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 aequor;_ 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 quae 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; 1. Those which are understood by the Danish Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and Professor Rafn, their Secretary; 2. Those which are comprehensible only by Mr. Rafn; and 3. 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 archaeologists; 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 reexamine 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 _her 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 haec 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 gestae_ 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 mensa diabolice obsessa, recuperatum, curaque Jo. Conradi Schwarzii umbrae, allis necnon plurimis adjuvantibus, restitutum.
LIBER I
Punctorum garretos colens et cellara Quinque, Gutteribus quae 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, praecipue et TE, heros alte, Polarde! 10 Insignes juvenesque, illo certamine lictos, Colemane, Tylere, nec vos oblivione relinquam.
Ampla aquilae invictae fausto est sub tegmine terra, Backyfer, ooiskeo pollens, ebenoque bipede, Socors praesidum 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 Quae peperit, saltem ac de illis meliora merentem. 20
Condidit hanc Smithius Dux, Captinus inclytus ille Regis Ulyssae 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 quae 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 praestantius 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 Praesidis, omnibus ab Whiggis nominatus a poor cuss; Et nobilem tertium evincit venerabile nomen. Ast animosi omnes bellique ad tympana ha! ha! Vociferant laeti, 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. Prae ceterisque Polardus: si Secessia licta, Se nunquam licturum jurat res et unheardof, Verbo haesit, 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, quaerunt, 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;