The Rebel foot are flying in furious haste from the field. Some take refuge in the fair-ground, some hurry into the cornfield, but the greater part run along the edge of the wood, swarm over the fence into the road, and hasten to the village. The Guardsmen follow. Zagonyi leads them. Over the loudest roar of battle rings his clarion voice,—"Come on, Old Kentuck! I'm with you!" And the flash of his sword-blade tells his men where to go. As he approaches a barn, a man steps from behind the door and lowers his rifle; but before it has reached the level, Zagonyi's sabre-point descends upon his head, and his life-blood leaps to the very top of the huge barn-door.
The conflict now rages through the village,—in the public square, and along the streets. Up and down the Guards ride in squads of three or four, and wherever they see a group of the enemy charge upon and scatter them. It is hand to hand. No one but has a share in the fray.
There was at least one soldier in the Southern ranks. A young officer, superbly mounted, charges alone upon a large body of the Guard. He passes through the line unscathed, killing one man. He wheels, charges back, and again breaks through, killing another man. A third time he rushes upon the Federal line, a score of sabre-points confront him, a cloud of bullets fly around him, but he pushes on until he reaches Zagonyi,—he presses his pistol so close to the Major's side that he feels it and draws convulsively back, the bullet passes through the front of Zagonyi's coat, who at the instant runs the daring Rebel through the body, he falls, and the men, thinking their commander hurt, kill him with half a dozen wounds.
"He was a brave man," said Zagonyi afterwards, "and I did wish to make him prisoner."
Meanwhile it has grown dark. The foe have left the village and the battle has ceased. The assembly is sounded, and the Guard gathers in thePlaza. Not more than eighty mounted men appear: the rest are killed, wounded, or unhorsed. At this time one of the most characteristic incidents of the affair took place.
Just before the charge, Zagonyi directed one of his buglers, a Frenchman, to sound a signal. The bugler did not seem to pay any attention to the order, but darted off with Lieutenant Maythenyi. A few moments afterwards he was observed in another part of the field vigorously pursuing the flying infantry. His active form was always seen in the thickest of the fight. When the line was formed in thePlaza, Zagonyi noticed the bugler, and approaching him said, "In the midst of the battle you disobeyed my order. You are unworthy to be a member of the Guard. I dismiss you." The bugler showed his bugle to his indignant commander;—the mouth-piece of the instrument was shot away. He said, "The mouth was shoot off. I could not bugle viz mon bugle, and so I bugle viz mon pistol and sabre." It is unnecessary to add, the brave Frenchman was not dismissed.
I must not forget to mention Sergeant Hunter, of the Kentucky company. His soldierly figure never failed to attract the eye in the ranks of the Guard. He had served in the regular cavalry, and the Body-Guard had profited greatly from his skill as a drill-master. He lost three horses in the fight. As soon as one was killed, he caught another from the Rebels: the third horse taken by him in this way he rode into St. Louis.
The Sergeant slew five men. "I won't speak of those I shot," said he,—"another may have hit them; but those I touched with my sabre I am sure of, because Ifeltthem."
At the beginning of the charge, he came to the extreme right and took position next to Zagonyi, whom he followed closely through the battle. The Major, seeing him, said,—
"Why are you here, Sergeant Hunter? Your place is with your company on the left."
"I kind o' wanted to be in the front," was the answer.
"What could I say to such a man?" exclaimed Zagonyi, speaking of the matter afterwards.
There was hardly a horse or rider among the survivors that did not bring away some mark of the fray. I saw one animal with no less than seven wounds,—none of them serious. Scabbards were bent, clothes and caps pierced, pistols injured. I saw one pistol from which the sight had been cut as neatly as it could have been done by machinery. A piece of board a few inches long was cut from a fence on the field, in which there were thirty-one shot-holes.
It was now nine o'clock. The wounded had been carried to the hospital. The dismounted troopers were placed in charge of them,—in the double capacity of nurses and guards. Zagonyi expected the foe to return every minute. It seemed like madness to try and hold the town with his small force, exhausted by the long march and desperate fight. He therefore left Springfield, and retired before morning twenty-five miles on the Bolivar road.
Captain Fairbanks did not see his commander after leaving the column in the lane, at the commencement of the engagement. About dusk he repaired to the prairie, and remained there within a mile of the village until midnight, when he followed Zagonyi, rejoining him in the morning.
