,-- 'Twould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot. The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed to leave here, One piece o' propaty along, an' thet's the shakin' fever; It's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one, Nor 'taint so tiresome ez it wuz with t'other leg an' arm on; An' it's a consolation, tu, although it doosn't pay, To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way. 'Tworn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',-- 80 One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',-- One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,-- Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes. But then, thinks I, at any rate there's glory to be hed,-- Thet's an investment, arter all, thet mayn't turn out so bad; But somehow, wen we'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanks Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks; The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,-- _We_ never gat a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on; An' spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to contrive its 90 Division so's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits; Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one, You wouldn't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun; We git the licks,--we're jest the grist thet's put into War's hoppers; Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers. It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't, An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in 't; But glory is a kin' o' thing _I_ sha'n't pursue no furder, Coz thet's the off'cers' parquisite,--yourn's on'y jest the murder.

Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there's one 100 Thing in the bills we aint bed yit, an' thet's the GLORIOUS FUN; Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume we All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy. I'll tell ye wut _my_ revels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em; _We_ never gut inside the hall: the nighest ever _I_ come Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it _seemed_ a cent'ry) A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry, An' hearin' ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses: I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed inside; 110 All I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried, An' not a hunderd miles away from ware this child wuz posted, A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted; The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee.

They say the quarrel's settled now; for my part I've some doubt on 't, 't'll take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean on 't; At any rate I'm so used up I can't do no more fightin', The on'y chance thet's left to me is politics or writin'; Now, ez the people's gut to hev a milingtary man, 120 An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I've hit upon a plan; The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T, An' ef I lose, 'twunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea; So I'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office, (I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies; Fer ez tu runnin' fer a place ware work's the time o' day, You know thet's wut I never did,--except the other way;) Ef it's the Presidential cheer fer wich I'd better run, Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one? There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it's said, 130 So useful eza wooden leg,--except a wooden head; There's nothin' aint so poppylar--(wy, it 's a parfect sin To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;)-- Then I haint gut no princerples, an', sence I wuz knee-high, I never _did_ hev any gret, ez you can testify; I'm a decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war,-- Fer now the holl on 't's gone an' past, wut is there to go _for_? Ef, wile you're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should beg To know my views o' state affairs, jest answer WOODEN LEG! Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubt 140 An' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest say ONE EYE PUT OUT! Thet kin' o' talk I guess you'll find'll answer to a charm, An' wen you're druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm; Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous look An' tell 'em thet's precisely wut I never gin nor--took!

Then you can call me 'Timbertoes,'--thet's wut the people likes; Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes; Some say the people's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please,-- I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees; 'Old Timbertoes,' you see, 's a creed it's safe to be quite bold on, 150 There's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git hold on; It's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embody Thet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy-toddy; It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind; Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em, Sech ez the ONE-EYED SLARTERER, the BLOODY BIRDOFREDUM: Them's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses, An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes.

There's one thing I'm in doubt about: in order to be Presidunt, 160 It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt; The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller. Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes, Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes), But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, maybe, You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby, An' then to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to say They hate an' cus the very thing they vote fer every day, Say you're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusion 170 An' make the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion;-- But, golly! there's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'! I'll be more 'xplicit in my next. Yourn, BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.

[We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating how the balance-sheet stands between our returned volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set down on both sides of the account in fractional parts of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the following result:--

B. SAWIN, Esq., _in account with_ (BLANK) GLORY.

_Cr._ By loss of one leg............................................... 20 " do. one arm................................................ 15 " do. four fingers............................................ 5 " do. one eye................................................ 10 " the breaking of six ribs........................................ 6 " having served under Colonel Cushing one month.................. 44 ------- 100 _Dr._ To one 675th three cheers in Faneuil Hall......................... 30 " do. do. on occasion of presentation of sword to Colonel Wright.. 25 To one suit of gray clothes (ingeniously unbecoming).............. 15 " musical entertainments (drum and fife six months)............... 5 " one dinner after return......................................... 1 " chance of pension............................................... 1 " privilege of drawing longbow during rest of natural life....... 23 ------ 100

E.E.

It should appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised in Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object seems to have been the making of his fortune. _Quærenda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos_. He hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation. _Quid, non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames?_ The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of drought which intervenes between quarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I have seen, in the entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and innutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not without examples; as those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree, growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? In the _sylva_ of our own Southern States, the females of my family have called my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply examples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in the smaller branches of which has been implanted so miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek languages, and which may well, therefore, be classed among the trees producing necessaries of life,--_venerabile donum fatalis virgæ_. That money-trees existed in the golden age there want not prevalent reasons for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when it asserts that money does not grow on _every_ bush, imply _a fortiori_ that there were certain bushes which did produce it? Again, there is another ancient saw to the effect that money is the _root_ of all evil. From which two adages it may be safe to infer that the aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, vanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, as in the garden of the Hesperides; and, indeed, what else could that tree in the Sixth Æneid have been with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory, for the entering of which money is a surer passport than to a certain other more profitable and too foreign kingdom? Whether these speculations of mine have any force in them, or whether they will not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to the determination of an indulgent posterity. That there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops where money was sold,--and that, too, on credit and at a bargain,--I take to be matter of demonstration. For what but a dealer in this article was that Æolus who supplied Ulysses with motive-power for his fleet in bags? what that Ericus, King of Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds in his cap? what, in more recent times, those Lapland Nornas who traded in favorable breezes? All which will appear the more clearly when we consider, that, even to this day, _raising the wind_ is proverbial for raising money, and that brokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a later period.

And now for the improvement of this digression. I find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure of my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to myself the before-stated natural-historical and archæological theories, as I was passing, _haec negotia penitus mecum revolvens_, through one of the obscure suburbs of our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a signboard,--CHEAP CASH-STORE. Here was at once the confirmation of my speculations, and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the fragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, as he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting-office window, or speculated from the summit of that mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cunning to raise up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy (even during that first half-believing glance) expended in various useful directions the funds to be obtained by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower of the Jaalam meeting-house, a gift appropriately, but modestly, commemorated in the parish and town records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and whether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Spanish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough that I found that signboard to be no other than a bait to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of immense flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in the very scales), which purchase I made not only with an eye to the little ones at home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too frequent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astræa-forsaken nineteenth century.

Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title _Sawin, B._, let us extend our investigations, and discover if that instructive volume does not contain some charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we should be more economical of our resources, did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever Brother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess that the late _muck_ which the country has been running has materially changed my views as to the best method of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty housekeepers, we could see where and how fast the money was going, we should be less likely to commit extravagances. At present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay for; the poor man is charged as much as the rich; and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, the government is drawing off at the bung. If we could know that a part of the money we expend for tea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. During the present fall, I have often pictured to myself a government official entering my study and handing me the following bill:--

WASHINGTON, Sept. 30, 1848, REV. HOMER WILBUR to _Uncle Samuel_,

_Dr._ To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership account, sundry jobs, as below. "killing, maiming and wounding about 5000 Mexicans. . . . . . . . $2.00 "slaughtering one woman carrying water to wounded. . . . . . . . . . .10 "extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bombardment and one assault), whereby the Mexicans were prevented from defiling themselves with the idolatries of high mass . . . . . . 3.50 "throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant bomb-shell into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz, whereby several female Papists were slain at the altar. . . . . . . . . . . . .50 "his proportion of cash paid for conquered territory. . . . . . . . 1.75 "do. do. for conquering do . . . . . 1.50 "manuring do. with new superior compost called 'American Citizen'. .50 "extending the area of freedom and Protestantism. . . . . . . . . . . .01 "glory. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .01 _____ $9.87 _Immediate payment is requested._

N.B. Thankful for former favors, U.S. requests a continuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor for the same kind and style of work.

I can fancy the official answering my look of horror with--'Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge. Sir; but in these days slaughtering is slaughtering.' Verily, I would that every one understood that it was; for it goes about obtaining money under the false pretence of being glory. For me, I have an imagination which plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from his day's work, and forthwith my imagination puts a cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the Presidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as the place assigned to the 'Reverend Clergy' is just behind that of 'Officers of the Army and Navy' in processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings, court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians in America. Now what does my over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his trousers thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the temporal mercies upon the board before me! --H.W.]

No. IX

A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ.

[Upon the following letter slender comment will be needful. In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favor, we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not jilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his plough with a goodly sized branch of willow in his hand; figuratively returning, however, to a figurative plough, and from no profound affection for that honored implement of husbandry (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never displayed any decided predilection), but in order to be gracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial labors. It should seem that the character of the ancient Dictator had become part of the recognized stock of our modern political comedy, though, as our term of office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is sufficiently so, however, for purposes of scenic representation. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This rustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Jaalam, North Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Bâton Rouge, as occasion demands. Before the door stands a something with one handle (the other painted in proper perspective), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with delirious joy, welcomed as a father by appropriate groups of happy laborers, or from it the successful one is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if the scene be laid at Bâton Rouge or Ashland, the laborers are kept carefully in the backgrouud, and are heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular tone resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic population of those localities. The precise connection between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have not been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But, that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I will mention one curious statistical fact, which I consider thoroughly established, namely, that no real farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in the General Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted station.

It is probable that some other prospect has been opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this great sacrifice without some definite understanding in regard to a seat in the cabinet or a foreign mission. It may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not untouched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary to a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers reduced him so nearly to the condition of a _vox et præterea nihil_ that I could think of nothing but the loss of his head by which his chance could have been bettered. But since he has chosen to balk our suffrages, we must content ourselves with what we can get, remembering _lactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui sufficiant_,--H.W.]

I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle views In the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze, Jest arter I'd a kin' o' ben spontanously sot up To run unannermously fer the Preserdential cup; O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 'twuz ferflely distressin', But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin' Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' sorrered, There didn't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd: Fact is, they udged the matter so, I couldn't help admittin' The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 'ould fit in, 10 Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed, Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair'd be more 'n I need; An', tell ye wut, them shoes'll want a thund'rin sight o' patchin', Ef this ere fashion is to last we've gut into o' hatchin' A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,-- Though, fer ez number one's consarned, I don't make no objection.

I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I saw The masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father-'n-law, (They would ha' hed it _Father_, but I told 'em 'twouldn't du, Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they couldn't split in tu, 20 An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door, Nor darsn't say 'tworn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore,) But 'taint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated, 'Tworn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated, An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh, I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh.

Sence I've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to find Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind; It's clear to any one whose brain aint fur gone in a phthisis, Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis, 30 An' 'twouldn't noways du to hev the people's mind distracted By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted; 'Twould save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw, Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw; So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like--like ole (I swow, I dunno ez I know his name)--I'll go back to my plough. Wenever an Amerikin distinguished politishin Begins to try et wut they call definin' his posishin, Wal, I, fer one, feel sure he ain't gut nothin' to define; It's so nine cases out o' ten, but jest thet tenth is mine; 40 An' 'taint no more 'n proper 'n' right in sech a sitooation To hint the course you think'll be the savin' o' the nation; To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing, Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing; So I edvise the noomrous friends thet's in one boat with me To jest up killick, jam right down their hellum hard alee, Haul the sheets taut, an', layin' out upon the Suthun tack, Make fer the safest port they can, wich, _I_ think, is Ole Zack.

Next thing you'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seem To see thet makes me think this ere'll be the strongest team; 50 Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in bar-rooms an' saloons Agetherin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons, An' 'taint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes in Fer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin; I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see, I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee: I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg Higher than him,--a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg; But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I'm burnin', Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin'; 60 Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,-- 'Twuz Birdofredum _one_, Cass _aught_ an Taylor _twenty-six_, An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground, They said 'twuz no more 'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round; Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I wouldn't ha' cut my foot By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot; It didn't make no deff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust, Ef Bellers wuzn't slim enough to say he wouldn't trust!

Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedges Is thet the Gin'ral hezn't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges; 70 He hezn't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin' But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin'; This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases, Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases: I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral isn't bound to neither;-- I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there. Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry; He's like a holsome hayin' day, thet's warm, but isn't sultry; He's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' of _scratch_ ez 'tware, Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair; 80 I 've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate sort, An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so defferent ez I thought; They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' cus; They're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwells pus; Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the ole man in between 'em, Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em; To nary one on 'em I'd trust a secon'-handed rail No furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail.

Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel' speech o' his'n; 'Taylor,' sez he, 'aint nary ways the one thet I'd a chizzen, 90 Nor he aint fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aint No more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint; But then,' sez he, 'obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote fer Ez though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer; Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box Fer one ez 'tis fer t'other, fer the bull-dog ez the fox?' It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' doors, To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours; I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to vote Fer Taylor arter all,--it's jest to go an' change your coat; 100 Wen he's once greased, you'll swaller him an' never know on 't, scurce, Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them 'ere Gin'ral's spurs. I've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar as a clock, But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a shock; Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they found Wich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round; They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform one by one An' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks khow'd wut wuz done, Till, fur 'z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on, But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on, 110 An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone, Lonesome ez steddies on a mash without no hayricks on.

I spose it's time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan, Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole Van. I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I'm clean disgusted,-- He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted; He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be, He'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby; An', now I come to recollec', it kin' o' makes me sick 'z A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. 120 An' then, another thing;--I guess, though mebby I am wrong, This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror almighty strong; Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough'll rise, Though, 'fore I see it riz an 'baked, I wouldn't trust my eyes; 'Twill take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party's gut, To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut. But even ef they caird the day, there wouldn't be no endurin' To stan' upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;-- An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet 'ere chap should dare To speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear! 130 I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairs A feller with long legs wuz throwed thet wouldn't say his prayers. This brings me to another pint: the leaders o' the party Aint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty; They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's morrils Don't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils. I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d'ye think I see? A feller was aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me, About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge, An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce pledge! 140 He's one o' them that goes about an' sez you hedn't oughter Drink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an Taunton water. There's one rule I've ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, ollers,-- I take the side thet _isn't_ took by them consarned teetotallers.

Ez fer the niggers, I've ben South, an' thet hez changed my min'; A lazier, more ongrateful set you couldn't nowers fin', You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger, Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger; So, ez there's nothin' in the world I'm fonder of 'an gunnin', I closed a bargain finally to take a feller runnin'. 150 I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp, 'Tworn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp; I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', playin' round the door, Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more. At fust I thought o' firin', but _think twice_ is safest ollers; There aint, thinks I, not one on 'em but's wuth his twenty dollars, Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a Christian land,-- How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction-stand! (Not but wut _I_ hate Slavery, in th' abstract, stem to starn,-- I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.) 160 Soon 'z they see me, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein' A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there aint no knowin' He wouldn't ha' took a pop at me; but I hed gut the start, An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he'd broke his heart; He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur, The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus 'an a boy constrictur. 'You can't gum _me_, I tell ye now, an' so you needn't try, I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up,' sez I. 'Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I'll let her strip, You'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I've gut ye on the hip; 170 Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disaster To be benev'lently druv back to a contented master, Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware on, Or you'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care on; Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he said, He'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead; Wite folks aint sot by half ez much; 'member I run away, Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot Bay; Don' know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean old codger went An' offered--wut reward, think? Wal, it worn't no _less_ 'n a cent.' 180

Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an' druv 'em on afore me; The pis'nous brutes, I'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore me; We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hot I thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spot Jest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot; Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe, An' laid it down 'longside o' me, supposin' all wuz safe; I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring, An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would bring; But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' min' 190 (Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then), Pomp he snaked up behin', An' creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink, Jest grabbed my leg, an' then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could wink, An', come to look, they each on' em hed gut behin' a tree, An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see, An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun, Or else thet they'd cair off the leg, an' fairly cut an' run. I vow I didn't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur; However, ez there worn't no help, I finally give in 200 An' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.

Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned, He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, 'You're fairly pinned; Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come, 'T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long frum hum.' At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I wouldn't budge. 'Jest ez you choose,' sez he, quite cool, 'either be shot or trudge.' So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me back Along the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track, An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, an' worked me, tu, like sin, 210 Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in; He made me larn him readin', tu (although the crittur saw How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law), So'st he could read a Bible he'd gut; an' axed ef I could pint The North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint, Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit, Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it. Fin'lly he took me to the door, an' givin' me a kick, Sez, 'Ef you know wut's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick; The winter-time's a comin' on, an' though I gut ye cheap, 220 You're so darned lazy, I don't think you're hardly woth your keep; Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the model I'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you'd better toddle!'

Now is there anythin' on airth'll ever prove to me Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free? D' you think they'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' them Rank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem? Not by a jugfull! sooner 'n thet, I'd go thru fire an' water; Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter; 229 No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin',-- I guess we're in a Christian land,-- Yourn, BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.

[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.]

MELIBOEUS-HIPPONAX

* * * * *

THE

Biglow Papers

SECOND SERIES

[Greek: 'Estin ar o idiotismos eniote tou kosmou parapolu emphanistkoteron.']

LONGIXUS.

'J'aimerois mieulx que mon fils apprinst aux tavernes à parler, qu'aux escholes de la parlerie.'

MONTAIGNE.

"Unser Sprach ist auch ein Sprach und fan so wohl ein Sad nennen als die Lateiner saccus."

FISCHART.

'Vim rebus aliquando ipsa verborum humilitas affert.'

QUINTILIANUS.

'O ma lengo, Plantarèy une estèlo à toun froun encrumit!'

JASMIN.

* * * * *

'Multos enim, quibus loquendi ratio non desit, invenias, quos curiose potius loqui dixeris quam Latine; quomodo et illa Attica anus Theophrastum, hominem alioqui disertissimum, annotata unius affectatione verbi, hospitem dixit, nec alio se id deprehendisse interrogata respondit, quam quod nimium Attice loqueretur.'--QUINTILIANUS.

'Et Anglice sermonicari solebat populo, sed secundum linguam Norfolchie ubi natus et nutritus erat.'--CRONICA JOCELINI.

'La politique est une pierre attachée an cou de la littérature, et qui en moins de six mois la submerge.... Cette politique va offenser mortellement une moitié des lecteurs, et ennuyer l'autre qui l'a trouvée bien autrement spéciale et énergique dans le journal du matin.'--HENRI BEYLE.

[When the book appeared it bore a dedication to E.R. Hoar, and was introduced by an essay of the Yankee form of English speech. This Introduction is so distinctly an essay that it has been thought best to print it as an appendix to this volume, rather than allow it to break in upon the pages of verse. There is, however, one passage in it which may be repeated here, since it bears directly upon the poem which serves as a sort of prelude to the series.]

'The only attempt I had ever made at anything like a pastoral (if that may be called an attempt which was the result almost of pure accident) was in _The Courtin'_. While the introduction to the First Series was going through the press, I received word from the printer that there was a blank page left which must be filled. I sat down at once and improvised another fictitious "notice of the press," in which, because verse would fill up space more cheaply than prose, I inserted an extract from a supposed ballad of Mr. Biglow. I kept no copy of it, and the printer, as directed, cut it off when the gap was filled. Presently I began to receive letters asking for the rest of it, sometimes for the _balance_ of it. I had none, but to answer such demands, I patched a conclusion upon it in a later edition. Those who had only the first continued to importune me. Afterward, being asked to write it out as an autograph for the Baltimore Sanitary Commission Fair, I added other verses, into some of which I infused a little more sentiment in a homely way, and after a fashion completed it by sketching in the characters and making a connected story. Most likely I have spoiled it, but I shall put it at the end of this Introduction, to answer once for all those kindly importunings.'

THE COURTIN'

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in-- There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur', None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,-- All ways to once, her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

'You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?' 'Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'-- 'To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.'

To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be persumin'; Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, 'I'd better call agin:' Says she, 'Think likely, Mister:' Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters 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 was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

THE BIGLOW PAPERS

SECOND SERIES

No. I

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

LETTER FROM THE REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, M.A., ENCLOSING THE EPISTLE AFORESAID

JAALAM, 15th Nov., 1861.

* * * * *

It is not from any idle wish to obtrude my humble person with undue prominence upon the publick view that I resume my pen upon the present occasion. _Juniores ad labores_. But having been a main instrument in rescuing the talent of my young parishioner from being buried in the ground, by giving it such warrant with the world as could be derived from a name already widely known by several printed discourses (all of which I may be permitted without immodesty to state have been deemed worthy of preservation in the Library of Harvard College by my esteemed friend Mr. Sibley), it seemed becoming that I should not only testify to the genuineness of the following production, but call attention to it, the more as Mr. Biglow had so long been silent as to be in danger of absolute oblivion. I insinuate no claim to any share in the authorship (_vix ea nostra voco_) of the works already published by Mr. Biglow, but merely take to myself the credit of having fulfilled toward them the office of taster (_experto crede_), who, having first tried, could afterward bear witness (_credenzen_ it was aptly named by the Germans), an office always arduous, and sometimes even dangerous, as in the case of those devoted persons who venture their lives in the deglutition of patent medicines (_dolus latet in generalibus_, there is deceit in the most of them) and thereafter are wonderfully preserved long enough to append their signatures to testimonials in the diurnal and hebdomadal prints. I say not this as covertly glancing at the authors of certain manuscripts which have been submitted to my literary judgment (though an epick in twenty-four books on the 'Taking of Jericho' might, save for the prudent forethought of Mrs. Wilbur in secreting the same just as I had arrived beneath the walls and was beginning a catalogue of the various horns and their blowers, too ambitiously emulous in longanimity of Homer's list of ships, might, I say, have rendered frustrate any hope I could entertain _vacare Musis_ for the small remainder of my days), but only the further to secure myself against any imputation of unseemly forthputting. I will barely subjoin, in this connexion, that, whereas Job was left to desire, in the soreness of his heart, that his adversary had written a book, as perchance misanthropically wishing to indite a review thereof, yet was not Satan allowed so far to tempt him as to send Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar each with an unprinted work in his wallet to be submitted to his censure. But of this enough. Were I in need of other excuse, I might add that I write by the express desire of Mr. Biglow himself, whose entire winter leisure is occupied, as he assures me, in answering demands for autographs, a labor exacting enough in itself, and egregiously so to him, who, being no ready penman, cannot sign so much as his name without strange contortions of the face (his nose, even, being essential to complete success) and painfully suppressed Saint-Vitus-dance of every muscle in his body. This, with his having been put in the Commission of the Peace by our excellent Governor (_O, si sic omnes!_) immediately on his accession to office, keeps him continually employed. _Haud inexpertus loquor_, having for many years written myself J.P., and being not seldom applied to for specimens of my chirography, a request to which I have sometimes over weakly assented, believing as I do that nothing written of set purpose can properly be called an autograph, but only those unpremeditated sallies and lively runnings which betray the fireside Man instead of the hunted Notoriety doubling on his pursuers. But it is time that I should bethink me of St. Austin's prayer, _libera me a meipso_, if I would arrive at the matter in hand.

Moreover, I had yet another reason for taking up the pen myself. I am informed that 'The Atlantic Monthly' is mainly indebted for its success to the contributions and editorial supervision of Dr. Holmes, whose excellent 'Annals of America' occupy an honored place upon my shelves. The journal itself I have never seen; but if this be so, it might seem that the recommendation of a brother-clergyman (though _par magis quam similis_) should carry a greater weight. I suppose that you have a department for historical lucubrations, and should be glad, if deemed desirable, to forward for publication my 'Collections for the Antiquities of Jaalam,' and my (now happily complete) pedigree of the Wilbur family from its _fons et origo_, the Wild Boar of Ardennes. Withdrawn from the active duties of my profession by the settlement of a colleague-pastor, the Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, formerly of Brutus Four-Corners, I might find time for further contributions to general literature on similar topicks. I have made large advances towards a completer genealogy of Mrs. Wilbur's family, the Pilcoxes, not, if I know myself, from any idle vanity, but with the sole desire of rendering myself useful in my day and generation. _Nulla dies sine lineâ_. I inclose a meteorological register, a list of the births, deaths, and marriages, and a few _memorabilia_ of longevity in Jaalam East Parish for the last half-century. Though spared to the unusual period of more than eighty years, I find no diminution of my faculties or abatement of my natural vigor, except a scarcely sensible decay of memory and a necessity of recurring to younger eyesight or spectacles for the finer print in Cruden. It would gratify me to make some further provision for declining years from the emoluments of my literary labors. I had intended to effect an insurance on my life, but was deterred therefrom by a circular from one of the offices, in which the sudden death of so large a proportion of the insured was set forth as an inducement, that it seemed to me little less than a tempting of Providence. _Neque in summâ inopiâ levis esse senectus potest, ne sapienti quidem_.

Thus far concerning Mr. Biglow; and so much seemed needful (_brevis esse laboro_) by way of preliminary, after a silence of fourteen years. He greatly fears lest he may in this essay have fallen below himself, well knowing that, if exercise be dangerous on a full stomach, no less so is writing on a full reputation. Beset as he has been on all sides, he could not refrain, and would only imprecate patience till he shall again have 'got the hang' (as he calls it) of an accomplishment long disused. The letter of Mr. Sawin was received some time in last June, and others have followed which will in due season be submitted to the publick. How largely his statements are to be depended on, I more than merely dubitate. He was always distinguished for a tendency to exaggeration,--it might almost be qualified by a stronger term. _Fortiter mentire, aliquid hæret_ seemed to be his favorite rule of rhetoric. That he is actually where he says he is the postmark would seem to confirm; that he was received with the publick demonstrations he describes would appear consonant with what we know of the habits of those regions; but further than this I venture not to decide. I have sometimes suspected a vein of humor in him which leads him to speak by contraries; but since, in the unrestrained intercourse of private life, I have never observed in him any striking powers of invention, I am the more willing to put a certain qualified faith in the incidents and the details of life and manners which give to his narratives some portion of the interest and entertainment which characterizes a Century Sermon.

It may be expected of me that I should say something to justify myself with the world for a seeming inconsistency with my well-known principles in allowing my youngest son to raise a company for the war, a fact known to all through the medium of the publick prints. I did reason with the young man, but _expellas naturam furcâ tamen usque recurrit_. Having myself been a chaplain in 1812, I could the less wonder that a man of war had sprung from my loins. It was, indeed, grievous to send my Benjamin, the child of my old age; but after the discomfiture of Manassas, I with my own hands did buckle on his armor, trusting in the great Comforter and Commander for strength according to my need. For truly the memory of a brave son dead in his shroud were a greater staff of my declining years than a living coward (if those may be said to have lived who carry all of themselves into the grave with them), though his days might be long in the land, and he should get much goods. It is not till our earthen vessels are broken that we find and truly possess the treasure that was laid up in them. _Migravi in animam meam_, I have sought refuge in my own soul; nor would I be shamed by the heathen comedian with his _Neqwam illud verbum, bene vult, nisi bene facit_. During our dark days, I read constantly in the inspired book of Job, which I believe to contain more food to maintain the fibre of the soul for right living and high thinking than all pagan literature together, though I would by no means vilipend the study of the classicks. There I read that Job said in his despair, even as the fool saith in his heart there is no God,--'The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure.' (Job xii. 6.) But I sought farther till I found this Scripture also, which I would have those perpend who have striven to turn our Israel aside to the worship of strange gods.--'If I did despise the cause of my manservant or of my maid-servant, when they contended with me, what then shall I do when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him?' (Job xxxi. 13, 14.) On this text I preached a discourse on the last day of Fasting and Humiliation with general acceptance, though there were not wanting one or two Laodiceans who said that I should have waited till the President announced his policy. But let us hope and pray, remembering this of Saint Gregory, _Vult Deus rogari, vult cogi, vult quâdam importunitate vinci_.

We had our first fall of snow on Friday last. Frosts have been unusually backward this fall. A singular circumstance occurred in this town on the 20th October, in the family of Deacon Pelatiah Tinkham. On the previous evening, a few moments before family prayers,

* * * * *

[The editors of the 'Atlantic' find it necessary here to cut short the letter of their valued correspondent, which seemed calculated rather on the rates of longevity in Jaalam than for less favored localities. They have every encouragement to hope that he will write again.]

With esteem and respect, Your obedient servant, Homer Wilbur, A.M.

It's some consid'ble of a spell sence I hain't writ no letters, An' ther' 's gret changes hez took place in all polit'cle metters: Some canderdates air dead an' gone, an' some hez ben defeated, Which 'mounts to pooty much the same; fer it's ben proved repeated A betch o' bread thet hain't riz once ain't goin' to rise agin, An' it's jest money throwed away to put the emptins in: But thet's wut folks wun't never larn; they dunno how to go, Arter you want their room, no more 'n a bullet-headed bean; Ther' 's ollers chaps a-hangin' roun' thet can't see peatime's past, Mis'ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an' tails half-mast: 10 It ain't disgraceful bein' beat, when a holl nation doos it, But Chance is like an amberill,--it don't take twice to lose it.

I spose you're kin' o' cur'ous, now, to know why I hain't writ. Wal, I've ben where a litt'ry taste don't somehow seem to git Th' encouragement a feller'd think, thet's used to public schools, An' where sech things ez paper 'n' ink air clean agin the rules: A kind o' vicyvarsy house, built dreffle strong an' stout, So 's 't honest people can't get in, ner t'other sort git out. An' with the winders so contrived, you'd prob'ly like the view Better alookin' in than out, though it seems sing'lar, tu; 20 But then the landlord sets by ye, can't bear ye out o' sight, And locks ye up ez reg'lar ez an outside door at night.

This world is awfle contrary: the rope may stretch your neck Thet mebby kep' another chap frum washin' off a wreck; An' you may see the taters grow in one poor feller's patch, So small no self-respectin' hen thet vallied time 'ould scratch, So small the rot can't find 'em out, an' then agin, nex' door, Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they're 'most too fat to snore. But groutin' ain't no kin' o' use; an' ef the fust throw fails, Why, up an' try agin, thet's all,--the coppers ain't all tails, 30 Though I _hev_ seen 'em when I thought they hedn't no more head Than 'd sarve a nussin' Brigadier thet gits some Ink to shed.

When I writ last, I'd ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp, Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you'd took an' dreened his swamp; But I ain't o' the meechin' kind, thet sets an' thinks fer weeks The bottom's out o' th' univarse coz their own gillpot leaks. I hed to cross bayous an' criks, (wal, it did beat all natur',) Upon a kin' o' corderoy, fust log, then alligator; Luck'ly, the critters warn't sharp-sot; I guess 'twuz overruled They 'd done their mornin's marketin' an' gut their hunger cooled; 40 Fer missionaries to the Creeks an' runaways are viewed By them an' folks ez sent express to be their reg'lar food; Wutever 'twuz, they laid an' snoozed ez peacefully ez sinners, Meek ez disgestin' deacons be at ordination dinners; Ef any on 'em turned an' snapped, I let 'em kin' o' taste My live-oak leg, an' so, ye see, ther' warn't no gret o' waste; Fer they found out in quicker time than ef they'd ben to college 'Twarn't heartier food than though 'twuz made out o' the tree o' knowledge. But I tell _you_ my other leg hed larned wut pizon-nettle meant, An' var'ous other usefle things, afore I reached a settlement, 50 An' all o' me thet wuzn't sore an' sendin' prickles thru me Wuz jest the leg I parted with in lickin' Montezumy: A useful limb it's ben to me, an' more of a support Than wut the other hez ben,--coz I dror my pension for 't.

Wal, I gut in at last where folks wuz civerlized an' white, Ez I diskivered to my cost afore 'twarn't hardly night; Fer 'z I wuz settin' in the bar a-takin' sunthin' hot, An' feelin' like a man agin, all over in one spot, A feller thet sot oppersite, arter a squint at me, Lep' up an' drawed his peacemaker, an', 'Dash it, Sir,' suz he, 60 'I'm doubledashed ef you ain't him thet stole my yaller chettle, (You're all the stranger thet's around,) so now you've gut to settle; It ain't no use to argerfy ner try to cut up frisky, I know ye ez I know the smell of ole chain-lightnin' whiskey; We're lor-abidin' folks down here, we'll fix ye so's 't a bar Wouldn' tech ye with a ten-foot pole; (Jedge, you jest warm the tar;) You'll think you'd better ha' gut among a tribe o' Mongrel Tartars, 'fore we've done showin' how we raise our Southun prize tar-martyrs; A moultin' fallen cherubim, ef he should see ye, 'd snicker, Thinkin' he warn't a suckemstance. Come, genlemun, le' 's liquor; 70 An', Gin'ral, when you've mixed the drinks an' chalked 'em up, tote roun' An' see ef ther' 's a feather-bed (thet's borryable) in town. We'll try ye fair, ole Grafted-Leg, an' ef the tar wun't stick, Th' ain't not a juror here but wut'll 'quit ye double-quick,' To cut it short, I wun't say sweet, they gi' me a good dip, (They ain't _perfessin'_ Bahptists here,) then give the bed a rip,-- The jury'd sot, an' quicker 'n a flash they hetched me out, a livin' Extemp'ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Fejee Thanksgivin'. Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it's nat'ral to suppose, When poppylar enthusiasm hed funnished me sech clo'es; 80 (Ner 'tain't without edvantiges, this kin' o' suit, ye see, It's water-proof, an' water's wut I like kep' out o' me;) But nut content with thet, they took a kerridge from the fence An' rid me roun' to see the place, entirely free 'f expense, With forty-'leven new kines o' sarse without no charge acquainted me, Gi' me three cheers, an' vowed thet I wuz all their fahncy painted me; They treated me to all their eggs; (they keep 'em I should think, Fer sech ovations, pooty long, for they wuz mos' distinc'); They starred me thick 'z the Milky-Way with indiscrim'nit cherity, Fer wut we call reception eggs air sunthin' of a rerity; 90 Green ones is plentifle anough, skurce wuth a nigger's getherin', But your dead-ripe ones ranges high fer treatin' Nothun bretherin; A spotteder, ring-streakeder child the' warn't in Uncle Sam's Holl farm,--a cross of striped pig an' one o' Jacob's lambs; 'Twuz Dannil in the lions' den, new an' enlarged edition, An' everythin' fust-rate o' 'ts kind; the' warn't no impersition. People's impulsiver down here than wut our folks to home be, An' kin' o' go it 'ith a resh in raisin' Hail Columby: Thet's _so:_ an' they swarmed out like bees, for your real Southun men's Time isn't o' much more account than an ole settin' hen's; 100 (They jest work semioccashnally, or else don't work at all, An' so their time an' 'tention both air at saci'ty's call.) Talk about hospatality! wut Nothun town d' ye know Would take a totle stranger up an' treat him gratis so? You'd better b'lleve ther' 's nothin' like this spendin' days an' nights Along 'ith a dependent race fer civerlizin' whites.

But this wuz all prelim'nary; it's so Gran' Jurors here Fin' a true bill, a hendier way than ourn, an' nut so dear; So arter this they sentenced me, to make all tight 'n' snug, Afore a reg'lar court o' law, to ten years in the Jug. 110 I didn't make no gret defence: you don't feel much like speakin', When, ef you let your clamshells gape, a quart o' tar will leak in: I _hev_ hearn tell o' winged words, but pint o' fact it tethers The spoutin' gift to hev your words _tu_ thick sot on with feathers, An' Choate ner Webster wouldn't ha' made an A 1 kin' o' speech Astride a Southun chestnut horse sharper 'n a baby's screech. Two year ago they ketched the thief, 'n' seein' I wuz innercent, They jest uncorked an' le' me run, an' in my stid the sinner sent To see how _he_ liked pork 'n' pone flavored with wa'nut saplin', An' nary social priv'ledge but a one-hoss, starn-wheel chaplin. 120 When I come out, the folks behaved mos' gen'manly an' harnsome; They 'lowed it wouldn't be more 'n right, ef I should cuss 'n' darn some: The Cunnle he apolergized; suz he, 'I'll du wut's right, I'll give ye settisfection now by shootin' ye at sight, An' give the nigger (when he's caught), to pay him fer his trickin' In gittin' the wrong man took up, a most H fired lickin',-- It's jest the way with all on 'em, the inconsistent critters, They're 'most enough to make a man blaspheme his mornin' bitters; I'll be your frien' thru thick an' thin an' in all kines o' weathers, An' all you'll hev to pay fer's jest the waste o' tar an' feathers: 130 A lady owned the bed, ye see, a widder, tu, Miss Shennon; It wuz her mite; we would ha' took another, ef ther' 'd ben one: We don't make _no_ charge for the ride an' all the other fixins. Le' 's liquor; Gin'ral, you can chalk our friend for all the mixins.' A meetin' then wuz called, where they 'RESOLVED, Thet we respec' B.S. Esquire for quallerties o' heart an' intellec' Peculiar to Columby's sile, an' not to no one else's, Thet makes European tyrans scringe in all their gilded pel'ces, An' doos gret honor to our race an' Southun institootions:' (I give ye jest the substance o' the leadin' resolootions:) 140 'RESOLVED, Thet we revere In him a soger 'thout a flor, A martyr to the princerples o' libbaty an' lor: RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot 'longside o' us, For vartoo, larnin', chivverlry, ain't noways wuth a cuss.' They got up a subscription, tu, but no gret come o' _thet;_ I 'xpect in cairin' of it roun' they took a leaky hat; Though Southun genelmun ain't slow at puttin' down their name, (When they can write,) fer in the eend it comes to jes' the same, Because, ye see, 't 's the fashion here to sign an' not to think A critter'd be so sordid ez to ax 'em for the chink: 150 I didn't call but jest on one, an' _he_ drawed tooth-pick on me, An' reckoned he warn't goin' to stan' no sech dog-gauned econ'my: So nothin' more wuz realized, 'ceptin' the good-will shown, Than ef 't had ben from fust to last a regular Cotton Loan. It's a good way, though, come to think, coz ye enjy the sense O' lendin' lib'rally to the Lord, an' nary red o' 'xpense: Sence then I've gut my name up for a gin'rous-hearted man By jes' subscribin' right an' left on this high-minded plan; I've gin away my thousans so to every Southun sort O' missions, colleges, an' sech, ner ain't no poorer for 't. 160

I warn't so bad off, arter all; I needn't hardly mention That Guv'ment owed me quite a pile for my arrears o' pension,-- I mean the poor, weak thing we _hed:_ we run a new one now, Thet strings a feller with a claim up ta the nighes' bough, An' _prectises_ the rights o' man, purtects down-trodden debtors, Ner wun't hev creditors about ascrougin' o' their betters: Jeff's gut the last idees ther' is, poscrip', fourteenth edition, He knows it takes some enterprise to run an oppersition; Ourn's the fust thru-by-daylight train, with all ou'doors for deepot; Yourn goes so slow you'd think 'twuz drawed by a las' cent'ry teapot;-- 170 Wal, I gut all on 't paid in gold afore our State seceded, An' done wal, for Confed'rit bonds warn't jest the cheese I needed: Nut but wut they're ez _good_ ez gold, but then it's hard a-breakin' on 'em, An' ignorant folks is ollers sot an' wun't git used to takin' on 'em; They're wuth ez much ez wut they wuz afore ole Mem'nger signed 'em, An' go off middlin' wal for drinks, when ther' 's a knife behind 'em; We _du_ miss silver, jes' fer thet an' ridin' in a bus, Now we've shook off the desputs thet wuz suckin' at our pus; An' it's _because_ the South's so rich; 'twuz nat'ral to expec' Supplies o' change wuz jes' the things we shouldn't recollec'; 180 We'd ough' to ha' thought aforehan', though, o' thet good rule o' Crockett's, For 't 's tiresome cairin' cotton-bales an' niggers in your pockets, Ner 'tain't quite hendy to pass off one o' your six-foot Guineas An' git your halves an' quarters back in gals an' pickaninnies: Wal, 'tain't quite all a feller'd ax, but then ther's this to say, It's on'y jest among ourselves thet we expec' to pay; Our system would ha' caird us thru in any Bible cent'ry, 'fore this onscripterl plan come up o' books by double entry; We go the patriarkle here out o' all sight an' hearin', For Jacob warn't a suckemstance to Jeff at financierin'; 190 _He_ never'd thought o' borryin' from Esau like all nater An' then cornfiscatin' all debts to sech a small pertater; There's p'litickle econ'my, now, combined 'ith morril beauty Thet saycrifices privit eends (your in'my's, tu) to dooty! Wy, Jeff 'd ha' gin him five an' won his eye-teeth 'fore he knowed it, An', stid o' wastin' pottage, he'd ha' eat it up an' owed it. But I wuz goin' on to say how I come here to dwall;-- 'Nough said, thet, arter lookin' roun', I liked the place so wal, Where niggers doos a double good, with us atop to stiddy 'em, By bein' proofs o' prophecy an' suckleatin' medium, 200 Where a man's sunthin' coz he's white, an' whiskey's cheap ez fleas, An' the financial pollercy jes' sooted my idees, Thet I friz down right where I wuz, merried the Widder Shennon, (Her thirds wuz part in cotton-land, part in the curse o' Canaan,) An' here I be ez lively ez a chipmunk on a wall, With nothin' to feel riled about much later 'n Eddam's fall.

