"Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goadHis slow artillery up the Concord road,A tale which grew in wonder, year by year,As, every time he told it, Joe drew nearTo the main fight, till, faded and grown gray,The original scene to bolder tints gave way;Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quickBeat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick,And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop,Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop;Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fightHad squared more nearly with his sense of right,And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale,Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail."
I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the HarvardGratulatioon the accession of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young friend could never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue,—that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-strickentick, tick, after all,—and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pega´sus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius.
Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a further effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aidedby the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows:—
THE TWO GUNNERS.A FABLE.Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,One Sundy mornin' 'greed to goAgunnin' soon's the bells wuz doneAnd meetin' finally begun,So 'st no one wouldn't be aboutTher Sabbath-breakin' to spy out.Joe didn't want to go a mite;He felt ez though 't warnt skeercely right,But, when his doubts he went to speak on,Isrel he up and called him Deacon,An' kep' apokin' fun like sinAn' then arubbin' on it in,Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrongThan bein' laughed at, went along.Past noontime they went trampin' roundAn' nary thing to pop at found,Till, fairly tired o' their spree,They leaned their guns agin a tree,An' jest ez they wuz settin' downTo take their noonin', Joe looked roun'And see (across lots in a pondThat warn't more 'n twenty rod beyond,)A goose that on the water sotEz ef awaitin' to be shot.Isrel he ups and grabs his gun;Sez he, "By ginger, here's some fun!""Don't fire," sez Joe, "it aint no use,Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose;"Sez Isrel, "I don't care a cent,I've sighted an' I'll let her went;"Bang!went queen's-arm, ole gander floppedHis wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped.Sez Joe, "I wouldn't ha' been hiredAt that poor critter to ha' fired,But, sence it's clean gin up the ghost,We'll hev the tallest kind o' roast;I guess our waistbands 'll be tight'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight.""I won't agree to no such bender,"Sez Isrel, "keep it tell it's tender;'T aint wuth a snap afore it's ripe."Sez Joe, "I'd jest ez lives eat tripe;Youaira buster ter supposeI'd eat what makes me hol' my nose!"So they disputed to an' froTill cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe,"Don't less stay here an' play the fool,Less wait till both on us git cool,Jest for a day or two less hide itAn' then toss up an' so decide it.""Agreed!" sez Joe, an' so they did,An' the ole goose wuz safely hid.Now 't wuz the hottest kind o' weather,An' when at last they come together,It didn't signify which won,Fer all the mischief hed ben done:The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul,Joe wouldn't ha' tetched it with a pole;But Isrel kind o' liked the smell on'tAn' madehisdinner very well on't.
My own humble attempt was in manner and form following, and I print it here, I sincerely trust, out of no vainglory, but solely with the hope of doing good.
LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN.A TALE.BY HOMER WILBUR, A.M.Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair,Together dwelt (no matter where),To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one,Had left a house and farm in common.The two in principles and habitsWere different as rats from rabbits;Stout farmer North, with frugal care,Laid up provision for his heir,Not scorning with hard sun-browned handsTo scrape acquaintance with his lands;Whatever thing he had to doHe did, and made it pay him, too;He sold his waste stone by the pound,His drains made water-wheels spin round,His ice in summer-time he sold,His wood brought profit when 'twas cold,He dug and delved from morn till night,Strove to make profit square with right,Lived on his means, cut no great dash,And paid his debts in honest cash.On tother hand, his brother SouthLived very much from hand to mouth,Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands,Borrowed North's money on his lands,And culled his morals and his gracesFrom cock-pits, bar-rooms, fights, and races;His sole work in the farming lineWas keeping droves of long-legged swine,Which brought great bothers and expensesTo North in looking after fences,And, when they happened to break through,Cost him both time and temper too,For South insisted it was plainHe ought to drive them home again,And North consented to the workBecause he loved to buy cheap pork.Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast,His farm became too small at last,So, having thought the matter over,And feeling bound to live in cloverAnd never pay the clover's worth,He said one day to brother North:—"Our families are both increasing,And, though we labor without ceasing,Our produce soon will be too scantTo keep our children out of want;They who wish fortune to be lastingMust be both prudent and forecasting;We soon shall need more land; a lotI know, that cheaply can be bo't;You lend the cash, I'll buy the acres,And we'll be equally partakers."Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon bloodGave him a hankering after mud,Wavered a moment, then consented,And, when the cash was paid, repented;To make the new land worth a pin,Thought he, it must be all fenced in,For, if South's swine once get the run on'tNo kind of farming can be done on't;If that don't suit the other side,'Tis best we instantly divide.But somehow South could ne'er inclineThis way or that to run the line,And always found some new pretence'Gainst setting the division fence;At last he said:—"For peace's sake,Liberal concessions I will make;Though I believe, upon my soul,I've a just title to the whole,I'll make an offer which I callGen'rous,—we'll have no fence at all;Then both of us, whene'er we choose,Can take what part we want to use;If you should chance to need it first,Pick you the best, I'll take the worst.""Agreed!" cried North; thought he, this fallWith wheat and rye I'll sow it all,In that way I shall get the start,And South may whistle for his part;So thought, so done, the field was sown,And, winter having come and gone,Sly North walked blithely forth to spy,The progress of his wheat and rye;Heavens, what a sight! his brother's swineHad asked themselves all out to dine,Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving,The soil seemed all alive and moving,As for his grain, such work they'd made on't,He couldn't spy a single blade on't.Off in a rage he rushed to South,"My wheat and rye"—grief choked his mouth;"Pray don't mind me," said South, "but plantAll of the new land that you want;""Yes, but your hogs," cried North;"The grainWon't hurt them," answered South again;"But they destroy my