I will now return to Major White. During the conflict upon the hill, he was in the forest near the front of the Rebel line. Here his horse was shot under him. Captain Wroton kept careful watch over him. When the flight began he hurried White away, and, accompanied by a squad of eleven men, took him ten miles into the country. They stopped at a farm-house for the night. White discovered that their host was a Union man. His parole having expired, he took advantage of the momentary absence of his captor to speak to the farmer, telling him who he was, and asking him to send for assistance. The countryman mounted his son upon his swiftest horse, and sent him for succor. The party lay down by the fire, White being placed in the midst. The Rebels were soon asleep, but there was no sleep for the Major. He listened anxiously for the footsteps of his rescuers. After long, weary hours, he heard the tramp of horses. He arose, and walking on tiptoe, cautiously stepping over his sleeping guards, he reached the door and silently unfastened it. The Union men rushed into the room and took the astonished Wroton and his followers prisoners. At daybreak White rode into Springfield at the head of his captives and a motley band of Home-Guards. He found the Federals still in possession of the place. As the officer of highest rank, be took command. His garrison consisted of twenty-four men. He stationed twenty-two of them as pickets in the outskirts of the village, and held the other two as a reserve. At noon the enemy sent in a flag of truce, and asked permission to bury their dead. Major White received the flag with proper ceremony, but said that General Sigel was in command and the request would have to be referred to him. Sigel was then forty miles away. In a short time a written communication purporting to come from General Sigel, saying that the Rebels might send a party under certain restrictions to bury their dead, White drew in some of his pickets, stationed them about the field, and under their surveillance the Southern dead were buried.
The loss of the enemy, as reported by some of their working party, was one hundred and sixteen killed. The number of wounded could not be ascertained. After the conflict had drifted away from the hill-side, some of the foe had returned to the field, taken away their wounded, and robbed our dead. The loss of the Guard was fifty-three out of one hundred and forty-eight actually engaged, twelve men having been left by Zagonyi in charge of his train. The Prairie Scouts reported a loss of thirty-one out of one hundred and thirty: half of these belonged to the Irish Dragoons. In a neighboring field an Irishman was found stark and stiff, still clinging to the hilt of his sword, which was thrust through the body of a Rebel who lay beside him. Within a few feet a second Rebel lay, shot through the head.
I have given a statement of this affair drawn from the testimony taken before a Court of Inquiry, from conversations with men who were engaged upon both sides, and from a careful examination of the locality. It was the first essay of raw troops, and yet there are few more brilliant achievements in history.
It is humiliating to be obliged to tell what followed. The heroism of the Guard was rewarded by such treatment as we blush to record. Upon their return to St. Louis, rations and forage were denied them, the men were compelled to wear the clothing soiled and torn in battle, they were promptly disbanded, and the officers retired from service. The swords which pricked the clouds and let the joyful sunshine of victory into the darkness of constant defeat are now idle. But the fame of the Guard is secure. Out from that fiery baptism they came children of the nation, and American song and story will carry their heroic triumph down to the latest generation.
To the Editors of theATLANTIC MONTHLY.
Jaalam, 6th Jan., 1862.
GENTLEMEN,—I was highly gratified by the insertion of a portion of my letter in the last number of your valuable and entertaining Miscellany, though in a type which rendered its substance inaccessible even to the beautiful new spectacles presented to me by a Committee of the Parish on New-Year's Day. I trust that I was able to bear your very considerable abridgment of my lucubrations with a spirit becoming a Christian. My third grand-daughter, Rebekah, aged fourteen years, and whom I have trained to read slowly and with proper emphasis, (a practice too much neglected in our modern systems of education,) read aloud to me the excellent essay upon "Old Age," the authour of which I cannot help suspecting to be a young man who has never yet known what it was to have snow (canities morosa) upon his own roof.Dissolve frigus, large super foco ligna reponens, is a rule for the young, whose wood-pile is yet abundant for such cheerful lenitives. A good life behind him is the best thing to keep an old man's shoulders from shivering at every breath of sorrow or ill-fortune. But methinks it were easier for an old man to feel the disadvantages of youth than the advantages of age. Of these latter I reckon one of the chiefest to be this: that we attach a less inordinate value to our own productions, and, distrusting daily more and more our own wisdom, (with the conceit whereof at twenty we wrap ourselves away from knowledge as with a garment,) do reconcile ourselves with the wisdom of God. I could have wished, indeed, that room might have been made for the residue of the anecdote relating to Deacon Tinkham, which would not only have gratified a natural curiosity on the part of the publick, (as I have reason to know from several letters of inquiry already received,) but would also, as I think, have largely increased the circulation of your Magazine in this town.Nihil humani alienum, there is a curiosity about the affairs of our neighbours which is not only pardonable, but even commendable. But I shall abide a more fitting season.
