The rain fell in torrents, the thunder roll'd deep,And silenced the cataract's roar;But neither the night, nor the tempest could keepThe warrior chieftain on shore.The war-shout has sounded, the stream must be cross'dWhy lingers the leader afar?'Twere better his life than his glory be lost;He never came late to the war.He seized a canoe as he sprang from the rock,But fast as the shore fled his reach,The mountain wave seem'd all his efforts to mock,And dash'd the canoe on the beach."Great Spirit," he cried "shall the battle be given,And all but their leader be there?May this struggle land me with them or in heaven!"And he push'd with the strength of despair.He has quitted the shore, he has gained the deep;His guide is the lightning alone!But he felt not with fast, irresistible sweep,The rapids were bearing him down!But the cataract's roar with the thunder now vied;"Oh, what is the meaning of this?"He spoke, and just turn'd to the cataract's side,As the lightning flash'd down the abyss.All the might of his arm to one effort was given,At self-preservation's command;But the treacherous oar with the effort was riven,And the fragment remain'd in his hand."Be it so," cried the warrior, taking his seat,And folding his bow to his breast;"Let the cataract shroud my pale corpse with its sheet,And its roar lull my spirit to rest."The prospect of death with the brave I have borne,I shrink not to bear it alone;I have often faced death when the hope was forlorn,But I shrink not to face him with none."The thunder was hush'd, and the battle-field stain'd,When the sun met the war-wearied eye,But no trace of the boat, or the chieftain remain'd,Though his bow was still seen in the sky.
The rain fell in torrents, the thunder roll'd deep,And silenced the cataract's roar;But neither the night, nor the tempest could keepThe warrior chieftain on shore.The war-shout has sounded, the stream must be cross'dWhy lingers the leader afar?'Twere better his life than his glory be lost;He never came late to the war.He seized a canoe as he sprang from the rock,But fast as the shore fled his reach,The mountain wave seem'd all his efforts to mock,And dash'd the canoe on the beach."Great Spirit," he cried "shall the battle be given,And all but their leader be there?May this struggle land me with them or in heaven!"And he push'd with the strength of despair.He has quitted the shore, he has gained the deep;His guide is the lightning alone!But he felt not with fast, irresistible sweep,The rapids were bearing him down!But the cataract's roar with the thunder now vied;"Oh, what is the meaning of this?"He spoke, and just turn'd to the cataract's side,As the lightning flash'd down the abyss.All the might of his arm to one effort was given,At self-preservation's command;But the treacherous oar with the effort was riven,And the fragment remain'd in his hand."Be it so," cried the warrior, taking his seat,And folding his bow to his breast;"Let the cataract shroud my pale corpse with its sheet,And its roar lull my spirit to rest."The prospect of death with the brave I have borne,I shrink not to bear it alone;I have often faced death when the hope was forlorn,But I shrink not to face him with none."The thunder was hush'd, and the battle-field stain'd,When the sun met the war-wearied eye,But no trace of the boat, or the chieftain remain'd,Though his bow was still seen in the sky.
The rain fell in torrents, the thunder roll'd deep,And silenced the cataract's roar;But neither the night, nor the tempest could keepThe warrior chieftain on shore.
The war-shout has sounded, the stream must be cross'dWhy lingers the leader afar?'Twere better his life than his glory be lost;He never came late to the war.
He seized a canoe as he sprang from the rock,But fast as the shore fled his reach,The mountain wave seem'd all his efforts to mock,And dash'd the canoe on the beach.
"Great Spirit," he cried "shall the battle be given,And all but their leader be there?May this struggle land me with them or in heaven!"And he push'd with the strength of despair.
He has quitted the shore, he has gained the deep;His guide is the lightning alone!But he felt not with fast, irresistible sweep,The rapids were bearing him down!
But the cataract's roar with the thunder now vied;"Oh, what is the meaning of this?"He spoke, and just turn'd to the cataract's side,As the lightning flash'd down the abyss.
All the might of his arm to one effort was given,At self-preservation's command;But the treacherous oar with the effort was riven,And the fragment remain'd in his hand.
"Be it so," cried the warrior, taking his seat,And folding his bow to his breast;"Let the cataract shroud my pale corpse with its sheet,And its roar lull my spirit to rest.
"The prospect of death with the brave I have borne,I shrink not to bear it alone;I have often faced death when the hope was forlorn,But I shrink not to face him with none."
The thunder was hush'd, and the battle-field stain'd,When the sun met the war-wearied eye,But no trace of the boat, or the chieftain remain'd,Though his bow was still seen in the sky.
Let sailors sing the windy deep,Let soldiers praise their armor.But in my heart this toast I'll keep,The Independent Farmer:When first the rose, in robe of green,Unfolds its crimson lining,And round his cottage porch is seenThe honeysuckle twining;When banks of bloom their sweetness yield,To bees that gather honey,He drives his team across the field,Where skies are soft and sunny.The blackbird clucks behind his plow,The quail pipes loud and clearly;Yon orchard hides behind its boughThe home he loves so dearly;The gray, old barn, whose doors enfoldHis ample store in measure,More rich than heaps of hoarded gold,A precious, blessed treasure;But yonder in the porch there standsHis wife, the lovely charmer,The sweetest rose on all his lands—The Independent Farmer.To him the spring comes dancing gay,To him the summer blushes;The autumn smiles with mellow ray,His sleep old winter hushes.He cares not how the world may move,No doubts or fears confound him;His little flock are link'd in love,And household angels round him;He trusts in God and loves his wife,Nor grief nor ill may harm her,He's nature's noble man in life—The Independent Farmer.