grain;""No doubt;'Tis fortunate you've found it out;Misfortunes teach, and only they,You must not sow it in their way;""Nay, you," says North, "must keep them out;""Did I create them with a snout?"Asked South demurely; "as agreed,The land is open to your seed,And would you fain prevent my pigsFrom running there their harmless rigs?God knows I view this compromiseWith not the most approving eyes;I gave up my unquestioned rightsFor sake of quiet days and nights,I offered then, you know 'tis true,To cut the piece of land in two.""Then cut it now," growls North;"AbateYour heat," says South, "'tis now too late;I offered you the rocky corner,But you, of your own good the scorner,Refused to take it; I am sorry;No doubt you might have found a quarry,Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know,Containing heaps of native rhino;You can't expect me to resignMy right"—"But where," quoth North, "are mine?""Yourrights," says tother, "well, that's funny,Ibought the land"—"Ipaid the money;""That," answered South, "is from the point,The ownership, you'll grant, is joint;I'm sure my only hope and trust isNot law so much as abstract justice,Though, you remember, 'twas agreedThat so and so—consult the deed;Objections now are out of date,They might have answered once, but FateQuashes them at the point we've got to;Obsta principiis, that's my motto."So saying, South began to whistleAnd looked as obstinate as gristle,While North went homeward, each brown pawClenched like a knot of natural law,And all the while, in either ear,Heard something clicking wondrous clear.
To turn now to other matters, there are two things upon which it would seem fitting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place,—the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil.
New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto thirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, if the Greek might boast his Thermopylæ, where three hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invinciblestorgethat drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown.
As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and an east wind of hard timesputs a new ache in every one of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their hornbook, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half-master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what willdo, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with noποῦ στῶbut his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthusiasm, such sourfaced-humor, such close-fisted-generosity. This newGræculus esurienswill make a living out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterward.In cœlum, jusseris, ibit,—or the other way either,—it is all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remains. He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in the world of the Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John, you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan.
*** TO THE INDULGENT READER.
My friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilbur, having been seized with a dangerous fit of illness, before this Introduction had passed through the press, and being incapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his notes, memoranda, &c., and requested me to fashion them intosome shape more fitting for the general eye. This, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of his manuscripts, I have felt wholly unable to do; yet, being unwilling that the reader should be deprived of such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished, and not well discerning how to segregate these from the rest, I have concluded to send them all to the press precisely as they are.
Columbus Nye,
Pastor of a church in Bungtown Corner.
It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, first, it may be premised, in a general way, that any one much read in the writings of the early colonists need not be told that the far greater share of the words and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and local there, were brought from the mother country. A person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary discourse, many words now noted in English vocabularies as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use about the time of the King James translation of the Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to most New Englanders than to many a native of the Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country where reading is so universal and newspapers are so multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is transplanted in the mail-bags to every remotest corner of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation.
The English have complained of us for coining new words. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones by them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life presents itself here in the New World; and, indeed, wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to the ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question, is to be its great home and centre. And not only is it already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a higher popular average of correctness, than in Britain. The great writers of it, too, we might claim as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of readers and lovers.
As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say that the reader will not find one which is not (as I believe) either native or imported with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical portion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the spelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me over-particular remember this caution of Martial:—
"Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus."
A few further explanatory remarks will not be impertinent.
I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance.
1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the r when he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel.
2. He seldom sounds the finalg, a piece of self-denial, if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of the finald, ashan'andstan'forhandandstand.
3. Thehin such words aswhile,when,where, he omits altogether.
4. In regard toa, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a close and obscure sound, ashevforhave,hendyforhandy,ezforas,thetforthat, and again giving it the broad sound it has infather, ashânsomeforhandsome.
5. To the soundouhe prefixes ane(hard to exemplify otherwise than orally).
The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite thus:—
"Neow is the winta uv eour discontentMed glorious summa by this sun o' Yock,An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour heouseIn the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried;Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths;Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce;Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins,Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures.Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front,An' neow, instid o' mountin' barehid steedsTo fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries,He capers nimly in a lady's chamber,To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot."
6.Au, in such words asdaughterandslaughter, he pronouncesah.