As touching the following literary effort of Esquire Biglow, much might be profitably said on the topick of Idyllick and Pastoral Poetry, and concerning the proper distinctions to be made between them, from Theocritus, the inventor of the former, to Collins, the latest authour I know of who has emulated the classicks in the latter style. But in the time of a civil war worthy a Milton to defend and a Lucan to sing, it may be reasonably doubted whether the publick, never too studious of serious instruction, might not consider other objects more deserving of present attention. Concerning the title of Idyll, which Mr. Biglow has adopted at my suggestion, it may not be improper to animadvert, that the name properly signifies a poem somewhat rustick in phrase, (for, though the learned are not agreed as to the particular dialect employed by Theocritus, they are universanimous both as to its rusticity and its capacity of rising now and then to the level of more elevated sentiments and expressions,) while it is also descriptive of real scenery and manners. Yet it must be admitted that the production now in question (which here and there bears perhaps too plainly the marks of my correcting hand) does partake of the nature of a Pastoral, inasmuch as the interlocutors therein are purely imaginary beings, and the whole is little better than [Greek: skias onar.] The plot was, as I believe, suggested by the "Twa Briggs" of Robert Burns, a Scottish poet of the last century, as that found its prototype in the "Mutual Complaint of Plainstanes and Causey" by Fergusson, though the metre of this latter be different by a foot in each verse. I reminded my talented young parishioner and friend that Concord Bridge had long since yielded to the edacious tooth of Time. But he answered me to this effect: that there was no greater mistake of an authour than to suppose the reader had no fancy of his own; that, if once that faculty was to be called into activity, it werebetterto be in for the whole sheep than the shoulder; and that he knew Concord like a book,—an expression questionable in propriety, since there are few things with which he is not more familiar than with the printed page. In proof of what he affirmed, he showed me some verses which with others he had stricken out as too much delaying the action, but which I communicate in this place because they rightly define "punkin-seed," (which Mr. Bartlett would have a kind of perch,—a creature to which I have found a rod or pole not to be so easily equivalent in our inland waters as in the books of arithmetic,) and because it conveys an eulogium on the worthy son of an excellent father, with whose acquaintance (eheu, fugaces anni!) I was formerly honoured.
"But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they show,So much ez Em'son, Hawthorne, an' Thoreau.I know the village, though: was sent there onceA-schoolin', coz to home I played the dunce;An' I've ben sence a-visitin' the Jedge,Whose garding whispers with the river's edge,Where I've sot mornin's, lazy as the bream,Whose only business is to head up-stream,(We call 'em punkin-seed,) or else in chatAlong'th the Jedge, who covers with his hatMore wit an' gumption an' shrewd Yankee senseThan there is mosses on an ole stone fence."
Concerning the subject-matter of the verses I have not the leisure at present to write so fully as I could wish, my time being occupied with the preparation of a discourse for the forthcoming bi-centenary celebration of the first settlement of Jaalam East Parish. It may gratify the publick interest to mention the circumstance, that my investigations to this end have enabled me to verify the fact (of much historick importance, and hitherto hotly debated) that Shearjashub Tarbox was the first child of white parentage born in this town, being named in his father's will under date August 7th, or 9th, 1662. It is well known that those who advocate the claims of Mehetable Goings are unable to find any trace of her existence prior to October of that year. As respects the settlement of the Mason and Slidell question, Mr. Biglow has not incorrectly stated the popular sentiment, so far as I can judge by its expression in this locality. For myself, I feel more sorrow than resentment; for I am old enough to have heard those talk of England who still, even after the unhappy estrangement, could not unschool their lips from calling her the Mother-Country. But England has insisted on ripping up old wounds, and has undone the healing work of fifty years; for nations do not reason, they only feel, and thespretae injuria formaerankles in their minds as bitterly as in that of a woman. And because this is so, I feel the more satisfaction that our Government has acted (as all Governments should, standing as they do between the people and their passions) as if it had arrived at years of discretion. There are three short and simple words, the hardest of all to pronounce in any language, (and I suspect they were no easier before the confusion of tongues,) but which no man or nation that cannot utter can claim to have arrived at manhood. Those words are,I was wrong; and I am proud, that, while England played the boy, our rulers had strength enough from below and wisdom enough from above to quit themselves like men. Let us strengthen the hands of those in authority over us, and curb out own tongues,[A] remembering that General Wait commonly proves in the end more than a match for General Headlong, and that the Good Book ascribes safety to a multitude, indeed, but not to a mob, of counsellours. Let us remember and perpend the words of Paulus Emilius to the people of Rome: that, "if they judged they could manage the war to more advantage by any other, he would willingly yield up his charge; but if they confided in him,they were not to make themselves his colleagues in his office, or raise reports, or criticize, his actions, but, without talking, supply him with means and assistance necessary to the carrying on of the war; for, if they proposed to command their own commander, they would render this expedition more ridiculous than the former." (Vide Plutarchum in vitâ P.E.)Let us also not forget what the same excellent authour says concerning Perseus's fear of spending money, and not permit the covetousness of Brother Jonathan to be the good-fortune of Jefferson Davis. For my own part, till I am ready to admit the Commander-in-Chief to my pulpit, I shall abstain from planning his battles. Patience is the armour of a nation; and in our desire for peace, let us never be willing to surrender the Constitution bequeathed us by fathers at least as wise as ourselves, (even with Jefferson Davis to help us,) and, with those degenerate Romans,tuta et presentia quam vetera et periculosa malle.