Let sailors sing the windy deep,Let soldiers praise their armor.But in my heart this toast I'll keep,The Independent Farmer:When first the rose, in robe of green,Unfolds its crimson lining,And round his cottage porch is seenThe honeysuckle twining;When banks of bloom their sweetness yield,To bees that gather honey,He drives his team across the field,Where skies are soft and sunny.The blackbird clucks behind his plow,The quail pipes loud and clearly;Yon orchard hides behind its boughThe home he loves so dearly;The gray, old barn, whose doors enfoldHis ample store in measure,More rich than heaps of hoarded gold,A precious, blessed treasure;But yonder in the porch there standsHis wife, the lovely charmer,The sweetest rose on all his lands—The Independent Farmer.To him the spring comes dancing gay,To him the summer blushes;The autumn smiles with mellow ray,His sleep old winter hushes.He cares not how the world may move,No doubts or fears confound him;His little flock are link'd in love,And household angels round him;He trusts in God and loves his wife,Nor grief nor ill may harm her,He's nature's noble man in life—The Independent Farmer.
Let sailors sing the windy deep,Let soldiers praise their armor.But in my heart this toast I'll keep,The Independent Farmer:When first the rose, in robe of green,Unfolds its crimson lining,And round his cottage porch is seenThe honeysuckle twining;When banks of bloom their sweetness yield,To bees that gather honey,He drives his team across the field,Where skies are soft and sunny.
The blackbird clucks behind his plow,The quail pipes loud and clearly;Yon orchard hides behind its boughThe home he loves so dearly;The gray, old barn, whose doors enfoldHis ample store in measure,More rich than heaps of hoarded gold,A precious, blessed treasure;But yonder in the porch there standsHis wife, the lovely charmer,The sweetest rose on all his lands—The Independent Farmer.
To him the spring comes dancing gay,To him the summer blushes;The autumn smiles with mellow ray,His sleep old winter hushes.He cares not how the world may move,No doubts or fears confound him;His little flock are link'd in love,And household angels round him;He trusts in God and loves his wife,Nor grief nor ill may harm her,He's nature's noble man in life—The Independent Farmer.
Mrs. Grammar she gave a ballTo the nine different parts of Speech,—To the big and the tall,To the short and the small,There were pies, plums, and puddings for each.And first, little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—Fat A, An, and The,But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.Then Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand.Rough, Rougher, and Roughest,Tough, Tougher, and Toughest,Fat, Merry, Good-natured, and Grand.The Nouns were, indeed, on their way—Ten thousand and more, I should think;For each name that we utter—Shop, Shoulder, and Shutter—Is a Noun: Lady, Lion, and Link.The Pronouns were following fastTo push the Nouns out of their places,—I, Thou, You, and Me,We, They, He, and She,With their merry, good-humor'd old faces.Some cried out—"Make way for the Verbs!"A great crowd is coming in view—To Bite and to Smite,And to Light and to Fight,To Be, and to Have, and to Do.The Adverbs attend on the Verbs,Behind them as footmen they run;As thus:—"To fight Badly,They run away Gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.Prepositions came—In, By, and Near,With Conjunctions, a poor little band,As—"Either you Or me,But Neither them Nor he"They held their great friends by the hand.Then, with Hip, Hip, Hurra!Hushed Interjections uproarious—"Oh, dear! Well-a-day!"When they saw the display,"Ha! ha!" they all shouted out, "Glorious!"But, alas, what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feastings pleased each,There pounced in at onceA monster—a Dunce,And confounded the Nine parts of Speech!Help, friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Noun and Article call,—Oh, give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Verb, Adverb, Conjunction, and all!
Mrs. Grammar she gave a ballTo the nine different parts of Speech,—To the big and the tall,To the short and the small,There were pies, plums, and puddings for each.And first, little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—Fat A, An, and The,But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.Then Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand.Rough, Rougher, and Roughest,Tough, Tougher, and Toughest,Fat, Merry, Good-natured, and Grand.The Nouns were, indeed, on their way—Ten thousand and more, I should think;For each name that we utter—Shop, Shoulder, and Shutter—Is a Noun: Lady, Lion, and Link.The Pronouns were following fastTo push the Nouns out of their places,—I, Thou, You, and Me,We, They, He, and She,With their merry, good-humor'd old faces.Some cried out—"Make way for the Verbs!"A great crowd is coming in view—To Bite and to Smite,And to Light and to Fight,To Be, and to Have, and to Do.The Adverbs attend on the Verbs,Behind them as footmen they run;As thus:—"To fight Badly,They run away Gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.Prepositions came—In, By, and Near,With Conjunctions, a poor little band,As—"Either you Or me,But Neither them Nor he"They held their great friends by the hand.Then, with Hip, Hip, Hurra!Hushed Interjections uproarious—"Oh, dear! Well-a-day!"When they saw the display,"Ha! ha!" they all shouted out, "Glorious!"But, alas, what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feastings pleased each,There pounced in at onceA monster—a Dunce,And confounded the Nine parts of Speech!Help, friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Noun and Article call,—Oh, give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Verb, Adverb, Conjunction, and all!
Mrs. Grammar she gave a ballTo the nine different parts of Speech,—To the big and the tall,To the short and the small,There were pies, plums, and puddings for each.
And first, little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—Fat A, An, and The,But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.
Then Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand.Rough, Rougher, and Roughest,Tough, Tougher, and Toughest,Fat, Merry, Good-natured, and Grand.
The Nouns were, indeed, on their way—Ten thousand and more, I should think;For each name that we utter—Shop, Shoulder, and Shutter—Is a Noun: Lady, Lion, and Link.
The Pronouns were following fastTo push the Nouns out of their places,—I, Thou, You, and Me,We, They, He, and She,With their merry, good-humor'd old faces.
Some cried out—"Make way for the Verbs!"A great crowd is coming in view—To Bite and to Smite,And to Light and to Fight,To Be, and to Have, and to Do.
The Adverbs attend on the Verbs,Behind them as footmen they run;As thus:—"To fight Badly,They run away Gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.
Prepositions came—In, By, and Near,With Conjunctions, a poor little band,As—"Either you Or me,But Neither them Nor he"They held their great friends by the hand.
Then, with Hip, Hip, Hurra!Hushed Interjections uproarious—"Oh, dear! Well-a-day!"When they saw the display,"Ha! ha!" they all shouted out, "Glorious!"
But, alas, what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feastings pleased each,There pounced in at onceA monster—a Dunce,And confounded the Nine parts of Speech!