Ez fur ez human foresight goes, we made an even trade: She gut an overseer, an' I a fem'ly ready-made, The youngest on 'em 's 'mos' growed up, rugged an' spry ez weazles, So 's 't ther' 's no resk o' doctors' bills fer hoopin'-cough an' measles. Our farm's at Turkey-Buzzard Roost, Little Big Boosy River, 211 Wal located in all respex,--fer 'tain't the chills 'n' fever Thet makes my writin' seem to squirm; a Southuner'd allow I'd Some call to shake, for I've jest hed to meller a new cowhide. Miss S. is all 'f a lady; th' ain't no better on Big Boosy Ner one with more accomplishmunts 'twist here an' Tuscaloosy; She's an F.F., the tallest kind, an' prouder 'n the Gran' Turk, An' never hed a relative thet done a stroke o' work; Hern ain't a scrimpin' fem'ly sech ez _you_ git up Down East, Th' ain't a growed member on 't but owes his thousuns et the least: She _is_ some old; but then agin ther' 's drawbacks in my sheer: 221 Wut's left o' me ain't more 'n enough to make a Brigadier: Wust is, thet she hez tantrums; she's like Seth Moody's gun (Him thet wuz nicknamed from his limp Ole Dot an' Kerry One); He'd left her loaded up a spell, an' hed to git her clear, So he onhitched,--Jeerusalem! the middle o' last year Wuz right nex' door compared to where she kicked the critter tu (Though _jest_ where he brought up wuz wut no human never knew); His brother Asaph picked her up an' tied her to a tree, An' then she kicked an hour 'n' a half afore she'd let it be: 230 Wal, Miss S. _doos_ hev cuttins-up an' pourins-out o' vials, But then she hez her widder's thirds, an' all on us hez trials. My objec', though, in writin' now warn't to allude to sech, But to another suckemstance more dellykit to tech,-- I want thet you should grad'lly break my merriage to Jerushy, An' there's a heap of argymunts thet's emple to indooce ye: Fust place, State's Prison,--wal, it's true it warn't fer crime, o' course, But then it's jest the same fer her in gittin' a disvorce; Nex' place, my State's secedin' out hez leg'lly lef' me free To merry any one I please, pervidin' it's a she; 240 Fin'lly, I never wun't come back, she needn't hev no fear on 't, But then it's wal to fix things right fer fear Miss S. should hear on 't; Lastly, I've gut religion South, an' Rushy she's a pagan Thet sets by th' graven imiges o' the gret Nothun Dagon; (Now I hain't seen one in six munts, for, sence our Treashry Loan, Though yaller boys is thick anough, eagles hez kind o' flown;) An' ef J wants a stronger pint than them thet I hev stated, Wy, she's an aliun in'my now, an' I've been cornfiscated,-- For sence we've entered on th' estate o' the late nayshnul eagle, She hain't no kin' o' right but jes' wut I allow ez legle: 250 Wut _doos_ Secedin' mean, ef 'tain't thet nat'rul rights hez riz, 'n' Thet wut is mine's my own, but wut's another man's ain't his'n?

Besides, I couldn't do no else; Miss S. suz she to me, 'You've sheered my bed,' [thet's when I paid my interduction fee To Southun rites,] 'an' kep' your sheer,' [wal, I allow it sticked So 's 't I wuz most six weeks in jail afore I gut me picked,] 'Ner never paid no demmiges; but thet wun't do no harm, Pervidin' thet you'll ondertake to oversee the farm; (My eldes' boy he's so took up, wut with the Ringtail Rangers An' settin' in the Jestice-Court for welcomin' o' strangers;') 260 [He sot on _me;_] 'an' so, ef you'll jest ondertake the care Upon a mod'rit sellery, we'll up an' call it square; But ef you _can't_ conclude,' suz she, an' give a kin' o' grin, 'Wy, the Gran' Jurymen, I 'xpect, 'll hev to set agin.' That's the way metters stood at fust; now wut wuz I to du, But jes' to make the best on 't an' off coat an' buckle tu? Ther' ain't a livin' man thet finds an income necessarier Than me,--bimeby I'll tell ye how I fin'lly come to merry her. She hed another motive, tu: I mention of it here T' encourage lads thet's growin' up to study 'n' persevere, 270 An' show 'em how much better 't pays to mind their winter-schoolin' Than to go off on benders 'n' sech, an' waste their time in foolin'; Ef 'twarn't for studyin' evenins, why, I never 'd ha' ben here A orn'ment o' saciety, in my approprut spear: She wanted somebody, ye see, o' taste an' cultivation, To talk along o' preachers when they stopt to the plantation; For folks in Dixie th't read an' rite, onless it is by jarks, Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th' origenle patriarchs; To fit a feller f' wut they call the soshle higherarchy, All thet you've gut to know is jes' beyond an evrage darky; 280 Schoolin' 's wut they can't seem to stan', they 're tu consarned high-pressure, An' knowin' t' much might spile a boy for hem' a Secesher. We hain't no settled preachin' here, ner ministeril taxes; The min'ster's only settlement's the carpet-bag he packs his Razor an' soap-brush intu, with his hym-book an' his Bible,-- But they _du_ preach, I swan to man, it's puf'kly indescrib'le! They go it like an Ericsson's ten-hoss-power coleric ingine, An' make Ole Split-Foot winch an' squirm, for all he's used to singein'; Hawkins's whetstone ain't a pinch o' primin' to the innards To hearin' on 'em put free grace t' a lot o' tough old sinhards! 290 But I must eend this letter now: 'fore long I'll send a fresh un; I've lots o' things to write about, perticklerly Seceshun: I'm called off now to mission-work, to let a leetle law in To Cynthy's hide: an' so, till death, Yourn, BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.

No. II

MASON AND SLIDELL: A YANKEE IDYLL

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 6th Jan., 1862.

Gentlemen,--I was highly gratified by the insertion of a portion of my letter in the last number of your valuable and entertaining Miscellany, though in a type which rendered its substance inaccessible even to the beautiful new spectacles presented to me by a Committee of the Parish on New Year's Day. I trust that I was able to bear your very considerable abridgment of my lucubrations with a spirit becoming a Christian. My third granddaughter, Rebekah, aged fourteen years, and whom I have trained to read slowly and with proper emphasis (a practice too much neglected in our modern systems of education), read aloud to me the excellent essay upon 'Old Age,' the author of which I cannot help suspecting to be a young man who has never yet known what it was to have snow (_canities morosa_) upon his own roof. _Dissolve frigus, large super foco ligna reponens_, is a rule for the young, whose woodpile is yet abundant for such cheerful lenitives. A good life behind him is the best thing to keep an old man's shoulders from shivering at every breath of sorrow or ill-fortune. But methinks it were easier for an old man to feel the disadvantages of youth than the advantages of age. Of these latter I reckon one of the chiefest to be this: that we attach a less inordinate value to our own productions, and, distrusting daily more and more our own wisdom (with the conceit whereof at twenty we wrap ourselves away from knowledge as with a garment), do reconcile ourselves with the wisdom of God. I could have wished, indeed, that room might have been made for the residue of the anecdote relating to Deacon Tinkham, which would not only have gratified a natural curiosity on the part of the publick (as I have reason to know from several letters of inquiry already received), but would also, as I think, have largely increased the circulation of your Magazine in this town. _Nihil humani alienum_, there is a curiosity about the affairs of our neighbors which is not only pardonable, but even commendable. But I shall abide a more fitting season.

As touching the following literary effort of Esquire Biglow, much might be profitably said on the topick of Idyllick and Pastoral Poetry, and concerning the proper distinctions to be made between them, from Theocritus, the inventor of the former, to Collins, the latest authour I know of who has emulated the classicks in the latter style. But in the time of a Civil War worthy a Milton to defend and a Lucan to sing, it may be reasonably doubted whether the publick, never too studious of serious instruction, might not consider other objects more deserving of present attention. Concerning the title of Idyll, which Mr. Biglow has adopted at my suggestion, it may not be improper to animadvert, that the name properly signifies a poem somewhat rustick in phrase (for, though the learned are not agreed as to the particular dialect employed by Theocritus, they are universanimous both as to its rusticity and its capacity of rising now and then to the level of more elevated sentiments and expressions), while it is also descriptive of real scenery and manners. Yet it must be admitted that the production now in question (which here and there bears perhaps too plainly the marks of my correcting hand) does partake of the nature of a Pastoral, inasmuch as the interlocutors therein are purely imaginary beings, and the whole is little better than [Greek: kapnou skias onar]. The plot was, as I believe, suggested by the 'Twa Brigs' of Robert Burns, a Scottish poet of the last century, as that found its prototype in the 'Mutual Complaint of Plainstanes and Causey' by Fergusson, though, the metre of this latter be different by a foot in each verse. Perhaps the Two Dogs of Cervantes gave the first hint. I reminded my talented young parishioner and friend that Concord Bridge had long since yielded to the edacious tooth of Time. But he answered me to this effect: that there was no greater mistake of an authour than to suppose the reader had no fancy of his own; that, if once that faculty was to be called into activity, it were _better_ to be in for the whole sheep than the shoulder; and that he knew Concord like a book,--an expression questionable in propriety, since there are few things with which he is not more familiar than with the printed page. In proof of what he affirmed, he showed me some verses which with others he had stricken out as too much delaying the action, but which I communicate in this place because they rightly define 'punkin-seed' (which Mr. Bartlett would have a kind of perch,--a creature to which I have found a rod or pole not to be so easily equivalent in our inland waters as in the books of arithmetic) and because it conveys an eulogium on the worthy son of an excellent father, with whose acquaintance (_eheu, fugaces anni!_) I was formerly honoured.

'But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they show, So much ez Em'son, Hawthorne, an' Thoreau. I know the village, though; was sent there once A-schoolin', 'cause to home I played the dunce; An' I 've ben sence a visitin' the Jedge, Whose garding whispers with the river's edge, Where I 've sot mornin's lazy as the bream, Whose on'y business is to head upstream, (We call 'em punkin-seed,) or else in chat Along 'th the Jedge, who covers with his hat More wit an' gumption an' shrewd Yankee sense Than there is mosses on an ole stone fence.'

Concerning the subject-matter of the verses. I have not the leisure at present to write so fully as I could wish, my time being occupied with the preparation of a discourse for the forthcoming bicentenary celebration of the first settlement of Jaalam East Parish. It may gratify the publick interest to mention the circumstance, that my investigations to this end have enabled me to verify the fact (of much historick importance, and hitherto hotly debated) that Shearjashub Tarbox was the first child of white parentage born in this town, being named in his father's will under date August 7th, or 9th, 1662. It is well known that those who advocate the claims of Mehetable Goings are unable to find any trace of her existence prior to October of that year. As respects the settlement of the Mason and Slidell question, Mr. Biglow has not incorrectly stated the popular sentiment, so far as I can judge by its expression in this locality. For myself, I feel more sorrow than resentment: for I am old enough to have heard those talk of England who still, even after the unhappy estrangement, could not unschool their lips from calling her the Mother-Country. But England has insisted on ripping up old wounds, and has undone the healing work of fifty years; for nations do not reason, they only feel, and the _spretæ injuria formæ_ rankles in their minds as bitterly as in that of a woman. And because this is so, I feel the more satisfaction that our Government has acted (as all Governments should, standing as they do between the people and their passions) as if it had arrived at years of discretion. There are three short and simple words, the hardest of all to pronounce in any language (and I suspect they were no easier before the confusion of tongues), but which no man or nation that cannot utter can claim to have arrived at manhood. Those words are, _I was wrong;_ and I am proud that, while England played the boy, our rulers had strength enough from the People below and wisdom enough from God above to quit themselves like men.

The sore points on both sides have been skilfully exasperated by interested and unscrupulous persons, who saw in a war between the two countries the only hope of profitable return for their investment in Confederate stock, whether political or financial. The always supercilious, often insulting, and sometimes even brutal tone of British journals and publick men has certainly not tended to soothe whatever resentment might exist in America.

'Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, But why did you kick me down stairs?'

We have no reason to complain that England, as a necessary consequence of her clubs, has become a great society for the minding of other people's business, and we can smile good-naturedly when she lectures other nations on the sins of arrogance and conceit: but we may justly consider it a breach of the political _convenances_ which are expected to regulate the intercourse of one well-bred government with another, when men holding places in the ministry allow themselves to dictate our domestic policy, to instruct us in our duty, and to stigmatize as unholy a war for the rescue of whatever a high-minded people should hold most vital and most sacred. Was it in good taste, that I may use the mildest term, for Earl Russell to expound our own Constitution to President Lincoln, or to make a new and fallacious application of an old phrase for our benefit, and tell us that the Rebels were fighting for independence and we for empire? As if all wars for independence were by nature just and deserving of sympathy, and all wars for empire ignoble and worthy only of reprobation, or as if these easy phrases in any way characterized this terrible struggle,--terrible not so truly in any superficial sense, as from the essential and deadly enmity of the principles that underlie it. His Lordship's bit of borrowed rhetoric would justify Smith O'Brien, Nana Sahib, and the Maori chieftains, while it would condemn nearly every war in which England has ever been engaged. Was it so very presumptuous in us to think that it would be decorous in English statesmen if they spared time enough to acquire some kind of knowledge, though of the most elementary kind, in regard to this country and the questions at issue here, before they pronounced so off-hand a judgment? Or is political information expected to come Dogberry-fashion in England, like reading and writing, by nature?

And now all respectable England is wondering at our irritability, and sees a quite satisfactory explanation of it in our national vanity. _Suave mari magno_, it is pleasant, sitting in the easy-chairs of Downing Street, to sprinkle pepper on the raw wounds of a kindred people struggling for life, and philosophical to find in self-conceit the cause of our instinctive resentment. Surely we were of all nations the least liable to any temptation of vanity at a time when the gravest anxiety and the keenest sorrow were never absent from our hearts. Nor is conceit the exclusive attribute of any one nation. The earliest of English travellers, Sir John Mandeville, took a less provincial view of the matter when he said, 'For fro what partie of the erthe that men duellen, other aboven or beneathen, it semethe alweys to hem that duellen that thei gon more righte than any other folke.' The English have always had their fair share of this amiable quality. We may say of them still, as the authour of the 'Lettres Cabalistiques' said of them more than a century ago, _'Ces derniers disent naturellement qu'il n'y a qu'eux qui soient estimables_'. And, as he also says,_'J'aimerois presque autant tomber entre les mains d'un Inquisiteur que d'un Anglois qui me fait sentir sans cesse combien il s'estime plus que moi, et qui ne daigne me parler que pour injurier ma Nation et pour m'ennuyer du récit des grandes qualités de la sienne_.' Of _this_ Bull we may safely say with Horace, _habet fænum in cornu._ What we felt to be especially insulting was the quiet assumption that the descendants of men who left the Old World for the sake of principle, and who had made the wilderness into a New World patterned after an Idea, could not possibly be susceptible of a generous or lofty sentiment, could have no feeling of nationality deeper than that of a tradesman for his shop. One would have thought, in listening to England, that we were presumptuous in fancying that we were a nation at all, or had any other principle of union than that of booths at a fair, where there is no higher notion of government than the constable, or better image of God than that stamped upon the current coin.

It is time for Englishmen to consider whether there was nothing in the spirit of their press and of their leading public men calculated to rouse a just indignation, and to cause a permanent estrangement on the part of any nation capable of self-respect, and sensitively jealous, as ours then was, of foreign interference. Was there nothing in the indecent haste with which belligerent rights were conceded to the Rebels, nothing in the abrupt tone assumed in the Trent case, nothing in the fitting out of Confederate privateers, that might stir the blood of a people already overcharged with doubt, suspicion, and terrible responsibility? The laity in any country do not stop to consider points of law, but they have an instinctive perception of the _animus_ that actuates the policy of a foreign nation; and in our own case they remembered that the British authorities in Canada did not wait till diplomacy could send home to England for her slow official tinder-box to fire the 'Caroline.' Add to this, what every sensible American knew, that the moral support of England was equal to an army of two hundred thousand men to the Rebels, while it insured us another year or two of exhausting war. It was not so much the spite of her words (though the time might have been more tastefully chosen) as the actual power for evil in them that we felt as a deadly wrong. Perhaps the most immediate and efficient cause of mere irritation was, the sudden and unaccountable change of manner on the other side of the water. Only six months before, the Prince of Wales had come over to call us cousins; and everywhere it was nothing but 'our American brethren,' that great offshoot of British institutions in the New World, so almost identical with them in laws, language, and literature,--this last of the alliterative compliments being so bitterly true, that perhaps it will not be retracted even now. To this outburst of long-repressed affection we responded with genuine warmth, if with something of the awkwardness of a poor relation bewildered with the sudden tightening of the ties of consanguinity when it is rumored that he has come into a large estate. Then came the Rebellion, and, _presto!_ a flaw in our titles was discovered, the plate we were promised at the family table is flung at our head, and we were again the scum of creation, intolerably vulgar, at once cowardly and overbearing,--no relations of theirs, after all, but a dreggy hybrid of the basest bloods of Europe. Panurge was not quicker to call Friar John his _former_ friend. I cannot help thinking of Walter Mapes's jingling paraphrase of Petronius,--

'Dummodo sim splendidis vestibus ornatus, Et multa familia sim circumvallatus, Prudens sum et sapiens et morigeratus, Et tuus nepos sum et tu meus cognatus,'--

which I may freely render thus:--

So long as I was prosperous, I'd dinners by the dozen, Was well-bred, witty, virtuous, and everybody's cousin; If luck should turn, as well she may, her fancy is so flexile, Will virtue, cousinship, and all return with her from exile?

There was nothing in all this to exasperate a philosopher, much to make him smile rather; but the earth's surface is not chiefly inhabited by philosophers, and I revive the recollection of it now in perfect good-humour, merely by way of suggesting to our _ci-devant_ British cousins, that it would have been easier for them to hold their tongues than for us to keep our tempers under the circumstances.

The English Cabinet made a blunder, unquestionably, in taking it so hastily for granted that the United States had fallen forever from their position as a first-rate power, and it was natural that they should vent a little of their vexation on the people whose inexplicable obstinacy in maintaining freedom and order, and in resisting degradation, was likely to convict them of their mistake. But if bearing a grudge be the sure mark of a small mind in the individual, can it be a proof of high spirit in a nation? If the result of the present estrangement between the two countries shall be to make us more independent of British twaddle (_Indomito nec dira ferens stipendia Tauro_), so much the better; but if it is to make us insensible to the value of British opinion in matters where it gives us the judgment of an impartial and cultivated outsider, if we are to shut ourselves out from the advantages of English culture, the loss will be ours, and not theirs. Because the door of the old homestead has been once slammed in our faces, shall we in a huff reject all future advances of conciliation, and cut ourselves foolishly off from any share in the humanizing influences of the place, with its ineffable riches of association, its heirlooms of immemorial culture, its historic monuments, ours no less than theirs, its noble gallery of ancestral portraits? We have only to succeed, and England will not only respect, but, for the first time, begin to understand us. And let us not, in our justifiable indignation at wanton insult, forget that England is not the England only of snobs who dread the democracy they do not comprehend, but the England of history, of heroes, statesmen, and poets, whose names are dear, and their influence as salutary to us as to her.

Let us strengthen the hands of those in authority over us, and curb our own tongues, remembering that General Wait commonly proves in the end more than a match for General Headlong, and that the Good Book ascribes safety to a multitude, indeed, but not to a mob, of counsellours. Let us remember and perpend the words of Paulus Emilius to the people of Rome; that, 'if they judged they could manage the war to more advantage by any other, he would willingly yield up his charge; but if they confided in him, _they were not to make themselves his colleagues in his office, or raise reports, or criticise his actions, but, without talking, supply him with means and assistance necessary to the carrying on of the war; for, if they proposed to command their own commander, they would render this expedition more ridiculous than the former.' (Vide Plutarchum in Vitâ P.E._) Let us also not forget what the same excellent authour says concerning Perseus's fear of spending money, and not permit the covetousness of Brother Jonathan to be the good fortune of Jefferson Davis. For my own part, till I am ready to admit the Commander-in-Chief to my pulpit, I shall abstain from planning his battles. If courage be the sword, yet is patience the armour of a nation; and in our desire for peace, let us never be willing to surrender the Constitution bequeathed us by fathers at least as wise as ourselves (even with Jefferson Davis to help us), and, with those degenerate Romans, _tuta et præsentia quam vetera et periculosa malle_.

And not only should we bridle our own tongues, but the pens of others, which are swift to convey useful intelligence to the enemy. This is no new inconvenience; for, under date, 3d June, 1745, General Pepperell wrote thus to Governor Shirley from Louisbourg: 'What your Excellency observes of the _army's being made acquainted with any plans proposed, until ready to be put in execution_, has always been disagreeable to me, and I have given many cautions relating to it. But when your Excellency considers that _our Council of War consists of more than twenty members_, I am persuaded you will think it _impossible for me to hinder it_, if any of them will persist in communicating to inferior officers and soldiers what ought to be kept secret. I am informed that the Boston newspapers are filled with paragraphs from private letters relating to the expedition. Will your Excellency permit me to say I think it may be of ill consequence? Would it not be convenient, if your Excellency should forbid the Printers' inserting such news?' Verily, if _tempora mutantur_, we may question the _et nos mutamur in illis;_ and if tongues be leaky, it will need all hands at the pumps to save the Ship of State. Our history dotes and repeats itself. If Sassycus (rather than Alcibiades) find a parallel in Beauregard, so Weakwash, as he is called by the brave Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, need not seek far among our own Sachems for his anti-type.

With respect, Your ob't humble serv't Homer Wilbur, A.M.

I love to start out arter night's begun, An' all the chores about the farm are done, The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast, Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past. An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,-- I love, I say, to start upon a tramp, To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs, An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs Thet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch Of folks thet foller in one rut too much: 10 Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt; But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out. Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know, There's certin spots where I like best to go: The Concord road, for instance (I, for one, Most gin'lly ollers call it _John Bull's Run_). The field o' Lexin'ton where England tried The fastest colours thet she ever dyed, An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came, Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame, 20 Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll.

They're 'most too fur away, take too much time To visit of'en, ef it ain't in rhyme; But the' 's a walk thet's hendier, a sight, An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,-- I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill. I love to l'iter there while night grows still, An' in the twinklin' villages about, Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out, 30 An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms, Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms, Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way) Stands to 't thet moon-rise is the break o' day; (So Mister Seward sticks a three-months' pin Where the war'd oughto eend, then tries agin: My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 'tis to crow: _Don't never prophesy--onless ye know_.) I love to muse there till it kind o' seems Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams; 40 The northwest wind thet twitches at my baird Blows out o' sturdier days not easy scared, An' the same moon thet this December shines Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines; The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs, Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns; Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light, Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh, Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply. 50

Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence, Mixin' the puffict with the present tense, I heerd two voices som'ers in the air, Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where: Voices I call 'em: 'twas a kind o' sough Like pine-trees thet the wind's ageth'rin' through; An', fact, I thought it _was_ the wind a spell, Then some misdoubted, couldn't fairly tell, Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel, I knowed, an' didn't,--fin'lly seemed to feel 60 'Twas Concord Bridge a talkin' off to kill With the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker's Hill; Whether 'twas so, or ef I on'y dreamed, I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed.

THE BRIDGE

Wal, neighbor, tell us wut's turned up thet's new? You're younger 'n I be,--nigher Boston, tu: An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin', Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'. There's _sunthin'_ goin' on, I know: las' night The British sogers killed in our gret fight 70 (Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke) Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke: Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With his own crossbones on a holler tree, Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five. Wut _is_ the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'. Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.

THE MONIMENT

I don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,--

THE BRIDGE

At wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had. 80

THE MONIMENT

You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent, An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?

THE BRIDGE

Wut! they ha'n't hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone! Thet's the sure way to make a goose a swan!

THE MONIMENT

No: England she _would_ hev 'em, _Fee, Faw, Fum!_ (Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,) So they've returned 'em--

THE BRIDGE

_Hev_ they? Wal, by heaven, Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven! _By George_, I meant to say, though I declare It's 'most enough to make a deacon swear. 90

THE MONIMENT

Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gains By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains. Come, neighbor, you don't understan'--

THE BRIDGE

How? Hey? Not understan'? Why, wut's to hender, pray? Must I go huntin' round to find a chap To tell me when my face hez hed a slap?

THE MONIMENT

See here: the British they found out a flaw In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law: (They _make_ all laws, you know, an' so, o' course, It's nateral they should understan' their force:) 100 He'd oughto ha' took the vessel into port, An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court; She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu, An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view, Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails, Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' fails; You _may_ take out despatches, but you mus'n't Take nary man--

THE BRIDGE

You mean to say, you dus'n't! Changed pint o'view! No, no,--it's overboard With law an' gospel, when their ox is gored! 110 I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land, Hez ollers ben, '_I've gut the heaviest hand_.' Take nary man? Fine preachin' from _her_ lips! Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships, An' would agin, an' swear she had a right to, Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to. Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind, England _doos_ make the most onpleasant kind: It's you're the sinner ollers, she's the saint; Wut's good's all English, all thet isn't ain't; 120 Wut profits her is ollers right an' just, An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must; She's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks There ain't no light in Natur when she winks; Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus? Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus? She ain't like other mortals, thet's a fact: _She_ never stopped the habus-corpus act, Nor specie payments, nor she never yet Cut down the int'rest on her public debt; 130 _She_ don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed, An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede; She's all thet's honest, honnable, an' fair, An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.

THE MONIMENT

Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right; Ef we're mistaken, own up, an' don't fight: For gracious' sake, ha'n't we enough to du 'thout gettin' up a fight with England, tu? She thinks we're rabble-rid--

THE BRIDGE

An' so we can't Distinguish 'twixt _You oughtn't_ an' _You shan't!_ 140 She jedges by herself; she's no idear How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer: The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain's a steeple,-- Her People's turned to Mob, our Mob's turned People.

THE MONIMENT

She's riled jes' now--

THE BRIDGE

Plain proof her cause ain't strong,-- The one thet fust gits mad's 'most ollers wrong. Why, sence she helped in lickin' Nap the Fust, An' pricked a bubble jest agoin' to bust, With Rooshy, Prooshy, Austry, all assistin', Th' ain't nut a face but wut she's shook her fist in, 150 Ez though she done it all, an' ten times more, An' nothin' never hed gut done afore, Nor never could agin, 'thout she wuz spliced On to one eend an' gin th' old airth a hoist. She _is_ some punkins, thet I wun't deny, (For ain't she some related to you 'n' I?) But there's a few small intrists here below Outside the counter o' John Bull an' Co, An' though they can't conceit how 't should be so, I guess the Lord druv down Creation's spiles 160 'thout no _gret_ helpin' from the British Isles, An' could contrive to keep things pooty stiff Ef they withdrawed from business in a miff; I ha'n't no patience with sech swellin' fellers ez Think God can't forge 'thout them to blow the bellerses.

THE MONIMENT

You're ollers quick to set your back aridge, Though 't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober bridge: Don't you get het: they thought the thing was planned; They'll cool off when they come to understand.

THE BRIDGE

Ef _thet_'s wut you expect, you'll _hev_ to wait; 170 Folks never understand the folks they hate: She'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good, 'fore the month's out, to git misunderstood. England cool off! She'll do it, ef she sees She's run her head into a swarm o' bees. I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose: I hev thought England was the best thet goes; Remember (no, you can't), when _I_ was reared, _God save the King_ was all the tune you heerd: But it's enough to turn Wachuset roun' 180 This stumpin' fellers when you think they're down.

THE MONIMENT

But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law, The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricks We'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix: That 'ere's most frequently the kin' o' talk Of critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk; Your 'You'll see _nex'_ time!' an' 'Look out bumby!' 'Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 'Twun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay 190 To fear thet meaner bully, old 'They'll say'? Suppose they _du_ say; words are dreffle bores, But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours. Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit Where it'll help to widen out our split: She's found her wedge, an' 'tain't for us to come An' lend the beetle thet's to drive it home. For growed-up folks like us 'twould be a scandle, When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle. England ain't _all_ bad, coz she thinks us blind: 200 Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind; An' we shall see her change it double-quick. Soon ez we've proved thet we're a-goin' to lick. She an' Columby's gut to be fas' friends: For the world prospers by their privit ends: 'Twould put the clock back all o' fifty years Ef they should fall together by the ears.

THE BRIDGE

I 'gree to thet; she's nigh us to wut France is; But then she'll hev to make the fust advances; We've gut pride, tu, an' gut it by good rights, 210 An' ketch _me_ stoopin' to pick up the mites O' condescension she'll be lettin' fall When she finds out we ain't dead arter all! I tell ye wut, it takes more'n one good week Afore _my_ nose forgits it's hed a tweak.

THE MONIMENT

She'll come out right bumby, thet I'll engage, Soon ez she gits to seein' we're of age; This talkin' down o' hers ain't wuth a fuss; It's nat'ral ez nut likin' 'tis to us; 220 Ef we're agoin' to prove we _be_ growed-up. 'Twun't be by barkin' like a tarrier pup, But turnin' to an' makin' things ez good Ez wut we're ollers braggin' that we could; We're boun' to be good friends, an' so we'd oughto, In spite of all the fools both sides the water.

THE BRIDGE

I b'lieve thet's so; but hearken in your ear,-- I'm older'n you,--Peace wun't keep house with Fear; Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut tu du Is jes' to show you're up to fightin', tu. _I_ recollect how sailors' rights was won, 230 Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun; Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea; You'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will, An' ef you knuckle down, _he_'ll think so still. Better thet all our ships an' all their crews Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze, Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went, An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment, Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave: 240 Give _me_ the peace of dead men or of brave!

THE MONIMENT

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth: You'd oughto larned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth. It ain't _our_ nose thet gits put out o' jint; It's England thet gives up her dearest pint. We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du In our own fem'ly fight, afore we're thru. I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame, When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame, An' all the people, startled from their doubt, 250 Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,-- I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall, The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all; Then come Bull Run, an' _sence_ then I've ben waitin' Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin', Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's trace Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base, With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's gittin' slow, An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em go. I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin' to cost-- 260

THE BRIDGE

An' I tell _you_ it wun't be money lost; Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you'll allow Thet havin' things onsettled kills the cow: We've gut to fix this thing for good an' all; It's no use buildin' wut's a-goin' to fall. I'm older'n you, an' I've seen things an' men, An' _my_ experunce,--tell ye wut it's ben: Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv, But bad work follers ye ez long's ye live; You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin, 270 It's ollers askin' to be done agin: Ef we should part, it wouldn't be a week 'Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak. We've turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru, We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu; 'Twun't du to think thet killin' ain't perlite,-- You've gut to be to airnest, ef you fight; Why, two thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut dirt, Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment meant to hurt; An' I _du_ wish our Gin'rals hed in mind 280 The folks in front more than the folks behind; You wun't do much ontil you think it's God, An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod; We want some more o' Gideon's sword, I jedge, For proclamations ha'n't no gret of edge; There's nothin' for a cancer but the knife, Onless you set by 't more than by your life. _I_'ve seen hard times; I see a war begun Thet folks thet love their bellies never'd won; Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long year; 290 But when 'twas done, we didn't count it dear; Why, law an' order, honor, civil right, Ef they _ain't_ wuth it, wut _is_ wuth a fight? I'm older'n you: the plough, the axe, the mill, All kin's o' labor an' all kin's o' skill, Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw, Ef 'twarn't for thet slow critter, 'stablished law; Onsettle _thet_, an' all the world goes whiz, A screw's gut loose in eyerythin' there is: Good buttresses once settled, don't you fret 300 An' stir 'em; take a bridge's word for thet! Young folks are smart, but all ain't good thet's new; I guess the gran'thers they knowed sunthin', tu.

THE MONIMENT

Amen to thet! build sure in the beginnin': An' then don't never tech the underpinnin': Th' older a guv'ment is, the better 't suits; New ones hunt folks's corns out like new boots: Change jes' for change, is like them big hotels Where they shift plates, an' let ye live on smells.

THE BRIDGE

Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes down: 310 It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't drown; An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or swim, Ef we don't fail to du wut's right by Him, This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be A better country than man ever see. I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, 'Break forth an' prophesy!' O strange New World, thet yit wast never young, Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung, Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed 320 Was prowled roun' by the Injun's cracklin' tread, An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains, Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains, Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane, Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret events To pitch new States ez Old-World men pitch tents, Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's plan Thet man's devices can't unmake a man, An' whose free latch-string never was drawed in 330 Against the poorest child of Adam's kin,-- The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall lay In fearful haste thy murdered corse away! I see--

Jest here some dogs begun to bark, So thet I lost old Concord's last remark: I listened long, but all I seemed to hear Was dead leaves gossipin' on some birch-trees near; But ez they hedn't no gret things to say, An' sed 'em often, I come right away, An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the time, 340 I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme; I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, But here they be--it's

JONATHAN TO JOHN

It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,-- Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess We know it now,' sez he, 'The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J.B., Thet's fit for you an' me!' 9

You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess There's human blood,' sez he, 'By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though't may surprise J.B. More 'n it would you an' me.'

Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John, On _your_ front-parlor stairs, 20 Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, I on'y guess,' sez he, 'Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, 'Twould kind o' rile J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!'

Who made the law thet hurts, John, _Heads I win,--ditto tails?_ 'J.B.' was on his shirts, John, 30 Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess (I'm good at thet),' sez he, 'Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice For ganders with J.B., No more 'n with you or me!'

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,-- Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. 40 Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, Though physic's good,' sez he, 'It doesn't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed "J.B.," Put up by you an' me!'

We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back-yard. 49 Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, Ef _thet's_ his claim,' sez he, 'The fencin' stuff'll cost enough To bust up friend J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!'

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for _ten per cent?_ Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess He's like the rest,' sez he: 60 'When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J.B., Ez wal ez t' you an' me!'

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess We've a hard row,' sez he, 'To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow, 70 May happen to J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!'

We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people. An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, It is a fact,' sez he, 'The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J.B., 80 Ez much ez you or me!'

Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, Ef 'twarn't for law,' sez he, 'There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J.B. (When't ain't 'twixt you an' me!) 90

We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just, an' true; We thought 'twould win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess His love of right,' sez he, 'Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J.B., Ez wal 'z in you an' me!'

The South says, '_Poor folks down!_' John, 100 An' '_All men up!_' say we,-- White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, John preaches wal,' sez he; 'But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_, Why, there's the old J.B. A-crowdin' you an' me!'

Shall it be love, or hate, John? It's you thet's to decide; 110 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 thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, 120 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!'

No. III

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

_With the following Letter from the_ REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 7th Feb., 1862.