With respect,Your ob't humble serv't,HOMER WILBUR, A.M.
[Footnote A: And not only our own tongues, but the pens of others, which are swift to convey useful intelligence to the enemy. This is no new inconvenience; for, under date 3rd June, 1745, General Pepperell wrote thus to Governour Shirley from Louisbourg:—"What your Excellency observes of thearmy's being made acquainted with any plans proposed, until really to be put in execution, has always been disagreeable to me, and I have given many cautions relating to it. But when your Excellency considers thatour Council of War consists of more than twenty members, am persuaded you will think itimpossible for me to hinder it, if any of them will persist in communicating to inferiour officers and soldiers what ought to be kept secret. I am informed that the Boston newspapers are filled with paragraphs from private letters relating to the expedition. Will your Excellency permit me to say I think it may be of ill consequence? Would it not be convenient, if your Excellency should forbid the Printers' inserting such news?" Verily, iftempora mutantur,we may question theet nos mutamur in illis;and if tongues be leaky, it will need all hands at the pumps to save the Ship of State. Our history dates and repeats itself. If Sassycus (rather than Alcibiades) find a parallel in Beauregard, so Weakwash, as he is called by the brave Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, need not seek far among our own Sachems for his antitype.]
I love to start out arter night's begun,An' all the chores about the farm are done,The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast,Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past,An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,—I love, I say, to start upon a tramp,To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs,An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregsThet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutchOf folks thet foller in one rut too much:Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt;But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out.
Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know,There's certin spots where I like best to go:The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one,Most gin'lly ollers call itJohn Bull's Run.)—The field o' Lexin'ton, where England triedThe fastest colors thet she ever dyed,—An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came,Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,—Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soulDon't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll.
They're 'most too fur away, take too much timeTo visit often, ef it ain't in rhyme;But there's a walk thet's hendier, a sight,An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,—I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill.I love to loiter there while night grows still,An' in the twinklin' villages about,Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out,An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms,Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms,Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way)Stands to't thet moon-rise is the break o' day:So Mister Seward sticks a three-months pinWhere the war'd oughto end, then tries agin;—My gran'ther's rule was safer'n 't is to crow:Don't never prophesy—onless ye know.
I love to muse there till it kind o' seemsEz ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams.The Northwest wind thet twitches at my bairdBlows out o' sturdier days not easy scared,An' the same moon thet this December shinesStarts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines;The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs,Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns;Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' lightAlong the firelock won at Concord Fight,An' 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh,Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply.Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence,Mixin' the perfect with the present tense,I heerd two voices som'ers in the air,Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where:Voices I call 'em: 't was a kind o' soughLike pine-trees thet the wind is geth'rin' through;An', fact, I thought itwasthe wind a spell,—Then some misdoubted,—couldn't fairly tell,—Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel,—I knowed, an' didn't,—fin'lly seemed to feel'T was Concord Bridge a-talkin' off to killWith the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker Hill:Whether't was so, or ef I only dreamed,I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed.
Wal, neighbor, tell us, wut's turned up thet's new?You're younger'n I be,—nigher Boston, tu;An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin',Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'.There'ssunthin'goin' on, I know: las' nightThe British sogers killed in our gret fight(Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke)Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke:Why, one he up an' beat a revelleeWith his own crossbones on a holler tree,Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hiveWith faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five.Wutisthe news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'.Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.
I don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,—
At wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had.
You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent,An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?