Help, friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Noun and Article call,—Oh, give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Verb, Adverb, Conjunction, and all!
Queer John has sung, how money goes,But how it comes, who knows? Who knows?Why every Yankee mother's sonCan tell you how "the thing" is done.It comes by honest toil and trade;By wielding sledge and driving spade,And building ships, balloons, and drums;And that's the way the money comes.How does it come? Why, as it goes,By spinning, weaving, knitting hose,By stitching shirts and coats for Jews,Erecting churches, renting pews,And manufacturing boots and shoes;For thumps and twists, and cuts and hues,Andheadsandhearts, tongues, lungs, and thumbsAnd that's the way the money comes.How does it come? The way is plain—By raising cotton, corn, andcane;By wind and steam, lightning and rain;By guiding ships across the main;By building bridges, roads, and dams,And sweeping streets, and digging clams,With whistles, hi's! ho's! and hums!And that's the way the money comes.The money comes—how did I say?Notalwaysin anhonestway.It comes bytrickas well as toil,But how is that? why, slick as oil,—By putting peas in coffee-bags;By swapping watches, knives, and nags,And peddlingwooden clocksandplums;And that's the way the money comes.How does it come?—wait, let me see,It very seldom comes to me;It comes byruleI guess, andseale,Sometimes by riding on arail,But oftener, that's the way it goesFrom silly belles and fast young beaux;It comes in big, nay,little sums,Ay! that's the way the money comes.
Queer John has sung, how money goes,But how it comes, who knows? Who knows?Why every Yankee mother's sonCan tell you how "the thing" is done.It comes by honest toil and trade;By wielding sledge and driving spade,And building ships, balloons, and drums;And that's the way the money comes.How does it come? Why, as it goes,By spinning, weaving, knitting hose,By stitching shirts and coats for Jews,Erecting churches, renting pews,And manufacturing boots and shoes;For thumps and twists, and cuts and hues,Andheadsandhearts, tongues, lungs, and thumbsAnd that's the way the money comes.How does it come? The way is plain—By raising cotton, corn, andcane;By wind and steam, lightning and rain;By guiding ships across the main;By building bridges, roads, and dams,And sweeping streets, and digging clams,With whistles, hi's! ho's! and hums!And that's the way the money comes.The money comes—how did I say?Notalwaysin anhonestway.It comes bytrickas well as toil,But how is that? why, slick as oil,—By putting peas in coffee-bags;By swapping watches, knives, and nags,And peddlingwooden clocksandplums;And that's the way the money comes.How does it come?—wait, let me see,It very seldom comes to me;It comes byruleI guess, andseale,Sometimes by riding on arail,But oftener, that's the way it goesFrom silly belles and fast young beaux;It comes in big, nay,little sums,Ay! that's the way the money comes.
Queer John has sung, how money goes,But how it comes, who knows? Who knows?Why every Yankee mother's sonCan tell you how "the thing" is done.It comes by honest toil and trade;By wielding sledge and driving spade,And building ships, balloons, and drums;And that's the way the money comes.
How does it come? Why, as it goes,By spinning, weaving, knitting hose,By stitching shirts and coats for Jews,Erecting churches, renting pews,And manufacturing boots and shoes;For thumps and twists, and cuts and hues,Andheadsandhearts, tongues, lungs, and thumbsAnd that's the way the money comes.
How does it come? The way is plain—By raising cotton, corn, andcane;By wind and steam, lightning and rain;By guiding ships across the main;By building bridges, roads, and dams,And sweeping streets, and digging clams,With whistles, hi's! ho's! and hums!And that's the way the money comes.
The money comes—how did I say?Notalwaysin anhonestway.It comes bytrickas well as toil,But how is that? why, slick as oil,—By putting peas in coffee-bags;By swapping watches, knives, and nags,And peddlingwooden clocksandplums;And that's the way the money comes.
How does it come?—wait, let me see,It very seldom comes to me;It comes byruleI guess, andseale,Sometimes by riding on arail,But oftener, that's the way it goesFrom silly belles and fast young beaux;It comes in big, nay,little sums,Ay! that's the way the money comes.
There was a time when girls wore hoops of steel,And with gray powder used to drug their hair,Bedaub'd their cheeks with rouge; white lead, or meal,Added, to stimulate complexions fair;Whereof by contrast to enhance the grace,Specks of court-plaster deck'd the female face.That fashion pass'd away, and then were wornDresses whose skirts came scarce below the knee,With waists girt round the shoulder-blades, and scorn,Now pointed at the prior finery,When here and there some antiquated dameStill wore it, to afford her juniors game.Short waists departed; Taste awhile prevail'dTill ugly Folly's reign return'd once more,And ladies then went draggle-tail'd;And now they wear hoops also, as before.Paint, powder, patches, nasty and absurd,They'd wear as well, if France had spoke the word.Young bucks and beauties, ye who now derideThe reasonable dress of other days;When time your forms shall have puffed out or dried,Then on your present portraits you will gaze,And say what dowdies, frights, and guys you were,With their more precious figures to compare.Think, if you live till you are lean or fat,Your features blurred, your eyes bedimm'd with age,Your limbs have stiffen'd; feet grown broad and flat:You may see other garments all the rage,Preposterous as even that attireWhich you in mirrors now so much admire.
There was a time when girls wore hoops of steel,And with gray powder used to drug their hair,Bedaub'd their cheeks with rouge; white lead, or meal,Added, to stimulate complexions fair;Whereof by contrast to enhance the grace,Specks of court-plaster deck'd the female face.That fashion pass'd away, and then were wornDresses whose skirts came scarce below the knee,With waists girt round the shoulder-blades, and scorn,Now pointed at the prior finery,When here and there some antiquated dameStill wore it, to afford her juniors game.Short waists departed; Taste awhile prevail'dTill ugly Folly's reign return'd once more,And ladies then went draggle-tail'd;And now they wear hoops also, as before.Paint, powder, patches, nasty and absurd,They'd wear as well, if France had spoke the word.Young bucks and beauties, ye who now derideThe reasonable dress of other days;When time your forms shall have puffed out or dried,Then on your present portraits you will gaze,And say what dowdies, frights, and guys you were,With their more precious figures to compare.Think, if you live till you are lean or fat,Your features blurred, your eyes bedimm'd with age,Your limbs have stiffen'd; feet grown broad and flat:You may see other garments all the rage,Preposterous as even that attireWhich you in mirrors now so much admire.