RESPECTED FRIENDS,--If I know myself,--and surely a man can hardly be supposed to have overpassed the limit of fourscore years without attaining to some proficiency in that most useful branch of learning (_e coelo descendit_, says the pagan poet),--I have no great smack of that weakness which would press upon the publick attention any matter pertaining to my private affairs. But since the following letter of Mr. Sawin contains not only a direct allusion to myself, but that in connection with a topick of interest to all those engaged in the publick ministrations of the sanctuary, I may be pardoned for touching briefly thereupon. Mr. Sawin was never a stated attendant upon my preaching,--never, as I believe, even an occasional one, since the erection of the new house (where we now worship) in 1845. He did, indeed, for a time, supply a not unacceptable bass in the choir; but, whether on some umbrage (_omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus_) taken against the bass-viol, then, and till his decease in 1850 (_æt._ 77,) under the charge of Mr. Asaph Perley, or, as was reported by others, on account of an imminent subscription for a new bell, he thenceforth absented himself from all outward and visible communion. Yet he seems to have preserved (_altâ mente repostum_), as it were, in the pickle of a mind soured by prejudice, a lasting _scunner_, as he would call it, against our staid and decent form of worship; for I would rather in that wise interpret his fling, than suppose that any chance tares sown by my pulpit discourses should survive so long, while good seed too often fails to root itself. I humbly trust that I have no personal feeling in the matter; though I know that, if we sound any man deep enough, our lead shall bring up the mud of human nature at last. The Bretons believe in an evil spirit which they call _ar c'houskezik_, whose office it is to make the congregation drowsy; and though I have never had reason to think that he was specially busy among my flock, yet have I seen enough to make me sometimes regret the hinged seats of the ancient meeting-house, whose lively clatter, not unwillingly intensified by boys beyond eyeshot of the tithing-man, served at intervals as a wholesome _réveil_. It is true, I have numbered among my parishioners some who are proof against the prophylactick fennel, nay, whose gift of somnolence rivalled that of the Cretan Rip Van Winkle, Epimenides, and who, nevertheless, complained not so much of the substance as of the length of my (by them unheard) discourses. Some ingenious persons of a philosophick turn have assured us that our pulpits were set too high, and that the soporifick tendency increased with the ratio of the angle in which the hearer's eye was constrained to seek the preacher. This were a curious topick for investigation. There can be no doubt that some sermons are pitched too high, and I remember many struggles with the drowsy fiend in my youth. Happy Saint Anthony of Padua, whose finny acolytes, however they might profit, could never murmur! _Quare fremuerunt gentes?_ Who is he that can twice a week be inspired, or has eloquence (_ut ita dicam_) always on tap? A good man, and, next to David, a sacred poet (himself, haply, not inexpert of evil in this particular), has said,--

'The worst speak something good: if all want sense, God takes a text and preacheth patience.'

There are one or two other points in Mr. Sawin's letter which I would also briefly animadvert upon. And first, concerning the claim he sets up to a certain superiority of blood and lineage in the people of our Southern States, now unhappily in rebellion against lawful authority and their own better interests. There is a sort of opinions, anachronisms at once and anachorisms, foreign both to the age and the country, that maintain a feeble and buzzing existence, scarce to be called life, like winter flies, which in mild weather crawl out from obscure nooks and crannies to expatiate in the sun, and sometimes acquire vigor enough to disturb with their enforced familiarity the studious hours of the scholar. One of the most stupid and pertinacious of these is the theory that the Southern States were settled by a class of emigrants from the Old World socially superior to those who founded the institutions of New England. The Virginians especially lay claim to this generosity of lineage, which were of no possible account, were it not for the fact that such superstitions are sometimes not without their effect on the course of human affairs. The early adventurers to Massachusetts at least paid their passages; no felons were ever shipped thither; and though it be true that many deboshed younger brothers of what are called good families may have sought refuge in Virginia, it is equally certain that a great part of the early deportations thither were the sweepings of the London streets and the leavings of the London stews. It was this my Lord Bacon had in mind when he wrote: 'It is a shameful and unblessed thing to take the scum of people and wicked condemned men to be the people with whom you plant.' That certain names are found there is nothing to the purpose, for, even had an _alias_ been beyond the invention of the knaves of that generation, it is known that servants were often called by their masters' names, as slaves are now. On what the heralds call the spindle side, some, at least, of the oldest Virginian families are descended from matrons who were exported and sold for so many hogsheads of tobacco the head. So notorious was this, that it became one of the jokes of contemporary playwrights, not only that men bankrupt in purse and character were 'food for the Plantations' (and this before the settlement of New England), but also that any drab would suffice to wive such pitiful adventurers. 'Never choose a wife as if you were going to Virginia,' says Middleton in one of his comedies. The mule is apt to forget all but the equine side of his pedigree. How early the counterfeit nobility of the Old Dominion became a topick of ridicule in the Mother Country may be learned from a play of Mrs. Behn's, founded on the Rebellion of Bacon: for even these kennels of literature may yield a fact or two to pay the raking. Mrs. Flirt, the keeper of a Virginia ordinary, calls herself the daughter of a baronet, 'undone in the late rebellion,'--her father having in truth been a tailor,--and three of the Council, assuming to themselves an equal splendor of origin, are shown to have been, one 'a broken exciseman who came over a poor servant,' another a tinker transported for theft, and the third 'a common pickpocket often flogged at the cart's tail.' The ancestry of South Carolina will as little pass muster at the Herald's Visitation, though I hold them to have been more reputable, inasmuch as many of them were honest tradesmen and artisans, in some measure exiles for conscience' sake, who would have smiled at the high-flying nonsense of their descendants. Some of the more respectable were Jews. The absurdity of supposing a population of eight millions all sprung from gentle loins in the course of a century and a half is too manifest for confutation. But of what use to discuss the matter? An expert genealogist will provide any solvent man with a _genus et pro avos_ to order. My Lord Burleigh used to say, with Aristotle and the Emperor Frederick II. to back him, that 'nobility was ancient riches,' whence also the Spanish were wont to call their nobles _ricos hombres_, and the aristocracy of America are the descendants of those who first became wealthy, by whatever means. Petroleum will in this wise be the source of much good blood among our posterity. The aristocracy of the South, such as it is, has the shallowest of all foundations, for it is only skin-deep,--the most odious of all, for, while affecting to despise trade, it traces its origin to a successful traffick in men, women, and children, and still draws its chief revenues thence. And though, as Doctor Chamberlayne consolingly says in his 'Present State of England,' 'to become a Merchant of Foreign Commerce, without serving any Apprentisage, hath been allowed no disparagement to a Gentleman born, especially to a younger Brother,' yet I conceive that he would hardly have made a like exception in favour of the particular trade in question. Oddly enough this trade reverses the ordinary standards of social respectability no less than of morals, for the retail and domestick is as creditable as the wholesale and foreign is degrading to him who follows it. Are our morals, then, no better than _mores_ after all? I do not believe that such aristocracy as exists at the South (for I hold with Marius, _fortissimum quemque generosissimum_) will be found an element of anything like persistent strength in war,--thinking the saying of Lord Bacon (whom one quaintly called _inductionis dominus et Verulamii_) as true as it is pithy, that 'the more gentlemen, ever the lower books of subsidies.' It is odd enough as an historical precedent, that, while the fathers of New England were laying deep in religion, education, and freedom the basis of a polity which has substantially outlasted any then existing, the first work of the founders of Virginia, as may be seen in Wingfield's 'Memorial,' was conspiracy and rebellion,--odder yet, as showing the changes which are wrought by circumstance, that the first insurrection, in South Carolina was against the aristocratical scheme of the Proprietary Government. I do not find that the cuticular aristocracy of the South has added anything to the refinements of civilization except the carrying of bowie-knives and the chewing of tobacco,--a high-toned Southern gentleman being commonly not only _quadrumanous_ but _quidruminant_.

I confess that the present letter of Mr. Sawin increases my doubts as to the sincerity of the convictions which he professes, and I am inclined to think that the triumph, of the legitimate Government, sure sooner or later to take place, will find him and a large majority of his newly adopted fellow-citizens (who hold with Dædalus, the primal sitter-on-the-fence, that _medium tenere tutissimum_) original Union men. The criticisms towards the close of his letter on certain of our failings are worthy to be seriously perpended; for he is not, as I think, without a spice of vulgar shrewdness. _Fas est et ab hoste doceri_: there is no reckoning without your host. As to the good-nature in us which he seems to gird at, while I would not consecrate a chapel, as they have not scrupled to do in France, to _Notre Dame de la Haine_ (Our Lady of Hate), yet I cannot forget that the corruption of good-nature is the generation of laxity of principle. Good-nature is our national characteristick; and though it be, perhaps, nothing more than a culpable weakness or cowardice, when it leads us to put up tamely with manifold impositions and breaches of implied contracts (as too frequently in our publick conveyances) it becomes a positive crime when it leads us to look unresentfully on peculation, and to regard treason to the best Government that ever existed as something with which a gentleman may shake hands without soiling his fingers. I do not think the gallows-tree the most profitable member of our _Sylva;_ but, since it continues to be planted, I would fain see a Northern limb ingrafted on it, that it may bear some other fruit than loyal Tennesseeans.

A relick has recently been discovered on the east bank of Bushy Brook in North Jaalam, which I conceive to be an inscription in Runick characters relating to the early expedition of the Northmen to this continent. I shall make fuller investigations, and communicate the result in due season.

Respectfully,

Your obedient servant,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

P.S.--I inclose a year's subscription from Deacon Tinkham.

I hed it on my min' las' time, when I to write ye started, To tech the leadin' featurs o' my gittin' me convarted; But, ez my letters hez to go clearn roun' by way o' Cuby, 'Twun't seem no staler now than then, by th' time it gits where you be. You know up North, though secs an' things air plenty ez you please, Ther' warn't nut one on 'em thet come jes' square with my idees: They all on 'em wuz too much mixed with Covenants o' Works, An' would hev answered jest ez wal for Afrikins an' Turks, Fer where's a Christian's privilege an' his rewards eusuin', Ef 'taint perfessin' right and eend 'thout nary need o' doin'? 10 I dessay they suit workin'-folks thet ain't noways pertic'lar, But nut your Southun gen'leman thet keeps his parpendic'lar; I don't blame nary man thet casts his lot along o' _his_ folks, But ef you cal'late to save _me_, 't must be with folks thet _is_ folks; Cov'nants o' works go 'ginst my grain, but down here I've found out The true fus'-fem'ly A 1 plan,--here's how it come about. When I fus' sot up with Miss S., sez she to me, sez she, 'Without you git religion, Sir, the thing can't never be; Nut but wut I respeck,' sez she, 'your intellectle part, But you wun't noways du for me athout a change o' heart; 20 Nothun religion works wal North, but it's ez soft ez spruce, Compared to ourn, for keepin' sound,' sez she, 'upon the goose; A day's experunce 'd prove to ye, ez easy 'z pull a trigger. It takes the Southun pint o' view to raise ten bales a nigger; You'll fin' thet human natur', South, ain't wholesome more 'n skin-deep, An' once 't a darkie's took with it, he wun't be wuth his keep,' 'How _shell_ I git it, Ma'am?'--sez I, 'Attend the nex' camp-meetin',' Sez she, 'an' it'll come to ye ez cheap ez onbleached sheetin'.' Wal, so I went along an' hearn most an impressive sarmon About besprinklin' Afriky with fourth-proof dew o' Harmon: 30 He didn't put no weaknin' in, but gin it tu us hot, 'Z ef he an' Satan 'd ben two bulls in one five-acre lot: I don't purtend to foller him, but give ye jes' the heads; For pulpit ellerkence, you know, 'most ollers kin' o' spreads. Ham's seed wuz gin to us in chairge, an' shouldn't we be li'ble In Kingdom Come, ef we kep' back their priv'lege in the Bible? The cusses an' the promerses make one gret chain, an' ef You snake one link out here, one there, how much on 't ud be lef'? All things wuz gin to man for 's use, his sarvice, an' delight; 39 An' don't the Greek an' Hebrew words thet mean a Man mean White? Ain't it belittlin' the Good Book in all its proudes' featurs To think 'twuz wrote for black an' brown an' 'lasses-colored creaturs, Thet couldn' read it, ef they would, nor ain't by lor allowed to, But ough' to take wut we think suits their naturs, an' be proud to? Warn't it more prof'table to bring your raw materil thru Where you can work it inta grace an' inta cotton, tu, Than sendin' missionaries out where fevers might defeat 'em, An' ef the butcher didn' call, their p'rishioners might eat 'em? An' then, agin, wut airthly use? Nor 'twarn't our fault, in so fur Ez Yankee skippers would keep on atotin' on 'em over. 50 'T improved the whites by savin' 'em from ary need o' workin', An' kep' the blacks from bein' lost thru idleness an' shirkin'; We took to 'em ez nat'ral ez a barn-owl doos to mice, An' hed our hull time on our hands to keep us out o' vice; It made us feel ez pop'lar ez a hen doos with one chicken, An' fill our place in Natur's scale by givin' 'em a lickin': For why should Cæsar git his dues more 'n Juno, Pomp, an' Cuffy? It's justifyin' Ham to spare a nigger when he's stuffy. Where'd their soles go tu, like to know, ef we should let 'em ketch Freeknowledgism an' Fourierism an' Speritoolism an' sech? 60 When Satan sets himself to work to raise his very bes' muss, He scatters roun' onscriptur'l views relatin' to Ones'mus. You'd ough' to seen, though, how his facs an' argymunce an' figgers Drawed tears o' real conviction from a lot o' pen'tent niggers! It warn't like Wilbur's meetin', where you're shet up in a pew, Your dickeys sorrin' off your ears, an' bilin' to be thru; Ther' wuz a tent clost by thet hed a kag o' sunthin' in it, Where you could go, ef you wuz dry, an' damp ye in a minute; An' ef you did dror off a spell, ther' wuzn't no occasion To lose the thread, because, ye see, he bellered like all Bashan. 70 It's dry work follerin' argymunce an' so, 'twix' this an' thet, I felt conviction weighin' down somehow inside my hat; It growed an' growed like Jonah's gourd, a kin' o' whirlin' ketched me, Ontil I fin'lly clean gin out an' owned up thet he'd fetched me; An' when nine tenths o' th' perrish took to tumblin' roun' an' hollerin', I didn' fin' no gret in th' way o' turnin' tu an' follerin'. Soon ez Miss S. see thet, sez she, '_Thet_'s wut I call wuth seein'! _Thet_'s actin' like a reas'nable an' intellectle bein'!' An' so we fin'lly made it up, concluded to hitch hosses, An' here I be 'n my ellermunt among creation's bosses; 80 Arter I'd drawed sech heaps o' blanks, Fortin at last hez sent a prize, An' chose me for a shinin' light o' missionary entaprise.

This leads me to another pint on which I've changed my plan O' thinkin' so's't I might become a straight-out Southun man. Miss S. (her maiden name wuz Higgs, o' the fus' fem'ly here) On her Ma's side's all Juggernot, on Pa's all Cavileer, An' sence I've merried into her an' stept into her shoes, It ain't more 'n nateral thet I should modderfy my views: I've ben a-readin' in Debow ontil I've fairly gut So 'nlightened thet I'd full ez lives ha' ben a Dook ez nut; 90 An' when we've laid ye all out stiff, an' Jeff hez gut his crown, An' comes to pick his nobles out, _wun't_ this child be in town! We'll hev an Age o' Chivverlry surpassin' Mister Burke's, Where every fem'ly is fus'-best an' nary white man works: Our system's sech, the thing'll root ez easy ez a tater; For while your lords in furrin parts ain't noways marked by natur', Nor sot apart from ornery folks in featurs nor in figgers, Ef ourn'll keep their faces washed, you'll know 'em from their niggers. Ain't _sech_ things wuth secedin' for, an' gittin' red o' you Thet waller in your low idees, an' will tell all is blue? 100 Fact is, we _air_ a diff'rent race, an' I, for one, don't see, Sech havin' ollers ben the case, how w'ever _did_ agree. It's sunthin' thet you lab'rin'-folks up North hed ough' to think on, Thet Higgses can't bemean themselves to rulin' by a Lincoln,-- Thet men, (an' guv'nors, tu,) thet hez sech Normal names ez Pickens, Accustomed to no kin' o' work, 'thout 'tis to givin' lickins, Can't measure votes with folks thet get their living from their farms, An' prob'ly think thet Law's ez good ez hevin' coats o' arms. Sence I've ben here, I've hired a chap to look about for me To git me a transplantable an' thrifty fem'ly-tree, 110 An' he tells _me_ the Sawins is ez much o' Normal blood Ez Pickens an' the rest on 'em, an' older 'n Noah's flood. Your Normal schools wun't turn ye into Normals, for it's clear, Ef eddykatin' done the thing, they'd be some skurcer here. Pickenses, Boggses, Pettuses, Magoffins, Letchers, Polks,-- Where can you scare up names like them among your mudsill folks? Ther's nothin' to compare with 'em, you'd fin', ef you should glance, Among the tip-top femerlies in Englan', nor in France: I've hearn frum 'sponsible men whose word wuz full ez good's their note, Men thet can run their face for drinks, an' keep a Sunday coat, 120 That they wuz all on 'em come down, an' come down pooty fur, From folks thet, 'thout their crowns wuz on, ou' doors wouldn' never stir, Nor thet ther' warn't a Southun man but wut wuz _primy fashy_ O' the bes' blood in Europe, yis, an' Afriky an' Ashy: Sech bein' the case, is 't likely we should bend like cotton wickin', Or set down under anythin' so low-lived ez a lickin'? More 'n this,--hain't we the literatoor an science, tu, by gorry? Hain't we them intellectle twins, them giants, Simms an' Maury, Each with full twice the ushle brains, like nothin' thet I know, 'thout 'twuz a double-headed calf I see once to a show? 130

For all thet, I warn't jest at fust in favor o' secedin'; I wuz for layin' low a spell to find out where 'twuz leadin', For hevin' South-Carliny try her hand at sepritnationin', She takin' resks an' findin' funds, an' we co-operationin',-- I mean a kin' o' hangin' roun' an' settin' on the fence, Till Prov'dunce pinted how to jump an' save the most expense; I recollected thet 'ere mine o' lead to Shiraz Centre Thet bust up Jabez Pettibone, an' didn't want to ventur' 'Fore I wuz sartin wut come out ud pay for wut went in, For swappin' silver off for lead ain't the sure way to win; 140 (An', fact, it _doos_ look now ez though--but folks must live an' larn-- We should git lead, an' more 'n we want, out o' the Old Consarn;) But when I see a man so wise an' honest ez Buchanan A-lettin' us hev all the forts an' all the arms an' cannon, Admittin' we wuz nat'lly right an' you wuz nat'lly wrong, Coz you wuz lab'rin'-folks an' we wuz wut they call _bong-tong_, An' coz there warn't no fight in ye more 'n in a mashed potater, While two o' _us_ can't skurcely meet but wut we fight by natur', An' th' ain't a bar-room here would pay for openin' on 't a night; Without it giv the priverlege o' bein' shot at sight, 150 Which proves we're Natur's noblemen, with whom it don't surprise The British aristoxy should feel boun' to sympathize,-- Seein' all this, an' seein', tu, the thing wuz strikin' roots While Uncle Sam sot still in hopes thet some one'd bring his boots, I thought th' ole Union's hoops wuz off, an' let myself be sucked in To rise a peg an' jine the crowd thet went for reconstructin',-- Thet is to hev the pardnership under th' ole name continner Jest ez it wuz, we drorrin' pay, you findin' bone an' sinner,-- On'y to put it in the bond, an' enter 't in the journals, Thet you're the nat'ral rank an' file, an' we the nat'ral kurnels. 160

Now this I thought a fees'ble plan, thet 'ud work smooth ez grease, Suitin' the Nineteenth Century an' Upper Ten idees, An' there I meant to stick, an' so did most o' th' leaders, tu, Coz we all thought the chance wuz good o' puttin' on it thru; But Jeff he hit upon a way o' helpin' on us forrard By bein' unannermous,--a trick you ain't quite up to, Norrard. A Baldin hain't no more 'f a chance with them new apple-corers Than folks's oppersition views aginst the Ringtail Roarers; They'll take 'em out on him 'bout east,--one canter on a rail Makes a man feel unannermous ez Jonah in the whale: 170 Or ef he's a slow-moulded cuss thet can't seem quite t' 'gree, He gits the noose by tellergraph upon the nighes' tree: Their mission-work with Afrikins hez put 'em up, thet's sartin, To all the mos' across-lot ways o' preachin' an' convartin'; I'll bet my hat th' ain't nary priest, nor all on 'em together; Thet cairs conviction to the min' like Reveren' Taranfeather; Why, he sot up with me one night, an' labored to sech purpose, Thet (ez an owl by daylight 'mongst a flock o' teazin' chirpers Sees clearer 'n mud the wickedness o' eatin' little birds) I see my error an' agreed to shen it arterwurds; 180 An' I should say, (to jedge our folks by facs in my possession,) Thet three's Unannermous where one's a 'Riginal Secession; So it's a thing you fellers North may safely bet your chink on, Thet we're all water-proofed agin th' usurpin' reign o' Lincoln.

Jeff's _some_. He's gut another plan thet hez pertic'lar merits, In givin' things a cheerfle look an' stiffnin' loose-hung sperits; For while your million papers, wut with lyin' an' discussin', Keep folks's tempers all on eend a-fumin' an' a-fussin', A-wondrin' this an' guessin' thet, an' dreadin' every night The breechin' o' the Univarse'll break afore it's light, 190 Our papers don't purtend to print on'y wut Guv'ment choose, An' thet insures us all to git the very best o' noose: Jeff hez it of all sorts an' kines, an' sarves it out ez wanted, So's't every man gits wut he likes an' nobody ain't scanted; Sometimes it's vict'ries (they're 'bout all ther' is that's cheap down here,) Sometimes it's France an' England on the jump to interfere. Fact is, the less the people know o' wut ther' is a-doin', The hendier 'tis for Guv'ment, sence it henders trouble brewin'; An' noose is like a shinplaster,--it's good, ef you believe it, Or, wut's all same, the other man thet's goin' to receive it: 200 Ef you've a son in th' army, wy, it's comfortin' to hear He'll hev no gretter resk to run than seein' th' in'my's rear, Coz, ef an F.F. looks at 'em, they ollers break an' run, Or wilt right down ez debtors will thet stumble on a dun, (An' this, ef an'thin', proves the wuth o' proper fem'ly pride, Fer sech mean shucks ez creditors are all on Lincoln's side); Ef I hev scrip thet wun't go off no more 'n a Belgin rifle, An' read thet it's at par on 'Change, it makes me feel deli'fle; It's cheerin', tu, where every man mus' fortify his bed, To hear thet Freedom's the one thing our darkies mos'ly dread, 210 An' thet experunce, time 'n' agin, to Dixie's Land hez shown Ther' 's nothin' like a powder-cask fer a stiddy corner-stone; Ain't it ez good ez nuts, when salt is sellin' by the ounce For its own weight in Treash'ry-bons, (ef bought in small amounts,) When even whiskey's gittin' skurce an' sugar can't be found, To know thet all the ellerments o' luxury abound? An' don't it glorify sal'-pork, to come to understand It's wut the Richmon' editors call fatness o' the land! Nex' thing to knowin' you're well off is _nut_ to know when y' ain't; An' ef Jeff says all's goin' wal, who'll ventur' t' say it ain't? 220

This cairn the Constitooshun roun' ez Jeff doos in his hat Is hendier a dreffle sight, an' comes more kin' o' pat. I tell ye wut, my jedgment is you're pooty sure to fail, Ez long 'z the head keeps turnin' back for counsel to the tail: Th' advantiges of our consarn for bein' prompt air gret, While, 'long o' Congress, you can't strike, 'f you git an iron het; They bother roun' with argooin', an' var'ous sorts o' foolin', To make sure ef it's leg'lly het, an' all the while it's coolin', So's't when you come to strike, it ain't no gret to wish ye j'y on, An' hurts the hammer 'z much or more ez wut it doos the iron, 239 Jeff don't allow no jawin'-sprees for three mouths at a stretch, Knowin' the ears long speeches suits air mostly made to metch; He jes' ropes in your tonguey chaps an' reg'lar ten-inch bores An' lets 'em play at Congress, ef they'll du it with closed doors; So they ain't no more bothersome than ef we'd took an' sunk 'em, An' yit enj'y th' exclusive right to one another's Buncombe 'thout doin' nobody no hurt, an' 'thout its costin' nothin', Their pay bein' jes' Confedrit funds, they findin' keep an' clothin'; They taste the sweets o' public life, an' plan their little jobs, An' suck the Treash'ry (no gret harm, for it's ez dry ez cobs,) 240 An' go thru all the motions jest ez safe ez in a prison, An' hev their business to themselves, while Buregard hez hisn: Ez long 'z he gives the Hessians fits, committees can't make bother 'bout whether 't's done the legle way or whether 't's done tother. An' _I_ tell _you_ you've gut to larn thet War ain't one long teeter Betwixt _I wan' to_ an' _'Twun't du_, debatin' like a skeetur Afore he lights,--all is, to give the other side a millin', An' arter thet's done, th' ain't no resk but wut the lor'll be willin'; No metter wut the guv'ment is, ez nigh ez I can hit it, A lickin' 's constitooshunal, pervidin' _We_ don't git it. 250 Jeff don't stan' dilly-dallyin', afore he takes a fort, (With no one in,) to git the leave o' the nex' Soopreme Court, Nor don't want forty-'leven weeks o' jawin' an' expoundin', To prove a nigger hez a right to save him, ef he's drowndin'; Whereas ole Abe 'ud sink afore he'd let a darkie boost him, Ef Taney shouldn't come along an' hedn't interdooced him. It ain't your twenty millions thet'll ever block Jeff's game, But one Man thet wun't let 'em jog jest ez he's takin' aim: Your numbers they may strengthen ye or weaken ye, ez 't heppens They're willin' to be helpin' hands or wuss-'n-nothin' cap'ns. 260

I've chose my side, an' 'tain't no odds ef I wuz drawed with magnets, Or ef I thought it prudenter to jine the nighes' bagnets; I've made my ch'ice, an' ciphered out, from all I see an' heard, Th' ole Constitooshun never'd git her decks for action cleared, Long 'z you elect for Congressmen poor shotes thet want to go Coz they can't seem to git their grub no otherways than so, An' let your bes' men stay to home coz they wun't show ez talkers, Nor can't be hired to fool ye an' sof'-soap ye at a caucus,-- Long 'z ye set by Rotashun more 'n ye do by folks's merits, 269 Ez though experunce thriv by change o' sile, like corn an' kerrits,-- Long 'z you allow a critter's 'claims' coz, spite o' shoves an' tippins, He's kep' his private pan jest where 'twould ketch mos' public drippin's,-- Long 'z A.'ll turn tu an' grin' B.'s exe, ef B.'ll help him grin' hisn, (An' thet's the main idee by which your leadin' men hev risen,)-- Long 'z you let _ary_ exe be groun', 'less 'tis to cut the weasan' O' sneaks thet dunno till they're told wut is an' wut ain't Treason,-- Long 'z ye give out commissions to a lot o' peddlin' drones Thet trade in whiskey with their men an' skin 'em to their bones,-- Long 'z ye sift out 'safe' canderdates thet no one ain't afeared on Coz they're so thund'rin' eminent for bein' never heard on, 280 An' hain't no record, ez it's called, for folks to pick a hole in, Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with a soul in, An' it wuz ostentashun to be showin' on 't about, When half his feller-citizens contrive to du without,-- Long 'z you suppose your votes can turn biled kebbage into brain, An' ary man thet's pop'lar's fit to drive a lightnin'-train,-- Long 'z you believe democracy means _I'm ez good ez you be,_ An' that a feller from the ranks can't be a knave or booby,-- Long 'z Congress seems purvided, like yer street-cars an' yer 'busses, With ollers room for jes' one more o' your spiled-in-bakin' cusses, 290 Dough 'thout the emptins of a soul, an' yit with means about 'em (Like essence-peddlers[23]) thet'll make folks long to be without 'em, Jes heavy 'nough to turn a scale thet's doubtfle the wrong way, An' make their nat'ral arsenal o' bein' nasty pay.-- Long 'z them things last, (an' _I_ don't see no gret signs of improvin',) I sha'n't up stakes, not hardly yit, nor 'twouldn't pay for movin': For, 'fore you lick us, it'll be the long'st day ever _you_ see. Yourn, (ez I 'xpec' to be nex' spring,) B., MARKISS O' BIG BOOSY.

No. IV

A MESSAGE OF JEFF DAVIS IN SECRET SESSION

_Conjecturally reported by_ H. BIGLOW

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 10th March, 1862.

GENTLEMEN,--My leisure has been so entirely occupied with the hitherto fruitless endeavour to decypher the Runick inscription whose fortunate discovery I mentioned in my last communication, that I have not found time to discuss, as I had intended, the great problem of what we are to do with slavery,--a topick on which the publick mind in this place is at present more than ever agitated. What my wishes and hopes are I need not say, but for safe conclusions I do not conceive that we are yet in possession of facts enough on which to bottom them with certainty. Acknowledging the hand of Providence, as I do, in all events, I am sometimes inclined to think that they are wiser than we, and am willing to wait till we have made this continent once more a place where freemen can live in security and honour, before assuming any further responsibility. This is the view taken by my neighbour Habakkuk Sloansure, Esq., the president of our bank, whose opinion in the practical affairs of life has great weight with me, as I have generally found it to be justified by the event, and whose counsel, had I followed it, would have saved me from an unfortunate investment of a considerable part of the painful economies of half a century in the Northwest-Passage Tunnel. After a somewhat animated discussion with this gentleman a few days since, I expanded, on the _audi alteram partem_ principle, something which he happened to say by way of illustration, into the following fable.

FESTINA LENTE

Once on a time there was a pool Fringed all about with flag-leaves cool And spotted with cow-lilies garish, Of frogs and pouts the ancient parish. Alders the creaking redwings sink on, Tussocks that house blithe Bob o' Lincoln Hedged round the unassailed seclusion, Where muskrats piled their cells Carthusian; And many a moss-embroidered log, The watering-place of summer frog, Slept and decayed with patient skill, As watering-places sometimes will.

Now in this Abbey of Theleme, Which realized the fairest dream That ever dozing bull-frog had, Sunned on a half-sunk lily-pad, There rose a party with a mission To mend the polliwogs' condition, Who notified the selectmen To call a meeting there and then. 'Some kind of steps,' they said, 'are needed; They don't come on so fast as we did: Let's dock their tails; if that don't make 'em Frogs by brevet, the Old One take 'em! That boy, that came the other day To dig some flag-root down this way, His jack-knife left, and 'tis a sign That Heaven approves of our design: 'Twere wicked not to urge the step on, When Providence has sent the weapon.'

Old croakers, deacons of the mire, That led the deep batrachian choir, _Uk! Uk! Caronk!_ with bass that might Have left Lablache's out of sight, Shook nobby heads, and said, 'No go! You'd better let 'em try to grow: Old Doctor Time is slow, but still He does know how to make a pill.'

But vain was all their hoarsest bass, Their old experience out of place, And spite of croaking and entreating, The vote was carried in marsh-meeting.

'Lord knows,' protest the polliwogs, 'We're anxious to be grown-up frogs; But don't push in to do the work Of Nature till she prove a shirk; 'Tis not by jumps that she advances, But wins her way by circumstances; Pray, wait awhile, until you know We're so contrived as not to grow; Let Nature take her own direction, And she'll absorb our imperfection; _You_ mightn't like 'em to appear with, But we must have the things to steer with.'

'No,' piped the party of reform, 'All great results are ta'en by storm; Fate holds her best gifts till we show We've strength to make her let them go; The Providence that works in history, And seems to some folks such a mystery, Does not creep slowly on _incog._, But moves by jumps, a mighty frog; No more reject the Age's chrism, Your queues are an anachronism; No more the Future's promise mock, But lay your tails upon the block, Thankful that we the means have voted To have you thus to frogs promoted.'

The thing was done, the tails were cropped. And home each philotadpole hopped, In faith rewarded to exult, And wait the beautiful result. Too soon it came; our pool, so long The theme of patriot bull-frog's song, Next day was reeking, fit to smother, With heads and tails that missed each other,-- Here snoutless tails, there tailless snouts; The only gainers were the pouts.

MORAL

From lower to the higher next, Not to the top, is Nature's text; And embryo Good, to reach full stature, Absorbs the Evil in its nature.

I think that nothing will ever give permanent peace and security to this continent but the extirpation of Slavery therefrom, and that the occasion is nigh; but I would do nothing hastily or vindictively, nor presume to jog the elbow of Providence. No desperate measures for me till we are sure that all others are hopeless,--_flectere si nequeo_ SUPEROS, _Acheronta movebo_. To make Emancipation a reform instead of a revolution is worth a little patience, that we may have the Border States first, and then the non-slaveholders of the Cotton States, with us in principle,--a consummation that seems to be nearer than many imagine. _Fiat justitia, ruat coelum_, is not to be taken in a literal sense by statesmen, whose problem is to get justice done with as little jar as possible to existing order, which has at least so much of heaven in it that it is not chaos. Our first duty toward our enslaved brother is to educate him, whether he be white or black. The first need of the free black is to elevate himself according to the standard of this material generation. So soon as the Ethiopian goes in his chariot, he will find not only Apostles, but Chief Priests and Scribes and Pharisees willing to ride with him.

'Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se Quam quod ridiculos homines facit.'

I rejoice in the President's late Message, which at last proclaims the Government on the side of freedom, justice, and sound policy.

As I write, comes the news of our disaster at Hampton Roads. I do not understand the supineness which, after fair warning, leaves wood to an unequal conflict with iron. It is not enough merely to have the right on our side, if we stick to the old flint-lock of tradition. I have observed in my parochial experience (_haud ignarus mali_) that the Devil is prompt to adopt the latest inventions of destructive warfare, and may thus take even such a three-decker as Bishop Butler at an advantage. It is curious, that, as gunpowder made armour useless on shore, so armour is having its revenge by baffling its old enemy at sea; and that, while gunpowder robbed land warfare of nearly all its picturesqueness to give even greater stateliness and sublimity to a sea-fight, armour bids fair to degrade the latter into a squabble between two iron-shelled turtles.

Yours, with esteem and respect,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

P.S.--I had wellnigh forgotten to say that the object of this letter is to enclose a communication from the gifted pen of Mr. Biglow.

I sent you a messige, my friens, t'other day, To tell you I'd nothin' pertickler to say: 'twuz the day our new nation gut kin' o' stillborn, So 'twuz my pleasant dooty t' acknowledge the corn, An' I see clearly then, ef I didn't before, Thet the _augur_ in inauguration means _bore_. I needn't tell _you_ thet my messige wuz written To diffuse correc' notions in France an' Gret Britten, An' agin to impress on the poppylar mind The comfort an' wisdom o' goin' it blind,-- 10 To say thet I didn't abate not a hooter O' my faith in a happy an' glorious futur', Ez rich in each soshle an' p'litickle blessin' Ez them thet we now hed the joy o' possessin', With a people united, an' longin' to die For wut _we_ call their country, without askin' why, An' all the gret things we concluded to slope for Ez much within reach now ez ever--to hope for. We've gut all the ellerments, this very hour, Thet make up a fus'-class, self-governin' power: 20 We've a war, an' a debt, an' a flag; an' ef this Ain't to be inderpendunt, why, wut on airth is? An' nothin' now henders our takin' our station Ez the freest, enlightenedest, civerlized nation, Built up on our bran'-new politickle thesis Thet a Gov'ment's fust right is to tumble to pieces,-- I say nothin' henders our takin' our place Ez the very fus'-best o' the whole human race, A spittin' tobacker ez proud ez you please On Victory's bes' carpets, or loaf-in' at ease 30 In the Tool'ries front-parlor, discussin' affairs With our heels on the backs o' Napoleon's new chairs, An' princes a-mixin' our cocktails an' slings,-- Excep', wal, excep' jest a very few things, Sech ez navies an' armies an' wherewith to pay, An' gettin' our sogers to run t'other way, An' not be too over-pertickler in tryin' To hunt up the very las' ditches to die in.

Ther' are critters so base thet they want it explained Jes' wut is the totle amount thet we've gained, 40 Ez ef we could maysure stupenjious events By the low Yankee stan'ard o' dollars an' cents: They seem to forgit, thet, sence last year revolved, We've succeeded in gittin' seceshed an' dissolved, An' thet no one can't hope to git thru dissolootion 'thout some kin' o' strain on the best Constitootion. Who asks for a prospec' more flettrin' an' bright, When from here clean to Texas it's all one free fight? Hain't we rescued from Seward the gret leadin' featurs Thet makes it wuth while to be reasonin' creators? 50 Hain't we saved Habus Coppers, improved it in fact, By suspendin' the Unionists 'stid o' the Act? Ain't the laws free to all? Where on airth else d' ye see Every freeman improvin' his own rope an' tree? Ain't our piety sech (in our speeches an' messiges) Ez t' astonish ourselves in the bes'-composed pessiges, An' to make folks thet knowed us in th' ole state o' things Think convarsion ez easy ez drinkin' gin-slings? It's ne'ssary to take a good confident tone With the public; but here, jest amongst us, I own 60 Things look blacker 'n thunder. Ther' 's no use denyin' We're clean out o' money, an' 'most out o' lyin'; Two things a young nation can't mennage without, Ef she wants to look wal at her fust comin' out; For the fust supplies physickle strength, while the second Gives a morril advantage thet's hard to be reckoned: For this latter I'm willin' to du wut I can; For the former you'll hev to consult on a plan,-- Though our _fust_ want (an' this pint I want your best views on) Is plausible paper to print I.O.U.s on. 70 Some gennlemen think it would cure all our cankers In the way o' finance, ef we jes' hanged the bankers; An' I own the proposle 'ud square with my views, Ef their lives wuzn't all thet we'd left 'em to lose. Some say thet more confidence might be inspired, Ef we voted our cities an' towns to be fired,-- A plan thet 'ud suttenly tax our endurance, Coz 'twould be our own bills we should git for th' insurance; But cinders, no matter how sacred we think 'em, Mightn't strike furrin minds ez good sources of income, 80 Nor the people, perhaps, wouldn't like the eclaw O' bein' all turned into paytriots by law. Some want we should buy all the cotton an' burn it, On a pledge, when we've gut thru the war, to return it,-- Then to take the proceeds an' hold _them_ ez security For an issue o' bonds to be met at maturity With an issue o' notes to be paid in hard cash On the fus' Monday follerin' the 'tarnal Allsmash: This hez a safe air, an', once hold o' the gold, 'ud leave our vile plunderers out in the cold, 90 An' _might_ temp' John Bull, ef it warn't for the dip he Once gut from the banks o' my own Massissippi. Some think we could make, by arrangin' the figgers, A hendy home-currency out of our niggers; But it wun't du to lean much on ary sech staff, For they're gittin' tu current a'ready, by half.