Wut! hev they hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone!Thet's a sure way to make a goose a swan!
No: England shewouldhev 'em,Fee, Faw, Fum!(Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,)So they've returned 'em—
Hevthey? Wal, by heaven, Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven!By George, I meant to say, though I declare It's 'most enough to make a deacon, swear.
Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gainsBy usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains.Come, neighbor, you don't understand—
How? Hey?Not understand? Why, wut's to hender, pray?Must I go huntin' round to find a chapTo tell me when my face hez hed a slap?
See here: the British they found out a flawIn Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law:(Theymakeall laws, you know, an' so, o' course,It's nateral they should understand their force:)He'd oughto took the vessel into port,An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court;She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu,An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view,Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails,Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' falls;Youmaytake out despatches, but you mus'n'tTake nary man—
You mean to say, you dus'n't!Changed pint o' view! No, no,—it's overboardWith law an' gospel, when their ox is gored!I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land,Hez ollers ben, "I've gut the heaviest hand."Take nary man? Fine preachin' fromherlips!Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships,An' would agin, an' swear she hed a right to,Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to.Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind,Englanddoosmake the most onpleasant kind:It's you're the sinner ollers, she's the saint;Wut's good's all English, all thet isn't ain't;Wut profits her is ollers right an' just,An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must;She's praised herself ontil she fairly thinksThere ain't no light in Natur when she winks;Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus?Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus?She ain't like other mortals, thet's a fact:Shenever stopped the habus-corpus act,Nor specie payments, nor she never yetCut down the int'rest on her public debt;Shedon't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed,An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede;She's all thet's honest, honnable, an' fair,An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.
Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right;Ef we're mistaken, own it, an' don't fight:For gracious' sake, hain't we enough to du'Thout gittin' up a fight with England, tu?She thinks we're rabble-rid———
An' so we can'tDistinguish 'twixtYou oughtn'tan'You shan't!She jedges by herself; she's no idearHow 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer:The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain's a steeple,—Her People's turned to Mob, our Mob's turned People.
She's riled jes' now———
Plain proof her cause ain't strong,—The one thet fust gits mad's most ollers wrong.
You're ollers quick to set your back aridge,—Though't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober bridge:Don't you git het: they thought the thing was planned;They'll cool off when they come to understand.
Efthet'swilt you expect, you'llhevto wait:Folks never understand the folks they hate:She'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good,'Fore the month's out, to git misunderstood.England cool off! She'll do it, ef she seesShe's run her head into a swarm o' bees.I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose:I hev thought England was the best thet goes;Remember, (no, you can't,) whenIwas reared,God save the Kingwas all the tune you heerd:But it's enough to turn Wachuset roun',This stumpin' fellers when you think they're down.
But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law,The best way is to settle, an' not jaw.An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricksWe'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix:That 'ere's most frequently the kin' o' talkOf critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk;Your "You'll seenex'time!" an' "Look out bimeby!"Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie.'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it payTo fear thet meaner bully, old "They'll say"?Suppose theydusay: words are dreffle bores,But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours.Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fitWhere it'll help to widen out our split:She's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to comeAn' lend the beetle thet's to drive it home.For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle,When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle.England ain'tallbad, coz she thinks us blind:Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind;An' you will see her change it double-quick,Soon ez we've proved thet we're a-goin' to lick.She an' Columby's gut to be fas' friends;For the world prospers by their privit ends:'T would put the clock back all o' fifty years,Ef they should fall together by the ears.
You may be right; but hearken in your ear,—I'm older 'n you,—Peace wun't keep house with Fear:Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut to duIs jest to show you're up to fightin', tu.Irecollect how sailors' rights was wonYard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun:Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet heHed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea;You'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will,An' ef you knuckle down,he'll think so still.Better thet all our ships an' all their crewsShould sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze,Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went,An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment,Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave:Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!