There was a time when girls wore hoops of steel,And with gray powder used to drug their hair,Bedaub'd their cheeks with rouge; white lead, or meal,Added, to stimulate complexions fair;Whereof by contrast to enhance the grace,Specks of court-plaster deck'd the female face.
That fashion pass'd away, and then were wornDresses whose skirts came scarce below the knee,With waists girt round the shoulder-blades, and scorn,Now pointed at the prior finery,When here and there some antiquated dameStill wore it, to afford her juniors game.
Short waists departed; Taste awhile prevail'dTill ugly Folly's reign return'd once more,And ladies then went draggle-tail'd;And now they wear hoops also, as before.Paint, powder, patches, nasty and absurd,They'd wear as well, if France had spoke the word.
Young bucks and beauties, ye who now derideThe reasonable dress of other days;When time your forms shall have puffed out or dried,Then on your present portraits you will gaze,And say what dowdies, frights, and guys you were,With their more precious figures to compare.
Think, if you live till you are lean or fat,Your features blurred, your eyes bedimm'd with age,Your limbs have stiffen'd; feet grown broad and flat:You may see other garments all the rage,Preposterous as even that attireWhich you in mirrors now so much admire.
The love of country is the gift of God—it can not dwell in homes of sin, it has no abiding place in saloons of vice or dens of infamy, it belongs not to infidel clubs or fanatical conventions, they would tear down the sacred edifice which they have never loved; they are impatient for change, for in the seething caldron of rebellion they are brought to the surface. With nothing to lose, they have no fear of the days of terror; their only dread is in the majesty of the law. The love of country belongs to a God-fearing people; it is seen in the purity of private life, in the privacy of Christian homes, in the devotions of the closet, in the manliness of Christian character. The church is its nursing mother. Loyalty to God and to His institutions is her first and last lesson; it is the earnest cry of her loyal children "that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety may be established among us for all generations." The love of country belongs to loyal men. The power of self-government depends upon a loyal people.
The protection of the nation depends not on the wisdom of its senators, not on the vigilance of its police, not on the strong arm of standing armies: but the loyalty of a united people. Other nations have equaled us in all the arts of civilization, in discoveries, in science, in skill, and in invention; they have kept even step with us and often surpassed us in philosophy and literature; they have been brave in war and wise in council; they have clustered around their homes all that art can lavish of beauty—but ripe scholarship, cunning in art, or skill in invention, never gave to the people a constitution. This is the outgrowth of a manly spirit of loyalty. It teaches menduty—a right manly word for right manly men. Loyalty was God's gift to our fathers; it was learned in the hard school of adversity, and by self-denial and suffering inwrought into the nation's life; it grew up in the sheltered valleys and on the rocky hillsides of New England, it was cradled in Virginia, in New York, in the Carolinas, among the patricians of Virginia; it gave to the world a Washington, and from the shop, the store, the farm, and professional life there sprung up from the people many who shared his spirit to become the founders of the Republic.
The first defense to any people is in the love of country. The nation is one great family, with one common interest, welfare, and destiny; a nation dwelling together in love must be a happy people. Kindness begets kindness, and love awakens love; this is that magic touch which makes the world of kin. A confederacy like ours can not be held together by the strong arm of a central government; if the band of unity is gone, such a union is no whit better than a rope of sand. The danger which besets us is not in individual sins which fasten on the body politic—we may labor with forbearance and firmness for their removal. Our danger lies in that spirit of selfishness and self-will which forgets brotherhood and God. In a nation like ours, with its countless differing interests of rival productions, its conflicts of trade and sectional rivalries of commerce, we must differ on questions of public policy; but it may be the manly difference of manly men. Never did men differ more widely than the fathers of the republic, never did earnest hearts battle with more zeal for their rival interests, nor contend more fiercely inch by inch in political struggles. Never did the rallying cry of parties take a deeper hold on its liege-men, or braver shouts of triumph herald in its victory. But there was a deeper love of country, which made the brotherhood of a nation, and a charity which more respected the opinions of those from whom they differ. The Christian patriot dare not close his eye to the evils which mar the nation; for their removal he will work and pray, but never with rash hand tear down the sacred edifice of the Constitution, because some stains deface its walls. The query may well arise whether we are not fast reaching the time when the question is not of the right or wrong of this or that legislation, the benefit of this or that public policy, but whether this or that party shall divide the spoils of office among their political camp followers. We hear of angry words and fierce invectives, of rumors of corruption, of bribery in public office; they belong to no one party, they are not ranked under any one leader; these things came because the people have lost sight, in the strifes of men for office, of that great destiny which God offers to Americans. I believe the love of country dwells in the people's hearts. The honest-heartedsons of toil will be true to the country and its constitution. That love may have slumbered for a time, but the great heart of the countrywillbe true to itself. Its lovecan notbe hedged in by the paling of any man's door-yard. Itwillsweep away every barrier of strife, and keep us one united people.
Imputations of British influence have been uttered against the opponents of this war. Against whom are these charges brought? Against men who, in the war of the Revolution, were in the Councils of the Nation, or fighting the battles of your country! And by whom are these charges made? By runaways, chiefly from the British dominions, since the breaking out of the French troubles. The great autocrat of all the Russias receives the homage of our high consideration. The Dey of Algiers and his divan of pirates are very civil, good sort of people, with whom we find no difficulty in maintaining the relations of peace and amity. "Turks, Jews, and Infidels,"—Melimelli or the Little Turtle,—barbarians and savages of every clime and color, are welcome to our arms. With chiefs of banditti, negro or mulatto, we can treat and can trade. Name, however, but England, and all our antipathies are up in arms against her. Against whom? Against those whose blood runs in our veins; in common with whom we claim Shakspeare, and Newton, and Chatham, for our countrymen; whose form of government is the freest on earth, our own only excepted; from whom every valuable principle of our own institutions has been borrowed,—representation, jury trial, voting the supplies, writ of habeas corpus, our whole civil and criminal jurisprudence;—against our fellow-Protestants, identified in blood, in language, in religion, with ourselves.