One gennleman says, ef we lef' our loan out Where Floyd could git hold on 't _he_'d take it, no doubt; But 'tain't jes' the takin', though 't hez a good look, We mus' git sunthin' out on it arter it's took, 100 An' we need now more'n ever, with sorrer I own, Thet some one another should let us a loan, Sence a soger wun't fight, on'y jes' while he draws his Pay down on the nail, for the best of all causes, 'thout askin' to know wut the quarrel's about,-- An' once come to thet, why, our game is played out. It's ez true ez though I shouldn't never hev said it, Thet a hitch hez took place in our system o' credit; I swear it's all right in my speeches an' messiges, But ther's idees afloat, ez ther' is about sessiges: 110 Folks wun't take a bond ez a basis to trade on, Without nosin' round to find out wut it's made on, An' the thought more an' more thru the public min' crosses Thet our Treshry hez gut 'mos' too many dead hosses. Wut's called credit, you see, is some like a balloon, Thet looks while it's up 'most ez harnsome 'z a moon, But once git a leak in 't, an' wut looked so grand Caves righ' down in a jiffy ez flat ez your hand. Now the world is a dreffle mean place, for our sins, Where ther' ollus is critters about with long pins 120 A-prickin' the bubbles we've blowed with sech care, An' provin' ther' 's nothin' inside but bad air: They're all Stuart Millses, poor-white trash, an' sneaks, Without no more chivverlry 'n Choctaws or Creeks, Who think a real gennleman's promise to pay Is meant to be took in trade's ornery way: Them fellers an' I couldn' never agree; They're the nateral foes o' the Southun Idee; I'd gladly take all of our other resks on me To be red o' this low-lived politikle 'con'my! 130

Now a dastardly notion is gittin' about Thet our bladder is bust an' the gas oozin' out, An' onless we can mennage in some way to stop it, Why, the thing's a gone coon, an' we might ez wal drop it. Brag works wal at fust, but it ain't jes' the thing For a stiddy inves'ment the shiners to bring, An' votin' we're prosp'rous a hundred times over Wun't change bein' starved into livin' in clover. Manassas done sunthin' tow'rds drawin' the wool O'er the green, antislavery eyes o' John Bull: 140 Oh, _warn't_ it a godsend, jes' when sech tight fixes Wuz crowdin' us mourners, to throw double-sixes! I wuz tempted to think, an' it wuzn't no wonder, Ther' wuz really a Providence,--over or under,-- When, all packed for Nashville, I fust ascertained From the papers up North wut a victory we'd gained. 'twuz the time for diffusin' correc' views abroad Of our union an' strength an' relyin' on God; An', fact, when I'd gut thru my fust big surprise, I much ez half b'lieved in my own tallest lies, 150 An' conveyed the idee thet the whole Southun popperlace Wuz Spartans all on the keen jump for Thermopperlies, Thet set on the Lincolnites' bombs till they bust, An' fight for the priv'lege o' dyin' the fust; But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an' the rest Of our recent starn-foremost successes out West, Hain't left us a foot for our swellin' to stand on,-- We've showed _too_ much o' wut Buregard calls _abandon_, For all our Thermopperlies (an' it's a marcy We hain't hed no more) hev ben clean vicy-varsy, 160 An' wut Spartans wuz lef' when the battle wuz done Wuz them thet wuz too unambitious to run.

Oh, ef we hed on'y jes' gut Reecognition, Things now would ha' ben in a different position! You'd ha' hed all you wanted: the paper blockade Smashed up into toothpicks; unlimited trade In the one thing thet's needfle, till niggers, I swow, Hed ben thicker'n provisional shin-plasters now; Quinine by the ton 'ginst the shakes when they seize ye; Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie; 170 The voice of the driver'd be heerd in our land, An' the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand: Wouldn't _thet_ be some like a fulfillin' the prophecies, With all the fus' fem'lies in all the fust offices? 'twuz a beautiful dream, an' all sorrer is idle,-- But _ef_ Lincoln _would_ ha' hanged Mason an' Slidell! For wouldn't the Yankees hev found they'd ketched Tartars, Ef they'd raised two sech critters as them into martyrs? Mason _wuz_ F.F.V., though a cheap card to win on, But t'other was jes' New York trash to begin on; 180 They ain't o' no good in European pellices, But think wut a help they'd ha' ben on their gallowses! They'd ha' felt they wuz truly fulfillin' their mission, An' oh, how dog-cheap we'd ha' gut Reecognition!

But somehow another, wutever we've tried, Though the the'ry's fust-rate, the facs _wun't_ coincide: Facs are contrary 'z mules, an' ez hard in the mouth, An' they allus hev showed a mean spite to the South. Sech bein' the case, we hed best look about For some kin' o' way to slip _our_ necks out: 190 Le's vote our las' dollar, ef one can be found, (An', at any rate, votin' it hez a good sound,)-- Le''s swear thet to arms all our people is flyin', (The critters can't read, an' wun't know how we're lyin',)-- Thet Toombs is advancin' to sack Cincinnater, With a rovin' commission to pillage an' slahter,-- Thet we've throwed to the winds all regard for wut's lawfle, An' gone in for sunthin' promiscu'sly awfle. Ye see, hitherto, it's our own knaves an' fools Thet we've used, (those for whetstones, an' t'others ez tools,) 200 An' now our las' chance is in puttin' to test The same kin' o' cattle up North an' out West,-- Your Belmonts, Vallandighams, Woodses, an' sech, Poor shotes thet ye couldn't persuade us to tech, Not in ornery times, though we're willin' to feed 'em With a nod now an' then, when we happen to need 'em; Why, for my part, I'd ruther shake hands with a nigger Than with cusses that load an' don't darst dror a trigger; They're the wust wooden nutmegs the Yankees perdooce, Shaky everywheres else, an' jes' sound on the goose; 210 They ain't wuth a cuss, an' I set nothin' by 'em, But we're in sech a fix thet I s'pose we mus' try 'em. I--But, Gennlemen, here's a despatch jes' come in Which shows thet the tide's begun turnin' agin',-- Gret Cornfedrit success! C'lumbus eevacooated! I mus' run down an' hev the thing properly stated, An' show wut a triumph it is, an' how lucky To fin'lly git red o' thet cussed Kentucky,-- An' how, sence Fort Donelson, winnin' the day Consists in triumphantly gittin' away. 220

No. V

SPEECH OF HONOURABLE PRESERVED DOE IN SECRET CAUCUS

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 12th April, 1862.

GENTLEMEN,--As I cannot but hope that the ultimate, if not speedy, success of the national arms is now sufficiently ascertained, sure as I am of the righteousness of our cause and its consequent claim on the blessing of God, (for I would not show a faith inferior to that of the Pagan historian with his _Facile evenit quod Dis cordi est_,) it seems to me a suitable occasion to withdraw our minds a moment from the confusing din of battle to objects of peaceful and permanent interest. Let us not neglect the monuments of preterite history because what shall be history is so diligently making under our eyes. _Cras ingens iterabimus æquor;_ to-morrow will be time enough for that stormy sea; to-day let me engage the attention of your readers with the Runick inscription to whose fortunate discovery I have heretofore alluded. Well may we say with the poet, _Multa renascuntur quæ jam cecidere_. And I would premise, that, although I can no longer resist the evidence of my own senses from the stone before me to the ante-Columbian discovery of this continent by the Northmen, _gens inclytissima_, as they are called in a Palermitan inscription, written fortunately in a less debatable character than that which I am about to decipher, yet I would by no means be understood as wishing to vilipend the merits of the great Genoese, whose name will never be forgotten so long as the inspiring strains of 'Hail Columbia' shall continue to be heard. Though he must be stripped also of whatever praise may belong to the experiment of the egg, which I find proverbially attributed by Castilian authors to a certain Juanito or Jack, (perhaps an offshoot of our giant-killing mythus,) his name will still remain one of the most illustrious of modern times. But the impartial historian owes a duty likewise to obscure merit, and my solicitude to render a tardy justice is perhaps quickened by my having known those who, had their own field of labour been less secluded, might have found a readier acceptance with the reading publick, I could give an example, but I forbear: _forsitan nostris ex ossibus oritur ultor_.

Touching Runick inscriptions, I find that they may lie classed under three general heads; 1º. Those which are understood by the Danish Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and Professor Rafn, their Secretary; 2º. Those which are comprehensible only by Mr. Rafn; and 3º. Those which neither the Society, Mr. Rafn, nor anybody else can be said in any definite sense to understand, and which accordingly offer peculiar temptations to enucleating sagacity. These last are naturally deemed the most valuable by intelligent antiquaries, and to this class the stone now in my possession fortunately belongs. Such give a picturesque variety to ancient events, because susceptible oftentimes of as many interpretations as there are individual archæologists; and since facts are only the pulp in which the Idea or event-seed is softly imbedded till it ripen, it is of little consequence what colour or flavour we attribute to them, provided it be agreeable. Availing myself of the obliging assistance of Mr. Arphaxad Bowers, an ingenious photographick artist, whose house-on-wheels has now stood for three years on our Meeting-House Green, with the somewhat contradictory inscription,--'_our motto is onward_,'--I have sent accurate copies of my treasure to many learned men and societies, both native and European. I may hereafter communicate their different and (_me judice_) equally erroneous solutions. I solicit also, Messrs. Editors, your own acceptance of the copy herewith enclosed. I need only premise further, that the stone itself is a goodly block of metamorphick sandstone, and that the Runes resemble very nearly the ornithichnites or fossil bird-tracks of Dr. Hitchcock, but with less regularity or apparent design than is displayed by those remarkable geological monuments. These are rather the _non bene junctarum discordia semina rerum_. Resolved to leave no door open to cavil, I first of all attempted the elucidation of this remarkable example of lithick literature by the ordinary modes, but with no adequate return for my labour. I then considered myself amply justified in resorting to that heroick treatment the felicity of which, as applied by the great Bentley to Milton, had long ago enlisted my admiration. Indeed, I had already made up my mind, that, in case good fortune should throw any such invaluable record in my way, I would proceed with it in the following simple and satisfactory method. Alter a cursory examination, merely sufficing for an approximative estimate of its length, I would write down a hypothetical inscription based upon antecedent probabilities, and then proceed to extract from the characters engraven on the stone a meaning as nearly as possible conformed to this _a priori_ product of my own ingenuity. The result more than justified my hopes, inasmuch as the two inscriptions were made without any great violence to tally in all essential particulars. I then proceeded, not without some anxiety, to my second test, which was, to read the Runick letters diagonally, and again with the same success. With an excitement pardonable under the circumstances, yet tempered with thankful humility, I now applied my last and severest trial, my _experimentum crucis_. I turned the stone, now doubly precious in my eyes, with scrupulous exactness upside down. The physical exertion so far displaced my spectacles as to derange for a moment the focus of vision. I confess that it was with some tremulousness that I readjusted them upon my nose, and prepared my mind to bear with calmness any disappointment that might ensue. But, _O albo dies notanda lapillo!_ what was my delight to find that the change of position had effected none in the sense of the writing, even by so much as a single letter! I was now, and justly, as I think, satisfied of the conscientious exactness of my interpretation. It is as follows:

HERE BJARNA GRIMOLFSSON FIRST DRANK CLOUD-BROTHER THROUGH CHILD-OF-LAND-AND-WATER:

that is, drew smoke through a reed stem. In other words, we have here a record of the first smoking of the herb _Nicotiana Tabacum_ by an European on this continent. The probable results of this discovery are so vast as to baffle conjecture. If it be objected, that the smoking of a pipe would hardly justify the setting up of a memorial stone, I answer, that even now the Moquis Indian, ere he takes his first whiff, bows reverently toward the four quarters of the sky in succession, and that the loftiest monuments have been read to perpetuate fame, which is the dream of the shadow of smoke. The _Saga_, it will be remembered, leaves this Bjarna to a fate something like that of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, on board a sinking ship in the 'wormy sea,' having generously given up his place in the boat to a certain Icelander. It is doubly pleasant, therefore, to meet with this proof that the brave old man arrived safely in Vinland, and that his declining years were cheered by the respectful attentions of the dusky denizens of our then uninvaded forest. Most of all was I gratified, however, in thus linking forever the name of my native town with one of the most momentous occurrences of modern times. Hitherto Jalaam, though in soil, climate, and geographical position as highly qualified to be the theatre of remarkable historical incidents as any spot on the earth's surface, has been, if I may say it without seeming to question the wisdom of Providence, almost maliciously neglected, as it might appear, by occurrences of world-wide interest in want of a situation. And in matters of this nature it must be confessed that adequate events are as necessary as the _vates sacer_ to record them. Jaalam stood always modestly ready, but circumstances made no fitting response to her generous intentions. Now, however, she assumes her place on the historick roll. I have hitherto been a zealous opponent of the Circean herb, but I shall now reëxamine the question without bias.

I am aware that the Rev. Jonas Tutchel, in a recent communication to the 'Bogus Four Corners Weekly Meridian,' has endeavored to show that this is the sepulchral inscription of Thorwald Eriksson, who, as is well-known, was slain in Vinland by the natives. But I think he has been misled by a preconceived theory, and cannot but feel that he has thus made an ungracious return for my allowing him to inspect the stone with the aid of my own glasses (he having by accident left his at home) and in my own study. The heathen ancients might have instructed this Christian minister in the rites of hospitality; but much is to be pardoned to the spirit of self-love. He must indeed be ingenious who can make out the words _hèr hvilir_ from any characters in the inscription in question, which, whatever else it may be, is certainly not mortuary. And even should the reverend gentleman succeed in persuading some fantastical wits of the soundness of his views, I do not see what useful end he will have gained. For if the English Courts of Law hold the testimony of gravestones from the burial-grounds of Protestant dissenters to be questionable, even where it is essential in proving a descent, I cannot conceive that the epitaphial assertions of heathens should be esteemed of more authority by any man of orthodox sentiments.

At this moment, happening to cast my eyes upon the stone, whose characters a transverse light from my southern window brings out with singular distinctness, another interpretation has occurred to me, promising even more interesting results. I hasten to close my letter in order to follow at once the clue thus providentially suggested.

I inclose, as usual, a contribution from Mr. Biglow, and remain,

Gentlemen, with esteem and respect,

Your Obedient Humble Servant,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

I thank ye, my frien's, for the warmth o' your greetin': Ther' 's few airthly blessin's but wut's vain an' fleetin'; But ef ther' is one thet hain't _no_ cracks an' flaws, An' is wuth goin' in for, it's pop'lar applause; It sends up the sperits ez lively ez rockets, An' I feel it--wal, down to the eend o' my pockets. Jes' lovin' the people is Canaan in view, But it's Canaan paid quarterly t' hev 'em love you; It's a blessin' thet's breakin' out ollus in fresh spots; It's a-follerin' Moses 'thout losin' the flesh-pots. 10 But, Gennlemen, 'scuse me, I ain't sech a raw cus Ez to go luggin' ellerkence into a caucus,-- Thet is, into one where the call comprehen's Nut the People in person, but on'y their frien's; I'm so kin' o' used to convincin' the masses Of th' edvantage o' bein' self-governin' asses, I forgut thet _we_'re all o' the sort thet pull wires An' arrange for the public their wants an' desires, An' thet wut we hed met for wuz jes' to agree Wut the People's opinions in futur' should be. 20

Now, to come to the nub, we've ben all disappinted, An' our leadin' idees are a kind o' disjinted, Though, fur ez the nateral man could discern, Things ough' to ha' took most an oppersite turn. But The'ry is jes' like a train on the rail, Thet, weather or no, puts her thru without fail, While Fac' 's the ole stage thet gits sloughed in the ruts, An' hez to allow for your darned efs an' buts, An' so, nut intendin' no pers'nal reflections, They don't--don't nut allus, thet is,--make connections: 30 Sometimes, when it really doos seem thet they'd oughter Combine jest ez kindly ez new rum an' water, Both'll be jest ez sot in their ways ez a bagnet, Ez otherwise-minded ez th' eends of a magnet, An' folks like you 'n' me, thet ain't ept to be sold, Git somehow or 'nother left out in the cold.

I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a row, Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln is now, With Taney to say 'twuz all legle an' fair, An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to swear 40 Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into the ditch By the fault o' the North in misplacin' the switch. Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss 'em; But the People--they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em! Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 'z you may say, Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean away? An' doosn't the right primy-fashy include The bein' entitled to nut be subdued? The fect is, we'd gone for the Union so strong, When Union meant South ollus right an' North wrong, 50 Thet the People gut fooled into thinkin' it might Worry on middlin' wal with the North in the right. We might ha' ben now jest ez prosp'rous ez France, Where p'litikle enterprise hez a fair chance, An' the People is heppy an' proud et this hour, Long ez they hev the votes, to let Nap hey the power; But _our_ folks they went an' believed wut we'd told 'em An', the flag once insulted, no mortle could hold 'em. 'Twuz pervokin' jest when we wuz cert'in to win,-- And I, for one, wun't trust the masses agin: 60 For a People thet knows much ain't fit to be free In the self-cockin', back-action style o' J.D.

I can't believe now but wut half on 't is lies; For who'd thought the North wuz agoin' to rise, Or take the pervokin'est kin' of a stump, 'thout 'twuz sunthin' ez pressin' ez Gabr'el's las' trump? Or who'd ha' supposed, arter _sech_ swell an' bluster 'bout the lick-ary-ten-on-ye fighters they'd muster, Raised by hand on briled lightnin', ez op'lent 'z you please In a primitive furrest ol femmily-trees,-- 70 Who'd ha' thought thet them Southuners ever 'ud show Starns with pedigrees to 'em like theirn to the foe, Or, when the vamosin' come, ever to find Nat'ral masters in front an' mean white folks behind? By ginger, ef I'd ha' known half I know now, When I wuz to Congress, I wouldn't, I swow, Hey let 'em cair on so high-minded an' sarsy, 'thout _some_ show o' wut you may call vicy-varsy. To be sure, we wuz under a contrac' jes' then To be dreffle forbearin' towards Southun men; 80 We hed to go sheers in preservin' the bellance; An' ez they seemed to feel they wuz wastin' their tellents 'thout some un to kick, 'twarn't more 'n proper, you know, Each should furnish his part; an' sence they found the toe, An' we wuzn't cherubs--wal, we found the buffer, For fear thet the Compromise System should suffer.

I wun't say the plan hedn't onpleasant featurs,-- For men are perverse an' onreasonin' creaturs, An' forgit thet in this life 'tain't likely to heppen Their own privit fancy should ollus be cappen,-- 90 But it worked jest ez smooth ez the key of a safe, An' the gret Union bearin's played free from all chafe. They warn't hard to suit, ef they hed their own way, An' we (thet is, some on us) made the thing pay: 'twuz a fair give-an'-take out of Uncle Sam's heap; Ef they took wut warn't theirn, wut we give come ez cheap; The elect gut the offices down to tide-waiter, The people took skinnin' ez mild ez a tater. Seemed to choose who they wanted tu, footed the bills, An' felt kind o' 'z though they wuz havin' their wills, 100 Which kep' 'em ez harmless an' cherfle ez crickets, While all we invested wuz names on the tickets; Wal, ther' 's nothin', for folks fond o' lib'ral consumption Free o' charge, like democ'acy tempered with gumption!

Now warn't thet a system wuth pains in presarvin', Where the people found jints an' their frien's done the carvin',-- Where the many done all o' their thinkin' by proxy, An' were proud on 't ez long ez 'twuz christened Democ'cy,-- Where the few let us sap all o' Freedom's foundations, Ef you call it reformin' with prudence an' patience, 110 An' were willin' Jeff's snake-egg should hetch with the rest, Ef you writ 'Constitootional' over the nest? But it's all out o' kilter, ('twuz too good to last,) An' all jes' by J.D.'s perceedin' too fast; Ef he'd on'y hung on for a month or two more, We'd ha' gut things fixed nicer 'n they hed ben before: Afore he drawed off an' lef all in confusion, We wuz safely entrenched in the ole Constitootion, With an outlyin', heavy-gun, case-mated fort To rake all assailants,--I mean th' S.J. Court. 120 Now I never'll acknowledge (nut ef you should skin me) 'twuz wise to abandon sech works to the in'my, An' let him fin' out thet wut scared him so long, Our whole line of argyments, lookin' so strong, All our Scriptur an' law, every the'ry an' fac', Wuz Quaker-guns daubed with Pro-slavery black. Why, ef the Republicans ever should git Andy Johnson or some one to lend 'em the wit An' the spunk jes' to mount Constitootion an' Court With Columbiad guns, your real ekle-rights sort, 130 Or drill out the spike from the ole Declaration Thet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' creation, We'd better take maysures for shettin' up shop, An' put off our stock by a vendoo or swop.

But they wun't never dare tu; you'll see 'em in Edom 'fore they ventur' to go where their doctrines 'ud lead 'em: They've ben takin' our princerples up ez we dropt 'em, An' thought it wuz terrible 'cute to adopt 'em; But they'll fin' out 'fore long thet their hope's ben deceivin' 'em, An' thet princerples ain't o' no good, ef you b'lieve in 'em; It makes 'em tu stiff for a party to use, 141 Where they'd ough' to be easy 'z an ole pair o' shoes. If _we_ say 'n our pletform thet all men are brothers, We don't mean thet some folks ain't more so 'n some others; An' it's wal understood thet we make a selection, An' thet brotherhood kin' o' subsides arter 'lection. The fust thing for sound politicians to larn is, Thet Truth, to dror kindly in all sorts o' harness, Mus' be kep' in the abstract,--for, come to apply it, You're ept to hurt some folks's interists by it. 150 Wal, these 'ere Republicans (some on 'em) ects Ez though gineral mexims 'ud suit speshle facts; An' there's where we'll nick 'em, there's where they'll be lost; For applyin' your princerple's wut makes it cost, An' folks don't want Fourth o' July t' interfere With the business-consarns o' the rest o' the year, No more 'n they want Sunday to pry an' to peek Into wut they are doin' the rest o' the week.

A ginooine statesman should be on his guard, Ef he _must_ hev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 'em tu hard; 160 For, ez sure ez he does, he'll be blartin' 'em out 'thout regardin' the natur' o' man more 'n a spout, Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a flaw In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw: An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint Thet we'd better nut air our perceedin's in print, Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, du us harm; For when you've done all your real meanin' to smother, The darned things'll up an' mean sunthin' or 'nother. 170 Jeff'son prob'ly meant wal with his 'born free an' ekle,' But it's turned out a real crooked stick in the sekle; It's taken full eighty-odd year--don't you see?-- From the pop'lar belief to root out thet idee, An', arter all, suckers on 't keep buddin' forth In the nat'lly onprincipled mind o' the North. No, never say nothin' without you're compelled tu, An' then don't say nothin' thet you can be held tu, Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' loose For the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use. 180

You know I'm a feller thet keeps a skinned eye On the leetle events thet go skurryin' by, Coz it's of'ner by them than by gret ones you'll see Wut the p'litickle weather is likely to be. Now I don't think the South's more 'n begun to be licked, But I _du_ think, ez Jeff says, the wind-bag's gut pricked; It'll blow for a spell an' keep puffin' an' wheezin', The tighter our army an' navy keep, squeezin'-- For they can't help spread-eaglein' long 'z ther's a mouth To blow Enfield's Speaker thru lef' at the South. 190 But it's high time for us to be settin' our faces Towards reconstructin' the national basis, With an eye to beginnin' agin on the jolly ticks We used to chalk up 'hind the back-door o' politics; An' the fus' thing's to save wut of Slav'ry ther's lef' Arter this (I mus' call it) imprudence o' Jeff: For a real good Abuse, with its roots fur an' wide, Is the kin' o' thing _I_ like to hev on my side; A Scriptur' name makes it ez sweet ez a rose, An' it's tougher the older an' uglier it grows-- 200 (I ain't speakin' now o' the righteousness of it, But the p'litickle purchase it gives an' the profit).

Things look pooty squally, it must be allowed, An' I don't see much signs of a bow in the cloud: Ther's too many Deemocrats--leaders wut's wuss-- Thet go for the Union 'thout carin' a cuss Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on, So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian bird on. But ther's still some consarvative signs to be found Thet shows the gret heart o' the People is sound: 210 (Excuse me for usin' a stump-phrase agin, But, once in the way on 't, they _will_ stick like sin:) There's Phillips, for instance, hez jes' ketched a Tartar In the Law-'n'-Order Party of ole Cincinnater; An' the Compromise System ain't gone out o' reach, Long 'z you keep the right limits on freedom o' speech. 'Twarn't none too late, neither, to put on the gag, For he's dangerous now he goes in for the flag. Nut thet I altogether approve o' bad eggs, They're mos' gin'ly argymunt on its las' legs,-- 220 An' their logic is ept to be tu indiscriminate, Nor don't ollus wait the right objecs to 'liminate; But there is a variety on 'em, you'll find, Jest ez usefle an' more, besides bein' refined,-- I mean o' the sort thet are laid by the dictionary, Sech ez sophisms an' cant, thet'll kerry conviction ary Way thet you want to the right class o' men, An' are staler than all 't ever come from a hen: 'Disunion' done wal till our resh Southun friends Took the savor all out on 't for national ends; 230 But I guess 'Abolition' 'll work a spell yit, When the war's done, an' so will 'Forgive-an'-forgit.' Times mus' be pooty thoroughly out o' all jint, Ef we can't make a good constitootional pint; An' the good time'll come to be grindin' our exes, When the war goes to seed in the nettle o' texes: Ef Jon'than don't squirm, with sech helps to assist him, I give up my faith in the free-suffrage system; Democ'cy wun't be nut a mite interestin', Nor p'litikle capital much wuth investin'; 240 An' my notion is, to keep dark an' lay low Till we see the right minute to put in our blow.--

But I've talked longer now 'n I hed any idee, An' ther's others you want to hear more 'n you du me; So I'll set down an' give thet 'ere bottle a skrimmage, For I've spoke till I'm dry ez a real graven image.

No. VI

SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 17th May, 1862.

GENTLEMEN,--At the special request of Mr. Biglow, I intended to inclose, together with his own contribution, (into which, at my suggestion, he has thrown a little more of pastoral sentiment than usual,) some passages from my sermon on the day of the National Fast, from the text, 'Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them,' Heb. xiii, 3. But I have not leisure sufficient at present for the copying of them, even were I altogether satisfied with the production as it stands. I should prefer, I confess, to contribute the entire discourse to the pages of your respectable miscellany, if it should be found acceptable upon perusal, especially as I find the difficulty in selection of greater magnitude than I had anticipated. What passes without challenge in the fervour of oral delivery, cannot always stand the colder criticism of the closet. I am not so great an enemy of Eloquence as my friend Mr. Biglow would appear to be from some passages in his contribution for the current month. I would not, indeed, hastily suspect him of covertly glancing at myself in his somewhat caustick animadversions, albeit some of the phrases he girds at are not entire strangers to my lips. I am a more hearty admirer of the Puritans than seems now to be the fashion, and believe, that, if they Hebraized a little too much in their speech, they showed remarkable practical sagacity as statesmen and founders. But such phenomena as Puritanism are the results rather of great religious than of merely social convulsions, and do not long survive them. So soon as an earnest conviction has cooled into a phrase, its work is over, and the best that can be done with it is to bury it. _Ite, missa est_. I am inclined to agree with Mr. Biglow that we cannot settle the great political questions which are now presenting themselves to the nation by the opinions of Jeremiah or Ezekiel as to the wants and duties of the Jews in their time, nor do I believe that an entire community with their feelings and views would be practicable or even agreeable at the present day. At the same time I could wish that their habit of subordinating the actual to the moral, the flesh to the spirit, and this world to the other, were more common. They had found out, at least, the great military secret that soul weighs more than body.--But I am suddenly called to a sick-bed in the household of a valued parishioner.

With esteem and respect,

Your obedient servant,

HOMER WILBUR.

Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, An' it clings hold like precerdents in law: Your gra'ma'am put it there,--when, goodness knows,-- To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es; But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?) An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; 10 But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk.

Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' head, So's't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers With furrin countries or played-out ideers, Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back: This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,-- 20 (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)-- This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, Which 'tain't, for all the almanicks can say.

O little city-gals, don't never go it Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet! They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks Up in the country ez it doos in books; They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives, Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. 30 I, with my trouses perched on cowhide boots, Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes: I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, Our Pilgrim stock wuz pethed with hardihood. Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch, Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; 40 But yit we du contrive to worry thru, Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du, An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, Ez stiddily ez though 'twuz a redoubt.

I, country-born an' bred, know where to find Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,-- Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, Each on 'em's cradle to a baby-pearl,-- 50 But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin, The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in; For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't, 'twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you 'most give up, 'uthout more words Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds; Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it _doos_ git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! 60

Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-- Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head aginst the wind, 'fore long the trees begin to show belief,-- The maple crimsons to a coral-reef. Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold Softer 'n a baby's be at three days old: 70 Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther's only blossom-snows; So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house.

Then seems to come a hitch,--things lag behind. Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, 80 Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits eyerythin' in tune An' gives one leap from Aperl into June; Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red--cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 90 The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o'shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try, With pins,--they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! But I don't love your cat'logue style,--do you?-- Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo; 100 One word with blood in 't's twice ez good ez two: 'nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.

I ollus feel the sap start in my veins In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains Thet drive me, when I git a chance to walk 110 Off by myself to hev a privit talk With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree Along o' me like most folks,--Mister Me. Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone, An' sort o' suffercate to be alone,-- I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, 120 My innard vane pints east for weeks together, My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, The crook'dest stick in all the heap,--Myself.

'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time: Findin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme With nobody's, but off the hendle flew 130 An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view, I started off to lose me in the hills Where the pines be, up back o' 'Siah's Mills: Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,-- They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, You half-forgit you've gut a body on. Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four roads meet, The door-steps hollered out by little feet, An' side-posts carved with names whose owners grew 140 To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, tu; 'tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut: Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now: I guess We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less, For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin' By overloadin' children's underpinnin': Wal, here it wuz I larned my ABC, An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me.

We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute 150 Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it; Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,-- Soon ez it's past, _thet_ time's wuth ten o' this; An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man: Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy Like dreamin' back along into a boy: So the ole school'us' is a place I choose 160 Afore all others, ef I want to muse; I set down where I used to set, an' git My boyhood back, an' better things with it,-- Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it isn't Cherrity, It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity,-- While Fancy's cushin', free to Prince and Clown, Makes the hard bench ez soft ez milk-weed-down.

Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon When I sot out to tramp myself in tune, I found me in the school'us' on my seat, 170 Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet. Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell: I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' Hell, Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor (A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't _feel_ none the better for); I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win 180 Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin: I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the wits, So much a month, warn't givin' Natur' fits,-- Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their own milk fail, To work the cow thet hez an iron tail, An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the pan Would send up cream to humor ary man: From this to thet I let my worryin' creep. Till finally I must ha' fell asleep.

Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide 190 'twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day, An' down towards To-morrer drift away, The imiges thet tengle on the stream Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream: Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's, An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, 200 Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right. I'm gret on dreams, an' often when I wake, I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache. An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer 'thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer.

Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed, An' ain't sure yit whether I r'ally dreamed, Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep', When I hearn some un stompin' up the step, An' lookin' round, ef two an' two make four, 210 I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs, An' his gret sword behind him sloped away Long 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.-- 'Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name Hosee,' sez he, 'it's arter you I came: I'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied by three.'-- 'My _wut?_' sez I.--'Your gret-gret-gret,' sez he: 'You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. 220 Two hundred an' three year ago this May The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay; I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,-- But wut on airth hev _you_ gut up one for? Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you To git a notion you can du 'em tu: I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, It's nateral you should know a thing or two.'-- 'Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,-- 'twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: 230 For brains,' sez I, 'wutever you may think, Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an'-ink,-- Though mos' folks write ez ef they hoped jes' quickenin' The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin'; But skim-milk ain't a thing to change its view O' wut it's meant for more 'n a smoky flue. But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, How in all Natur' did you come to know 'bout our affairs,' sez I, 'in Kingdom-Come?'-- 'Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, 240 An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,' Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-split Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'.'-- 'Gran'ther,' sez I, 'a vane warn't never known Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own; An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints. It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: 250 It knows the wind's opinions to a T, An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be.' 'I never thought a scion of our stock Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock; When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver, No airthly wind,' sez he, 'could make me waver!' (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)-- 'Jes so it wuz with me,' sez I, 'I swow. When _I_ wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,-- 260 Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it; But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find It's a sight harder to make up my mind,-- Nor I don't often try tu, when events Will du it for me free of all expense. The moral question's ollus plain enough,-- It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough; 'Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,-- The pinch comes in decidin' wut to _du;_ 270 Ef you _read_ History, all runs smooth ez grease, Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,-- But come to _make_ it, ez we must to-day, Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way; It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,-- They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers; But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then Your facts and figgers change to ign'ant men Actin' ez ugly--'--'Smite 'em hip an' thigh!' Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280 Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord! Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword!'-- 'Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, But you forgit how long it's ben A.D.; You think thet's ellerkence,--I call it shoddy, A thing,' sez I, 'wun't cover soul nor body; I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence, _You_ took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned, An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second; Now wut I want's to hev all _we_ gain stick, 291 An' not to start Millennium too quick; We hain't to punish only, but to keep, An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep.' 'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,' Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru; Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally. Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split, Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: 300 Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe'-- 'Our Charles,' sez I, 'hez gut eight million necks. The hardest question ain't the black man's right, The trouble is to 'mancipate the white; One's chained in body an' can be sot free, But t'other's chained in soul to an idee: It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it; Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must du it.' 'Hosee,' sez he, 'I think you're goin' to fail: The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; 310 This 'ere rebellion's nothing but the rettle,-- You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle: It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head, An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,-- An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin' Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!'-- 'God's truth!' sez I,--'an' ef _I_ held the club, An' knowed jes' where to strike,--but there's the rub!'-- 'Strike soon,' sez he, 'or you'll be deadly ailin',-- Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; 320 God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe He'll settle things they run away an' leave!' He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke, An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.

No. VII

LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW

PRELIMINARY NOTE

[It is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A.M., which took place suddenly, by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his eighty-fourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D.D., and was called to the charge of the First Society in Jaalam in 1809, where he remained till his death.

'As an antiquary he has probably left no superior, if, indeed, an equal,' writes his friend and colleague, the Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, to whom we are indebted for the above facts; 'in proof of which I need only allude to his "History of Jaalam, Genealogical, Topographical, and Ecclesiastical," 1849, which has won him an eminent and enduring place in our more solid and useful literature. It is only to be regretted that his intense application to historical studies should have so entirely withdrawn him from the pursuit of poetical composition, for which he was endowed by Nature with a remarkable aptitude. His well-known hymn, beginning "With clouds of care encompassed round," has been attributed in some collections to the late President Dwight, and it is hardly presumptuous to affirm that the simile of the rainbow in the eighth stanza would do no discredit to that polished pen.'

We regret that we have not room at present for the whole of Mr. Hitchcock's exceedingly valuable communication. We hope to lay more liberal extracts from it before our readers at an early day. A summary of its contents will give some notion of its importance and interest. It contains: 1st, A biographical sketch of Mr. Wilbur, with notices of his predecessors in the pastoral office, and of eminent clerical contemporaries; 2d, An obituary of deceased, from the Punkin-Falls 'Weekly Parallel;' 3d, A list of his printed and manuscript productions and of projected works; 4th, Personal anecdotes and recollections, with specimens of table-talk; 5th, A tribute to his relict, Mrs. Dorcas (Pilcox) Wilbur; 6th, A list of graduates fitted for different colleges by Mr. Wilbur, with biographical memoranda touching the more distinguished; 7th, Concerning learned, charitable, and other societies, of which Mr. Wilbur was a member, and of those with which, had his life been prolonged, he would doubtless have been associated, with a complete catalogue of such Americans as have been Fellows of the Royal Society; 8th, A brief summary of Mr. Wilbur's latest conclusions concerning the Tenth Horn of the Beast in its special application to recent events, for which the public, as Mr. Hitchcock assures us, have been waiting with feelings of lively anticipation; 9th, Mr. Hitchcock's own views on the same topic; and, 10th, A brief essay on the importance of local histories. It will be apparent that the duty of preparing Mr. Wilbur's biography could not have fallen into more sympathetic hands.

In a private letter with which the reverend gentleman has since favored us, he expresses the opinion that Mr. Wilbur's life was shortened by our unhappy civil war. It disturbed his studies, dislocated all his habitual associations and trains of thought, and unsettled the foundations of a faith, rather the result of habit than conviction, in the capacity of man for self-government. 'Such has been the felicity of my life,' he said to Mr. Hitchcock, on the very morning of the day he died, 'that, through the divine mercy, I could always say, _Summum nec metuo diem, nec opto_. It has been my habit, as you know, on every recurrence of this blessed anniversary, to read Milton's "Hymn of the Nativity" till its sublime harmonies so dilated my soul and quickened its spiritual sense that I seemed to hear that other song which gave assurance to the shepherds that there was One who would lead them also in green pastures and beside the still waters. But to-day I have been unable to think of anything but that mournful text, "I came not to send peace, but a sword," and, did it not smack of Pagan presumptuousness, could almost wish I had never lived to see this day.'

Mr. Hitchcock also informs us that his friend 'lies buried in the Jaalam graveyard, under a large red-cedar which he specially admired. A neat and substantial monument is to be erected over his remains, with a Latin epitaph written by himself; for he was accustomed to say, pleasantly, "that there was at least one occasion in a scholar's life when he might show the advantages of a classical training."'

