Jaalam, April 5, 1866.My dear Sir,—
Jaalam, April 5, 1866.
My dear Sir,—
(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you're some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the diffrence) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce this las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber allus called 'em, which is goin' tobethe last an'staythe last onless sunthin' pertikler sh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ez pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence M^r Wilbur's disease I hevn't hed no one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o' wine me up an' set the penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain't of the same brewin' nor I can't seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort of slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur is wal enough an' a site better'n most other kines I know on, but the other sort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord's makin' an' naterally more wonderfle an' sweet tastin' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. He used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile athout sayin' nothin' in pertickler an' I misdoubt he didn't set so much by the sec'nd Ceres as wut he done by the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort of fallin' off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwesterhewuz, but I tole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketch a good many times fust afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I see Jethro C. Swett from the meetin' house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' took up for dead but he 's alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turnin' of it over I recclected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the frunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a spell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you'd go in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to go in fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu. I dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I guess they never du but tha must allus be a B'ginnin' to everythin' athout it is Etarnity so I'll begin rite away an' any body may put it afore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim no paytent.
Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself: thet 's jest natur an'
most gin'ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I 've notist, tooneof the cumpany, an' thet 's more than wut you can say of most speshes of talkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the orjunce by lettin' 'em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop thet they air about East, A one, an' no mistaik, skare 'em up an' take 'em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins witch nobuddy need n't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an' never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; expanded; delayted; extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so 's to avide all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o' gin out. Subjickrestaited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pump ag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick; stretches it; turns it; folds it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so 's 't no one can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud to say nothin' in repleye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfide he 's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into his head. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back'ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads sum xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du.Misstates it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. Yeels the flore.
You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doos an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made for; wut 's left 's jest pummis.
Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, "Hosee," sez he, "in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It 's amazin' hard to come at," sez he, "but onct git it an' you 've gut everythin'. Wut's the sweetest small on airth?" sez he. "Noomone hay," sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. "Nawthin' of the kine," sez he. "My leetle Huldy's breath," sez I ag'in. "You 're a good lad," sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age,—"You 're a good lad; but 't ain't thet nuther," sez he. "Ef you want to know," sez he, "open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and you 'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air,fresh air," sez he, emphysizin', "athout no mixtur. Thet 's wutIcall natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a whiff on 't," sez he. I offen think o' thet when I set down to write, but the winders airsoept to git stuck, and breakin' a pane costs sunthin'.
Yourn for the last time,Nutto be continooed,Hosea Biglow.
Yourn for the last time,
Nutto be continooed,
Hosea Biglow.
I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it,I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit,—Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's so plenty,'Nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty;I 'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hardTo mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard,An' maysure off, acordin' to demand,The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand,The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru,An' nothin' but the customer thet 's new.I sometimes think, the furder on I go,Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know,An' when I 've settled my idees, I find'T war n't I sheered most in makin' up my mind;'T wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it,Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor shun it.Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion,All th' ole flint locks seems altered to percussion,Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hintThet I 'm percussion changin' back to flint;Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit,For th' ole Oueen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,—It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' marginTo kin' o' make its will afore dischargin':I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule,—No man need go an'makehimself a fool,Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bearCookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare.Ez I wuz say'n', I ha'n't no chance to speakSo 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week,But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' headThet sets to home an' thinks wutmightbe said,The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath,Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth,An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardinThet I don' vally public life a fardin'.Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!)'Mongst other stories of ole times he hed,Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreadsBeforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads,(Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,)Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row,Accordin' ez he thought thet his ideesTheir diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please;"An'," sez the Parson, "to hit right, you mustGit used to maysurin' your hearers fust;For, take my word for 't when all 's come an' past,The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et last;Th' ain't ben a meetin' sense the worl' begunBut they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one."I 've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence thenAbout ez good for talkin' to ez men;They 'll take edvice, like other folks, to keep,(To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu cheap,)They listen wal, don' kick up when you scold 'em,An' ef they 've tongues, hev sense enough to hold 'em;Though th' ain't no denger we shall loose the breed,I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed,An' when my sappiness gits spry in springSo 's 't my tongue itches to run on full swing,I fin' 'em ready-planted in March-meetin',Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin',An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum the fence,—Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f expense.This year I made the follerin' observationsExtrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience,An', no reporters bein' sent expressTo work their abstrac's up into a messEz like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur'Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor,I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's.My feller kebbige-heads, who look so green,I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreenThe world of all its hearers but jest you,'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to,An' you, my venerable frien's, thet showUpon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow,Ez ef mild Time had christened every senseFor wisdom's church o' second innocence,Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing,But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring,—We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to decideWhich is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side,Coz all the good or evil thet can heppenIs 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen.Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oakDim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke;The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen,(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an' green;The birds are here, for all the season 's late;They take the sun's height an' don' never wait;Soon 'z he officially declares it 's springTheir light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing,An' th'ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear,Can't by the music tell the time o' year;But thet white dove Carliny scared away,Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day;Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last yearAn' coo by every housedoor, is n't here,—No, nor won't never be, for all our jaw,Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war!O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could seeThe bagnet-pint there is to an idee!Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel;They run your soul thru an' you never feel,But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin',Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin',Till you come bunt agin a real live fact,An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to act!Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now,An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,'Ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom ComeWhile t' other side druv their cold iron home.My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth,No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South,Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black,Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back;But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fustTo write up on his door, "No goods on trust";Give us cash down in ekle laws for all,An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex' fall.Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker,Wuth minus some consid'able an acre;Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore longA nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong;Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll beginTo love their country ez they loved their sin;Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a soreReady to fester ez it done afore.No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision,But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision,An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor stateThet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great.Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you?'T wuz commonsense afore the war wuz thru;Thetloaded all our guns an' made 'em speakSo 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek;"They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now," sez she,To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee;"Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fearThe tallest airthquakeswecan git up here."Some call 't insultin' to askarypledge,An' say 't will only set their teeth on edge,But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see,Are 'bout ez mad ez they know how to be;It 's better than the Rebs themselves expected'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected;Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast,For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 'll last;Ef treason is a crime, ezsomefolks say,How could we punish it a milder wayThan sayin' to 'em, "Brethren, lookee here,We 'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer,An' sence both come o' pooty strongbacked daddies,You take the Darkies, ez we 've took the Paddies;Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand,An' the 're the bones an' sinners o' the land."I ain't o' those thet fancy there 's a loss onEvery inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on;But I know this: our money 's safest trustedIn sunthin', come wut will, thetcan'tbe busted,An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee,To make a man a Man an' let him be.Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't,But I do' want to block their only road to 'tBy lettin' 'em believe thet they can gitMore 'n wut they lost, out of our little wit:I tell ye wut, I 'm 'fraid we 'll drif' to leeward'Thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward;He seems to think Columby 'd better actLike a scared widder with a boy stiff-neckedThet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper;She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper,Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm,Till he 'll accept her 'pologies in form:The neighbors tell her he 's a cross-grained cussThet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus;"No," sez Ma Seward, "he 's ez good 'z the best,All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest";"He sarsed my Pa," sez one; "He stoned my son,"Another edds. "O, wal, 't wuz jest his fun.""He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.""'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.""Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understoodYou'll take his gun away from him for good;We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play,Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way.You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,'Thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev' sinned!'"The Pres'dunthethinks thet the slickest plan'Ould be t' allow thet he 's our only man,An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle warJes' for his private glory an' eclor;"Nobody ain't a Union man," sez he,"'Thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me;War n't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine?An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divineTo cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?"Wal, I expec' the People would n' care, ifThe question now wuz techin' bank or tariff,But I conclude they 've 'bout made up their mindThis ain't the fittest time to go it blind,Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings,But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things;Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one dayThey wun't let four years' war be throwed away."Let the South hev her rights?" They say, "Thet's you!But nut greb hold of other folks's tu."Who owns this country, is it they or Andy?Leastways it ough' to be the Peopleandhe;Let him be senior pardner, ef he 's so,But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co;Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbersThink thet the job wuz taken by Columbus.Did he set tu an' make it wut it is?Ef so, I guess the One-Man-powerhezriz.Did he put thru' the rebbles, clear the docket,An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket?Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I exesIs t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes.Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns?Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons?Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we runA kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one?An' is the country goin' to knuckle downTo hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o' Brown?Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell?Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell?An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' wayTill th' underpinnin' 's settled so 's to stay?Who cares for the Resolves of '61,Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun?Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence thenTo l'arn folks they must hendle facts like men?Ain'tthisthe true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em?Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't kep' 'em?War n't theretwosides? an' don't it stend to reasonThet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason?When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed,An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed.I knowed ez wal ez though I 'd seen 't with eyesThet when the war wuz over copper 'd rise,An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our kettle'T would need Leviathan's whole skin to settle;I thought 't would take about a generation'Fore we could wal begin to be a nation,But I allow I never did imegine'T would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge inTo keep the split from closin' ef it could,An' healin' over with new wholesome wood;For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they thinkThet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's ink;I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin'The curus way in which the States are sovereign;They ain't nutquiteenough so to rebel,But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise h——,Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason,They 're most too much so to be tetched for treason;Theycan'tgo out, but ef they somehowdu,Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu;The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir,But stays to keep the door ajar for her.He thinks secession never took 'em out,An' mebby he 's correc', but I misdoubt;Ef they war n't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin,Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in?In law, p'r'aps nut; but there 's a diffurence, ruther,Betwixt your brother-'n-law an' real brother,An' I, for one, shall wish they 'd all bensom'eres,Long 'z U. S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers.But, O my patience! must we wriggle backInto th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track,When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cutStret to our purpose ef we keep the rut?War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slateClean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate.Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet,'T wun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het;I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns,Thet pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns:Once on a time the wolves hed certing rightsInside the fold; they used to sleep there nights,An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they tookTheir turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book;But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep,Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep,Till gradilly the shepherds come to seeThings war n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' to be;So they sent off a deacon to remonstrateAlong 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight;They did n' seem to set much by the deacon,Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to speak on;Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out an' stay,An' hev their fill o' mutton every day:Then dogs an' shepherds, arter much hard dammin',Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin',An' sez, "Ye sha' n't go out, the murrain rot ye,To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!"But then the question come, How live together'Thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether?Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep)Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep;They sez, "Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in,An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in;Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they 're swearin';To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.""Be gin'rous for yourselves, whereyou're to pay,Thet 's the best practice," sez a shepherd gray;"Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button,Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton;Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle:Till they 're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle."I 've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abettersAre in the hebbit o' producin' lettersWrit by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers,'Bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers;I 've noticed, tu, it 's the quack med'cines gits(An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits;Now, sence I lef' off creepin' on all fours,I ha' n't ast no man to endorse my course;It 's full ez cheap to be your own endorser,An' ef I 've made a cup, I 'll fin' the saucer;But I 've some letters here from t' other side,An' them 's the sort thet helps me to decide;Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker,An' I 'll tell you jest where it 's safe to anchor.Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writesThet for a spell he could n' sleep o' nights,Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to,Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto;Et fust he jedged 't would right-side-up his panTo come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man,"But now," he sez, "I ain't nut quite so fresh;The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh;You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course,'Fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse;Nowwe're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track:Jest you take hold an' read the follerin' extrac',Out of a letter I received last weekFrom an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak,A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue,Born coppersheathed an' copperfastened tu.""These four years past, it hez been toughTo say which side a feller went for;Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough,An' nothin' duin' wut 't wuz meant for;Pickets afirin' left an' right,Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,—Life war n't wuth hardly payin' rent for."Columby gut her back up so,It war n't no use a tryin' to stop her,—War's emptin's riled her very doughAn' made it rise an' act improper;'T wuz full ez much ez I could duTo jes' lay low an' worry thru','Thout hevin' to sell out my copper."Afore the war your mod'rit menCould set an' sun 'em on the fences,Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' thenJump off which way bes' paid expenses;Sence, 't wuz so resky ary way,Idid n't hardly darst to sayI 'greed with Paley's Evidences."Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fenceWar n't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't,Headin' your party with a senseO' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't,And tryin' to think thet, on the whole,You kin' o' quasi own your soulWhen Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't?"Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould likeTheir pol'tics done ag'in by proxy,Give their noo loves the bag an' strikeA fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy;But the drag 's broke, now slavery 's gone,An' there 's gret resk they 'll blunder on,Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy."We've gut an awful row to hoeIn this 'ere job o' reconstructin';Folks dunno skurce which way to go,Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in;But one thing 's clear; thereisa crack,Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black,Where the old makebate can be tucked in."No white man sets in airth's broad aisleThet I ain't willin' t' own az brother,An' ef he 's heppened to strike ile,I dunno, fin'ly, but I 'd ruther;An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right,Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white,I hold one on 'em good 'z another."Wutisthere lef' I 'd like to know,Ef 't ain't the difference o' color,To keep up self-respec' an' showThe human natur' of a fullah?Wut good in bein' white, onlessIt 's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess,Thet we are smarter an' they duller?"Ef we 're to hev our ekle rights,'T wunt du to 'low no competition;Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whitesAin't safe onless we stop th' emissionO' these noo notes, whose specie baseIs human natur', 'thout no traceO' shape, nor color, nor condition."So fur I 'd writ an' could n' jedgeAboard wut boat I 'd best take pessige,My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edgeUpon 'em more than tu a sessige,But now it seems ez though I seeSunthin' resemblin' an idee,Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message."I like the speech best, I confess,The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't,An' it 's so mad, I ruther guessThere 's some dependence to be placed on 't;It 's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me,Out o' the allies o' J. D.A temp'ry party can be based on 't."Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru'An' dug his Presidential grave is,An'then!—who knows but we could slewThe country roun' to put in ——?Wun't some folks rare up when we pullOut o' their eyes our Union woolAn' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!"O, did it seem 'z ef ProvidunceCouldever send a second Tyler?To see the South all back to once,Reapin' the spiles o' the Freesiler,Is cute ez though an engineerShould claim th' old iron for his sheerBecause 't wuz him that bust the biler!"Thet tells the story! Thet 's wut we shall gitBy tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit;For the day never comes when it 'll duTo kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe.I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air,A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair,Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere,An' seems to say, "Why died we? war n't it, then,To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men?O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted,The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted!O, you we lef, long-lingerin' et the door,Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more,Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feelEf she upon our memory turned her heel,An' unregretful throwed us all awayTo flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!"My frien's, I 've talked nigh on to long enough.I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye 're tough;My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delightsOur ears, but even kebbigeheads hez rights.It 's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye,But you 'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye!