In what school did the worthies of our land—the Washingtons, Henrys, Hancocks, Franklins, Rutledges, of America—learn those principles of civil liberty which were so nobly asserted by their wisdom and valor? American resistance to British usurpation has not been more warmly cherished by these great men and their compatriots,—notmore by Washington, Hancock, and Henry,—than by Chatham, and his illustrious associates in the British Parliament. It ought to be remembered, too, that the heart of the English people was with us. It was a selfish and corrupt ministry, and their servile tools, to whomwewere not more opposed thantheywere. I trust that none such may ever exist among us; for tools will never be wanting to subserve the purposes, however ruinous or wicked, of kings and ministers of state. I acknowledge the influence of a Shakspeare and a Milton upon my imagination; of a Locke, upon my understanding; of a Sidney, upon my political principles; of a Chatham, upon qualities which would to God I possessed in common with that illustrious man! of a Tillotson, a Sherlock, and a Porteus, upon my religion. This is a British influence which I can never shake off.
Next to the notice which the opposition has found itself called upon to bestow upon the French emperor, a distinguished citizen of Virginia, formerly President of the United States, has never for a moment failed to receive their kindest and most respectful attention. An honorable gentleman from Massachusetts, of whom I am sorry to say, it becomes necessary for me, in the course of my remarks, to take some notice, has alluded to him in a remarkable manner. Neither his retirement from public office, his eminent services, nor his advanced age, can exempt this patriot from the coarse assaults of party malevolence. No, sir! In 1801, he snatched from the rude hand of usurpation the violated Constitution of his country,—andthatis his crime. He preserved that instrument, in form, and substance, and spirit, a precious inheritance for generations to come,—and forthishe can never be forgiven. How vain and impotent is party rage, directed against such a man! He is not more elevated by his lofty residence, upon the summit of his own favorite mountain, than he is lifted, by the serenity of his mind and the consciousness of a well-spent life, above the malignant passions and bitter feelings of the day. No! his own beloved Monticello isnot less moved by the storms that beat against its sides, than is this illustrious man, by the howlings of the whole British pack, let loose from the Essex kennel! When the gentleman to whom I have been compelled to allude shall have mingled his dust with that of his abused ancestors,—when he shall have been consigned to oblivion, or, if he lives at all, shall live only in the treasonable annals of a certain junto,—the name of Jefferson will be hailed with gratitude, his memory honored and cherished as the second founder of the liberties of the people, and the period of his administration will be looked back to as one of the happiest and brightest epochs of American history!
That there exists in this country an intense sentiment of nationality; a cherished energetic feeling and consciousness of our independent and separate national existence; a feeling that we have a transcendent destiny to fulfil, which we mean to fulfil; a great work to do, which we know how to do, and are able to do; a career to run, up which we hope to ascend, till we stand on the steadfast and glittering summits of the world; a feeling, that we are surrounded and attended by a noble historical group of competitors and rivals, the other nations of the earth, all of whom we hope to overtake, and even to distance;—such a sentiment as this exists, perhaps, in the character of this people. And this I do not discourage, I do not condemn. But, sir, that among these useful and beautiful sentiments, predominant among them, there exists a temper of hostility towards this one particular nation, to such a degree as to amount to a habit, a trait, a national passion,—to amount to a state of feeling which "is to be regretted," and which really threatens another war,—this I earnestly and confidently deny. I would not hear your enemy say this. Sir, the indulgence of such a sentiment by the people supposes them to have forgotten one of the counsels of Washington. Call to mind the ever seasonable wisdom of the Farewell Address: "The nation which indulges toward another an habitual hatred, or an habitual fondness, is, insome degree, a slave. It is a slave to its animosity, or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest."
No, sir! no, sir! We are above all this. Let the Highland clansman, half-naked, half-civilized, half-blinded by the peat-smoke of his cavern, have his hereditary enemy and his hereditary enmity, and keep the keen, deep, and precious hatred, set on fire of hell, alive, if he can; let the North American Indian have his, and hand it down from father to son, by Heaven knows what symbols of alligators, and rattlesnakes, and war-clubs smeared with vermilion and entwined with scarlet; let such a country as Poland,—cloven to the earth, the armed heel on the radiant forehead, her body dead, her soul incapable to die,—let her remember the "wrongs of days long past;" let the lost and wandering tribes of Israel remember theirs—the manliness and the sympathy of the world may allow or pardon this to them;—but shall America, young, free, prosperous, just setting out on the highway of heaven, "decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just begins to move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life and joy," shall she be supposed to be polluting and corroding her noble and happy heart, by moping over old stories of stamp act, and tea tax, and the firing of the Leopard upon the Chesapeake in a time of peace? No, sir! no, sir! a thousand times, no! Why, I protest I thought all that had been settled. I thought two wars had settled it all. What else was so much good blood shed for, on so many more than classical fields of Revolutionary glory? For what was so much good blood more lately shed, at Lundy's Lane, at Fort Erie, before and behind the lines at New Orleans, on the deck of the Constitution, on the deck of the Java, on the lakes, on the sea, but to settle exactly these "wrongs of past days?" And have we come back sulky and sullen from the very field of honor? For my country, I deny it.
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work. He explores the wrist for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder;—no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. Thesecretis his own,—and it is safe!
Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." True it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leadshim whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without, begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles, with still greater violence, to burst forth. Itmustbe confessed;—itwillbe confessed;—there is no refuge from confession but suicide—and suicide is confession!