The following fragment of a letter addressed to us, and apparently intended to accompany Mr. Biglow's contribution to the present number, was found upon his table after his decease.--EDITORS ATLANTIC MONTHLY.]

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, 24th Dec., 1862.

RESPECTED SIRS,--- The infirm state of my bodily health would be a sufficient apology for not taking up the pen at this time, wholesome as I deem it for the mind to apricate in the shelter of epistolary confidence, were it not that a considerable, I might even say a large, number of individuals in this parish expect from their pastor some publick expression of sentiment at this crisis. Moreover, _Qui tacitus ardet magis uritur_. In trying times like these, the besetting sin of undisciplined minds is to seek refuge from inexplicable realities in the dangerous stimulant of angry partisanship or the indolent narcotick of vague and hopeful vaticination: _fortunamque suo temperat arbitrio_. Both by reason of my age and my natural temperament, I am unfitted for either. Unable to penetrate the inscrutable judgments of God, I am more than ever thankful that my life has been prolonged till I could in some small measure comprehend His mercy. As there is no man who does not at some time render himself amenable to the one,--_quum vix justus sit securus_,--so there is none that does not feel himself in daily need of the other.

I confess I cannot feel, as some do, a personal consolation for the manifest evils of this war in any remote or contingent advantages that may spring from it. I am old and weak, I can bear little, and can scarce hope to see better days; nor is it any adequate compensation to know that Nature is young and strong and can bear much. Old men philosophize over the past, but the present is only a burthen and a weariness. The one lies before them like a placid evening landscape; the other is full of vexations and anxieties of housekeeping. It may be true enough that _miscet hæc illis, prohibetque Clotho fortunam stare_, but he who said it was fain at last to call in Atropos with her shears before her time; and I cannot help selfishly mourning that the fortune of our Republick could not at least stay till my days were numbered.

Tibullus would find the origin of wars in the great exaggeration of riches, and does not stick to say that in the days of the beechen trencher there was peace. But averse as I am by nature from all wars, the more as they have been especially fatal to libraries, I would have this one go on till we are reduced to wooden platters again, rather than surrender the principle to defend which it was undertaken. Though I believe Slavery to have been the cause of it, by so thoroughly demoralizing Northern politicks for its own purposes as to give opportunity and hope to treason, yet I would not have our thought and purpose diverted from their true object,--the maintenance of the idea of Government. We are not merely suppressing an enormous riot, but contending for the possibility of permanent order coexisting with democratical fickleness; and while I would not superstitiously venerate form to the sacrifice of substance, neither would I forget that an adherence to precedent and prescription can alone give that continuity and coherence under a democratical constitution which are inherent in the person of a despotick monarch and the selfishness of an aristocratieal class. _Stet pro ratione voluntas_ is as dangerous in a majority as in a tyrant.

I cannot allow the present production of my young friend to go out without a protest from me against a certain extremeness in his views, more pardonable in the poet than in the philosopher. While I agree with him, that the only cure for rebellion is suppression by force, yet I must animadvert upon certain phrases where I seem to see a coincidence with a popular fallacy on the subject of compromise. On the one hand there are those who do not see that the vital principle of Government and the seminal principle of Law cannot properly be made a subject of compromise at all, and on the other those who are equally blind to the truth that without a compromise of individual opinions, interests, and even rights, no society would be possible. _In medio tutissimus_. For my own part, I would gladly--

Ef I a song or two could make Like rockets druv by their own burnin', All leap an' light, to leave a wake Men's hearts an' faces skyward turnin'!-- But, it strikes me, 'tain't jest the time Fer stringin' words with settisfaction: Wut's wanted now's the silent rhyme 'Twixt upright Will an' downright Action.

Words, ef you keep 'em, pay their keep, But gabble's the short cut to ruin; 10 It's gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheap At no rate, ef it henders doin'; Ther' 's nothin' wuss, 'less 'tis to set A martyr-prem'um upon jawrin': Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet Their lids down on 'em with Fort Warren.

'Bout long enough it's ben discussed Who sot the magazine afire, An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust, 'Twould scare us more or blow us higher. 20 D' ye spose the Gret Foreseer's plan Wuz settled fer him in town-meetin'? Or thet ther'd ben no Fall o' Man, Ef Adam'd on'y bit a sweetin'?

Oh, Jon'than, ef you want to be A rugged chap agin an' hearty, Go fer wutever'll hurt Jeff D., Nut wut'll boost up ary party. Here's hell broke loose, an' we lay flat With half the univarse a-singe-in', 30 Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor Thet Stop squabblin' fer the gardingingin.

It's war we're in, not politics; It's systems wrastlin' now, not parties; An' victory in the eend'll fix Where longest will an' truest heart is, An' wut's the Guv'ment folks about? Tryin' to hope ther' 's nothin' doin', An' look ez though they didn't doubt Sunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'. 40

Ther' 's critters yit thet talk an' act Fer wut they call Conciliation; They'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract When they wuz madder than all Bashan. Conciliate? it jest means _be kicked_, No metter how they phrase an' tone it; It means thet we're to set down licked, Thet we're poor shotes an' glad to own it!

A war on tick's ez dear 'z the deuce, But it wun't leave no lastin' traces, 50 Ez 'twould to make a sneakin' truce Without no moral specie-basis: Ef greenbacks ain't nut jest the cheese, I guess ther' 's evils thet's extremer,-- Fer instance,--shinplaster idees Like them put out by Gov'nor Seymour.

Last year, the Nation, at a word, When tremblin' Freedom cried to shield her, Flamed weldin' into one keen sword Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder: A splendid flash!--but how'd the grasp 61 With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp,-- Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally.

More men? More man! It's there we fail; Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin': Wut use in addin' to the tail, When it's the head's in need o' strengthenin'? We wanted one thet felt all Chief From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', 70 Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief In him an' us, ef earth went rockin'!

Ole Hick'ry wouldn't ha' stood see-saw 'Bout doin' things till they wuz done with,-- He'd smashed the tables o' the Law In time o' need to load his gun with; He couldn't see but jest one side,-- Ef his, 'twuz God's, an' thet wuz plenty; An' so his '_Forrards!_' multiplied An army's fightin' weight by twenty. 80

But this 'ere histin', creak, creak, creak, Your cappen's heart up with a derrick, This tryin' to coax a lightnin'-streak Out of a half-discouraged hayrick, This hangin' on mont' arter mont' Fer one sharp purpose 'mongst the twitter,-- I tell ye, it doos kind o' stunt The peth and sperit of a critter.

In six months where'll the People be, Ef leaders look on revolution 90 Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea,-- Jest social el'ments in solution? This weighin' things doos wal enough When war cools down, an' comes to writin'; But while it's makin', the true stuff Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'.

Democ'acy gives every man The right to be his own oppressor; But a loose Gov'ment ain't the plan, Helpless ez spilled beans on a dresser: 100 I tell ye one thing we might larn From them smart critters, the Seceders,-- Ef bein' right's the fust consarn, The 'fore-the-fust's cast-iron leaders.

But 'pears to me I see some signs Thet we're a-goin' to use our senses: Jeff druv us into these hard lines, An' ough' to bear his half th' expenses; Slavery's Secession's heart an' will, South, North, East, West, where'er you find it, 110 An' ef it drors into War's mill, D'ye say them thunder-stones sha'n't grind it?

D' ye s'pose, ef Jeff giv _him_ a lick, Ole Hick'ry'd tried his head to sof'n So's 'twouldn't hurt thet ebony stick Thet's made our side see stars so of'n? 'No!' he'd ha' thundered, 'on your knees, An' own one flag, one road to glory! Soft-heartedness, in times like these, Shows sof'ness in the upper story!' 120

An' why should we kick up a muss About the Pres'dunt's proclamation? It ain't a-goin' to lib'rate us, Ef we don't like emancipation: The right to be a cussed fool Is safe from all devices human, It's common (ez a gin'l rule) To every critter born o' woman.

So _we're_ all right, an' I, fer one, Don't think our cause'll lose in vally 130 By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun, An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally: Thank God, say I, fer even a plan To lift one human bein's level, Give one more chance to make a man, Or, anyhow, to spile a devil!

Not thet I'm one thet much expec' Millennium by express to-morrer; They _will_ miscarry,--I rec'lec' Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer: Men ain't made angels in a day, 141 No matter how you mould an' labor 'em, Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay With Abe so of'n ez with Abraham.

The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing, An' wants the banns read right ensuin'; But fact wun't noways wear the ring, 'Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin': Though, arter all, Time's dial-plate Marks cent'ries with the minute-finger, 150 An' Good can't never come tu late, Though it does seem to try an' linger.

An' come wut will, I think it's grand Abe's gut his will et last bloom-furnaced In trial-flames till it'll stand The strain o' bein' in deadly earnest: Thet's wut we want,--we want to know The folks on our side hez the bravery To b'lieve ez hard, come weal, come woe, In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery. 160

Set the two forces foot to foot, An' every man knows who'll be winner, Whose faith in God hez ary root Thet goes down deeper than his dinner: _Then_ 'twill be felt from pole to pole, Without no need o' proclamation, Earth's biggest Country's gut her soul An' risen up Earth's Greatest Nation!

No. VIII

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

PRELIMINARY MOTE

[In the month of February, 1866, the editors of the 'Atlantic Monthly' received from the Rev. Mr. Hitchcock of Jaalam a letter enclosing the macaronic verses which follow, and promising to send more, if more should be communicated. 'They were rapped out on the evening of Thursday last past,' he says, 'by what claimed to be the spirit of my late predecessor in the ministry here, the Rev. Dr. Wilbur, through the medium of a young man at present domiciled in my family. As to the possibility of such spiritual manifestations, or whether they be properly so entitled, I express no opinion, as there is a division of sentiment on that subject in the parish, and many persons of the highest respectability in social standing entertain opposing views. The young man who was improved as a medium submitted himself to the experiment with manifest reluctance, and is still unprepared to believe in the authenticity of the manifestations. During his residence with me his deportment has always been exemplary; he has been constant in his attendance upon our family devotions and the public ministrations of the Word, and has more than once privately stated to me, that the latter had often brought him under deep concern of mind. The table is an ordinary quadrupedal one, weighing about thirty pounds, three feet seven inches and a half in height, four feet square on the top, and of beech or maple, I am not definitely prepared to say which. It had once belonged to my respected predecessor, and had been, so far as I can learn upon careful inquiry, of perfectly regular and correct habits up to the evening in question. On that occasion the young man previously alluded to had been sitting with his hands resting carelessly upon it, while I read over to him at his request certain portions of my last Sabbath's discourse. On a sudden the rappings, as they are called, commenced to render themselves audible, at first faintly, but in process of time more distinctly and with violent agitation of the table. The young man expressed himself both surprised and pained by the wholly unexpected, and, so far as he was concerned, unprecedented occurrence. At the earnest solicitation, however, of several who happened to be present, he consented to go on with the experiment, and with the assistance of the alphabet commonly employed in similar emergencies, the following communication was obtained and written down immediately by myself. Whether any, and if so, how much weight should be attached to it, I venture no decision. That Dr. Wilbur had sometimes employed his leisure in Latin versification I have ascertained to be the case, though all that has been discovered of that nature among his papers consists of some fragmentary passages of a version into hexameters of portions of the Song of Solomon. These I had communicated about a week or ten days previous[ly] to the young gentleman who officiated as medium in the communication afterwards received. I have thus, I believe, stated all the material facts that have any elucidative bearing upon this mysterious occurrence.'

So far Mr. Hitchcock, who seems perfectly master of Webster's unabridged quarto, and whose flowing style leads him into certain farther expatiations for which we have not room. We have since learned that the young man he speaks of was a sophomore, put under his care during a sentence of rustication from ---- College, where he had distinguished himself rather by physical experiments on the comparative power of resistance in window-glass to various solid substances, than in the more regular studies of the place. In answer to a letter of inquiry, the professor of Latin says, 'There was no harm in the boy that I know of beyond his loving mischief more than Latin, nor can I think of any spirits likely to possess him except those commonly called animal. He was certainly not remarkable for his Latinity, but I see nothing in the verses you enclose that would lead me to think them beyond his capacity, or the result of any special inspiration whether of beech or maple. Had that of _birch_ been tried upon him earlier and more faithfully, the verses would perhaps have been better in quality and certainly in quantity.' This exact and thorough scholar then goes on to point out many false quantities and barbarisms. It is but fair to say, however, that the author, whoever he was, seems not to have been unaware of some of them himself, as is shown by a great many notes appended to the verses as we received them, and purporting to be by Scaliger, Bentley, and others,--among them the _Esprit de Voltaire_! These we have omitted as clearly meant to be humorous and altogether failing therein.

Though entirely satisfied that the verses are altogether unworthy of Mr. Wilbur, who seems to Slave been a tolerable Latin scholar after the fashion of his day, yet we have determined to print them here, partly as belonging to the _res gestæ_ of this collection, and partly as a warning to their putative author which may keep him from such indecorous pranks for the future.]

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

P. Ovidii Nasonis carmen heroicum macaronicum perplexametrum, inter Getas getico moro compostum, denuo per medium ardentispiritualem adjuvante mensâ diabolice obsessâ, recuperatum, curâque Jo. Conradi Schwarzii umbræ, allis necnon plurimis adjuvantibus, restitutum.

LIBER I

Punctorum garretos colens et cellara Quinque, Gutteribus quæ et gaudes sunday-am abstingere frontem, Plerumque insidos solita fluitare liquore Tanglepedem quem homines appellant Di quoque rotgut, Pimpliidis, rubicundaque, Musa, O, bourbonolensque, Fenianas rixas procul, alma, brogipotentis Patricii cyathos iterantis et horrida bella, Backos dum virides viridis Brigitta remittit, Linquens, eximios celebrem, da, Virginienses Rowdes, præcipue et TE, heros alte, Polarde! 10 Insignes juvenesque, illo certamine lictos, Colemane, Tylere, nec vos oblivione relinquam.

Ampla aquilæ invictæ fausto est sub tegmine terra, Backyfer, ooiskeo pollens, ebenoque bipede, Socors præsidum et altrix (denique quidruminantium), Duplefveorum uberrima; illis et integre cordi est Deplere assidue et sine proprio incommodo fiscum; Nunc etiam placidum hoc opus invictique secuti, Goosam aureos ni eggos voluissent immo necare Quæ peperit, saltem ac de illis meliora merentem. 20

Condidit hanc Smithius Dux, Captinus inclytus ille Regis Ulyssæ instar, docti arcum intendere longum; Condidit ille Johnsmith, Virginiamque vocavit, Settledit autem Jacobus rex, nomine primus, Rascalis implens ruptis, blagardisque deboshtis, Militibusque ex Falstaffi legione fugatis Wenchisque illi quas poterant seducere nuptas; Virgineum, ah, littus matronis talibus impar! Progeniem stirpe ex hoc non sine stigmate ducunt Multi sese qui jactant regum esse nepotes: 30 Haud omnes, Mater, genitos quæ nuper habebas Bello fortes, consilio cautos, virtute decoros, Jamque et habes, sparso si patrio in sanguine virtus, Mostrabisque iterum, antiquis sub astris reducta! De illis qui upkikitant, dicebam, rumpora tanta, Letcheris et Floydis magnisque Extra ordine Billis; Est his prisca fides jurare et breakere wordum: Poppere fellerum a tergo, aut stickere clam bowiknifo, Haud sane facinus, dignum sed victrice lauro; Larrupere et nigerum, factum præstantius ullo: 40 Ast chlamydem piciplumatam, Icariam, flito et ineptam, Yanko gratis induere, illum et valido railo Insuper acri equitare docere est hospitio uti.

Nescio an ille Polardus duplefveoribus ortus, Sed reputo potius de radice poorwitemanorum; Fortuiti proles, ni fallor, Tylerus erat Præsidis, omnibus ab Whiggis nominatus a poor cuss; Et nobilem tertium evincit venerabile nomen. Ast animosi omnes bellique ad tympana ha! ha! Vociferant læti, procul et si proelia, sive 50 Hostem incautum atsito possint shootere salvi; Imperiique capaces, esset si stylus agmen, Pro dulci spoliabant et sine dangere fito. Præ ceterisque Polardus: si Secessia licta, Se nunquam licturum jurat res et unheardof, Verbo hæsit, similisque audaci roosteri invicto, Dunghilli solitus rex pullos whoppere molles, Grantum, hirelingos stripes quique et splendida tollunt Sidera, et Yankos, territum et omnem sarsuit orbem.

Usque dabant operam isti omnes, noctesque diesque, 60 Samuelem demulgere avunculum, id vero siccum; Uberibus sed ejus, et horum est culpa, remotis, Parvam domi vaccam, nec mora minima, quærunt, Lacticarentem autem et droppam vix in die dantem; Reddite avunculi, et exclamabant, reddite pappam! Polko ut consule, gemens, Billy immurmurat Extra; Echo respondit, thesauro ex vacuo, pappam! Frustra explorant pocketa, ruber nare repertum; Officia expulsi aspiciunt rapta, et Paradisum Occlusum, viridesque Laud illis nascere backos; 70 Stupent tunc oculis madidis spittantque silenter. Adhibere usu ast longo vires prorsus inepti, Si non ut qui grindeat axve trabemve reuolvat, Virginiam excruciant totis nunc mightibu' matrem; Non melius, puta, nono panis dimidiumne est?

Readere ibi non posse est casus commoner ullo; Tanto intentius imprimere est opus ergo statuta; Nemo propterea pejor, melior, sine doubto, Obtineat qui contractum, si et postea rhino; Ergo Polardus, si quis, inexsuperabilis heros, 80 Colemanus impavidus nondum, atque in purpure natus Tylerus Iohanides celerisque in flito Nathaniel, Quisque optans digitos in tantum stickere pium, Adstant accincti imprimere aut perrumpere leges: Quales os miserum rabidi tres ægre molossi, Quales aut dubium textum atra in veste ministri, Tales circumstabant nunc nostri inopes hoc job.

Hisque Polardus voce canoro talia fatus: Primum autem, veluti est mos, præceps quisque liquorat, Quisque et Nicotianum ingens quid inserit atrum, 90 Heroûm nitidum decus et solamen avitum, Masticat ac simul altisonans, spittatque profuse: Quis de Virginia meruit præstantius unquam? Quis se pro patria curavit impigre tutum? Speechisque articulisque hominum quis fortior ullus, Ingeminans pennæ lickos et vulnera vocis? Quisnam putidius (hic) sarsuit Yankinimicos, Sæpius aut dedit ultro datam et broke his parolam? Mente inquassatus solidâque, tyranno minante, Horrisonis (hic) bombis moenia et alta quatente, 100 Sese promptum (hic) jactans Yankos lickere centum, Atque ad lastum invictus non surrendidit unquam? Ergo haud meddlite, posco, mique relinquite (hic) hoc job, Si non--knifumque enormem mostrat spittatque tremendus.

Dixerat: ast alii reliquorant et sine pauso Pluggos incumbunt maxillis, uterque vicissim Certamine innocuo valde madidam inquinat assem: Tylerus autem, dumque liquorat aridus hostis, Mirum aspicit duplumque bibentem, astante Lyæo; Ardens impavidusque edidit tamen impia verba; 110 Duplum quamvis te aspicio, esses atque viginti, Mendacem dicerem totumque (hic) thrasherem acervum; Nempe et thrasham, doggonatus (hic) sim nisi faxem; Lambastabo omnes catawompositer-(hic) que chawam! Dixit et impulsus Ryeo ruitur bene titus, Illi nam gravidum caput et laterem habet in hatto.

Hunc inhiat titubansque Polardus, optat et illum Stickere inermem, protegit autem rite Lyæus, Et pronos geminos, oculis dubitantibus, heros Cernit et irritus hostes, dumque excogitat utrum 120 Primum inpitchere, corruit, inter utrosque recumbit, Magno asino similis nimio sub pondere quassus: Colemanus hos moestus, triste ruminansque solamen, Inspicit hiccans, circumspittat terque cubantes; Funereisque his ritibus humidis inde solutis, Sternitur, invalidusque illis superincidit infans; Hos sepelit somnus et snorunt cornisonantes, Watchmanus inscios ast calybooso deinde reponit.

No. IX

[The Editors of the 'Atlantic' have received so many letters of inquiry concerning the literary remains of the late Mr. Wilbur, mentioned by his colleague and successor, Rev. Jeduthun Hitchcock, in a communication from which we made some extracts in our number for February, 1863, and have been so repeatedly urged to print some part of them for the gratification of the public, that they felt it their duty at least to make some effort to satisfy so urgent a demand. They have accordingly carefully examined the papers intrusted to them, but find most of the productions of Mr. Wilbur's pen so fragmentary, and even chaotic, written as they are on the backs of letters in an exceedingly cramped chirography,--here a memorandum for a sermon; there an observation of the weather; now the measurement of an extraordinary head of cabbage, and then of the cerebral capacity of some reverend brother deceased; a calm inquiry into the state of modern literature, ending in a method of detecting if milk be impoverished with water, and the amount thereof; one leaf beginning with a genealogy, to be interrupted halfway down with an entry that the brindle cow had calved,--that any attempts at selection seemed desperate. His only complete work, 'An Enquiry concerning the Tenth Horn of the Beast,' even in the abstract of it given by Mr. Hitchcock, would, by a rough computation of the printers, fill five entire numbers of our journal, and as he attempts, by a new application of decimal fractions, to identify it with the Emperor Julian, seems hardly of immediate concern to the general reader. Even the Table-Talk, though doubtless originally highly interesting in the domestic circle, is so largely made up of theological discussion and matters of local or preterite interest, that we have found it hard to extract anything that would at all satisfy expectation. But, in order to silence further inquiry, we subjoin a few passages as illustrations of its general character.]

I think I could go near to be a perfect Christian if I were always a visitor, as I have sometimes been, at the house of some hospitable friend. I can show a great deal of self-denial where the best of everything is urged upon me with kindly importunity. It is not so very hard to turn the other cheek for a kiss. And when I meditate upon the pains taken for our entertainment in this life, on the endless variety of seasons, of human character and fortune, on the costliness of the hangings and furniture of our dwelling here, I sometimes feel a singular joy in looking upon myself as God's guest, and cannot but believe that we should all be wiser and happier, because more grateful, if we were always mindful of our privilege in this regard. And should we not rate more cheaply any honor that men could pay us, if we remembered that every day we sat at the table of the Great King? Yet must we not forget that we are in strictest bonds His servants also; for there is no impiety so abject as that which expects to be _deadheaded (ut ita dicam)_ through life, and which, calling itself trust in Providence, is in reality asking Providence to trust us and taking up all our goods on false pretences. It is a wise rule to take the world as we find it, not always to leave it so.

It has often set me thinking when I find that I can always pick up plenty of empty nuts under my shagbark-tree. The squirrels know them by their lightness, and I have seldom seen one with the marks of their teeth in it. What a school-house is the world, if our wits would only not play truant! For I observe that men set most store by forms and symbols in proportion as they are mere shells. It is the outside they want and not the kernel. What stores of such do not many, who in material things are as shrewd as the squirrels, lay up for the spiritual winter-supply of themselves and their children! I have seen churches that seemed to me garners of these withered nuts, for it is wonderful how prosaic is the apprehension of symbols by the minds of most men. It is not one sect nor another, but all, who, like the dog of the fable, have let drop the spiritual substance of symbols for their material shadow. If one attribute miraculous virtues to mere holy water, that beautiful emblem of inward purification at the door of God's house, another cannot comprehend the significance of baptism without being ducked over head and ears in the liquid vehicle thereof.

[Perhaps a word of historical comment may be permitted here. My late reverend predecessor was, I would humbly affirm, as free from prejudice as falls to the lot of the most highly favored individuals of our species. To be sure, I have heard Him say that 'what were called strong prejudices were in fact only the repulsion of sensitive organizations from that moral and even physical effluvium through which some natures by providential appointment, like certain unsavory quadrupeds, gave warning of their neighborhood. Better ten mistaken suspicions of this kind than one close encounter.' This he said somewhat in heat, on being questioned as to his motives for always refusing his pulpit to those itinerant professors of vicarious benevolence who end their discourses by taking up a collection. But at another time I remember his saying, 'that there was one large thing which small minds always found room for, and that was great prejudices.' This, however, by the way. The statement which I purposed to make was simply this. Down to A.D. 1830, Jaalam had consisted of a single parish, with one house set apart for religions services. In that year the foundations of a Baptist Society were laid by the labors of Elder Joash Q. Balcom, 2d. As the members of the new body were drawn from the First Parish, Mr. Wilbur was for a time considerably exercised in mind. He even went so far as on one occasion to follow the reprehensible practice of the earlier Puritan divines in choosing a punning text, and preached from Hebrews xiii, 9: 'Be not carried about with _divers_ and strange doctrines.' He afterwards, in accordance with one of his own maxims,--'to get a dead injury out of the mind as soon as is decent, bury it, and then ventilate,'--in accordance with this maxim, I say, he lived on very friendly terms with Rev. Shearjashub Scrimgour, present pastor of the Baptist Society in Jaalam. Yet I think it was never unpleasing to him that the church edifice of that society (though otherwise a creditable specimen of architecture) remained without a bell, as indeed it does to this day. So much seemed necessary to do away with any appearance of acerbity toward a respectable community of professing Christians, which might be suspected in the conclusion of the above paragraph.--J.H.]

In lighter moods he was not averse from an innocent play upon words. Looking up from his newspaper one morning, as I entered his study, he said, 'When I read a debate in Congress, I feel as if I were sitting at the feet of Zeno in the shadow of the Portico.' On my expressing a natural surprise, he added, smiling, 'Why, at such times the only view which honorable members give me of what goes on in the world is through their intercalumniations.' I smiled at this after a moment's reflection, and he added gravely, 'The most punctilious refinement of manners is the only salt that will keep a democracy from stinking; and what are we to expect from the people, if their representatives set them such lessons? Mr. Everett's whole life has been a sermon from this text. There was, at least, this advantage in duelling, that it set a certain limit on the tongue. When Society laid by the rapier, it buckled on the more subtle blade of etiquette wherewith to keep obtrusive vulgarity at bay.' In this connection, I may be permitted to recall a playful remark of his upon another occasion. The painful divisions in the First Parish, A.D. 1844, occasioned by the wild notions in respect to the rights of (what Mr. Wilbur, so far as concerned the reasoning faculty, always called) the unfairer part of creation, put forth by Miss Parthenia Almira Fitz, are too well known to need more than a passing allusion. It was during these heats, long since happily allayed, that Mr. Wilbur remarked that 'the Church had more trouble in dealing with one _she_resiarch than with twenty _he_resiarchs,' and that the men's _conscia recti_, or certainty of being right, was nothing to the women's.

When I once asked his opinion of a poetical composition on which I had expended no little pains, he read it attentively, and then remarked 'Unless one's thought pack more neatly in verse than in prose, it is wiser to refrain. Commonplace gains nothing by being translated into rhyme, for it is something which no hocus-pocus can transubstantiate with the real presence of living thought. You entitle your piece, "My Mother's Grave," and expend four pages of useful paper in detailing your emotions there. But, my dear sir, watering does not improve the quality of ink, even though you should do it with tears. To publish a sorrow to Tom, Dick, and Harry is in some sort to advertise its unreality, for I have observed in my intercourse with the afflicted that the deepest grief instinctively hides its face with its hands and is silent. If your piece were printed, I have no doubt it would be popular, for people like to fancy that they feel much better than the trouble of feeling. I would put all poets on oath whether they have striven to say everything they possibly could think of, or to leave out all they could not help saying. In your own case, my worthy young friend, what you have written is merely a deliberate exercise, the gymnastic of sentiment. For your excellent maternal relative is still alive, and is to take tea with me this evening, D.V. Beware of simulated feeling; it is hypocrisy's first cousin; it is especially dangerous to a preacher; for he who says one day, "Go to, let me seem to be pathetic," may be nearer than he thinks to saying, "Go to, let me seem to be virtuous, or earnest, or under sorrow for sin." Depend upon it, Sappho loved her verses more sincerely than she did Phaon, and Petrarch his sonnets better than Laura, who was indeed but his poetical stalking-horse. After you shall have once heard that muffled rattle of clods on the coffin-lid of an irreparable loss, you will grow acquainted with a pathos that will make all elegies hateful. When I was of your age, I also for a time mistook my desire to write verses for an authentic call of my nature in that direction. But one day as I was going forth for a walk, with my head full of an "Elegy on the Death of Flirtilla," and vainly groping after a rhyme for _lily_ that should not be _silly_ or _chilly_, I saw my eldest boy Homer busy over the rain-water hogshead, in that childish experiment at parthenogenesis, the changing a horse-hair into a water-snake. All immersion of six weeks showed no change in the obstinate filament. Here was a stroke of unintended sarcasm. Had I not been doing in my study precisely what my boy was doing out of doors? Had my thoughts any more chance of coming to life by being submerged in rhyme than his hair by soaking in water? I burned my elegy and took a course of Edwards on the Will. People do not make poetry; it is made out of _them_ by a process for which I do not find myself fitted. Nevertheless, the writing of verses is a good rhetorical exercitation, as teaching us what to shun most carefully in prose. For prose bewitched is like window-glass with bubbles in it, distorting what it should show with pellucid veracity.'

It is unwise to insist on doctrinal points as vital to religion. The Bread of Life is wholesome and sufficing in itself, but gulped down with these kickshaws cooked up by theologians, it is apt to produce an indigestion, nay, eyen at last an incurable dyspepsia of scepticism.

One of the most inexcusable weaknesses of Americans is in signing their names to what are called credentials. But for my interposition, a person who shall be nameless would have taken from this town a recommendation for an office of trust subscribed by the selectmen and all the voters of both parties, ascribing to him as many good qualities as if it had been his tombstone. The excuse was that it would be well for the town to be rid of him, as it would erelong be obliged to maintain him. I would not refuse my name to modest merit, but I would be as cautious as in signing a bond. [I trust I shall be subjected to no imputation of unbecoming vanity, if I mention the fact that Mr. W. indorsed my own qualifications as teacher of the high-school at Pequash Junction. J.H.] When I see a certificate of character with everybody's name to it, I regard it as a letter of introduction from the Devil. Never give a man your name unless you are willing to trust him with your reputation.

There seem nowadays to be two sources of literary inspiration,--fulness of mind and emptiness of pocket.

I am often struck, especially in reading Montaigne, with the obviousness and familiarity of a great writer's thoughts, and the freshness they gain because said by him. The truth is, we mix their greatness with all they say and give it our best attention. Johannes Faber sic cogitavit would be no enticing preface to a book, but an accredited name gives credit like the signature to a note of hand. It is the advantage of fame that it is always privileged to take the world by the button, and a thing is weightier for Shakespeare's uttering it by the whole amount of his personality.

It is singular how impatient men are with overpraise of others, how patient with overpraise of themselves; and yet the one does them no injury while the other may he their ruin.

People are apt to confound mere alertness of mind with attention. The one is but the flying abroad of all the faculties to the open doors and windows at every passing rumor; the other is the concentration of every one of them in a single focus, as in the alchemist over his alembic at the moment of expected projection. Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumulated genius.

Do not look for the Millennium as imminent. One generation is apt to get all the wear it can out of the cast clothes of the last, and is always sure to use up every paling of the old fence that will hold a nail in building the new.

You suspect a kind of vanity in my genealogical enthusiasm. Perhaps you are right; but it is a universal foible. Where it does not show itself in a personal and private way, it becomes public and gregarious. We flatter ourselves in the Pilgrim Fathers, and the Virginian offshoot of a transported convict swells with the fancy ef a cavalier ancestry. Pride of birth, I have noticed, takes two forms. One complacently traces himself up to a coronet; another, defiantly, to a lapstone. The sentiment is precisely the same in both cases, only that one is the positive and the other the negative pole of it.

Seeing a goat the other day kneeling in order to graze with less trouble, it seemed to me a type of the common notion of prayer. Most people are ready enough to go down on their knees for material blessings, but how few for those spiritual gifts which alone are an answer to our orisons, if we but knew it!

Some people, nowadays, seem to have hit upon a new moralization of the moth and the candle. They would lock up the light of Truth, lest poor Psyche should put it out in her effort to draw nigh, to it.

No. X

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

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

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, April 5, 1866.

MY DEAR SIR,--

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you're some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the deffrence) I dunno ez I know Jest how to interdoose this las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Wilber allus called 'em, which is goin' to _be_ the last an' _stay_ the last onless sunthin' pertikler sh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ez pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence Mr. Wilbur's disease I hevn't hed no one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o' wine me up an' set the penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain't of the same brewin' nor I can't seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort of slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur is wal enough an' a site better'n most other kines I know on, but the other sort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord's makin' an' naterally more wonderfle an' sweet tastin' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. He used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile athout sayin' nothin' in pertickler an' I misdoubt he didn't set so much by the sec'nd Ceres as wut he done by the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort of fallin' off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwester _he_ wuz, but I tole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketch a good many times fust afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I see Jethro C. Swett from the meetin' house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' took up for dead but he's alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turnin' of it over I recelected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the frunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a spell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you'd go in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to go in fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu. I dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I guess they never du but tha must allus be a B'ginnin' to everythin' athout it is Etarnity so I'll begin rite away an' anybody may put it afore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim no paytent.

THE ARGYMUNT

Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself: thet's jest natur an' most gin'ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I've notist, to _one_ of the cumpany, an' thet's more than wut you can say of most speshes of talkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the orjunce by lettin' 'em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop thet they air about East, A one, an' no mistaik, skare 'em up an' take 'em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins witch nobuddy needn't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an' never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; expanded; delayted; extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so's to avide all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o' gin out. Subjick _re_staited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pump ag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick; stretches it; turns it; folds it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so's't, no one can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud to say nothin' in replye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfide he's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into his head. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back'ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads some xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. _Mis_states it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. Finely concloods to conclood. Yeels the flore.

You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doos an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made for: wut's left's jest pummis.

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, 'Hosee,' sez he, 'in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It's amazin' hard to come at,' sez he, 'but onct git it an' you've gut everythin'. Wut's the sweetest small on airth?' sez he. 'Noomone hay,' sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. 'Nawthin' of the kine,' sez he. 'My leetle Huldy's breath,' sez I ag'in. 'You're a good lad,' sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age,--'you're a good lad; but 'tain't thet nuther,' sez he. 'Ef you want to know,' sez he, 'open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and you'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, _fresh air_,' sez he, emphysizin', 'athout no mixtur. Thet's wut _I_ call natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a whiff on 't.' sez he. I often think o' thet when I set down to write but the winders air so ept to git stuck, an' breakin' a pane costs sunthin'.

Yourn for the last time,

_Nut_ to be continooed,

HOSEA BIGLOW.

I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit,-- Nut while the twolegged gab-machine's so plenty, 'nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty; I'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hard To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, An' maysure off, accordin' to demand, The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand, The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru, An' nothin' but the customer thet's new. 10 I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I've settled my idees, I find 'twarn't I sheered most in makin' up my mind; 'twuz this an' thet an' t'other thing thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I couldn' seek nor shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion, All th' ole flint-locks seems altered to percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint, Thet I'm percussion changin' back to flint; 20 Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Queen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,-- It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' margin To kin' o make its will afore dischargin': I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule,-- No man need go an' _make_ himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare.

Ez I wuz say'n', I hain't no chance to speak So's't all the country dreads me onct a week, 30 But I've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Thet sets to home an' thinks wut _might_ be said, The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!) 'mongst other stories of ole times he hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads, 40 (Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please; 'An',' sez the Parson, 'to hit right, you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't, when all's come an' past, The kebbige-heads'll cair the day et last; Th' ain't ben a meetin' sence the worl' begun But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one.' 50

I've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence then About ez good for talkin' tu ez men; They'll take edvice, like other folks, to keep, (To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu cheap,) They listen wal, don' kick up when you scold 'em, An' ef they've tongues, hev sense enough to hold 'em; Though th' ain't no denger we shall lose the breed, I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed, An' when my sappiness gits spry in spring, So's't my tongue itches to run on full swing, 60 I fin' 'em ready-planted in March-meetin', Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin', An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum the fence,-- Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f expense. This year I made the follerin' observations Extrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience, An', no reporters bein' sent express To work their abstrac's up into a mess Ez like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur' Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor, 70 I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies 'twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's.

(N.B. Reporters gin'lly git a hint To make dull orjunces seem 'live in print, An', ez I hev t' report myself, I vum, I'll put th' applauses where they'd _ough' to_ come!)

MY FELLER KEBBIGE-HEADS, who look so green, I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen The world of all its hearers but jest you, 'twould leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to, 80 An' you, my ven'able ol' frien's, thet show Upon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow, Ez ef mild Time had christened every sense For wisdom's church o' second innocence. Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing, But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring,-- [Sev'ril noses blowed.] We've gathered here, ez ushle, to decide Which is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side, Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen Is 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen. [Cries o' 'Thet's so.']

Aprul's come back; the swellin' buds of oak 91 Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke; The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen, (Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an' green; The birds are here, for all the season's late; They take the sun's height an' don' never wait; Soon 'z he officially declares it's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing, An' th' ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year; 100 But thet white dove Carliny seared away, Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day; Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last year An' coo by every housedoor, isn't here,-- No, nor wun't never be, for all our jaw, Till we're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war! O Lord, ef folks wuz made so's't they could see The begnet-pint there is to an idee! [Sensation.] Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel; They run your soul thru an' you never feel, 110 But crawl about an' seem to think you're livin', Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin', Tell you come bunt ag'in a real live feet, An' go to pieces when you'd ough' to ect! Thet kin' o' begnet's wut we're crossin' now, An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow, 'ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom Come, While t'other side druv their cold iron home.