7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawlad libitum.
[Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary.—C. N.]
α. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious reader might be gratified with a sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice between two was offered,—the one a profile (entirely black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a native artist of much promise. The first of these seemed wanting in expression, and in the second a slight obliquity of the visual organs has been heightened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part of the artist) into too close an approach to actualstrabismus. This slight divergence in my optical apparatus from the ordinary model—however I may have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much of directness and personal application to my discourses as met the wants ofmy congregation, without risk of offending any by being supposed to have him or her in my eye (as the saying is)—seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid painting. We read of many who either absolutely refused to allow the copying of their features, as especially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius, Palæottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell.
β. Yet was Cæsar desirous of concealing his baldness.Per contra, my Lord Protector's carefulness in the matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally more desirous of beingimprovedin their portraits than characters. Shall probably find very unflattered likenesses of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery.
γ. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be traced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the lips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness of disposition, seldom roused to open flame? An unrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hakluyt, III., 468,—but the Popish priests not always reliable authority.
To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by attacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was justifiable in preserving this class of insects?
δ. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the creative faculty.
His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression.
ε. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest said to be awild boar, whence, perhaps, the name.(?) A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham (quasiwild boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect——, had issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire.
"Hear lyes yebodye of Mrs Expect Wilber,Yecrewell salvages they kil'd herTogether wthother Christian soles eleaven,October yeix daye, 1707.Yestream of Jordan sh' as crost oreAnd now expeacts me on yeother shore:I live in hope her soon to join;Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine."From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish.
This is unquestionably the same John who afterward (1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Ragg.
But if this were the case, she seems to have died early; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we have evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of Lieutenant Tipping.
He seems to have been a man of substance, for we find him in 1696 conveying "one undivided eightieth part of a salt-meadow" in Yabbok, and he commanded a sloop in 1702.
Those who doubt the importance of genealogical studiesfuste potius quam argumento erudiendi.
I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In that year he was chosen selectman.
No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new hearse-house was built, 1802.
He was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop. circa 1642.
This first John was a man of considerable importance, being twice mentioned with the honorable prefix ofMr.in the town records. Name spelt with twol-s.
"Here lyeth yebod [stone unhappily broken.]Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [I enclose this in brackets as doubtful. To me it seems clear.]Ob't die [illegible; looks like xviii.] ... iii [prob.1693.]. . . . . paynt. . . . deseased seinte:A friend and [fath]er untoe all yeopreast,Hee gave yewicked familists noe reast,When Sat[an bl]ewe his Antinomian blaste,Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste.[A]gaynst yehorrid Qua[kers] ..."
It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of Independence. How odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moody Pyram, who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be recovered.
[J]The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can find them) to "A Sermon preached on the Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," "A Discourse on the Late Eclipse," "Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experience Tidd, Esq.," &c., &c.
FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, ENCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. BIGLOW.
Jaylem, june 1846.
Mister Eddyter:—Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.
wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't yon Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery[K]ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.
Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I neverhearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer'n I be.
If you print 'em I wish you 'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.
Ezekiel Biglow.
Thrash away, you'llhevto rattleOn them kittle-drums o' yourn,—'T aint a knowin' kind o' cattleThet is ketched with mouldy corn;Put in stiff, you fifer feller,Let folks see how spry you be,—Guess you'll toot till you are yeller'Fore you git ahold o' me!Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't,Ef you must wear humps like these,Sposin' you should try salt hay fer't,It would du ez slick ez grease.'T wouldn't suit them Southun fellers,They're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth,(Helped by Yankee renegaders,)Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It's ez long ez it is broad,An' you've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.'T aint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;'T aint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God'll send the bill to you.Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but wut it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it's curus Christian dootyThis 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they're pupple in the face,—It's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' pains,All to git the Devil's thankee,Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' womanHev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.'T aint by turnin' out to hack folksYou're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary color,'T aint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou'll begin to kal'klate;'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be sech a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe etarnal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay's to mow,—Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.Take them editors thet's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime lot o' fellers?'Fore they think on't they will sprout,(Like a peach thet's got the yellers,)With the meanness bustin' out.Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer everIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessWile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!Haint they sold your colored seamen?Haint they made your env'ys wiz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They'd ha' done't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—"I'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traiter,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,—They take one way, we take t'other,—Guess it wouldn't break my heart;Man hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I shouldn't gretly wonderEf there's thousands o' my mind.
[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Jobas going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, thatit was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to beκατ᾽ ἐξοχήνthat of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that "God would consider agentlemanand deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all,Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus.—H. W.]
[K]Aut insanit, aut versos facit.—H. W.
FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT.
[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. Iwould not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships ofdefensivewarfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto deathpro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.—H. W.]
Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals apong-shongfor cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.
his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[L]ses he, Idulike a feller that ain't a Feared.
I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' prest with Hayin.
Ewers respecfly
Hosea Biglow.