'Tis better to give a kindly wordThan ever so hard a blow,To know we have by kindness stirr'dThe man who was our foe;To feel we have a good intent,Whatever he may feel—That gentleness with us is meantTo make the old wounds heal.'Tis better to give our wealth awayThan let our neighbors want,To help them in their needful day,While they are weak and gaunt;A kindly deed brings kindly thoughtIn hamlet and in city;A little help, we have been taught,Is worth a world of pity.'Tis better to work and slave and toil,Than lie about and rust;An idle man upon the soilIs one of the very worst.He eats the bread that others earn,And lifts his head so high,As if it was not his concernHow others toil'd, or why.'Tis better to have an humble heart,Living in faith and trust,To act an ever upward part,Remembering we are dust;To let the streams of life run past,Beloved and lovingly,Until we reach in joy at lastThe great eternal sea.
'Tis better to give a kindly wordThan ever so hard a blow,To know we have by kindness stirr'dThe man who was our foe;To feel we have a good intent,Whatever he may feel—That gentleness with us is meantTo make the old wounds heal.'Tis better to give our wealth awayThan let our neighbors want,To help them in their needful day,While they are weak and gaunt;A kindly deed brings kindly thoughtIn hamlet and in city;A little help, we have been taught,Is worth a world of pity.'Tis better to work and slave and toil,Than lie about and rust;An idle man upon the soilIs one of the very worst.He eats the bread that others earn,And lifts his head so high,As if it was not his concernHow others toil'd, or why.'Tis better to have an humble heart,Living in faith and trust,To act an ever upward part,Remembering we are dust;To let the streams of life run past,Beloved and lovingly,Until we reach in joy at lastThe great eternal sea.
'Tis better to give a kindly wordThan ever so hard a blow,To know we have by kindness stirr'dThe man who was our foe;To feel we have a good intent,Whatever he may feel—That gentleness with us is meantTo make the old wounds heal.
'Tis better to give our wealth awayThan let our neighbors want,To help them in their needful day,While they are weak and gaunt;A kindly deed brings kindly thoughtIn hamlet and in city;A little help, we have been taught,Is worth a world of pity.
'Tis better to work and slave and toil,Than lie about and rust;An idle man upon the soilIs one of the very worst.He eats the bread that others earn,And lifts his head so high,As if it was not his concernHow others toil'd, or why.
'Tis better to have an humble heart,Living in faith and trust,To act an ever upward part,Remembering we are dust;To let the streams of life run past,Beloved and lovingly,Until we reach in joy at lastThe great eternal sea.
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;And bless him, also, that he didn't keepHis great discovery to himself; or tryTo make it—as the lucky fellow might—A close monopoly by "patent right!"Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep(I really can't avoid the iteration);But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,Who first invented, and went round advisingThat artificial cut-off—Early Rising!"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"Observes some solemn, sentimental owl.Maxims like these are very cheaply said;But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,Pray, just inquire about the rise—and fall,And whether larks have any bed at all!The "time for honest folks to be in bed,"Is in the morning, if I reason right;And he who can not keep his precious headUpon his pillow till 'tis fairly light,And so enjoys his forty morning winks,Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks!Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," saidIt was a glorious thing torisein season;But then he said it—lying—in his bedAt 10 o'clock,A. M.—the very reasonHe wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake—Awake to duty and awake to truth—But when, alas! a nice review we takeOf our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep,Are those we pass'd in childhood, or—asleep!'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile,For the soft visions of the gentle night;And free at last from mortal care or guile,To live, as only in the angels' sight,In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in,Where, at the worst, we onlydreamof sin!So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.I like the lad who, when his father thoughtTo clip his morning nap by hackney'd phraseOf vagrant worm by early songster caught,Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising—The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!"
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;And bless him, also, that he didn't keepHis great discovery to himself; or tryTo make it—as the lucky fellow might—A close monopoly by "patent right!"Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep(I really can't avoid the iteration);But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,Who first invented, and went round advisingThat artificial cut-off—Early Rising!"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"Observes some solemn, sentimental owl.Maxims like these are very cheaply said;But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,Pray, just inquire about the rise—and fall,And whether larks have any bed at all!The "time for honest folks to be in bed,"Is in the morning, if I reason right;And he who can not keep his precious headUpon his pillow till 'tis fairly light,And so enjoys his forty morning winks,Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks!Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," saidIt was a glorious thing torisein season;But then he said it—lying—in his bedAt 10 o'clock,A. M.—the very reasonHe wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake—Awake to duty and awake to truth—But when, alas! a nice review we takeOf our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep,Are those we pass'd in childhood, or—asleep!'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile,For the soft visions of the gentle night;And free at last from mortal care or guile,To live, as only in the angels' sight,In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in,Where, at the worst, we onlydreamof sin!So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.I like the lad who, when his father thoughtTo clip his morning nap by hackney'd phraseOf vagrant worm by early songster caught,Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising—The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!"
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;And bless him, also, that he didn't keepHis great discovery to himself; or tryTo make it—as the lucky fellow might—A close monopoly by "patent right!"
Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep(I really can't avoid the iteration);But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,Who first invented, and went round advisingThat artificial cut-off—Early Rising!
"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"Observes some solemn, sentimental owl.Maxims like these are very cheaply said;But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,Pray, just inquire about the rise—and fall,And whether larks have any bed at all!
The "time for honest folks to be in bed,"Is in the morning, if I reason right;And he who can not keep his precious headUpon his pillow till 'tis fairly light,And so enjoys his forty morning winks,Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks!
Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," saidIt was a glorious thing torisein season;But then he said it—lying—in his bedAt 10 o'clock,A. M.—the very reasonHe wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.
'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake—Awake to duty and awake to truth—But when, alas! a nice review we takeOf our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep,Are those we pass'd in childhood, or—asleep!
'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile,For the soft visions of the gentle night;And free at last from mortal care or guile,To live, as only in the angels' sight,In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in,Where, at the worst, we onlydreamof sin!
So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.I like the lad who, when his father thoughtTo clip his morning nap by hackney'd phraseOf vagrant worm by early songster caught,Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising—The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!"