I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth:You'd oughto learned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth.It ain'tournose thet gits put out o' jint;It's England thet gives up her dearest pint.We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to duIn our own fem'ly fight, afore we're thru.I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame,When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame,An' all the people, startled from their doubt,Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,—
I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall,The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all;Then come Bull Run, an'sencethen I've ben waitin'Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin',Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's traceSwing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base,With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's gittin' slow,An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em go.I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin' to cost—
An' I tellyouit wun't be money lost;Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you'll allowThet havin' things onsettled kills the cow:We've gut to fix this thing for good an' all;It's no use buildin' wut's a-goin' to fall.I'm older 'n you, an' I've seen things an' men,An' here's wut my experience hez ben:Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv,But bad work follers ye ez long's ye live;You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin,It's ollers askin' to be done agin:Ef we should part, it wouldn't be a week'Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak.We've turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru,We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu;'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't perlite,—You've gut to be in airnest, ef you fight;Why, two-thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut dirt,Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment meant to hurt;An' Iduwish our Gin'rals hed in mindThe folks in front more than the folks behind;You wun't do much ontil you think it's God,An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod;We want some more o' Gideon's sword, I jedge,For proclamations hain't no gret of edge;There's nothin' for a cancer but the knife,Onless you set by 't more than by your life.I've seen hard times; I see a war begunThet folks thet love their bellies never'd won,—Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long year,—But when't was done, we didn't count it dear.Why, law an' order, honor, civil right,Ef theyain'twuth it, wutiswuth a fight?I'm older 'n you: the plough, the axe, the mill,All kinds o' labor an' all kinds o' skill,Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw,Ef't warn't for thet slow critter, 'stablished law;Onsettlethet, an' all the world goes whiz,A screw is loose in everythin' there is:Good buttresses once settled, don't you fretAn' stir 'em: take a bridge's word for thet!Young folks are smart, but all ain't good thet's new;I guess the gran'thers they knowed sunthin', tu.
Amen to thet! build sure in the beginning',An' then don't never tech the underpinnin':Th' older a Guv'ment is, the better 't suits;New ones hunt folks's corns out like new boots:Change jest for change is like those big hotelsWhere they shift plates, an' let ye live on smells.
Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes down:It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't drown;An' God wun't leave us yet to sink or swim,Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by Him.This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to beA better country than man ever see.I feel my sperit swellin' with a cryThet seems to say, "Break forth an' prophesy!"O strange New World, thet yet wast never young,Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung,—Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bedWas prowled round by the Injun's cracklin' tread,An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains,Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strainWith each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane,—Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret eventsTo pitch new States ez Old-World men pitch tents,—Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's planThet only manhood ever makes a man,An' whose free latch-string never was drawed inAginst the poorest child o' Adam's kin,—The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall layIn fearful haste thy murdered corse away!I see——
Jest here some dogs began to bark,So thet I lost old Concord's last remark:I listened long, but all I seemed to hearWas dead leaves goss'pin' on some birch-trees near;But ez they hedn't no gret things to say,An' said 'em often, I come right away,An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the time,I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme:I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on,But here they be,—it's
It don't seem hardly right, John,When both my hands was full,To stump me to a fight, John,—Your cousin, tu, John Bull!Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessWe know it now," sez he,"The lion's paw is all the law,Accordin' to J.B.,Thet's fit for you an' me!"
Blood ain't so cool as ink, John:It's likely you'd ha' wrote,An' stopped a spell to think, John,Arterthey'd cut your throat?Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessHe'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he,"To mind his p-s an' q-s, ef thet weasan'Hed b'longed to ole J.B.,Instid o' you an' me!"
EfIturned mad dogs loose, John,Onyourfront-parlor stairs,Would it jest meet your views, John,To wait an' sue their heirs?Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,I on'y guess," sez he,"Thet, ef Vattel onhistoes fell,'T would kind o' rile J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Who made the law thet hurts, John,Heads I win,—ditto, tails?"J.B." was on his shirts, John,Onless my memory fails.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,(I'm good at thet,)" sez he,"Thet sauce for goose ain'tjestthe juiceFor ganders with J.B.,No more than you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John,You didn't stop for fuss,—Britanny's trident-prongs, John,Was good 'nough law for us.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,Though physic's good," sez he,"It doesn't foller thet he can swallerPrescriptions signed 'J.B.,'Put up by you an' me!"
We own the ocean, tu, John:You mus'n't take it hard,Ef we can't think with you, John,It's jest your own back-yard.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,Efthet'shis claim," sez he,"The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enoughTo bust up friend J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Why talk so dreffle big, John,Of honor, when it meantYou didn't care a fig, John,But jest forten per cent.?Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,He's like the rest," sez he:"When all is done, it's number oneThet's nearest to J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We give the critters back, John,Coz Abram thought 't was right;It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,Provokin' us to fight.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessWe've a hard row," sez he,"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,May heppen to J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We ain't so weak an' poor, John,With twenty million people,An' close to every door, John,A school-house an' a steeple.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessIt is a fact," sez he,"The surest plan to make a ManIs, Think him so, J.B.,Ez much ez you or me!"