My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth, No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South, 120 Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black, Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back; But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust To write up on his door, 'No goods on trust'; [Cries o' 'Thet's the ticket!'] Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, An' they'll be snug inside afore nex' fall. Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid'able an acre; Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore long A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong; 130 Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll begin To love their country ez they loved their sin; Let 'em stay Southun, an' you've kep' a sore Ready to fester ez it done afore. No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision, But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle, do you? 'Twas commonsense afore the war wuz thru; 140 _Thet_ loaded all our guns an' made 'em speak So's't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek; 'They're drivin' o' their spiles down now,' sez she, 'To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee; Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy needn't fear The tallest airthquakes _we_ can git up here.' Some call 't insultin' to ask _ary_ pledge, An' say 'twill only set their teeth on edge, But folks you've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see, Are 'bout ez mad 'z they wal know how to be; 150 It's better than the Rebs themselves expected 'fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected; Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast, For plain Truth's all the kindness thet'll last; Ef treason is a crime, ez _some_ folks say, How could we punish it in a milder way Than sayin' to 'em, 'Brethren, lookee here, We'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer, An' sence both come o' pooty strong-backed daddies, You take the Darkies, ez we've took the Paddies; 160 Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand, An' they're the bones an' sinners o' the land,' I ain't o' them thet fancy there's a loss on Every inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on; But I know this: our money's safest trusted In sunthin', come wut will, thet _can't_ be busted, An' thet's the old Amerikin idee, To make a man a Man an' let him be. [Gret applause.]

Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't, But I do' want to block their only road to 't 170 By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git Mor'n wut they lost, out of our little wit: I tell ye wut, I'm 'fraid we'll drif' to leeward 'thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward; He seems to think Columby'd better ect Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper; She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper, Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Tell he'll eccept her 'pologies in form: 180 The neighbors tell her he's a cross-grained cuss Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus; 'No,' sez Ma Seward, 'he's ez good 'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest;' 'He sarsed my Pa,' sez one; 'He stoned my son,' Another edds, 'Oh wal, 'twuz jes' his fun.' 'He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.' ''Twuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.' 'Wal, all we ask's to hev it understood You'll take his gun away from him for good; 190 We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play, Seem' he allus kin' o' shoots our way. You kill your fatted calves to no good eend, 'thout his fust sayin', "Mother, I hev sinned!"' ['Amen!' frum Deac'n Greenleaf]

The Pres'dunt _he_ thinks thet the slickest plan 'ould be t' allow thet he's our on'y man, An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war Jes' for his private glory an' eclor; 'Nobody ain't a Union man,' sez he, ''thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me; 200 Warn't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine? An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divine To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please, An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?' Wal, I expec' the People wouldn' care, if The question now wuz techin' bank or tariff, But I conclude they've 'bout made up their min' This ain't the fittest time to go it blin', Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings, But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things; 210 Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one day They wun't let four years' war be throwed away. 'Let the South hev her rights?' They say, 'Thet's you! But nut greb hold of other folks's tu.' Who owns this country, is it they or Andy? Leastways it ough' to be the People _and_ he; Let him be senior pardner, ef he's so, But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co; [Laughter.] Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbers Think thet the job wuz taken by Columbus. 220 Did he set tu an' make it wut it is? Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power _hez_ riz. Did he put thru the rebbles, clear the docket, An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket? Ef thet's the case, then everythin' I exes Is t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes. [Profoun' sensation.] Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns? Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons? Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we run A kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one? 230 An' is the country goin' to knuckle down To hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o'Brown? Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell? Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell? An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' way Till th' underpinnin's settled so's to stay? Who cares for the Resolves of '61, Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun? Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence then To larn folks they must hendle fects like men? 240 Ain't _this_ the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em? Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hevn't kep 'em? Warn't there _two_ sides? an' don't it stend to reason Thet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason? When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed, An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed.

I knowed ez wal ez though I'd seen 't with eyes Thet when the war wuz over copper'd rise, An' thet we'd hev a rile-up in our kettle 'twould need Leviathan's whole skin to settle: 250 I thought 'twould take about a generation 'fore we could wal begin to be a nation, But I allow I never did imegine 'twould be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge in To keep the split from closin' ef it could. An' healin' over with new wholesome wood; For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they think Thet law an' gov'ment's only printer's ink; I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin' The curus way in which the States are sovereign; 260 They ain't nut _quite_ enough so to rebel, But, when they fin' it's costly to raise h----, [A groan from Deac'n G.] Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason, They're 'most too much so to be tetched for treason; They _can't_ go out, but ef they somehow _du_, Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu; The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir, But stays to keep the door ajar for her. He thinks secession never took 'em out, An' mebby he's correc', but I misdoubt? 270 Ef they warn't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin, Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in? In law, p'r'aps nut; but there's a diffurence, ruther, Betwixt your mother-'n-law an' real mother, [Derisive cheers.] An' I, for one, shall wish they'd all ben _som'eres_, Long 'z U.S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers. But, O my patience! must we wriggle back Into th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track, When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cut Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut? 280 War's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slate Clean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate. [Applause.] Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet, 'twun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het: I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns, That pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns; Onct on a time the wolves hed certing rights Inside the fold; they used to sleep there nights, An' bein' cousins o' the dogs, they took Their turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book; 290 But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep, Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep, Till gradilly the shepherds come to see Things warn't agoin' ez they'd ough' to be; So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate Along 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight; They didn't seem to set much by the deacon, Nor preachin' didn' cow 'em, nut to speak on; Fin'ly they swore thet they'd go out an' stay, An' hev their fill o' mutton every day; 300 Then dogs an' shepherds, after much hard dammin', [Groan from Deac'n G.] Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin', An' sez, 'Ye sha'n't go out, the murrain rot ye, To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!' But then the question come, How live together 'thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether? Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep) Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep; They sez, 'Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in, An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in; 310 Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they're swearin'; To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.' 'Be gin'rous for yourselves, where _you_'re to pay, Thet's the best prectice,' sez a shepherd gray; 'Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button, Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton; Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle: Tell they're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle.' [Cries of 'Bully for you!']

I've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abetters Are in the hebbit o' producin' letters 320 Writ by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers, 'bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers; I've noticed, tu, it's the quack med'cine gits (An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits; [Two pothekeries goes out.] Now, sence I lef off creepin' on all fours, I hain't ast no man to endorse my course; It's full ez cheap to be your own endorser, An' ef I've made a cup, I'll fin' the saucer; But I've some letters here from t'other side, An' them's the sort thet helps me to decide; 330 Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker, An' I'll tell you jest where it's safe to anchor. [Faint hiss.] Fus'ly the Hon'ble B.O. Sawin writes Thet for a spell he couldn't sleep o' nights, Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to, Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto; Et fust he jedged 'twould right-side-up his pan To come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man, 'But now,' he sez, 'I ain't nut quite so fresh; The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh; 340 You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course, 'fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse; Now _we_'re the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track: Jest you take hol' an' read the follerin' extrac', Out of a letter I received last week From an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak, A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue, Born copper-sheathed an' copper-fastened tu.'

'These four years past it hez ben tough To say which side a feller went for; 350 Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough, An' nothin' duin' wut 'twuz meant for; Pickets a-firin' left an' right, Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,-- Life warn't wuth hardly payin' rent for.

'Columby gut her back up so, It warn't no use a-tryin' to stop her,-- War's emptin's riled her very dough An' made it rise an' act improper; 'Twuz full ez much ez I could du 360 To jes' lay low an' worry thru, 'Thout hevin' to sell out my copper.

'Afore the war your mod'rit men, Could set an' sun 'em on the fences, Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' then Jump off which way bes' paid expenses; Sence, 'twuz so resky ary way, _I_ didn't hardly darst to say I 'greed with Paley's Evidences. [Groan from Deac'n G.]

'Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fence 370 Warn't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't, Headin' your party with a sense O' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't, An' tryin' to think thet, on the whole, You kin' o' quasi own your soul When Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't? [Three cheers for Grant and Sherman.]

'Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould like Their pol'tics done ag'in by proxy; Give their noo loves the bag an' strike A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy; 380 But the drag's broke, now slavery's gone, An' there's gret resk they'll blunder on, Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy.

'We've gut an awful row to hoe In this 'ere job o' reconstructin'; Folks dunno skurce which way to go, Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in; But one thing's clear; there _is_ a crack, Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black, Where the ole makebate can be tucked in. 390

'No white man sets in airth's broad aisle Thet I ain't willin' t' own ez brother, An' ef he's happened to strike ile, I dunno, fin'ly, but I'd ruther; An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right, Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white, I hold one on 'em good 'z another, [Applause.]

'Wut _is_ there lef I'd like to know, Ef 'tain't the defference o' color, To keep up self-respec' an' show 400 The human natur' of a fullah? Wut good in bein' white, onless It's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess, We're a heap smarter an' they duller?

'Ef we're to hev our ekle rights, 'twun't du to 'low no competition; Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whites Ain't safe onless we stop th' emission O' these noo notes, whose specie base Is human natur', thout no trace 410 O' shape, nor color, nor condition. [Continood applause.]

'So fur I'd writ an' couldn' jedge Aboard wut boat I'd best take pessige, My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edge Upon 'em more than tu a sessige, But now it seems ez though I see Sunthin' resemblin' an idee, Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message.

'I like the speech best, I confess, The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't; 420 An' it's so mad, I ruther guess There's some dependence to be placed on 't; [Laughter.] It's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me, Out o' the allies o' J.D. A temp'ry party can be based on 't.

'Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru An' dug his Presidential grave is, An' _then!_--who knows but we could slew The country roun' to put in----? Wun't some folks rare up when we pull 430 Out o' their eyes our Union wool An' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!

'Oh, did it seem 'z ef Providunce _Could_ ever send a second Tyler? To see the South all back to once, Reapin' the spiles o' the Free-siler, Is cute ez though an ingineer Should claim th' old iron for his sheer Coz 'twas himself that bust the biler!' [Gret laughter.]

Thet tells the story! Thet's wut we shall git 440 By tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit; For the day never comes when it'll du To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe. I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air, A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair, Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere, An' seems to say, 'Why died we? warn't it, then, To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men? Oh, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted, The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted! 450 Oh, you we lef', long-lingerin' et the door, Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more, Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel Ef she upon our memory turned her heel, An' unregretful throwed us all away To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!'

My frien's, I've talked nigh on to long enough. I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye're tough; My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delights Our ears, but even kebbige-heads hez rights. 460 It's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye, But you'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye! [Tumult'ous applause and cries of 'Go on!' 'Don't stop!']

UNDER THE WILLOWS AND OTHER POEMS

TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON

AGRO DOLCE

The wind is roistering out of doors, My windows shake and my chimney roars; My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning to me, As of old, in their moody, minor key, And out of the past the hoarse wind blows, As I sit in my arm-chair, and toast my toes.

'Ho! ho! nine-and-forty,' they seem to sing, 'We saw you a little toddling thing. We knew you child and youth and man, A wonderful fellow to dream and plan, With a great thing always to come,--who knows? Well, well! 'tis some comfort to toast one's toes.

'How many times have you sat at gaze Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, Shaping among the whimsical coals Fancies and figures and shining goals! What matters the ashes that cover those? While hickory lasts you can toast your toes.

'O dream-ship-builder: where are they all, Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested and tall, That should crush the waves under canvas piles, And anchor at last by the Fortunate Isles? There's gray in your beard, the years turn foes, While you muse in your arm-chair, and toast your toes.'

I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar; If much be gone, there is much remains; By the embers of loss I count my gains, You and yours with the best, till the old hope glows In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes.

Instead of a fleet of broad-browed ships, To send a child's armada of chips! Instead of the great gun, tier on tier, A freight of pebbles and grass-blades sere! 'Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,' I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes.

UNDER THE WILLOWS

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, June is the pearl of our New England year. Still a surprisal, though expected long. Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, With one great gush of blossom storms the world. A week ago the sparrow was divine; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 10 From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come; But now, oh rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, The bobolink has come, and, like the soul Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what Save _June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June_. 20

May is a pious fraud of the almanac, A ghastly parody of real Spring Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind; Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, And, with her handful of anemones, Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, The season need but turn his hour-glass round, And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms, Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front 30 With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books, While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect, Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, I take my May down from the happy shelf Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row, Waiting my choice to open with full breast, And beg an alms of springtime, ne'er denied Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year. 40

July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields, Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge, And every eve cheats us with show of clouds That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly, Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged, Conjectured half, and half descried afar, Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea.

But June is full of invitations sweet, 50 Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-read tomes To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue. The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane Brushes, then listens, _Will he come?_ The bee, All dusty as a miller, takes his toll Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day To sun me and do nothing! Nay, I think Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes The student's wiser business; the brain 60 That forages all climes to line its cells, Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish, Will not distil the juices it has sucked To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, Except for him who hath the secret learned To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take The winds into his pulses. Hush! 'tis he! My oriole, my glance of summer fire, Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, Twitches the packthread I had lightly wound 70 About the bough to help his housekeeping,-- Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, Divines the providence that hides and helps. _Heave, ho! Heave, ho!_ he whistles as the twine Slackens its hold; _once more, now!_ and a flash Lightens across the sunlight to the elm Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. Nor all his booty is the thread; he trails 80 My loosened thought with it along the air, And I must follow, would I ever find The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life.

I care not how men trace their ancestry, To ape or Adam: let them please their whim; But I in June am midway to believe A tree among my far progenitors, Such sympathy is mine with all the race, Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet There is between us. Surely there are times 90 When they consent to own me of their kin, And condescend to me, and call me cousin, Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills Moving the lips, though fruitless of all words. And I have many a lifelong leafy friend, Never estranged nor careful of my soul, That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me Within his tent as if I were a bird, Or other free companion of the earth, 100 Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse, In outline like enormous beaker, fit For hand of Jotun, where mid snow and mist He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, I know not by what grace,--for in the blood Of our New World subduers lingers yet Hereditary feud with trees, they being 110 (They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes,-- Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing, Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank. The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers And glints his steely aglets in the sun, Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 120 Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl A rood of silver bellies to the day. Alas! no acorn from the British oak 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those rings Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed, Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; With horn and hoof the good old Devil came, 130 The witch's broomstick was not contraband, But all that superstition had of fair, Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, Fearing their god as if he were a wolf That snuffed round every home and was not seen, There should be some to watch and keep alive All beautiful beliefs. And such was that,-- By solitary shepherd first surmised Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 140 Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished, As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared Confess a mortal name,--that faith which gave A Hamadryed to each tree; and I Will hold it true that in this willow dwells The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe, Of ancient Hospitality, long since, With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors.

In June 'tis good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, 150 Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. There muse I of old times, old hopes, old friends,-- Old friends! The writing of those words has borne My fancy backward to the gracious past, The generous past, when all was possible. For all was then untried; the years between 160 Have taught some sweet, some bitter lessons, none Wiser than this,--to spend in all things else, But of old friends to be most miserly. Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, As to an oak, and precious more and more, Without deservingness or help of ours, They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade, Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, Which Nature's milliners would scrape away; 170 Most dear and sacred every withered limb! 'Tis good to set them early, for our faith Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come, Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears.

This willow is as old to me as life; And under it full often have I stretched, Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive, And gathering virtue in at every pore Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, Or was transfused in something to which thought 180 Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost. Gone from me like an ache, and what remained Become a part of the universal joy. My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, Saw its white double in the stream below; Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, Dilated in the broad blue over all. I was the wind that dappled the lush grass, The tide that crept with coolness to its roots, 190 The thin-winged swallow skating on the air; The life that gladdened everything was mine. Was I then truly all that I beheld? Or is this stream of being but a glass Where the mind sees its visionary self, As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his bay, Across the river's hollow heaven below His picture flits,--another, yet the same? But suddenly the sound of human voice Or footfall, like the drop a chemist pours, 200 Doth in opacous cloud precipitate The consciousness that seemed but now dissolved Into an essence rarer than its own. And I am narrowed to myself once more.

For here not long is solitude secure, Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. Here, sometimes, in this paradise of shade, Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp, Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 210 And munch an unearned meal. I cannot help Liking this creature, lavish Summer's bedesman, Who from the almshouse steals when nights grow warm, Himself his large estate and only charge, To be the guest of haystack or of hedge, Nobly superior to the household gear That forfeits us our privilege of nature. I bait him with my match-box and my pouch, Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of smoke, His equal now, divinely unemployed. 220 Some smack of Robin Hood is in the man, Some secret league with wild wood-wandering things; He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot Earl, By right of birth exonerate from toil, Who levies rent from us his tenants all, And serves the state by merely being. Here The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat, And lets the kind breeze, with its delicate fan, Winnow the heat from out his dank gray hair,-- A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 230 Whose feet are known to all the populous ways, And many men and manners he hath seen, Not without fruit of solitary thought. He, as the habit is of lonely men,-- Unused to try the temper of their mind In fence with others,--positive and shy, Yet knows to put an edge upon his speech, Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. Him I entrap with my long-suffering knife, And, while its poor blade hums away in sparks, 240 Sharpen my wit upon his gritty mind, In motion set obsequious to his wheel, And in its quality not much unlike.

Nor wants my tree more punctual visitors. The children, they who are the only rich, Creating for the moment, and possessing Whate'er they choose to feign,--for still with them Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother, Strewing their lives with cheap material For wingèd horses and Aladdin's lamps, 250 Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch profane To dead leaves disenchanted,--long ago Between the branches of the tree fixed seats, Making an o'erturned box their table. Oft The shrilling girls sit here between school hours, And play at _What's my thought like?_ while the boys, With whom the age chivalric ever bides, Pricked on by knightly spur of female eyes, Climb high to swing and shout on perilous boughs, Or, from the willow's armory equipped 260 With musket dumb, green banner, edgeless sword, Make good the rampart of their tree-redoubt 'Gainst eager British storming from below, And keep alive the tale of Bunker's Hill.

Here, too, the men that mend our village ways, Vexing Macadam's ghost with pounded slate, Their nooning take; much noisy talk they spend On horses and their ills; and, as John Bull Tells of Lord This or That, who was his friend, So these make boast of intimacies long 270 With famous teams, and add large estimates, By competition swelled from mouth to mouth. Of how much they could draw, till one, ill pleased To have his legend overbid, retorts: 'You take and stretch truck-horses in a string From here to Long Wharf end, one thing I know, Not heavy neither, they could never draw,-- Ensign's long bow!' Then laughter loud and long. So they in their leaf-shadowed microcosm Image the larger world; for wheresoe'er 280 Ten men are gathered, the observant eye Will find mankind in little, as the stars Glide up and set, and all the heavens revolve In the small welkin of a drop of dew.

I love to enter pleasure by a postern, Not the broad popular gate that gulps the mob; To find my theatres in roadside nooks, Where men are actors, and suspect it not; Where Nature all unconscious works her will, And every passion moves with easy gait, 290 Unhampered by the buskin or the train. Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men Lead lonely lives, I love society, Nor seldom find the best with simple souls Unswerved by culture from their native bent, The ground we meet on being primal man, And nearer the deep bases of our lives.

But oh, half heavenly, earthly half, my soul, Canst thou from those late ecstasies descend, Thy lips still wet with the miraculous wine 300 That transubstantiates all thy baser stuff To such divinity that soul and sense, Once more commingled in their source, are lost,-- Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar thirst With the mere dregs and rinsings of the world? Well, if my nature find her pleasure so, I am content, nor need to blush; I take My little gift of being clean from God, Not haggling for a better, holding it Good as was ever any in the world, 310 My days as good and full of miracle. I pluck my nutriment from any bush, Finding out poison as the first men did By tasting and then suffering, if I must. Sometimes my bush burns, and sometimes it is A leafless wilding shivering by the wall; But I have known when winter barberries Pricked the effeminate palate with surprise Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine.

Oh, benediction of the higher mood 320 And human-kindness of the lower! for both I will be grateful while I live, nor question The wisdom that hath made us what we are, With such large range as from the ale-house bench Can reach the stars and be with both at home. They tell us we have fallen on prosy days, Condemned to glean the leavings of earth's feast Where gods and heroes took delight of old; But though our lives, moving in one dull round Of repetition infinite, become 330 Stale as a newspaper once read, and though History herself, seen in her workshop, seem To have lost the art that dyed those glorious panes, Rich with memorial shapes of saint and sage, That pave with splendor the Past's dusky aisles,-- Panes that enchant the light of common day With colors costly as the blood of kings, Till with ideal hues it edge our thought,-- Yet while the world is left, while nature lasts, And man the best of nature, there shall be 340 Somewhere contentment for these human hearts, Some freshness, some unused material For wonder and for song. I lose myself In other ways where solemn guide-posts say, _This way to Knowledge, This way to Repose_, But here, here only, I am ne'er betrayed, For every by-path leads me to my love.

God's passionless reformers, influences, That purify and heal and are not seen, Shall man say whence your virtue is, or how 350 Ye make medicinal the wayside weed? I know that sunshine, through whatever rift, How shaped it matters not, upon my walls Paints discs as perfect-rounded as its source, And, like its antitype, the ray divine, However finding entrance, perfect still, Repeats the image unimpaired of God.

We, who by shipwreck only find the shores Of divine wisdom, can but kneel at first; Can but exult to feel beneath our feet, 360 That long stretched vainly down the yielding deeps, The shock and sustenance of solid earth; Inland afar we see what temples gleam Through immemorial stems of sacred groves, And we conjecture shining shapes therein; Yet for a space we love to wander here Among the shells and seaweed of the beach.

So mused I once within my willow-tent One brave June morning, when the bluff northwest, Thrusting aside a dank and snuffling day 370 That made us bitter at our neighbors' sins, Brimmed the great cup of heaven with sparkling cheer And roared a lusty stave; the sliding Charles, Blue toward the west, and bluer and more blue, Living and lustrous as a woman's eyes Look once and look no more, with southward curve Ran crinkling sunniness, like Helen's hair Glimpsed in Elysium, insubstantial gold; From blossom-clouded orchards, far away The bobolink tinkled; the deep meadows flowed 380 With multitudinous pulse of light and shade Against the bases of the southern hills, While here and there a drowsy island rick Slept and its shadow slept; the wooden bridge Thundered, and then was silent; on the roofs The sun-warped shingles rippled with the heat; Summer on field and hill, in heart and brain, All life washed clean in this high tide of June.

DARA

When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand Wilted with harem-heats, and all the land Was hovered over by those vulture ills That snuff decaying empire from afar, Then, with a nature balanced as a star, Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.

He who had governed fleecy subjects well Made his own village by the selfsame spell Secure and quiet as a guarded fold; Then, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees 10 Under his sway, to neighbor villages Order returned, and faith and justice old.

Now when it fortuned that a king more wise Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, He sought on every side men brave and just; And having heard our mountain shepherd's praise, How he refilled the mould of elder days, To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.

So Dara shepherded a province wide, Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 20 Than in his crook before; but envy finds More food in cities than on mountains bare; And the frank sun of natures clear and rare Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.

Soon it was hissed into the royal ear, That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, Like a great sponge, sucked wealth and plenty up, Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, Some yellow drops, more rich than all the rest, Went to the filling of his private cup. 30

For proof, they said, that, wheresoe'er he went, A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, Went with him; and no mortal eye had seen What was therein, save only Dara's own; But, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known To glow and lighten with heaped jewels' sheen.

The King set forth for Dara's province straight; There, as was fit, outside the city's gate, The viceroy met him with a stately train, And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 40 A camel with the chest was seen to stand: The King's brow reddened, for the guilt was plain.

'Open me here,' he cried, 'this treasure-chest!' 'Twas done; and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found therein. Some blushed and hung the head; Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof He stood, and 'O my lord, behold the proof That I was faithful to my trust,' he said.

'To govern men, lo all the spell I had!' My soul in these rude vestments ever clad 50 Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, And fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, Which bend men from their truth and make them reel.

'For ruling wisely I should have small skill, Were I not lord of simple Dara still; That sceptre kept, I could not lose my way.' Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright, And strained the throbbing lids; before 'twas night Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. 60

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snowbirds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?' And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered, 'The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!'

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her: And she, kissing back, could not know That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

THE SINGING LEAVES

A BALLAD

I

'What fairings will ye that I bring?' Said the King to his daughters three; 'For I to Vanity Fair am bound, Now say what shall they be?'

Then up and spake the eldest daughter, That lady tall and grand: 'Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand.'

Thereafter spake the second daughter, That was both white and red: 10 'For me bring silks that will stand alone, And a gold comb for my head.'

Then came the turn of the least daughter, That was whiter than thistle-down, And among the gold of her blithesome hair Dim shone the golden crown.

'There came a bird this morning, And sang 'neath my bower eaves, Till I dreamed, as his music made me, "Ask thou for the Singing Leaves."' 20

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson With a flush of angry scorn: 'Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, And chosen as ye were born;

'But she, like a thing of peasant race, That is happy binding the sheaves;' Then he saw her dead mother in her face, And said, 'Thou shalt have thy leaves.'

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights Till he came to Vanity Fair, 30 And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, And asked of every tree, 'Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf, I pray you give it me!'

But the trees all kept their counsel, And never a word said they, Only there sighed from the pine-tops A music of seas far away. 40

Only the pattering aspen Made a sound of growing rain, That fell ever faster and faster, Then faltered to silence again.

'Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page That would win both hose and shoon, And will bring to me the Singing Leaves If they grow under the moon?'

Then lightly turned him Walter the page, By the stirrup as he ran: 50 'Now pledge you me the truesome word Of a king and gentleman,

'That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate, And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, Or mine be a traitor's fate.'

The King's head dropt upon his breast A moment, as it might be; 'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said, 'My faith I plight to thee.' 60

Then Walter took from next his heart A packet small and thin, 'Now give you this to the Princess Anne, The Singing Leaves are therein.'

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate, A maiden to meet him ran, And 'Welcome, father!' she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne.

'Lo, here the Singing Leaves,' quoth he, 'And woe, but they cost me dear!' 70 She took the packet, and the smile Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart, And then gushed up again, And lighted her tears as the sudden sun Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened, Sang: 'I am Walter the page, And the songs I sing 'neath thy window Are my only heritage.' 80

And the second Leaf sang: 'But in the land That is neither on earth nor sea, My lute and I are lords of more Than thrice this kingdom's fee.'

And the third Leaf sang, 'Be mine! Be mine!' And ever it sang, 'Be mine!' Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, And said, 'I am thine, thine, thine!'

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, At the second she turned aside, 90 At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed With a rose's red heart's tide.

'Good counsel gave the bird,' said she, 'I have my hope thrice o'er, For they sing to my very heart,' she said, 'And it sings to them evermore.'

She brought to him her beauty and truth, But and broad earldoms three, And he made her queen of the broader lands He held of his lute in fee. 100

SEAWEED

Not always unimpeded can I pray, Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim; Too closely clings the burden of the day, And all the mint and anise that I pay But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.

Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know That Thou revisit'st all who wait for thee, Nor only fill'st the unsounded deeps below, But dost refresh with punctual overflow The rifts where unregarded mosses be?

The drooping seaweed hears, in night abyssed, Far and more far the wave's receding shocks, Nor doubts, for all the darkness and the mist, That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst, And shoreward lead again her foam-fleeced flocks.

For the same wave that rims the Carib shore With momentary brede of pearl and gold, Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar Lorn weeds bound fast on rocks of Labrador, By love divine on one sweet errand rolled.

And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw, I, too, can wait and feed on hope of Thee And of the dear recurrence of Thy law, Sure that the parting grace my morning saw Abides its time to come in search of me.

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE

There lay upon the ocean's shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, 'Why, here,' cried he, 'the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!'

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

NEW-YEAR'S EVE, 1850

This is the midnight of the century,--hark! Through aisle and arch of Godminster have gone Twelve throbs that tolled the zenith of the dark, And mornward now the starry hands move on; 'Mornward!' the angelic watchers say, 'Passed is the sorest trial; No plot of man can stay The hand upon the dial; Night is the dark stem of the lily Day.'

If we, who watched in valleys here below, Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, our faces turned When volcan glares set all the east aglow, We are not poorer that we wept and yearned; Though earth swing wide from God's intent, And though no man nor nation Will move with full consent In heavenly gravitation, Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent.

FOR AN AUTOGRAPH

Though old the thought and oft exprest, 'Tis his at last who says it best,-- I'll try my fortune with the rest.

Life is a leaf of paper white Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night.

'Lo, time and space enough,' we cry, 'To write an epic!' so we try Our nibs upon the edge, and die.

Muse not which way the pen to hold, Luck hates the slow and loves the bold, Soon come the darkness and the cold.

Greatly begin! though thou have time But for a line, be that sublime,-- Not failure, but low aim, is crime.

Ah, with what lofty hope we came! But we forget it, dream of fame, And scrawl, as I do here, a name.

AL FRESCO

The dandelions and buttercups Gild all the lawn; the drowsy bee Stumbles among the clover-tops, And summer sweetens all but me: Away, unfruitful lore of books, For whose vain idiom we reject The soul's more native dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks, Dull to interpret or conceive What gospels lost the woods retrieve! 10 Away, ye critics, city-bred, Who springes set of thus and so, And in the first man's footsteps tread, Like those who toil through drifted snow! Away, my poets, whose sweet spell Can make a garden of a cell! I need ye not, for I to-day Will make one long sweet verse of play.

Snap, chord of manhood's tenser strain! To-day I will be a boy again; 20 The mind's pursuing element, Like a bow slackened and unbent, In some dark corner shall be leant. The robin sings, as of old, from the limb! The cat-bird croons in the lilac-bush! Through the dim arbor, himself more dim, Silently hops the hermit-thrush, The withered leaves keep dumb for him; The irreverent buccaneering bee Hath stormed and rifled the nunnery 30 Of the lily, and scattered the sacred floor With haste-dropt gold from shrine to door; There, as of yore, The rich, milk-tingeing buttercup Its tiny polished urn holds up, Filled with ripe summer to the edge, The sun in his own wine to pledge; And our tall elm, this hundredth year Doge of our leafy Venice here, Who, with an annual ring, doth wed 40 The blue Adriatic overhead, Shadows with his palatial mass The deep canals of flowing grass.

O unestrangèd birds and bees! O face of Nature always true! O never-unsympathizing trees! O never-rejecting roof of blue, Whose rash disherison never falls On us unthinking prodigals, Yet who convictest all our ill, 50 So grand and unappeasable! Methinks my heart from each of these Plucks part of childhood back again, Long there imprisoned, as the breeze Doth every hidden odor seize Of wood and water, hill and plain: Once more am I admitted peer In the upper house of Nature here, And feel through all my pulses run The royal blood of wind and sun. 60

Upon these elm-arched solitudes No hum of neighbor toil intrudes; The only hammer that I hear Is wielded by the woodpecker, The single noisy calling his In all our leaf-hid Sybaris; The good old time, close-hidden here, Persists, a loyal cavalier, While Roundheads prim, with point of fox, Probe wainscot-chink and empty box; 70 Here no hoarse-voiced iconoclast, Insults thy statues, royal Past; Myself too prone the axe to wield, I touch the silver side of the shield With lance reversed, and challenge peace, A willing convert of the trees.

How chanced it that so long I tost A cable's length from this rich coast, With foolish anchors hugging close The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze, 80 Nor had the wit to wreck before On this enchanted island's shore, Whither the current of the sea, With wiser drift, persuaded me?

Oh, might we but of such rare days Build up the spirit's dwelling-place! A temple of so Parian stone Would brook a marble god alone, The statue of a perfect life, Far-shrined from earth's bestaining strife. 90 Alas! though such felicity In our vext world here may not be, Yet, as sometimes the peasant's hut Shows stones which old religion cut With text inspired, or mystic sign Of the Eternal and Divine, Torn from the consecration deep Of some fallen nunnery's mossy sleep, So, from the ruins of this day Crumbling in golden dust away, 100 The soul one gracious block may draw, Carved with, some fragment of the law, Which, set in life's prosaic wall, Old benedictions may recall, And lure some nunlike thoughts to take Their dwelling here for memory's sake.

MASACCIO

IN THE BRANCACCI CHAPEL

He came to Florence long ago, And painted here these walls, that shone For Raphael and for Angelo, With secrets deeper than his own, Then shrank into the dark again, And died, we know not how or when.

The shadows deepened, and I turned Half sadly from the fresco grand; 'And is this,' mused I, 'all ye earned, High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, That ye to greater men could teach The skill yourselves could never reach?'

'And who were they,' I mused, 'that wrought Through pathless wilds, with labor long, The highways of our daily thought? Who reared those towers of earliest song That lift us from the crowd to peace Remote in sunny silences?'

Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, And to my heart this message came: Each clamorous throat among them tells What strong-souled martyrs died in flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.

Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace.

Henceforth, when rings the health to those Who live in story and in song, O nameless dead, that now repose, Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong, One cup of recognition true Shall silently be drained to you!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,--but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance With which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet!--past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without.

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, Some idler on my headstone grim Traces the moss-blurred name, will he Think me the happier, or I him?

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

GODMINSTER CHIMES

WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE

Godminster? Is it Fancy's play? I know not, but the word Sings in my heart, nor can I say Whether 'twas dreamed or heard; Yet fragrant in my mind it clings As blossoms after rain, And builds of half-remembered things This vision in my brain.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries My spirit walks in thought, And to that symbol lifts its eyes Which God's own pity wrought; From Calvary shines the altar's gleam, The Church's East is there, The Ages one great minster seem, That throbs with praise and prayer.

And all the way from Calvary down The carven pavement shows Their graves who won the martyr's crown And safe in God repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned.

And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt; One Mary bathes the blessed feet With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice.

Moravian hymn and Roman chant In one devotion blend, To speak the soul's eternal want Of Him, the inmost friend; One prayer soars cleansed with martyr fire, One choked with sinner's tears, In heaven both meet in one desire, And God one music hears.

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out Upon the Sabbath air, Each seems a hostile faith to shout, A selfish form of prayer: My dream is shattered, yet who knows But in that heaven so near These discords find harmonious close In God's atoning ear?

O chime of sweet Saint Charity, Peal soon that Easter morn When Christ for all shall risen be, And in all hearts new-born! That Pentecost when utterance clear To all men shall be given, When all shall say _My Brother_ here, And hear _My Son_ in heaven!

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not, With life's new quiver full of wingèd years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways?

There once I stood in dream, and as I paused, Looking this way and that, came forth to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, 'My name is Duty, turn and follow me;' Something there was that chilled me in her voice; I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine, 10 As if to be withdrawn, and I exclaimed: 'Oh, leave the hot wild heart within my breast! Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death; This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats, Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, Which whistling north-winds line with downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain, 20 Thither the singing birds no more return.'

Then glowed to me a maiden from the left, With bosom half disclosed, and naked arms More white and undulant than necks of swans; And all before her steps an influence ran Warm as the whispering South that opens buds And swells the laggard sails of Northern May. 'I am called Pleasure, come with me!' she said, Then laughed, and shook out sunshine from her hair, Nor only that, but, so it seemed, shook out 30 All memory too, and all the moonlit past, Old loves, old aspirations, and old dreams, More beautiful for being old and gone.

So we two went together; downward sloped The path through yellow meads, or so I dreamed, Yellow with sunshine and young green, but I Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one close joy; I only felt the hand within my own, Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, Dissolving all my brain in throbbing mist. 40

Suddenly shrank the hand; suddenly burst A cry that split the torpor of my brain, And as the first sharp thrust of lightning loosens From the heaped cloud its rain, loosened my sense: 'Save me!' it thrilled; 'oh, hide me! there is Death! Death the divider, the unmerciful, That digs his pitfalls under Love and Youth, And covers Beauty up in the cold ground; Horrible Death! bringer of endless dark; Let him not see me! hide me in thy breast!' 50 Thereat I strove to clasp her, but my arms Met only what slipped crumbling down, and fell, A handful of gray ashes, at my feet.

I would have fled, I would have followed back That pleasant path we came, but all was changed; Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find; Yet I toiled on, and, toiling on, I thought, 'That way lies Youth, and Wisdom, and all Good; For only by unlearning Wisdom comes And climbing backward to diviner Youth; 60 What the world teaches profits to the world, What the soul teaches profits to the soul, Which then first stands erect with Godward face, When she lets fall her pack of withered facts, The gleanings of the outward eye and ear, And looks and listens with her finer sense; Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh from without.'

After long, weary days I stood again And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Again the figure of a woman veiled 70 Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed now: Down to no bower of roses led the path, But through the streets of towns where chattering Cold Hewed wood for fires whose glow was owned and fenced, Where Nakedness wove garments of warm wool Not for itself;--or through the fields it led Where Hunger reaped the unattainable grain, Where idleness enforced saw idle lands, Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common earth, Walled round with paper against God and Man. 80 'I cannot look,' I groaned, 'at only these; The heart grows hardened with perpetual wont, And palters with a feigned necessity, Bargaining with itself to be content; Let me behold thy face.' The Form replied: 'Men follow Duty, never overtake; Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind.' But, as she spake, a loosened lock of hair Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, who looked To see it gray and thin, saw amplest gold; 90 Not that dull metal dug from sordid earth, But such as the retiring sunset flood Leaves heaped on bays and capes of island cloud. 'O Guide divine,' I prayed, 'although not yet I may repair the virtue which I feel Gone out at touch of untuned things and foul With draughts of Beauty, yet declare how soon!'

'Faithless and faint of heart,' the voice returned, 'Thou seest no beauty save thou make it first; Man, Woman, Nature each is but a glass 100 Where the soul sees the image of herself, Visible echoes, offsprings of herself. But, since thou need'st assurance of how soon, Wait till that angel comes who opens all, The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death.'

I waited, and methought he came; but how, Or in what shape, I doubted, for no sign, By touch or mark, he gave me as he passed; Only I knew a lily that I held 110 Snapt short below the head and shrivelled up; Then turned my Guide and looked at me unveiled, And I beheld no face of matron stern, But that enchantment I had followed erst, Only more fair, more clear to eye and brain, Heightened and chastened by a household charm; She smiled, and 'Which is fairer,' said her eyes, 'The hag's unreal Florimel or mine?'

ALADDIN

When I was a beggarly boy And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!

AN INVITATION

TO J[OHN] F[RANCIS] H[EATH]

Nine years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay.

I held the token which you gave, While slowly the smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world; 10

The old, worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope; While you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sank wavering down the ocean-slope.