Suppose the little cowslipShould hang its golden cup,And say: "I'm such a tiny flower,I'd better not grow up;"How many a weary travelerWould miss its fragrant smell!How many a little child would grieveTo lose it from the dell!Suppose the glistening dew-dropsUpon the grass should say:"What can a little dew-drop do?I'd better roll away;"The blade on which it rested,Before the day was done,Without a drop to moisten it,Would wither in the sun.Suppose the little breezes,Upon a summer's day,Should think themselves too small to coolThe traveler on his way;Who would not miss the smallestAnd softest ones that blow,And think they made a great mistakeIf they were talking so?How many deeds of kindnessA little child may do,Although it has so little strength,And little wisdom, too!It wants a loving spiritMuch more than strength, to proveHow many things a child may doFor others by his love.
Suppose the little cowslipShould hang its golden cup,And say: "I'm such a tiny flower,I'd better not grow up;"How many a weary travelerWould miss its fragrant smell!How many a little child would grieveTo lose it from the dell!Suppose the glistening dew-dropsUpon the grass should say:"What can a little dew-drop do?I'd better roll away;"The blade on which it rested,Before the day was done,Without a drop to moisten it,Would wither in the sun.Suppose the little breezes,Upon a summer's day,Should think themselves too small to coolThe traveler on his way;Who would not miss the smallestAnd softest ones that blow,And think they made a great mistakeIf they were talking so?How many deeds of kindnessA little child may do,Although it has so little strength,And little wisdom, too!It wants a loving spiritMuch more than strength, to proveHow many things a child may doFor others by his love.
Suppose the little cowslipShould hang its golden cup,And say: "I'm such a tiny flower,I'd better not grow up;"How many a weary travelerWould miss its fragrant smell!How many a little child would grieveTo lose it from the dell!
Suppose the glistening dew-dropsUpon the grass should say:"What can a little dew-drop do?I'd better roll away;"The blade on which it rested,Before the day was done,Without a drop to moisten it,Would wither in the sun.
Suppose the little breezes,Upon a summer's day,Should think themselves too small to coolThe traveler on his way;Who would not miss the smallestAnd softest ones that blow,And think they made a great mistakeIf they were talking so?
How many deeds of kindnessA little child may do,Although it has so little strength,And little wisdom, too!It wants a loving spiritMuch more than strength, to proveHow many things a child may doFor others by his love.
There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says:Of polished ivory one, of horn the other;But I, besides these gates, to blessed SleepThree other gates have found which thus I count:First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight,When labor ceases, every sound is hush'd,And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne.Pale-visaged Specters round this gate keep watch,And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond theseRest, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness,Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope,Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm ComposureAnd daring Enterprise and Self-reliance.The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel,With odorous trailing hop, and poppy-stalks;The shadowy gateway paved with poppy-heads,And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick FancyHaggard and trembling, and Delirium wild,And Impotence with drunken glistening eye,And Idiocy, and, in the background, Death.The third gate is of lead, and there sits, everHumming her tedious tune, Monotony,Tired of herself; about her on the groundSermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strew'd,To the same import all, and all almostIn the same words varied in form and orderTo cheat, if possible, the weary sense,And different seem, where difference is none.At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, RoutineKeeps turning over still the well-thumbed leavesOf the same prayer-book, reading prayers, not praying;Behind them waiting stand ConformityAnd Uniformity, Oneness of faith,Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners,And Self-development's unrelenting foe,Centralization; and behind these still,Far in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced,A perfect, unimprovable ParadiseOf mere, blank naught, unchangeable forever—These, asIcount them, are the Gates of Sleep.
There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says:Of polished ivory one, of horn the other;But I, besides these gates, to blessed SleepThree other gates have found which thus I count:First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight,When labor ceases, every sound is hush'd,And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne.Pale-visaged Specters round this gate keep watch,And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond theseRest, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness,Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope,Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm ComposureAnd daring Enterprise and Self-reliance.The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel,With odorous trailing hop, and poppy-stalks;The shadowy gateway paved with poppy-heads,And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick FancyHaggard and trembling, and Delirium wild,And Impotence with drunken glistening eye,And Idiocy, and, in the background, Death.The third gate is of lead, and there sits, everHumming her tedious tune, Monotony,Tired of herself; about her on the groundSermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strew'd,To the same import all, and all almostIn the same words varied in form and orderTo cheat, if possible, the weary sense,And different seem, where difference is none.At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, RoutineKeeps turning over still the well-thumbed leavesOf the same prayer-book, reading prayers, not praying;Behind them waiting stand ConformityAnd Uniformity, Oneness of faith,Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners,And Self-development's unrelenting foe,Centralization; and behind these still,Far in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced,A perfect, unimprovable ParadiseOf mere, blank naught, unchangeable forever—These, asIcount them, are the Gates of Sleep.
There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says:Of polished ivory one, of horn the other;But I, besides these gates, to blessed SleepThree other gates have found which thus I count:First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight,When labor ceases, every sound is hush'd,And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne.Pale-visaged Specters round this gate keep watch,And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond theseRest, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness,Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope,Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm ComposureAnd daring Enterprise and Self-reliance.
The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel,With odorous trailing hop, and poppy-stalks;The shadowy gateway paved with poppy-heads,And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick FancyHaggard and trembling, and Delirium wild,And Impotence with drunken glistening eye,And Idiocy, and, in the background, Death.