Our folks believe in Law, John;An' it's for her sake, now,They've left the axe an' saw, John,The anvil an' the plough.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,Ef't warn't for law," sez he,"There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;An' thet don't suit J.B.(When't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)"
We know we've gut a cause, John,Thet's honest, just, an' true;We thought't would win applause, John,Ef nowheres else, from you.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessHis love of right," sez he,"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton:There's natur' in J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
The South says, "Poor folks down!" John,An' "All men up!" say we,—"White, yaller, black, an' brown, John:Now which is your idee?"Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,John preaches wal," sez he;"But, sermon thru, an' come todu,Why, there's the old J.B.A-crowdin' you an' me!"
Shall it be love or hate, John?It's you thet's to decide;Ain'tyourbonds held by Fate, John,Like all the world's beside?Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guessWise men forgive," sez he,"But not forget; an' some time yetThet truth may strike J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John,Clear thru, from sea to sea,Believe an' understand, John,Thewutho' bein' free.Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,God's price is high," sez he;"But nothin' else than wut He sellsWears long, an' thet J.B.May learn like you an' me!"
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The Cloister and the Hearth; or, Maid, Wife, and Widow. A Matter-of-Fact Romance. By CHARLES READE, Author of "Never too Late to Mend," etc., etc. New York: Rudd & Carleton. 8vo.
The novels of Charles Reade are generally marked not only by individuality of genius, but by individualisms of egotism and caprice. The latter provoke the reader almost as much as the former gives him delight. It disturbs the least critical mind to find the keenest insight in company with the loudest bravado, and the statement of a wise or beautiful thought followed up by a dogmatic assertion of infallibility as harsh as a slap on the face. The indisposition to recognize such a genius comes from the fact that he irritates as well as stimulates the minds he addresses. Everybody reads him, but the fooling he inspires is made up of admiration and exasperation. The public is both delighted and insulted. He not only does not attempt to conceal his contemptuous sense of superiority to common men, but he absolutely screeches and bawls it out. Fearful that the dull Anglo-Saxon mind cannot appreciate his finest strokes, he emphasizes his inspirations not merely by Italics, but by capitals, thus conveying his brightest wit and deepest contrivances by a kind of typographic yell. Were there not a solid foundation of observation, learning, genius, and conscience to his work, his egotistic eccentricities would awake a tempest of hisses. Being, in reality, superficial and not central, they are readily pardoned by discerning critics. Even these, however, must object to his disposition to cluck or crow, in a manner altogether unseemly, whenever he hits upon a thought of more than ordinary delicacy or depth.
It is but just to say, in palliation of this fault, that Mr. Reade's insolent tone is not peculiar to him. It characterizes almost every prominent person who has attempted to mould the opinions of the age. We find it in Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin, and Kingsley, as well as in Reade. Modesty is not the characteristic of the genius of the nineteenth century; and the last thing we look for in any powerful work of the present day is toleration for other minds and opposing opinions. Each capable person who puts in his thumb and pulls out a plum draws instantly the same inference which occurred to the first explorer of the Christmas-pie. Charles Reade has no reservation at all, and boldly echoes Master Horner's sage conclusion.
"The Cloister and the Hearth," in spite of its faults, is really a great book. It is a positive contribution to history as well as to romance. It would be vain to point to any other volume which could convey to common minds so clear and accurate a conception of European life in the fifteenth century as this. The author has deeply studied the annals, memoirs, and histories which record the peculiarities of that life, and he has carried into the study a knowledge of those powers and passions of human nature which are the same in every age. The result is a "romance of history" which contains more essential truth than the most labored histories; for the writer is a man who has both the heart to feel and the imagination to conceive the realities of the time about which he writes.
The characterization of the book is original, various, and powerful. It ranges from the lowest hind to the most exquisite representative of female tenderness and purity. The scenes of passion show a clear conception of and a strong hold upon the emotional elements of character, and a capacity to exhibit their most terrible workings in language which seems identical with the feelings it so burningly expresses. In vigor and vividness of description and narration the novel excels any of Reade's previous books. The plot is about the same as that of "The Good Fight," though thedénouementis different. "The Cloister and the Hearth," indeed, incorporates "The Good Fight" in its pages, but the latter forms not more than a fourth of the extended work. Altogether the romance must be classed among the best which have appeared during the last twenty years.
Lessons in Life. A Series of Familiar Essays. By TIMOTHY TITCOMB. New York: Charles Scribner, 16 mo.