You sought the new world in the old, I found the old world in the new, All that our human hearts can hold, The inward world of deathless mould, The same that Father Adam knew. 20

He needs no ship to cross the tide, Who, in the lives about him, sees Fair window-prospects opening wide O'er history's fields on every side, To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece.

Whatever moulds of various brain E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, Whatever empires' wax and wane To him that hath not eyes in vain, Our village-microcosm can show. 30

Come back our ancient walks to tread, Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, Where song and smoke and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends.

Constant are all our former loves, Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, Where floats the coot and never moves, Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond. 40

Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapt our wands and sunk our books; They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads that mowers wade, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks.

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. 50

There have we watched the West unfurl A cloud Byzantium newly born, With flickering spires and domes of pearl, And vapory surfs that crowd and curl Into the sunset's Golden Horn.

There, as the flaming occident Burned slowly down to ashes gray, Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent, And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent Upon the darkened river lay, 60

Where a twin sky but just before Deepened, and double swallows skimmed, And from a visionary shore Hung visioned trees, that more and more Grew dusk as those above were dimmed.

Then eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, While great elm-masses blacken slow, And linden-ricks their round heads show Against a flush of widening fire. 70

Doubtful at first and far away, The moon-flood creeps more wide and wide; Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray, Curved round the east as round a bay, It slips and spreads its gradual tide.

Then suddenly, in lurid mood, The disk looms large o'er town and field As upon Adam, red like blood, 'Tween him and Eden's happy wood, Glared the commissioned angel's shield. 80

Or let us seek the seaside, there To wander idly as we list, Whether, on rocky headlands bare, Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist,

Or whether, under skies full flown, The brightening surfs, with foamy din, Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown, Against the beach's yellow zone Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 90

And, as we watch those canvas towers That lean along the horizon's rim, 'Sail on,' I'll say; 'may sunniest hours Convoy you from this land of ours, Since from my side you bear not him!'

For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen to the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In deepest arches of the mind. 100

Come back! Not ours the Old World's good, The Old World's ill, thank God, not ours; But here, far better understood, The days enforce our native mood, And challenge all our manlier powers.

Kindlier to me the place of birth That first my tottering footsteps trod; There may be fairer spots of earth, But all their glories are not worth The virtue in the native sod. 110

Thence climbs an influence more benign Through pulse and nerve, through heart and brain; Sacred to me those fibres fine That first clasped earth. Oh, ne'er be mine The alien sun and alien rain!

These nourish not like homelier glows Or waterings of familiar skies, And nature fairer blooms bestows On the heaped hush of wintry snows, In pastures dear to childhood's eyes, 120

Than where Italian earth receives The partial sunshine's ampler boons, Where vines carve friezes 'neath the eaves, And, in dark firmaments of leaves, The orange lifts its golden moons.

THE NOMADES

What Nature makes in any mood To me is warranted for good, Though long before I learned to see She did not set us moral theses, And scorned to have her sweet caprices Strait-waistcoated in you or me.

I, who take root and firmly cling, Thought fixedness the only thing; Why Nature made the butterflies, (Those dreams of wings that float and hover 10 At noon the slumberous poppies over,) Was something hidden from mine eyes,

Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom, Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom, I saw a butterfly at rest; Then first of both I felt the beauty; The airy whim, the grim-set duty, Each from the other took its best.

Clearer it grew than winter sky That Nature still had reasons why; 20 And, shifting sudden as a breeze, My fancy found no satisfaction, No antithetic sweet attraction, So great as in the Nomades.

Scythians, with Nature not at strife, Light Arabs of our complex life, They build no houses, plant no mills To utilize Time's sliding river, Content that it flow waste forever, If they, like it, may have their wills. 30

An hour they pitch their shifting tents In thoughts, in feelings, and events; Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass, They sing, they dance, make love, and chatter, Vex the grim temples with their clatter, And make Truth's fount their looking-glass.

A picnic life; from love to love, From faith to faith they lightly move, And yet, hard-eyed philosopher, The flightiest maid that ever hovered 40 To me your thought-webs fine discovered, No lens to see them through like her.

So witchingly her finger-tips To Wisdom, as away she trips, She kisses, waves such sweet farewells To Duty, as she laughs 'To-morrow!' That both from that mad contrast borrow A perfectness found nowhere else.

The beach-bird on its pearly verge Follows and flies the whispering surge, 50 While, in his tent, the rock-stayed shell Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations, And both, the flutter and the patience, The sauntering poet loves them well.

Fulfil so much of God's decree As works its problem out in thee, Nor dream that in thy breast alone The conscience of the changeful seasons, The Will that in the planets reasons With space-wide logic, has its throne. 60

Thy virtue makes not vice of mine, Unlike, but none the less divine; Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play; Nature of sameness is so chary, With such wild whim the freakish fairy Picks presents for the christening-day.

SELF-STUDY

A presence both by night and day, That made my life seem just begun, Yet scarce a presence, rather say The warning aureole of one.

And yet I felt it everywhere; Walked I the woodland's aisles along, It seemed to brush me with its hair; Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song.

How sweet it was! A buttercup Could hold for me a day's delight, A bird could lift my fancy up To ether free from cloud or blight.

Who was the nymph? Nay, I will see, Methought, and I will know her near; If such, divined, her charm can be, Seen and possessed, how triply dear!

So every magic art I tried, And spells as numberless as sand, Until, one evening, by my side I saw her glowing fulness stand.

I turned to clasp her, but 'Farewell,' Parting she sighed, 'we meet no more; Not by my hand the curtain fell That leaves you conscious, wise, and poor.

'Since you nave found me out, I go; Another lover I must find, Content his happiness to know, Nor strive its secret to unwind.'

PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE

I

A heap of bare and splintery crags Tumbled about by lightning and frost, With rifts and chasms and storm-bleached jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost; No island, but rather the skeleton Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten one, Where, æons ago, with half-shut eye, The sluggish saurian crawled to die, Gasping under titanic ferns; Ribs of rock that seaward jut, 10 Granite shoulders and boulders and snags, Round which, though the winds in heaven be shut, The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns, Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns, And the dreary black seaweed lolls and wags; Only rock from shore to shore, Only a moan through the bleak clefts blown, With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp shifts, Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting, And under all a deep, dull roar, 20 Dying and swelling, forevermore,-- Rock and moan and roar alone, And the dread of some nameless thing unknown, These make Appledore.

These make Appledore by night: Then there are monsters left and right; Every rock is a different monster; All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, When you waked at night because you screamed, There they lie for half a mile, 30 Jumbled together in a pile, And (though you know they never once stir) If you look long, they seem to be moving Just as plainly as plain can be, Crushing and crowding, wading and shoving Out into the awful sea, Where you can hear them snort and spout With pauses between, as if they were listening, Then tumult anon when the surf breaks glistening In the blackness where they wallow about. 40

II

All this you would scarcely comprehend, Should you see the isle on a sunny day; Then it is simple enough in its way,-- Two rocky bulges, one at each end, With a smaller bulge and a hollow between; Patches of whortleberry and bay; Accidents of open green, Sprinkled with loose slabs square and gray, Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few Unsocial thistles; an elder or two, 50 Foamed over with blossoms white as spray; And on the whole island never a tree Save a score of sumachs, high as your knee. That crouch in hollows where they may, (The cellars where once stood a village, men say,) Huddling for warmth, and never grew Tall enough for a peep at the sea; A general dazzle of open blue; A breeze always blowing and playing rat-tat With the bow of the ribbon round your hat; 60 A score of sheep that do nothing but stare Up or down at you everywhere; Three or four cattle that chew the cud Lying about in a listless despair; A medrick that makes you look overhead With short, sharp scream, as he sights his prey, And, dropping straight and swift as lead, Splits the water with sudden thud;-- This is Appledore by day.

A common island, you will say; 70 But stay a moment: only climb Up to the highest rock of the isle, Stand there alone for a little while, And with gentle approaches it grows sublime, Dilating slowly as you win A sense from the silence to take it in. So wide the loneness, so lucid the air, The granite beneath you so savagely bare, You well might think you were looking down From some sky-silenced mountain's crown, 80 Whose waist-belt of pines is wont to tear Locks of wool from the topmost cloud. Only be sure you go alone, For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud, And never yet has backward thrown Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd; To more than one was never shown That awful front, nor is it fit That she, Cothurnus-shod, stand bowed Until the self-approving pit 90 Enjoy the gust of its own wit In babbling plaudits cheaply loud; She hides her mountains and her sea From the harriers of scenery, Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle and bay, Mouthing and mumbling the dying day.

Trust me, 'tis something to be cast Face to face with one's Self at last, To be taken out of the fuss and strife, The endless clatter of plate and knife, 100 The bore of books and the bores of the street, From the singular mess we agree to call Life, Where that is best which the most fools vote is, And planted firm on one's own two feet So nigh to the great warm heart of God, You almost seem to feel it beat Down from the sunshine and up from the sod; To be compelled, as it were, to notice All the beautiful changes and chances Through which the landscape flits and glances, 110 And to see how the face of common day Is written all over with tender histories, When you study it that intenser way In which a lover looks at his mistress.

Till now you dreamed not what could be done With a bit of rock and a ray of sun: But look, how fade the lights and shades Of keen bare edge and crevice deep! How doubtfully it fades and fades, And glows again, yon craggy steep, 120 O'er which, through color's dreamiest grades, The musing sunbeams pause and creep! Now pink it blooms, now glimmers gray, Now shadows to a filmy blue, Tries one, tries all, and will not stay, But flits from opal hue to hue, And runs through every tenderest range Of change that seems not to be change, So rare the sweep, so nice the art, That lays no stress on any part, 130 But shifts and lingers and persuades; So soft that sun-brush in the west, That asks no costlier pigments' aids, But mingling knobs, flaws, angles, dints, Indifferent of worst or best, Enchants the cliffs with wraiths and hints And gracious preludings of tints, Where all seems fixed, yet all evades, And indefinably pervades Perpetual movement with perpetual rest! 140

III

Away northeast is Boone Island light; You might mistake it for a ship, Only it stands too plumb upright, And like the others does not slip Behind the sea's unsteady brink; Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip Upon it a moment, 'twill suddenly sink, Levelled and lost in the darkened main, Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. 150 On the mainland you see a misty camp Of mountains pitched tumultuously: That one looming so long and large Is Saddleback, and that point you see Over yon low and rounded marge, Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe Laid over his breast, is Ossipee; That shadow there may be Kearsarge; That must be Great Haystack; I love these names, Wherewith the lonely farmer tames 160 Nature to mute companionship With his own mind's domestic mood, And strives the surly world to clip In the arms of familiar habitude. 'Tis well he could not contrive to make A Saxon of Agamenticus: He glowers there to the north of us, Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to take The white man's baptism or his ways. 170 Him first on shore the coaster divines Through the early gray, and sees him shake The morning mist from his scalp-lock of pines; Him first the skipper makes out in the west, Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots tremulous, Plashing with orange the palpitant lines Of mutable billow, crest after crest, And murmurs _Agamenticus!_ As if it were the name of a saint. But is that a mountain playing cloud, 180 Or a cloud playing mountain, just there, so faint? Look along over the low right shoulder Of Agamenticus into that crowd Of brassy thunderheads behind it; Now you have caught it, but, ere you are older By half an hour, you will lose it and find it A score of times; while you look 'tis gone, And, just as you've given it up, anon It is there again, till your weary eyes Fancy they see it waver and rise, 190 With its brother clouds; it is Agiochook, There if you seek not, and gone if you look, Ninety miles off as the eagle flies.

But mountains make not all the shore The mainland shows to Appledore: Eight miles the heaving water spreads To a long, low coast with beaches and heads That run through unimagined mazes, As the lights and shades and magical hazes Put them away or bring them near, 200 Shimmering, sketched out for thirty miles Between two capes that waver like threads, And sink in the ocean, and reappear, Crumbled and melted to little isles With filmy trees, that seem the mere Half-fancies of drowsy atmosphere; And see the beach there, where it is Flat as a threshing-floor, beaten and packed With the flashing flails of weariless seas, How it lifts and looms to a precipice, 210 O'er whose square front, a dream, no more, The steepened sand-stripes seem to pour, A murmurless vision of cataract; You almost fancy you hear a roar, Fitful and faint from the distance wandering; But 'tis only the blind old ocean maundering, Raking the shingle to and fro, Aimlessly clutching and letting go The kelp-haired sedges of Appledore, Slipping down with a sleepy forgetting, 220 And anon his ponderous shoulder setting, With a deep, hoarse pant against Appledore.

IV

Eastward as far as the eye can see, Still eastward, eastward, endlessly, The sparkle and tremor of purple sea That rises before you, a flickering hill, On and on to the shut of the sky, And beyond, you fancy it sloping until The same multitudinous throb and thrill That vibrate under your dizzy eye 230 In ripples of orange and pink are sent Where the poppied sails doze on the yard, And the clumsy junk and proa lie Sunk deep with precious woods and nard, 'Mid the palmy isles of the Orient. Those leaning towers of clouded white On the farthest brink of doubtful ocean, That shorten and shorten out of sight, Yet seem on the selfsame spot to stay, Receding with a motionless motion, 240 Fading to dubious films of gray, Lost, dimly found, then vanished wholly, Will rise again, the great world under, First films, then towers, then high-heaped clouds, Whose nearing outlines sharpen slowly Into tall ships with cobweb shrouds, That fill long Mongol eyes with wonder, Crushing the violet wave to spray Past some low headland of Cathay;-- What was that sigh which seemed so near, 250 Chilling your fancy to the core? 'Tis only the sad old sea you hear, That seems to seek forevermore Something it cannot find, and so, Sighing, seeks on, and tells its woe To the pitiless breakers of Appledore.

V

How looks Appledore in a storm? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the mad Atlantic, When surge on surge would heap enorme, 260 Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, That lifted and lifted, and then let go A great white avalanche of thunder, A grinding, blinding, deafening ire Monadnock might have trembled under; And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked, As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, 270 And to rise again snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap.

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, 280 And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies, A row of pillars still and white, That glimmer, and then are gone from sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light, The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 290 Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the lighthouse slim and lone; And whenever the weight of ocean is thrown Full and fair on White Island head, A great mist-jotun you will see Lifting himself up silently High and huge o'er the lighthouse top, 300 With hands of wavering spray outspread, Groping after the little tower, That seems to shrink and shorten and cower, Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, And silently and fruitlessly He sinks back into the sea.

You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, Awaken once more to the rush and roar, And on the rock-point tighten your hand, As you turn and see a valley deep, 310 That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all, Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas Feeling their way to you more and more; If they once should clutch you high as the knees, They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help;-- And such in a storm is Appledore. 320

VI

'Tis the sight of a lifetime to behold The great shorn sun as you see it now, Across eight miles of undulant gold That widens landward, weltered and rolled, With freaks of shadow and crimson stains; To see the solid mountain brow As it notches the disk, and gains and gains, Until there comes, you scarce know when, A tremble of fire o'er the parted lips Of cloud and mountain, which vanishes; then 330 From the body of day the sun-soul slips And the face of earth darkens; but now the strips Of western vapor, straight and thin, From which the horizon's swervings win A grace of contrast, take fire and burn Like splinters of touchwood, whose edges a mould Of ashes o'er feathers; northward turn For an instant, and let your eye grow cold On Agamenticus, and when once more You look, 'tis as if the land-breeze, growing, 340 From the smouldering brands the film were blowing, And brightening them down to the very core; Yet, they momently cool and dampen and deaden, The crimson turns golden, the gold turns leaden, Hardening into one black bar O'er which, from the hollow heaven afar, Shoots a splinter of light like diamond, Half seen, half fancied; by and by Beyond whatever is most beyond In the uttermost waste of desert sky, 350 Grows a star; And over it, visible spirit of dew,-- Ah, stir not, speak not, hold your breath, Or surely the miracle vanisheth,-- The new moon, tranced in unspeakable blue! No frail illusion; this were true, Rather, to call it the canoe Hollowed out of a single pearl, That floats us from the Present's whirl Back to those beings which were ours, 360 When wishes were wingèd things like powers! Call it not light, that mystery tender, Which broods upon the brooding ocean, That flush of ecstasied surrender To indefinable emotion, That glory, mellower than a mist Of pearl dissolved with amethyst, Which rims Square Rock, like what they paint Of mitigated heavenly splendor Round the stern forehead of a Saint! 370

No more a vision, reddened, largened, The moon dips toward her mountain nest, And, fringing it with palest argent, Slow sheathes herself behind the margent Of that long cloud-bar in the West, Whose nether edge, erelong, you see The silvery chrism in turn anoint, And then the tiniest rosy point Touched doubtfully and timidly Into the dark blue's chilly strip, As some mute, wondering thing below, 381 Awakened by the thrilling glow, Might, looking up, see Dian dip One lucent foot's delaying tip In Latmian fountains long ago.

Knew you what silence was before? Here is no startle of dreaming bird That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing; Here is no sough of branches stirred, Nor noise of any living thing, 390 Such as one hears by night on shore; Only, now and then, a sigh, With fickle intervals between, Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh, Such as Andromeda might have heard, And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen Turning in sleep; it is the sea That welters and wavers uneasily. Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.

THE WIND-HARP

I treasure in secret some long, fine hair Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden I half used to fancy the sunshine there, So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, Was only caught for the moment and holden While I could say _Dearest!_ and kiss it, and then In pity let go to the summer again.

I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow; Then called to the idle breeze that swings All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings 'Mid the musical leaves, and said, 'Oh, follow The will of those tears that deepen my words, And fly to my window to waken these chords.'

So they trembled to life, and, doubtfully Feeling their way to my sense, sang, 'Say whether They sit all day by the greenwood tree, The lover and loved, as it wont to be, When we--' But grief conquered, and all together They swelled such weird murmur as haunts a shore Of some planet dispeopled,--'Nevermore!'

Then from deep in the past, as seemed to me, The strings gathered sorrow and sang forsaken, 'One lover still waits 'neath the greenwood tree, But 'tis dark,' and they shuddered, 'where lieth she, Dark and cold! Forever must one be taken?' But I groaned, 'O harp of all ruth bereft, This Scripture is sadder,--"the other left"!'

There murmured, as if one strove to speak, And tears came instead; then the sad tones wandered And faltered among the uncertain chords In a troubled doubt between sorrow and words; At last with themselves they questioned and pondered, 'Hereafter?--who knoweth?' and so they sighed Down the long steps that lead to silence and died.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

SUMMER

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,--'_Auf wiedersehen?_' ...

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, I hear '_Auf wiedersehen!_'

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these--they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, '_Auf wiedersehen!_'

PALINODE

AUTUMN

Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough; The leaf to the forsaken bough Sighs not,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, That now is void, and dank with rain, And one,--oh, hope more frail than foam! The bird to his deserted home Sings not,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

The loath gate swings with rusty creak; Once, parting there, we played at pain: There came a parting, when the weak And fading lips essayed to speak Vainly,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, Though thou in outer dark remain; One sweet sad voice ennobles death, And still, for eighteen centuries saith Softly,--'_Auf wiedersehen!_'

If earth another grave must bear, Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down, '_Auf wiedersehen!_'

AFTER THE BURIAL

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor; When skies are sweet as a psalm, At the bows it lolls so stalwart, In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward The tattered surges are hurled, It may keep our head to the tempest, With its grip on the base of the world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me What help in its iron thews, Still true to the broken hawser, Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, When the helpless feet stretch out And find in the deeps of darkness No footing so solid as doubt,

Then better one spar of Memory, One broken plank of the Past, That our human heart may cling to, Though hopeless of shore at last!

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the flesh its sweet despair, Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair!

Immortal? I feel it and know it, Who doubts it of such as she? But that is the pang's very secret,-- Immortal away from me.

There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard Would scarce stay a child in his race, But to me and my thought it is wider Than the star-sown vague of Space.

Your logic, my friend, is perfect, Your moral most drearily true; But, since the earth clashed on _her_ coffin, I keep hearing that, and not you.

Console if you will, I can bear it; 'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death.

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it,-- That jar of our earth, that dull shock When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock.

Communion in spirit! Forgive me, But I, who am earthly and weak, Would give all my incomes from dreamland For a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down.

THE DEAD HOUSE

Here once my step was quickened, Here beckoned the opening door, And welcome thrilled from the threshold To the foot it had known before.

A glow came forth to meet me From the flame that laughed in the grate, And shadows adance on the ceiling, Danced blither with mine for a mate.

'I claim you, old friend,' yawned the arm-chair, 'This corner, you know, is your seat;' 'Best your slippers on me,' beamed the fender, 'I brighten at touch of your feet.'

'We know the practised finger,' Said the books, 'that seems like brain;' And the shy page rustled the secret It had kept till I came again.

Sang the pillow, 'My down once quivered On nightingales' throats that flew Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz To gather quaint dreams for you.'

Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease. The Present plucks rue for us men! I come back: that scar unhealing Was not in the churchyard then.

But, I think, the house is unaltered, I will go and beg to look At the rooms that were once familiar To my life as its bed to a brook.

Unaltered! Alas for the sameness That makes the change but more! 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 'Tis his tread that chills the floor!

To learn such a simple lesson, Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household, But only one the home?

'Twas just a womanly presence, An influence unexprest, But a rose she had worn, on my gravesod Were more than long life with the rest!

'Twas a smile, 'twas a garment's rustle, 'Twas nothing that I can phrase. But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways.

Were it mine I would close the shutters, Like lids when the life is fled, And the funeral fire should wind it, This corpse of a home that is dead.

For it died that autumn morning When she, its soul, was borne To lie all dark on the hillside That looks over woodland and corn.

A MOOD

I go to the ridge in the forest I haunted in days gone by, But thou, O Memory, pourest No magical drop in mine eye, Nor the gleam of the secret restorest That hath faded from earth and sky: A Presence autumnal and sober Invests every rock and tree, And the aureole of October Lights the maples, but darkens me.

Pine in the distance, Patient through sun or rain, Meeting with graceful persistence, With yielding but rooted resistance, The northwind's wrench and strain, No memory of past existence Brings thee pain; Right for the zenith heading, Friendly with heat or cold, Thine arms to the influence spreading Of the heavens, just from of old, Thou only aspirest the more, Unregretful the old leaves shedding That fringed thee with music before, And deeper thy roots embedding In the grace and the beauty of yore; Thou sigh'st not, 'Alas, I am older, The green of last summer is sear!' But loftier, hopefuller, bolder, Winnest broader horizons each year.

To me 'tis not cheer thou art singing: There's a sound of the sea, O mournful tree, In thy boughs forever clinging, And the far-off roar Of waves on the shore A shattered vessel flinging.

As thou musest still of the ocean On which thou must float at last, And seem'st to foreknow The shipwreck's woe And the sailor wrenched from the broken mast, Do I, in this vague emotion, This sadness that will not pass, Though the air throb with wings, And the field laughs and sings, Do I forebode, alas! The ship-building longer and wearier, The voyage's struggle and strife, And then the darker and drearier Wreck of a broken life?

THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND

I

BIÖRN'S BECKONERS

Now Biörn, the son of Heriulf, had ill days Because the heart within him seethed with blood That would not be allayed with any toil, Whether of war or hunting or the oar, But was anhungered for some joy untried: For the brain grew not weary with the limbs, But, while they slept, still hammered like a Troll, Building all night a bridge of solid dream Between him and some purpose of his soul, Or will to find a purpose. With the dawn 10 The sleep-laid timbers, crumbled to soft mist, Denied all foothold. But the dream remained, And every night with yellow-bearded kings His sleep was haunted,--mighty men of old, Once young as he, now ancient like the gods, And safe as stars in all men's memories. Strange sagas read he in their sea-blue eyes Cold as the sea, grandly compassionless; Like life, they made him eager and then mocked. Nay, broad awake, they would not let him be; 20 They shaped themselves gigantic in the mist, They rose far-beckoning in the lamps of heaven, They whispered invitation in the winds, And breath came from them, mightier than the wind, To strain the lagging sails of his resolve, Till that grew passion which before was wish, And youth seemed all too costly to be staked On the soiled cards wherewith men played their game, Letting Time pocket up the larger life, Lost with base gain of raiment, food, and roof. 30 'What helpeth lightness of the feet?' they said, 'Oblivion runs with swifter foot than they; Or strength of sinew? New men come as strong, And those sleep nameless; or renown in war? Swords grave no name on the long-memoried rock But moss shall hide it; they alone who wring Some secret purpose from the unwilling gods Survive in song for yet a little while To vex, like us, the dreams of later men, Ourselves a dream, and dreamlike all we did.' 40

II

THORWALD'S LAY

So Biörn went comfortless but for his thought, And by his thought the more discomforted, Till Erle Thurlson kept his Yule-tide feast: And thither came he, called among the rest, Silent, lone-minded, a church-door to mirth; But, ere deep draughts forbade such serious song As the grave Skald might chant nor after blush, Then Eric looked at Thorwald where he sat Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, And said: 'O Skald, sing now an olden song, 50 Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts him king, So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!' Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood, White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar From their still region of perpetual snow, Beyond the little smokes and stirs of men: His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, 60 But something triumphed in his brow and eye, Which whoso saw it could not see and crouch: Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: 'The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And from a quiver full of such as these 70 The wary bowman, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. Who is it needs such flawless shafts as Fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are men, The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: Such answer household ends; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound 80 Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood; seasons them; From circumstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: The hour that passes is her quiver-boy: When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun her haste-snatched arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! 90

'The song is old and simple that I sing; But old and simple are despised as cheap, Though hardest to achieve of human things: Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of words; But while the gods are left, and hearts of men, And wide-doored ocean, still the days are good. Still o'er the earth hastes Opportunity, Seeking the hardy soul that seeks for her. Be not abroad, nor deaf with household cares 100 That chatter loudest as they mean the least; Swift-willed is thrice-willed; late means nevermore; Impatient is her foot, nor turns again.' He ceased; upon his bosom sank his beard Sadly, as one who oft had seen her pass Nor stayed her: and forthwith the frothy tide Of interrupted wassail roared along. But Biörn, the son of Heriulf, sat apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen. 110 'A ship,' he muttered,'is a wingèd bridge That leadeth every way to man's desire, And ocean the wide gate to manful luck.' And then with that resolve his heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe Of day and night, across the unpathwayed seas Shot the brave prow that cut on Vinland sands The first rune in the Saga of the West.

III

GUDRIDA'S PROPHECY

Four weeks they sailed, a speck in sky-shut seas, Life, where was never life that knew itself, 120 But tumbled lubber-like in blowing whales; Thought, where the like had never been before Since Thought primeval brooded the abyss; Alone as men were never in the world. They saw the icy foundlings of the sea, White cliffs of silence, beautiful by day, Or looming, sudden-perilous, at night In monstrous hush; or sometimes in the dark The waves broke ominous with paly gleams Crushed by the prow in sparkles of cold fire. 130 Then came green stripes of sea that promised land But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day Low in the west were wooded shores like cloud. They shouted as men shout with sudden hope; But Biörn was silent, such strange loss there is Between the dream's fulfilment and the dream, Such sad abatement in the goal attained. Then Gudrida, that was a prophetess, Rapt with strange influence from Atlantis, sang: Her words: the vision was the dreaming shore's. 140

Looms there the New Land; Locked in the shadow Long the gods shut it, Niggards of newness They, the o'er-old.

Little it looks there, Slim as a cloud-streak; It shall fold peoples Even as a shepherd Foldeth his flock. 150

Silent it sleeps now; Great ships shall seek it, Swarming as salmon; Noise of its numbers Two seas shall hear.

Men from the Northland, Men from the Southland, Haste empty-handed; No more than manhood Bring they, and hands. 160

Dark hair and fair hair, Red blood and blue blood, There shall be mingled; Force of the ferment Makes the New Man.

Pick of all kindreds, Kings' blood shall theirs be, Shoots of the eldest Stock upon Midgard, Sons of the poor. 170

Them waits the New Land; They shall subdue it, Leaving their sons' sons Space for the body, Space for the soul.

Leaving their sons' sons All things save song-craft, Plant long in growing, Thrusting its tap-root Deep in the Gone. 180

Here men shall grow up Strong from self-helping; Eyes for the present Bring they as eagles', Blind to the Past.

They shall make over Creed, law, and custom: Driving-men, doughty Builders of empire, Builders of men. 190

Here is no singer; What should they sing of? They, the unresting? Labor is ugly, Loathsome is change.

These the old gods hate, Dwellers in dream-land, Drinking delusion Out of the empty Skull of the Past. 200

These hate the old gods, Warring against them; Fatal to Odin, Here the wolf Fenrir Lieth in wait.

Here the gods' Twilight Gathers, earth-gulfing; Blackness of battle, Fierce till the Old World Flare up in fire. 210

Doubt not, my Northmen; Fate loves the fearless; Fools, when their roof-tree Falls, think it doomsday; Firm stands the sky.

Over the ruin See I the promise; Crisp waves the cornfield, Peace-walled, the homestead Waits open-doored. 220

There lies the New Land; Yours to behold it, Not to possess it; Slowly Fate's perfect Fulness shall come.

Then from your strong loins Seed shall be scattered, Men to the marrow, Wilderness tamers, Walkers of waves. 230

Jealous, the old gods Shut it in shadow, Wisely they ward it, Egg of the serpent, Bane to them all.

Stronger and sweeter New gods shall seek it. Fill it with man-folk Wise for the future, Wise from the past. 240

Here all is all men's, Save only Wisdom; King he that wins her; Him hail they helmsman, Highest of heart.

Might makes no master Here any longer; Sword is not swayer; Here e'en the gods are Selfish no more. 250

Walking the New Earth, Lo, a divine One Greets all men godlike, Calls them his kindred, He, the Divine.

Is it Thor's hammer Rays in his right hand? Weaponless walks he; It is the White Christ, Stronger than Thor. 260

Here shall a realm rise Mighty in manhood; Justice and Mercy Here set a stronghold Safe without spear.

Weak was the Old World, Wearily war-fenced; Out of its ashes, Strong as the morning, Springeth the New. 270

Beauty of promise, Promise of beauty, Safe in the silence Sleep thou, till cometh Light to thy lids!

Thee shall awaken Flame from the furnace, Bath of all brave ones, Cleanser of conscience, Welder of will. 280

Lowly shall love thee, Thee, open-handed! Stalwart shall shield thee, Thee, worth their best blood, Waif of the West!

Then shall come singers, Singing no swan-song, Birth-carols, rather, Meet for the mail child Mighty of bone. 290

MAHMOOD THE IMAGE-BREAKER

Old events have modern meanings; only that survives Of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives.

Mahmood once, the idol-breaker, spreader of the Faith, Was at Sumnat tempted sorely, as the legend saith.

In the great pagoda's centre, monstrous and abhorred, Granite on a throne of granite, sat the temple's lord,

Mahmood paused a moment, silenced by the silent face That, with eyes of stone unwavering, awed the ancient place.

Then the Brahmins knelt before him, by his doubt made bold, Pledging for their idol's ransom countless gems and gold.

Gold was yellow dirt to Mahmood, but of precious use, Since from it the roots of power suck a potent juice.

'Were yon stone alone in question, this would please me well,' Mahmood said; 'but, with the block there, I my truth must sell.

'Wealth and rule slip down with Fortune, as her wheel turns round; He who keeps his faith, he only cannot be discrowned.

'Little were a change of station, loss of life or crown, But the wreck were past retrieving if the Man fell down.'

So his iron mace he lifted, smote with might and main, And the idol, on the pavement tumbling, burst in twain.

Luck obeys the downright striker; from the hollow core, Fifty times the Brahmins' offer deluged all the floor.

INVITA MINERVA

The Bardling came where by a river grew The pennoned reeds, that, as the west-wind blew, Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they knew What music slept enchanted in each stem, Till Pan should choose some happy one of them, And with wise lips enlife it through and through.

The Bardling thought, 'A pipe is all I need; Once I have sought me out a clear, smooth reed, And shaped it to my fancy, I proceed To breathe such strains as, yonder mid the rocks, The strange youth blows, that tends Admetus' flocks. And all the maidens shall to me pay heed.'

The summer day he spent in questful round, And many a reed he marred, but never found A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned sound; At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid Beneath a sacred laurel's flickering shade, And sleep about his brain her cobweb wound.

Then strode the mighty Mother through his dreams, Saying: 'The reeds along a thousand streams Are mine, and who is he that plots and schemes To snare the melodies wherewith my breath Sounds through the double pipes of Life and Death, Atoning what to men mad discord seems?

'He seeks not me, but I seek oft in vain For him who shall my voiceful reeds constrain, And make them utter their melodious pain; He flies the immortal gift, for well he knows His life of life must with its overflows Flood the unthankful pipe, nor come again.

'Thou fool, who dost my harmless subjects wrong, 'Tis not the singer's wish that makes the song: The rhythmic beauty wanders dumb, how long, Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument, Till, found its mated lips, their sweet consent Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate more strong.'

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

I

'Tis a woodland enchanted! By no sadder spirit Than blackbirds and thrushes, That whistle to cheer it All day in the bushes. This woodland is haunted: And in a small clearing, Beyond sight or hearing Of human annoyance, The little fount gushes, 10 First smoothly, then dashes And gurgles and flashes, To the maples and ashes Confiding its joyance; Unconscious confiding, Then, silent and glossy, Slips winding and hiding Through alder-stems mossy, Through gossamer roots Fine as nerves, 20 That tremble, as shoots Through their magnetized curves The allurement delicious Of the water's capricious Thrills, gushes, and swerves.

II

'Tis a woodland enchanted! I am writing no fiction; And this fount, its sole daughter, To the woodland was granted To pour holy water 30 And win benediction; In summer-noon flushes, When all the wood hushes, Blue dragon-flies knitting To and fro in the sun, With sidelong jerk flitting Sink down on the rashes, And, motionless sitting, Hear it bubble and run, Hear its low inward singing, 40 With level wings swinging On green tasselled rushes, To dream in the sun.

III

'Tis a woodland enchanted! The great August noonlight! Through myriad rifts slanted, Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles With flickering gold; There, in warm August gloaming, With quick, silent brightenings, 50 From meadow-lands roaming, The firefly twinkles His fitful heat-lightnings; There the magical moonlight With meek, saintly glory Steeps summit and wold; There whippoorwills plain in the solitudes hoary With lone cries that wander Now hither, now yonder, Like souls doomed of old 60 To a mild purgatory; But through noonlight and moonlight The little fount tinkles Its silver saints'-bells, That no sprite ill-boding May make his abode in Those innocent dells.

IV

'Tis a woodland enchanted! When the phebe scarce whistles Once an hour to his fellow. 70 And, where red lilies flaunted, Balloons from the thistles Tell summer's disasters, The butterflies yellow, As caught in an eddy Of air's silent ocean, Sink, waver, and steady O'er goats'-beard and asters, Like souls of dead flowers, With aimless emotion 80 Still lingering unready To leave their old bowers; And the fount is no dumber, But still gleams and flashes, And gurgles and plashes, To the measure of summer; The butterflies hear it, And spell-bound are holden, Still balancing near it O'er the goats' beard so golden. 90

V

'Tis a woodland enchanted! A vast silver willow, I know not how planted, (This wood is enchanted, And full of surprises.) Stands stemming a billow, A motionless billow Of ankle-deep mosses; Two great roots it crosses To make a round basin. 100 And there the Fount rises; Ah, too pure a mirror For one sick of error To see his sad face in! No dew-drop is stiller In its lupin-leaf setting Than this water moss-bounded; But a tiny sand-pillar From the bottom keeps jetting, And mermaid ne'er sounded 110 Through the wreaths of a shell, Down amid crimson dulses In some cavern of ocean, A melody sweeter Than the delicate pulses, The soft, noiseless metre, The pause and the swell Of that musical motion: I recall it, not see it; Could vision be clearer? 120 Half I'm fain to draw nearer Half tempted to flee it; The sleeping Past wake not, Beware! One forward step take not, Ah! break not That quietude rare! By my step unaffrighted A thrush hops before it, And o'er it 130 A birch hangs delighted, Dipping, dipping, dipping its tremulous hair; Pure as the fountain, once I came to the place, (How dare I draw nearer?) I bent o'er its mirror, And saw a child's face Mid locks of bright gold in it; Yes, pure as this fountain once,-- Since, bow much error! 140 Too holy a mirror For the man to behold in it His harsh, bearded countenance!

VI

'Tis a woodland enchanted! Ah, fly unreturning! Yet stay;-- 'Tis a woodland enchanted, Where wonderful chances Have sway; Luck flees from the cold one, 150 But leaps to the bold one Half-way; Why should I be daunted? Still the smooth mirror glances, Still the amber sand dances, One look,--then away! O magical glass! Canst keep in thy bosom Shades of leaf and of blossom When summer days pass, 160 So that when thy wave hardens It shapes as it pleases, Unharmed by the breezes, Its fine hanging gardens? Hast those in thy keeping. And canst not uncover, Enchantedly sleeping, The old shade of thy lover? It is there! I have found it! He wakes, the long sleeper! 170 The pool is grown deeper, The sand dance is ending, The white floor sinks, blending With skies that below me Are deepening and bending, And a child's face alone That seems not to know me, With hair that fades golden In the heaven-glow round it, Looks up at my own; 180 Ah, glimpse through the portal That leads to the throne, That opes the child's olden Regions Elysian! Ah, too holy vision For thy skirts to be holden By soiled hand of mortal! It wavers, it scatters, 'Tis gone past recalling! A tear's sudden falling 190 The magic cup shatters, Breaks the spell of the waters, And the sand cone once more, With a ceaseless renewing, Its dance is pursuing On the silvery floor, O'er and o'er, With a noiseless and ceaseless renewing.