The third gate is of lead, and there sits, everHumming her tedious tune, Monotony,Tired of herself; about her on the groundSermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strew'd,To the same import all, and all almostIn the same words varied in form and orderTo cheat, if possible, the weary sense,And different seem, where difference is none.At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, RoutineKeeps turning over still the well-thumbed leavesOf the same prayer-book, reading prayers, not praying;Behind them waiting stand ConformityAnd Uniformity, Oneness of faith,Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners,And Self-development's unrelenting foe,Centralization; and behind these still,Far in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced,A perfect, unimprovable ParadiseOf mere, blank naught, unchangeable forever—These, asIcount them, are the Gates of Sleep.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shines across the lake,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going;Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar,The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky;They faint on field, or hill, or river;Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flyingAnd answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shines across the lake,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going;Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar,The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky;They faint on field, or hill, or river;Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flyingAnd answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shines across the lake,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going;Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar,The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky;They faint on field, or hill, or river;Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flyingAnd answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
The little snarling, caroling "babies,"That break our nightly rest,Should be packed off to "Baby"-lon,To "Lapland," or to "Brest."From "Spit"-head, "Cooks" go o'er to "Greece,"And while the "Miser" waitsHis passage to the "Guinea" coast,"Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits.""Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go,"Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy;""Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles,""Wags" at the Bay of "Fun"-dy."Bachelors" flee to the "United States,""Maids" to the "Isle of Man;"Let "Gardeners" go to "Botany" Bay,And "Shoe-blacks" to "Japan."Thus emigrate, and misplaced menWill they no longer vex us;And all who ain't provided forHad better go to "Texas."
The little snarling, caroling "babies,"That break our nightly rest,Should be packed off to "Baby"-lon,To "Lapland," or to "Brest."From "Spit"-head, "Cooks" go o'er to "Greece,"And while the "Miser" waitsHis passage to the "Guinea" coast,"Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits.""Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go,"Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy;""Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles,""Wags" at the Bay of "Fun"-dy."Bachelors" flee to the "United States,""Maids" to the "Isle of Man;"Let "Gardeners" go to "Botany" Bay,And "Shoe-blacks" to "Japan."Thus emigrate, and misplaced menWill they no longer vex us;And all who ain't provided forHad better go to "Texas."
The little snarling, caroling "babies,"That break our nightly rest,Should be packed off to "Baby"-lon,To "Lapland," or to "Brest."
From "Spit"-head, "Cooks" go o'er to "Greece,"And while the "Miser" waitsHis passage to the "Guinea" coast,"Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits."
"Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go,"Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy;""Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles,""Wags" at the Bay of "Fun"-dy.
"Bachelors" flee to the "United States,""Maids" to the "Isle of Man;"Let "Gardeners" go to "Botany" Bay,And "Shoe-blacks" to "Japan."
Thus emigrate, and misplaced menWill they no longer vex us;And all who ain't provided forHad better go to "Texas."
While the exalted heroism of the illustrious men who, in the Cabinet and field, defied and baffled the whole power of the British empire, excites the admiration of mankind, the consciousness that the founders of American Independence were not allured into that deadly struggle by the lust of dominion and power, by the seductions of interest and ambition, or by the dazzling dreams of glory and renown, excites far higher and holier emotions. Theirs was not a contest of interest, of ambition or of glory,—theirs was a contest for principle, for the inherent and indefeasible rights of humanity. They accepted the bloody issues of civil war, rather than surrender the liberties of thepeople. When the terrific struggle began, which was not to be closed until the power of England on the North American continent was broken, they reverently "appealed to the supreme Ruler of the universe for the rectitude of their intentions;" and when it closed with the Independence of America achieved, they avowed to mankind in the sincerity of profound conviction that they "had contended for the rights of human nature." They "deduced from universal principles," in the words of the brilliant and philosophic Bancroft, "a bill of rights as old as creation and as wide as humanity." They embodied in this bill of rights, the promulgation of which made this day immortal in history, these sublime ideas: "all men are created equal;" "endowed by their creator with the inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;" "to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed;" and "whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it." The embodiment of these ideas, these self-evident truths, which "are as old as creation, and as wide as humanity," into the organic law of Independent America, associated the names of the founders of national independence with the general cause of human liberty, development and progress. They were champions of American Independence,—they were, also, the champions of the sacred rights of human nature, and mankind proudly claims them, in the words of Mirabeau, "as the heroes of humanity."
The old man loves the sunshine and fire—the arm-chair and the shady nook. A rude wind would jostle the full-grown apple from its bough, full ripe, full colored, too. The internal characteristics correspond. General activity is less. Salient love of new things and of persons, which hit the young man's heart, fades away. He thinks the old is better. He is not venturesome; he keeps at home. Passion once stunghim into quickened life; now, that gadfly is no more buzzing in his ears.
Madame de Stael finds compensation in silence for the decay of the passion that once fired her blood; heathen Socrates, seventy years old, thanks the gods that he is now free from that "ravenous beast" which has disturbed his philosophic meditations for many years. Romance is the child of passion and imagination—the sudden father that, the long-protracting mother this. Old age has little romance. Only some rare man, like Wilhelm Von Humboldt, keeps it still fresh in his bosom.
In intellectual matters, the old man loves to recall the old time, to review his favorite old men—no new ones half so fair. So in Homer, Nestor, who is the oldest of the Greeks, is always talking of the olden times, before the grandfathers of the men then living had come into being; "not such as living had degenerate days." Verse-loving John Quincy Adams turns off from Byron and Shelley, and Wieland and Goethe, and returns to Pope. * * * Elder Brewster expects to hear St. Martin's and Old Hundred chanted in heaven. To him heaven comes in the long-used musical tradition.
The middle-aged man looks around at the present; he hopes less and works more. The old man looks back on the field he has trod: "this is the tree I planted—this is my footstep;" and he loves his old home, his old carriage, cat, dog, staff and friend.
In lands where the vine grows, I have seen an old man sit all day long, a sunny Autumn day, before his cottage-door, in a great arm-chair, his old dog lay couched at his feet, in the genial sun. The autumn winds played in the old man's venerable hairs. Above him on the wall, purpling in the sunlight, hung the full clusters of the grapes, ripening and maturing yet more. The two were just alike—the wind stirred the vine-leaves and they fell, stirred the old man's hairs and they whitened yet more—both were waiting for the spirit in them to be fully ripe.
The young man looks forward—the old man looks back. How long the shadows lie in the setting sun—thesteeples, a mile long, reaching across the plain, as the sun stretches out the hills in grotesque dimensions! So are the events of life in the old man's consciousness.