Who is more popular than honest Timothy? Opening this, his latest volume, we read on, a fly-leaf fronting the title-page that twenty-six editions of the "Letters to Young People," fifteen editions each of "Bitter-Sweet" and "Gold Foil," and thirteen editions of "Miss Gilbert's Career" have gone the way of all good books. The author says, in his modest preface to the "Lessons," that he can hardly pretend to have done more than to organize and put into form the average thinking of those who read his books, and be only claims for his essays that they possess the quality of common sense. He herein pays a very high compliment to the crowd which demands over the bookseller's counter so many thousands of his volumes. Wisdom, admirably put, is not a commodity glutting the market every day. We find in the pages of this new venture so many healthy maxims and so much excellent advice, that we hope the volume will spread itself farther and wider than any of its predecessors. This wish fulfilled will give it no mean circulation. "The Ways of Charity," one of the papers in this volume, ought to be printed in tract form, and scattered broadcast everywhere. And there are other articles in the book quite as good as this.
English Sacred Poetry of the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth Centuries.Selected and edited by ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT, M.A. Illustrated by Holman Hunt, John Gilbert, and others. London: Routledge & Co. 4to.
Mr. Willmott has considerable reputation for judgment and taste as a compiler. He knows a good poem afar off, and his chief pleasure seems to lie in reproducing from old books the excellent things that time has spared to us. His last contribution to the stock of elegant volumes is this very handsome book of English Sacred Poetry. The illustrations are by no means equally good, but the majority of them are satisfactory. Delicious bits of English landscape scenery peep out along the pages, as one turns the leaves of this beautiful collection. An old village church rising among the graves of centuries, a bird's-nest snug and warm in the boughs of a mossy tree, a group of old-time worshippers gathered on the grass, a brook making its way through flower-enamelled banks, a shepherd with his flock couched on the hill-side, and other similar scenes of quiet and rest, abound in this volume. The printer and the binder have produced as luxurious a specimen of their respective arts as we have seen from the British holiday press.
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The Cotton Kingdom: A Traveller's Observations on Cotton and Slavery in the American Slave States. Based upon Three Former Volumes of Journeys and Investigations by the Same Author. By Frederic Law Olmsted. In Two Volumes. New York. Mason Brothers. 12mo. pp. viii., 376; 404. $2.00.
The Last Political Writings of General Nathaniel Lyon, U.S.A. With a Sketch of his Life and Military Services. New York. Rudd & Carleton. 12mo. pp. 275. $1.00.
The Lamplighter's Story; Hunted Down; The Detective Police, and otherNouvellettes. By Charles Dickens. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson &Brothers. 12mo. pp. 467. $1.50.
Poems. By John G. Saxe. Complete in One Volume. Blue and Gold. Boston.Ticknor & Fields. 32mo. pp. vi., 308. 75 cts.
Elijah, a Sacred Drama, and other Poems. By Rev. Robert Davidson, D.D.New York. C. Scribner. 16mo. pp. 184. 75 cts.
Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from Drawings by F.O.C. Darley and John Gilbert. The Old Curiosity-Shop. In Three Volumes. New York. J.G. Gregory. 16mo. pp. viii., 303; 299; 298. $2.25.
National Hymns: How they are Written, and how they are not Written. ALyric and National Study for the Times. By Richard Grant White. NewYork. Rudd & Carleton. 12mo. pp. 152. $1.00.
A Manual of Elementary Geometrical Drawing, involving Three Dimensions. Designed for Use in High Schools, Academies, Engineering Schools, etc.; and for the Self-Instruction of Inventors, Artisans, etc. In Five Divisions. By S. Edward Warren, C.E., Professor of Descriptive Geometry and Geometrical Drawing in Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, N.Y., and Author of a Treatise on the Orthographic Projections of Descriptive Geometry. New York. John Wiley. 12mo. pp. x., 105. $1.25.
For Better, for Worse. A Love Story. From "Temple Bar." Philadelphia.T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. paper, pp. 173. 25 cts.
Commentary on the Epistles to the Seven Churches in Asia. Revelation,II., III. By Richard Chenevix Trench, D.D., Dean of Westminster. NewYork. C. Scribner. 12mo. pp. 3l2. $1.00.
Songs in Many Keys. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. x., 308. $1.25.
Lessons in Life. A Series of Familiar Essays. By Timothy Titcomb, Author of "Letters to the Young," "Gold Foil," etc. New York. C. Scribner. 12mo. pp. 344. $1.00.
Wolfert's Roost, and other Papers. Now first collected. By Washington Irving. Author's Revised Edition. New York. G.P. Putnam. 12mo. pp. 383, 46. $1.50.