VII

'Tis a woodland enchanted! If you ask me, _Where is it?_ 200 I can but make answer, ''Tis past my disclosing;' Not to choice is it granted By sure paths to visit The still pool enclosing Its blithe little dancer; But in some day, the rarest Of many Septembers, When the pulses of air rest, And all things lie dreaming 210 In drowsy haze steaming From the wood's glowing embers, Then, sometimes, unheeding, And asking not whither, By a sweet inward leading My feet are drawn thither, And, looking with awe in the magical mirror, I see through my tears, Half doubtful of seeing, The face unperverted, 220 The warm golden being Of a child of five years; And spite of the mists and the error. And the days overcast, Can feel that I walk undeserted, But forever attended By the glad heavens that bended O'er the innocent past; Toward fancy or truth Doth the sweet vision win me? 230 Dare I think that I cast In the fountain of youth The fleeting reflection Of some bygone perfection That still lingers in me?

YUSSOUF

A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, Saying, 'Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head; I come to thee for shelter and for food, To Yussouf, called through all our tribes "The Good."

'This tent is mine,' said Yussouf, 'but no more Than it is God's come in and be at peace; Freely shall thou partake of all my store As I of His who buildeth over these Our tents his glorious roof of night and day, And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay.'

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, And, waking him ere day, said: 'Here is gold; My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight; Depart before the prying day grow bold.' As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.

That inward light the stranger's face made grand, Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low, He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand, Sobbing: 'O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so; I will repay thee; all this thou hast done Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!'

'Take thrice the gold,' said Yussouf 'for with thee Into the desert, never to return, My one black thought shall ride away from me; First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn, Balanced and just are all of God's decrees; Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!'

THE DARKENED MIND

The fire is turning clear and blithely, Pleasantly whistles the winter wind; We are about thee, thy friends and kindred, On us all flickers the firelight kind; There thou sittest in thy wonted corner Lone and awful in thy darkened mind.

There thou sittest; now and then thou moanest; Thou dost talk with what we cannot see, Lookest at us with an eye so doubtful, It doth put us very far from thee; There thou sittest; we would fain be nigh thee, But we know that it can never be.

We can touch thee, still we are no nearer; Gather round thee, still thou art alone; The wide chasm of reason is between us; Thou confutest kindness with a moan; We can speak to thee, and thou canst answer, Like two prisoners through a wall of stone.

Hardest heart would call it very awful When thou look'st at us and seest--oh, what? If we move away, thou sittest gazing With those vague eyes at the selfsame spot, And thou mutterest, thy hands thou wringest, Seeing something,--us thou seest not.

Strange it is that, in this open brightness, Thou shouldst sit in such a narrow cell; Strange it is that thou shouldst be so lonesome Where those are who love thee all so well; Not so much of thee is left among us As the hum outliving the hushed bell.

WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID

Rabbi Jehosha used to say That God made angels every day, Perfect as Michael and the rest First brooded in creation's nest, Whose only office was to cry _Hosanna!_ once, and then to die; Or rather, with Life's essence blent, To be led home from banishment.

Rabbi Jehosha had the skill To know that Heaven is in God's will; And doing that, though for a space One heart-beat long, may win a grace As full of grandeur and of glow As Princes of the Chariot know.

'Twere glorious, no doubt, to be One of the strong-winged Hierarchy, To burn with Seraphs, or to shine With Cherubs, deathlessly divine; Yet I, perhaps, poor earthly clod, Could I forget myself in God, Could I but find my nature's clue Simply as birds and blossoms do, And but for one rapt moment know 'Tis Heaven must come, not we must go, Should win my place as near the throne As the pearl-angel of its zone. And God would listen mid the throng For my one breath of perfect song, That, in its simple human way, Said all the Host of Heaven could say.

ALL-SAINTS

One feast, of holy days the crest, I, though no Churchman, love to keep, All-Saints,--the unknown good that rest In God's still memory folded deep; The bravely dumb that did their deed, And scorned to blot it with a name, Men of the plain heroic breed, That loved Heaven's silence more than fame.

Such lived not in the past alone, But thread to-day the unheeding street, And stairs to Sin and Famine known Sing with the welcome of their feet; The den they enter grows a shrine, The grimy sash an oriel burns, Their cup of water warms like wine, Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.

About their brows to me appears An aureole traced in tenderest light, The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears In dying eyes, by them made bright, Of souls that shivered on the edge Of that chill ford repassed no more, And in their mercy felt the pledge And sweetness of the farther shore.

A WINTER-EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE

I

Beauty on my hearth-stone blazing! To-night the triple Zoroaster Shall my prophet be and master; To-night will I pure Magian be, Hymns to thy sole honor raising, While thou leapest fast and faster, Wild with self-delighted glee, Or sink'st low and glowest faintly As an aureole still and saintly, Keeping cadence to my praising 10 Thee! still thee! and only thee!

II

Elfish daughter of Apollo! Thee, from thy father stolen and bound To serve in Vulcan's clangorous smithy, Prometheus (primal Yankee) found, And, when he had tampered with thee, (Too confiding little maid!) In a reed's precarious hollow To our frozen earth conveyed: For he swore I know not what; 20 Endless ease should be thy lot, Pleasure that should never falter, Lifelong play, and not a duty Save to hover o'er the altar, Vision of celestial beauty, Fed with precious woods and spices; Then, perfidious! having got Thee in the net of his devices, Sold thee into endless slavery, Made thee a drudge to boil the pot, 30 Thee, Helios' daughter, who dost bear His likeness in thy golden hair; Thee, by nature wild and wavery, Palpitating, evanescent As the shade of Dian's crescent, Life, motion, gladness, everywhere!

III

Fathom deep men bury thee In the furnace dark and still. There, with dreariest mockery, 39 Making thee eat, against thy will, Blackest Pennsylvanian stone; But thou dost avenge thy doom, For, from out thy catacomb, Day and night thy wrath is blown In a withering simoom, And, adown that cavern drear, Thy black pitfall in the floor, Staggers the lusty antique cheer, Despairing, and is seen no more!

IV

Elfish I may rightly name thee; 50 We enslave, but cannot tame thee; With fierce snatches, now and then, Thou pluckest at thy right again, And thy down-trod instincts savage To stealthy insurrection creep While thy wittol masters sleep, And burst in undiscerning ravage: Then how thou shak'st thy bacchant locks! While brazen pulses, far and near, Throb thick and thicker, wild with fear 60 And dread conjecture, till the drear Disordered clangor every steeple rocks!

V

But when we make a friend of thee, And admit thee to the hall On our nights of festival, Then, Cinderella, who could see In thee the kitchen's stunted thrall? Once more a Princess lithe and tan, Thou dancest with a whispering tread, While the bright marvel of thy head 70 In crinkling gold floats all abroad, And gloriously dost vindicate The legend of thy lineage great, Earth-exiled daughter of the Pythian god! Now in the ample chimney-place, To honor thy acknowledged race, We crown thee high with laurel good, Thy shining father's sacred wood, Which, guessing thy ancestral right, Sparkles and snaps its dumb delight, 80 And, at thy touch, poor outcast one, Feels through its gladdened fibres go The tingle and thrill and vassal glow Of instincts loyal to the sun.

VI

O thou of home the guardian Lar, And, when our earth hath wandered far, Into the cold, and deep snow covers The walks of our New England lovers, Their sweet secluded evening-star! 'Twas with thy rays the English Muse 90 Ripened her mild domestic hues; 'Twas by thy flicker that she conned The fireside wisdom that enrings With light from heaven familiar things; By thee she found the homely faith In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th When Death, extinguishing his torch, Gropes for the latch-string in the porch; The love that wanders not beyond His earliest nest, but sits and sings 100 While children smooth his patient wings; Therefore with thee I love to read Our brave old poets; at thy touch how stirs Life in the withered words: how swift recede Time's shadows; and how glows again Through its dead mass the incandescent verse, As when upon the anvils of the brain It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's thought! Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, 110 The aspirations unattained, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, They bent and strained And broke, beneath the sombre weight Of any airiest mortal word.

VII

What warm protection dost thou bend Round curtained talk of friend with friend, While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof, Or the rude North with baffled strain 120 Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus born By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted opon her natal morn By him with fire, by her with dreams, Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewildering juice, We worship, unforbid of thee; And, as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, 130 Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest revery, So winds and loiters, idly free, The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought. Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, A sweetly unobtrusive third; For thou hast magic beyond wine, To unlock natures each to each; 140 The unspoken thought thou canst divine; Thou fill'st the pauses of the speech With whispers that to dream-land reach And frozen fancy-springs unchain In Arctic outskirts of the brain: Sun of all inmost confidences, To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretences, That close against rude day's offences, And open its shy midnight rose! 150

VIII

Thou holdest not the master key With which thy Sire sets free the mystic gates Of Past and Future: not for common fates Do they wide open fling, And, with a far heard ring, Swing back their willing valves melodiously; Only to ceremonial days, And great processions of imperial song That set the world at gaze, Doth such high privilege belong; 160 But thou a postern-door canst ope To humbler chambers of the selfsame palace Where Memory lodges, and her sister Hope, Whose being is but as a crystal chalice Which, with her various mood, the elder fills Of joy or sorrow, So coloring as she wills With hues of yesterday the unconscious morrow.

IX

Thou sinkest, and my fancy sinks with thee: For thee I took the idle shell, 170 And struck the unused chords again, But they are gone who listened well; Some are in heaven, and all are far from me: Even as I sing, it turns to pain, And with vain tears my eyelids throb and swell: Enough; I come not of the race That hawk their sorrows in the market-place. Earth stops the ears I best had loved to please; Then break, ye untuned chords, or rust in peace! As if a white-haired actor should come back 180 Some midnight to the theatre void and black, And there rehearse his youth's great part Mid thin applauses of the ghosts. So seems it now: ye crowd upon my heart, And I bow down in silence, shadowy hosts!

FANCY'S CASUISTRY

How struggles with the tempest's swells That warning of tumultuous bells! The fire is loose! and frantic knells Throb fast and faster, As tower to tower confusedly tells News of disaster.

But on my far-off solitude No harsh alarums can intrude; The terror comes to me subdued And charmed by distance, To deepen the habitual mood Of my existence.

Are those, I muse, the Easter chimes? And listen, weaving careless rhymes While the loud city's griefs and crimes Pay gentle allegiance To the fine quiet that sublimes These dreamy regions.

And when the storm o'erwhelms the shore, I watch entranced as, o'er and o'er, The light revolves amid the roar So still and saintly, Now large and near, now more and more Withdrawing faintly.

This, too, despairing sailors see Flash out the breakers 'neath their lee In sudden snow, then lingeringly Wane tow'rd eclipse, While through the dark the shuddering sea Gropes for the ships.

And is it right, this mood of mind That thus, in revery enshrined, Can in the world mere topics find For musing stricture, Seeing the life of humankind Only as picture?

The events in line of battle go; In vain for me their trumpets blow As unto him that lieth low In death's dark arches, And through the sod hears throbbing slow The muffled marches.

O Duty, am I dead to thee In this my cloistered ecstasy, In this lone shallop on the sea That drifts tow'rd Silence? And are those visioned shores I see But sirens' islands?

My Dante frowns with lip-locked mien, As who would say, ''Tis those, I ween, Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean That win the laurel;' But where _is_ Truth? What does it mean, The world-old quarrel?

Such questionings are idle air: Leave what to do and what to spare To the inspiring moment's care, Nor ask for payment Of fame or gold, but just to wear Unspotted raiment.

TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT

WHO HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND TROUT

Fit for an Abbot of Theleme, For the whole Cardinals' College, or The Pope himself to see in dream Before his lenten vision gleam. He lies there, the sogdologer!

His precious flanks with stars besprent, Worthy to swim in Castaly! The friend by whom such gifts are sent, For him shall bumpers full be spent, His health! be Luck his fast ally!

I see him trace the wayward brook Amid the forest mysteries, Where at their shades shy aspens look. Or where, with many a gurgling crook, It croons its woodland histories.

I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,-- (Oh, stew him, Ann, as 'twere your friend, With amorous solicitude!)

I see him step with caution due, Soft as if shod with moccasins, Grave as in church, for who plies you, Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew From all our common stock o' sins.

The unerring fly I see him cast, That as a rose-leaf falls as soft, A flash! a whirl! he has him fast! We tyros, how that struggle last Confuses and appalls us oft.

Unfluttered he: calm as the sky Looks on our tragi-comedies, This way and that he lets him fly, A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die Lands him, with cool _aplomb_, at ease.

The friend who gave our board such gust, Life's care may he o'erstep it half, And, when Death hooks him, as he must, He'll do it handsomely, I trust, And John H---- write his epitaph!

Oh, born beneath the Fishes' sign, Of constellations happiest, May he somewhere with Walton dine, May Horace send him Massic wine, And Burns Scotch drink, the nappiest!

And when they come his deeds to weigh, And how he used the talents his, One trout-scale in the scales he'll lay (If trout had scales), and 'twill outsway The wrong side of the balances.

ODE TO HAPPINESS

Spirit, that rarely comest now And only to contrast my gloom, Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom A moment on some autumn bough That, with the spurn of their farewell Sheds its last leaves,--thou once didst dwell With me year-long, and make intense To boyhood's wisely vacant days Their fleet but all-sufficing grace Of trustful inexperience, 10 While soul could still transfigure sense, And thrill, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness. Days when my blood would leap and run As full of sunshine as a breeze, Or spray tossed up by Summer seas That doubts if it be sea or sun! Days that flew swiftly like the band That played in Grecian games at strife, And passed from eager hand to hand 20 The onward-dancing torch of life!

Wing-footed! thou abid'st with him Who asks it not; but he who hath Watched o'er the waves thy waning path, Shall nevermore behold returning Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning! Thou first reveal'st to us thy face Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, A moment glimpsed, then seen no more,-- Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace 30 Away from every mortal door.

Nymph of the unreturning feet, How may I win thee back? But no, I do thee wrong to call thee so; 'Tis I am changed, not thou art fleet: The man thy presence feels again, Not in the blood, but in the brain, Spirit, that lov'st the upper air Serene and passionless and rare, Such as on mountain heights we find 40 And wide-viewed uplands of the mind; Or such as scorns to coil and sing Round any but the eagle's wing Of souls that with long upward beat Have won an undisturbed retreat Where, poised like wingèd victories, They mirror in relentless eyes. The life broad-basking 'neath their feet,-- Man ever with his Now at strife, Pained with first gasps of earthly air, 50 Then praying Death the last to spare, Still fearful of the ampler life.

Not unto them dost thou consent Who, passionless, can lead at ease A life of unalloyed content, A life like that of land-locked seas, Who feel no elemental gush Of tidal forces, no fierce rush Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent 'Twixt continent and continent. 60 Such quiet souls have never known Thy truer inspiration, thou Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow Spray from the plunging vessel thrown Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, Where the frail hair-breadth of an _if_ Is all that sunders life and death: These, too, are cared for, and round these Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace; 70 These in unvexed dependence lie, Each 'neath his strip of household sky; O'er these clouds wander, and the blue Hangs motionless the whole day through; Stars rise for them, and moons grow large And lessen in such tranquil wise As joys and sorrows do that rise Within their nature's sheltered marge; Their hours into each other flit Like the leaf-shadows of the vine 80 And fig-tree under which they sit, And their still lives to heaven incline With an unconscious habitude, Unhistoried as smokes that rise From happy hearths and sight elude In kindred blue of morning skies.

Wayward! when once we feel thy lack, 'Tis worse than vain to woo thee back! Yet there is one who seems to be Thine elder sister, in whose eyes 90 A faint far northern light will rise Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; She is not that for which youth hoped, But she hath blessings all her own, Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped, And faith to sorrow given alone: Almost I deem that it is thou Come back with graver matron brow, With deepened eyes and bated breath, Like one that somewhere hath met Death: 100 But 'No,' she answers, 'I am she Whom the gods love, Tranquillity; That other whom you seek forlorn Half earthly was; but I am born Of the immortals, and our race Wears still some sadness on its face: He wins me late, but keeps me long, Who, dowered with every gift of passion, In that fierce flame can forge and fashion Of sin and self the anchor strong; 110 Can thence compel the driving force Of daily life's mechanic course, Nor less the nobler energies Of needful toil and culture wise; Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure, Who can renounce, and yet endure, To him I come, not lightly wooed, But won by silent fortitude.'

VILLA FRANCA

1859

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait? Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time; There's One hath swifter feet than Crime; Cannon-parliaments settle naught; Venice is Austria's,--whose is Thought? Minié is good, but, spite of change, Gutenberg's gun has the longest range. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

Wait, we say: our years are long; Men are weak, out Man is strong; Since the stars first curved their rings, We have looked on many things: Great wars come and great wars go, Wolf-tracks light on polar snow; We shall see him come and gone, This second-hand Napoleon. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

We saw the elder Corsican, And Clotho muttered as she span, While crowned lackeys bore the train, Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne: 'Sister, stint not length of thread! Sister, stay the scissors dread! On Saint Helen's granite Weak, Hark, the vulture whets his beak!' Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

The Bonapartes, we know their bees That wade in honey red to the knees; Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound In dreamless garners underground: We know false glory's spendthrift race Pawning nations for feathers and lace; It may be short, it may be long, ''Tis reckoning-day!' sneers unpaid Wrong. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin Can promise what he ne'er could win; Slavery reaped for fine words sown, System for all, and rights for none, Despots atop, a wild clan below, Such is the Gaul from long ago; Wash the black from the Ethiop's face, Wash the past out of man or race! Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings, And snares the people for the kings; 'Luther is dead; old quarrels pass: The stake's black scars are healed with grass;' So dreamers prate; did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive? But Luther's broom is left, and eyes Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever.

Smooth sails the ship of either realm, Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm; We look down the depths, and mark Silent workers in the dark Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, Old instincts hardening to new beliefs; Patience a little; learn to wait; Hours are long on the clock of Fate. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! Darkness is strong, and so is Sin, But surely God endures forever!

THE MINER

Down 'mid the tangled roots of things That coil about the central fire, I seek for that which giveth wings To stoop, not soar, to my desire.

Sometimes I hear, as 'twere a sigh, The sea's deep yearning far above, 'Thou hast the secret not,' I cry, 'In deeper deeps is hid my Love.'

They think I burrow from the sun, In darkness, all alone, and weak; Such loss were gain if He were won, For 'tis the sun's own Sun I seek.

'The earth,' they murmur, 'is the tomb That vainly sought his life to prison; Why grovel longer in the gloom? He is not here; he hath arisen.'

More life for me where he hath lain Hidden while ye believed him dead, Than in cathedrals cold and vain, Built on loose sands of _It is said_.

My search is for the living gold; Him I desire who dwells recluse, And not his image worn and old, Day-servant of our sordid use.

If him I find not, yet I find The ancient joy of cell and church, The glimpse, the surety undefined, The unquenched ardor of the search.

Happier to chase a flying goal Than to sit counting laurelled gains, To guess the Soul within the soul Than to be lord of what remains.

Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise, Beyond my nature's utmost scope; Be ever absent from mine eyes To be twice present in my hope!

GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY

HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRESDEN OVER HERR PROFESSOR DOCTOR VISCHER'S WISSENSCHAFT DES SCHÖNEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF

I swam with undulation soft, Adrift on Vischer's ocean, And, from my cockboat up aloft, Sent down my mental plummet oft In hope to reach a notion.

But from the metaphysic sea No bottom was forthcoming, And all the while (how drearily!) In one eternal note of B My German stove kept humming. 10

'What's Beauty?' mused I; 'is it told By synthesis? analysis? Have you not made us lead of gold? To feed your crucible, not sold Our temple's sacred chalices?'

Then o'er my senses came a change; My book seemed all traditions, Old legends of profoundest range, Diablery, and stories strange Of goblins, elves, magicians. 20

Old gods in modern saints I found, Old creeds in strange disguises; I thought them safely underground, And here they were, all safe and sound, Without a sign of phthisis.

Truth was, my outward eyes were closed, Although I did not know it; Deep into dream-land I had dozed, And thus was happily transposed From proser into poet. 30

So what I read took flesh and blood, And turned to living creatures: The words were but the dingy bud That bloomed, like Adam, from the mud, To human forms and features.

I saw how Zeus was lodged once more By Baucis and Philemon; The text said, 'Not alone of yore, But every day, at every door Knocks still the masking Demon.' 40

DAIMON 'twas printed in the book And, as I read it slowly, The letters stirred and changed, and took Jove's stature, the Olympian look Of painless melancholy.

He paused upon the threshold worn: 'With coin I cannot pay you; Yet would I fain make some return; The gift for cheapness do not spurn, Accept this hen, I pray you. 50

'Plain feathers wears my Hemera, And has from ages olden; She makes her nest in common hay, And yet, of all the birds that lay, Her eggs alone are golden.'

He turned, and could no more be seen; Old Bancis stared a moment, Then tossed poor Partlet on the green, And with a tone, half jest, half spleen, Thus made her housewife's comment: 60

'The stranger had a queerish face, His smile was hardly pleasant, And, though he meant it for a grace, Yet this old hen of barnyard race Was but a stingy present.

'She's quite too old for laying eggs, Nay, even to make a soup of; One only needs to see her legs,-- You might as well boil down the pegs I made the brood-hen's coop of! 70

'Some eighteen score of such do I Raise every year, her sisters; Go, in the woods your fortunes try, All day for one poor earthworm pry, And scratch your toes to blisters!'

Philemon found the rede was good, And, turning on the poor hen, He clapt his hands, and stamped, and shooed, Hunting the exile tow'rd the wood, To house with snipe and moorhen. 80

A poet saw and cried: 'Hold! hold! What are you doing, madman? Spurn you more wealth than can be told, The fowl that lays the eggs of gold, Because she's plainly clad, man?'

To him Philemon: 'I'll not balk Thy will with any shackle; Wilt add a harden to thy walk? There! take her without further talk: You're both but fit to cackle!' 90

But scarce the poet touched the bird, It swelled to stature regal; And when her cloud-wide wings she stirred, A whisper as of doom was heard, 'Twas Jove's bolt-bearing eagle.

As when from far-off cloud-bergs springs A crag, and, hurtling under, From cliff to cliff the rumor flings, So she from flight-foreboding wings Shook out a murmurous thunder. 100

She gripped the poet to her breast, And ever, upward soaring, Earth seemed a new moon in the west, And then one light among the rest Where squadrons lie at mooring.

How tell to what heaven-hallowed seat The eagle bent his courses? The waves that on its bases beat, The gales that round it weave and fleet, Are life's creative forces. 110

Here was the bird's primeval nest, High on a promontory Star-pharosed, where she takes her rest To brood new æons 'neath her breast, The future's unfledged glory.

I know not how, but I was there All feeling, hearing, seeing; It was not wind that stirred my hair But living breath, the essence rare Of unembodied being. 120

And in the nest an egg of gold Lay soft in self-made lustre, Gazing whereon, what depths untold Within, what marvels manifold, Seemed silently to muster!

Daily such splendors to confront Is still to me and you sent? It glowed as when Saint Peter's front, Illumed, forgets its stony wont, And seems to throb translucent. 130

One saw therein the life of man, (Or so the poet found it,) The yolk and white, conceive who can, Were the glad earth, that, floating, span In the glad heaven around it.

I knew this as one knows in dream, Where no effects to causes Are chained as in our work-day scheme, And then was wakened by a scream That seemed to come from Baucis. 140

'Bless Zeus!' she cried, 'I'm safe below!' First pale, then red as coral; And I, still drowsy, pondered slow, And seemed to find, but hardly know, Something like this for moral.

Each day the world is born anew For him who takes it rightly; Not fresher that which Adam knew, Not sweeter that whose moonlit dew Entranced Arcadia nightly. 150

Rightly? That's simply: 'tis to see _Some_ substance casts these shadows Which we call Life and History, That aimless seem to chase and flee Like wind-gleams over meadows.

Simply? That's nobly: 'tis to know That God may still be met with, Nor groweth old, nor doth bestow These senses fine, this brain aglow, To grovel and forget with. 160

Beauty, Herr Doctor, trust in me, No chemistry will win you; Charis still rises from the sea: If you can't find her, _might_ it be Because you seek within you?

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

Alike I hate to be your debtor, Or write a mere perfunctory letter; For letters, so it seems to me, Our careless quintessence should be, Our real nature's truant play When Consciousness looks t'other way; Not drop by drop, with watchful skill, Gathered in Art's deliberate still, But life's insensible completeness Got as the ripe grape gets its sweetness, 10 As if it had a way to fuse The golden sunlight into juice. Hopeless my mental pump I try, The boxes hiss, the tube is dry; As those petroleum wells that spout Awhile like M.C.'s, then give out, My spring, once full as Arethusa, Is a mere bore as dry's Creusa; And yet you ask me why I'm glum, And why my graver Muse is dumb. 20 Ah me! I've reasons manifold Condensed in one,--I'm getting old!

When life, once past its fortieth year, Wheels up its evening hemisphere, The mind's own shadow, which the boy Saw onward point to hope and joy, Shifts round, irrevocably set Tow'rd morning's loss and vain regret, And, argue with it as we will, The clock is unconverted still. 30

'But count the gains,' I hear you say, 'Which far the seeming loss out-weigh; Friendships built firm 'gainst flood and wind On rock foundations of the mind; Knowledge instead of scheming hope; For wild adventure, settled scope; Talents, from surface-ore profuse, Tempered and edged to tools for use; Judgment, for passion's headlong whirls; Old sorrows crystalled into pearls; 40 Losses by patience turned to gains, Possessions now, that once were pains; Joy's blossom gone, as go it must, To ripen seeds of faith and trust; Why heed a snow-flake on the roof If fire within keep Age aloof, Though blundering north-winds push and strain With palms benumbed against the pane?'

My dear old Friend, you're very wise; We always are with others' eyes, 50 And see _so_ clear! (our neighbor's deck on) What reef the idiot's sure to wreck on; Folks when they learn how life has quizzed 'em Are fain to make a shift with Wisdom, And, finding she nor breaks nor bends, Give her a letter to their friends. Draw passion's torrent whoso will Through sluices smooth to turn a mill, And, taking solid toll of grist, Forget the rainbow in the mist, 60 The exulting leap, the aimless haste Scattered in iridescent waste; Prefer who likes the sure esteem To cheated youth's midsummer dream, When every friend was more than Damon, Each quicksand safe to build a fame on; Believe that prudence snug excels Youth's gross of verdant spectacles, Through which earth's withered stubble seen Looks autumn-proof as painted green,-- 70 I side with Moses 'gainst the masses, Take you the drudge, give me the glasses! And, for your talents shaped with practice, Convince me first that such the fact is; Let whoso likes be beat, poor fool, On life's hard stithy to a tool, Be whoso will a ploughshare made, Let me remain a jolly blade!

What's Knowledge, with her stocks and lands, To gay Conjecture's yellow strands? 80 What's watching her slow flock's increase To ventures for the golden fleece? What her deep ships, safe under lee, To youth's light craft, that drinks the sea, For Flying Islands making sail, And failing where 'tis gain to fail? Ah me! Experience (so we're told), Time's crucible, turns lead to gold; Yet what's experience won but dross, Cloud-gold transmuted to our loss? 90 What but base coin the best event To the untried experiment!

'Twas an old couple, says the poet, That lodged the gods and did not know it; Youth sees and knows them as they were Before Olympus' top was bare; From Swampscot's flats his eye divine Sees Venus rocking on the brine, With lucent limbs, that somehow scatter a Charm that turns Doll to Cleopatra; 100 Bacchus (that now is scarce induced To give Eld's lagging blood a boost), With cymbals' clang and pards to draw him, Divine as Ariadne saw him, Storms through Youth's pulse with all his train And wins new Indies in his brain; Apollo (with the old a trope, A sort of finer Mister Pope), Apollo--but the Muse forbids: At his approach cast down thy lids, 110 And think it joy enough to hear Far off his arrows singing clear; He knows enough who silent knows The quiver chiming as he goes; He tells too much who e'er betrays The shining Archer's secret ways.

Dear Friend, you're right and I am wrong; My quibbles are not worth a song, And I sophistically tease My fancy sad to tricks like these. 120 I could not cheat you if I would; You know me and my jesting mood, Mere surface-foam, for pride concealing The purpose of my deeper feeling. I have not spilt one drop of joy Poured in the senses of the boy, Nor Nature fails my walks to bless With all her golden inwardness; And as blind nestlings, unafraid, Stretch up wide-mouthed to every shade 130 By which their downy dream is stirred, Taking it for the mother-bird, So, when God's shadow, which is light, Unheralded, by day or night, My wakening instincts falls across, Silent as sunbeams over moss, In my heart's nest half-conscious things Stir with a helpless sense of wings, Lift themselves up, and tremble long With premonitions sweet of song. 140

Be patient, and perhaps (who knows?) These may be winged one day like those; If thrushes, close-embowered to sing, Pierced through with June's delicious sting; If swallows, their half-hour to run Star-breasted in the setting sun. At first they're but the unfledged proem, Or songless schedule of a poem; When from the shell they're hardly dry If some folks thrust them forth, must I? 150

But let me end with a comparison Never yet hit upon by e'er a son Of our American Apollo, (And there's where I shall beat them hollow, If he indeed's no courtly St. John, But, as West said, a Mohawk Injun.) A poem's like a cruise for whales: Through untried seas the hunter sails, His prow dividing waters known To the blue iceberg's hulk alone; 160 At last, on farthest edge of day, He marks the smoky puff of spray; Then with bent oars the shallop flies To where the basking quarry lies; Then the excitement of the strife, The crimsoned waves,--ah, this is life!

But, the dead plunder once secured And safe beside the vessel moored, All that had stirred the blood before Is so much blubber, nothing more, 170 (I mean no pun, nor image so Mere sentimental verse, you know,) And all is tedium, smoke, and soil, In trying out the noisome oil.

Yes, this _is_ life! And so the bard Through briny deserts, never scarred Since Noah's keel, a subject seeks, And lies upon the watch for weeks; That once harpooned and helpless lying, What follows is but weary trying. 180

Now I've a notion, if a poet Beat up for themes, his verse will show it; I wait for subjects that hunt me, By day or night won't let me be, And hang about me like a curse, Till they have made me into verse, From line to line my fingers tease Beyond my knowledge, as the bees Build no new cell till those before With limpid summer-sweet run o'er; 190 Then, if I neither sing nor shine, Is it the subject's fault, or mine?

AN EMBER PICTURE

How strange are the freaks of memory! The lessons of life we forget, While a trifle, a trick of color, In the wonderful web is set,--

Set by some mordant of fancy, And, spite of the wear and tear Of time or distance or trouble, Insists on its right to be there.

A chance had brought us together; Our talk was of matters-of-course; We were nothing, one to the other, But a short half-hour's resource.

We spoke of French acting and actors, And their easy, natural way: Of the weather, for it was raining, As we drove home from the play.

We debated the social nothings We bore ourselves so to discuss; The thunderous rumors of battle Were silent the while for us.

Arrived at her door, we left her With a drippingly hurried adieu, And our wheels went crunching the gravel Of the oak-darkened avenue.

As we drove away through the shadow, The candle she held in the door From rain-varnished tree-trunk to tree-trunk Flashed fainter, and flashed no more;--

Flashed fainter, then wholly faded Before we had passed the wood; But the light of the face behind it Went with me and stayed for good.

The vision of scarce a moment, And hardly marked at the time, It comes unbidden to haunt me, Like a scrap of ballad-rhyme.

Had she beauty? Well, not what they call so; You may find a thousand as fair; And yet there's her face in my memory With no special claim to be there.

As I sit sometimes in the twilight, And call back to life in the coals Old faces and hopes and fancies Long buried, (good rest to their souls!)

Her face shines out in the embers; I see her holding the light, And hear the crunch of the gravel And the sweep of the rain that night.

'Tis a face that can never grow older, That never can part with its gleam, 'Tis a gracious possession forever, For is it not all a dream?

TO H.W.L.

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867

I need not praise the sweetness of his song, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

With loving breath of all the winds his name Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur a _God bless you!_ and there ends.

As I muse backward up the checkered years Wherein so much was given, so much was lost, Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears,-- But hush! this is not for profaner ears; Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the cost.

Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core, As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground; Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound.

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun, So through his trial faith translucent rayed Till darkness, halt disnatured so, betrayed A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Surely if skill in song the shears may stay And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, He shall not go, although his presence may, And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet As gracious natures find his song to be; May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet Falling in music, as for him were meet Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he!

THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY

'Come forth!' my catbird calls to me, 'And hear me sing a cavatina That, in this old familiar tree, Shall hang a garden of Alcina.

'These buttercups shall brim with wine Beyond all Lesbian juice or Massic; May not New England be divine? My ode to ripening summer classic?

'Or, if to me you will not hark, By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing Till all the alder-coverts dark Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing.

'Come out beneath the unmastered sky, With its emancipating spaces, And learn to sing as well as I, Without premeditated graces.

'What boot your many-volumed gains, Those withered leaves forever turning, To win, at best, for all your pains, A nature mummy-wrapt to learning?

'The leaves wherein true wisdom lies On living trees the sun are drinking; Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies, Grew not so beautiful by thinking.

'"Come out!" with me the oriole cries, Escape the demon that pursues you: And, hark, the cuckoo weather-wise, Still hiding farther onward, wooes you.'

'Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, Hast poured from that syringa thicket The quaintly discontinuous lays To which I hold a season-ticket.

'A season-ticket cheaply bought With a dessert of pilfered berries, And who so oft my soul hast caught With morn and evening voluntaries,

'Deem me not faithless, if all day Among my dusty books I linger, No pipe, like thee, for June to play With fancy-led, half-conscious finger.

'A bird is singing in my brain And bubbling o'er with mingled fancies, Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain Fed with the sap of old romances.

'I ask no ampler skies than those His magic music rears above me, No falser friends, no truer foes,-- And does not Doña Clara love me?

'Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars, A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing, Then silence deep with breathless stars, And overhead a white hand flashing.

'O music of all moods and climes, Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly, Where still, between the Christian chimes, The Moorish cymbal tinkles faintly!

'O life borne lightly in the hand, For friend or foe with grace Castilian! O valley safe in Fancy's land, Not tramped to mud yet by the million!

'Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale To his, my singer of all weathers, My Calderon, my nightingale, My Arab soul in Spanish feathers.

'Ah, friend, these singers dead so long, And still, God knows, in purgatory, Give its best sweetness to all song, To Nature's self her better glory.'

IN THE TWILIGHT

Men say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!

The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, Live and rejoice? That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses? Have I heard, have I seen All I feel, all I know? Doth my heart overween? Or could it have been Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent. That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover. Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!

THE FOOT-PATH

It mounts athwart the windy hill Through sallow slopes of upland bare, And Fancy climbs with foot-fall still Its narrowing curves that end in air.

By day, a warmer-hearted blue Stoops softly to that topmost swell; Its thread-like windings seem a clue To gracious climes where all is well.

By night, far yonder, I surmise An ampler world than clips my ken, Where the great stars of happier skies Commingle nobler fates of men.

I look and long, then haste me home, Still master of my secret rare; Once tried, the path would end in Rome, But now it leads me everywhere.

Forever to the new it guides, From former good, old overmuch; What Nature for her poets hides, 'Tis wiser to divine than clutch.

The bird I list hath never come Within the scope of mortal ear; My prying step would make him dumb, And the fair tree, his shelter, sear.

Behind the hill, behind the sky, Behind my inmost thought, he sings; No feet avail; to hear it nigh, The song itself must lend the wings.

Sing on, sweet bird close hid, and raise Those angel stairways in my brain, That climb from these low-vaulted days To spacious sunshines far from pain.

Sing when thou wilt, enchantment fleet, I leave thy covert haunt untrod, And envy Science not her feat To make a twice-told tale of God.

They said the fairies tript no more, And long ago that Pan was dead; 'Twas but that fools preferred to bore Earth's rind inch-deep for truth instead.

Pan leaps and pipes all summer long, The fairies dance each full-mooned night, Would we but doff our lenses strong, And trust our wiser eyes' delight.

City of Elf-land, just without Our seeing, marvel ever new, Glimpsed in fair weather, a sweet doubt Sketched-in, mirage-like, on the blue,

I build thee in yon sunset cloud, Whose edge allures to climb the height; I hear thy drowned bells, inly-loud, From still pools dusk with dreams of night.

Thy gates are shut to hardiest will, Thy countersign of long-lost speech,-- Those fountained courts, those chambers still, Fronting Time's far East, who shall reach?

I know not, and will never pry, But trust our human heart for all; Wonders that from the seeker fly Into an open sense may fall.

Hide in thine own soul, and surprise The password of the unwary elves; Seek it, thou canst not bribe their spies; Unsought, they whisper it themselves.

POEMS OF THE WAR

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD

OCTOBER, 1861

Along a river-side, I know not where, I walked one night in mystery of dream; A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist Their hales, wavering thistledowns of light; The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright, Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night. 10

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear A movement in the stream that checked my breath: Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? But something said, 'This water is of Death! The Sisters wash a shroud,--ill thing to hear!'

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: 'Time was, Time is, and Time shall be.' 20

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

'Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,' So sang they, working at their task the while; 'The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn: For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn? 30

'Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States like children round his knees, That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?

'What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we? When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, The time-old web of the implacable Three: Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud? Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,--why not he?' 40

'Is there no hope?' I moaned, 'so strong, so fair! Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile No rival's swoop in all our western air! Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?

'Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames! I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?' 50

'When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew, Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain: Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain? Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew.

'Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,-- These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,-- Obedience,--'tis the great tap-root that still, Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill. 60

'Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'Tis not we Denounce it, but the Law before all time: The brave makes danger opportunity; The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?

'Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw? Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law? Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet! 70

'Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, States climb to power by; slippery those with gold Down which they stumble to eternal mock: No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block.

'We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, Mystic because too cheaply understood; Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know, See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow. 80

'Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, That offers choice of glory or of gloom; The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss.'

'But not for him,' I cried, 'not yet for him, Whose large horizon, westering, star by star Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim! 90

'His shall be larger manhood, saved for those That walk unblenching through the trial-fires; Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, And he no base-born son of craven sires, Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes.

'Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win Death's royal purple in the foe-man's lines; Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din, The wiser ear some text of God divines, For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin. 100

'God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep, Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!'

So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; Again the loon laughed mocking, and again The echoes bayed far down the night and died, While waking I recalled my wandering brain. 110

TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLONDEL

AUTUMN, 1863