I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it,I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit,—Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's so plenty,'Nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty;I 'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hardTo mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard,An' maysure off, acordin' to demand,The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand,The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru,An' nothin' but the customer thet 's new.I sometimes think, the furder on I go,Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know,An' when I 've settled my idees, I find'T war n't I sheered most in makin' up my mind;'T wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it,Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor shun it.Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion,All th' ole flint locks seems altered to percussion,Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hintThet I 'm percussion changin' back to flint;Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit,For th' ole Oueen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,—It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' marginTo kin' o' make its will afore dischargin':I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule,—No man need go an'makehimself a fool,Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bearCookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare.
Ez I wuz say'n', I ha'n't no chance to speakSo 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week,But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' headThet sets to home an' thinks wutmightbe said,The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath,Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth,An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardinThet I don' vally public life a fardin'.Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!)'Mongst other stories of ole times he hed,Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreadsBeforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads,(Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,)Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row,Accordin' ez he thought thet his ideesTheir diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please;"An'," sez the Parson, "to hit right, you mustGit used to maysurin' your hearers fust;For, take my word for 't when all 's come an' past,The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et last;Th' ain't ben a meetin' sense the worl' begunBut they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one."
I 've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence thenAbout ez good for talkin' to ez men;They 'll take edvice, like other folks, to keep,(To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu cheap,)They listen wal, don' kick up when you scold 'em,An' ef they 've tongues, hev sense enough to hold 'em;Though th' ain't no denger we shall loose the breed,I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed,An' when my sappiness gits spry in springSo 's 't my tongue itches to run on full swing,I fin' 'em ready-planted in March-meetin',Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin',An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum the fence,—Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f expense.This year I made the follerin' observationsExtrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience,An', no reporters bein' sent expressTo work their abstrac's up into a messEz like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur'Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor,I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's.
My feller kebbige-heads, who look so green,I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreenThe world of all its hearers but jest you,'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to,An' you, my venerable frien's, thet showUpon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow,Ez ef mild Time had christened every senseFor wisdom's church o' second innocence,Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing,But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring,—We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to decideWhich is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side,Coz all the good or evil thet can heppenIs 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen.
Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oakDim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke;The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen,(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an' green;The birds are here, for all the season 's late;They take the sun's height an' don' never wait;Soon 'z he officially declares it 's springTheir light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing,An' th'ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear,Can't by the music tell the time o' year;But thet white dove Carliny scared away,Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day;Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last yearAn' coo by every housedoor, is n't here,—No, nor won't never be, for all our jaw,Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war!O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could seeThe bagnet-pint there is to an idee!Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel;They run your soul thru an' you never feel,But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin',Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin',Till you come bunt agin a real live fact,An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to act!Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now,An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,'Ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom ComeWhile t' other side druv their cold iron home.
My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth,No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South,Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black,Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back;But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fustTo write up on his door, "No goods on trust";Give us cash down in ekle laws for all,An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex' fall.Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker,Wuth minus some consid'able an acre;Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore longA nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong;Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll beginTo love their country ez they loved their sin;Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a soreReady to fester ez it done afore.No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision,But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision,An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor stateThet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great.Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you?'T wuz commonsense afore the war wuz thru;Thetloaded all our guns an' made 'em speakSo 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek;"They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now," sez she,To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee;"Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fearThe tallest airthquakeswecan git up here."
Some call 't insultin' to askarypledge,An' say 't will only set their teeth on edge,But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see,Are 'bout ez mad ez they know how to be;It 's better than the Rebs themselves expected'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected;Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast,For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 'll last;Ef treason is a crime, ezsomefolks say,How could we punish it a milder wayThan sayin' to 'em, "Brethren, lookee here,We 'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer,An' sence both come o' pooty strongbacked daddies,You take the Darkies, ez we 've took the Paddies;Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand,An' the 're the bones an' sinners o' the land."I ain't o' those thet fancy there 's a loss onEvery inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on;But I know this: our money 's safest trustedIn sunthin', come wut will, thetcan'tbe busted,An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee,To make a man a Man an' let him be.
Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't,But I do' want to block their only road to 'tBy lettin' 'em believe thet they can gitMore 'n wut they lost, out of our little wit:I tell ye wut, I 'm 'fraid we 'll drif' to leeward'Thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward;He seems to think Columby 'd better actLike a scared widder with a boy stiff-neckedThet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper;She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper,Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm,Till he 'll accept her 'pologies in form:The neighbors tell her he 's a cross-grained cussThet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus;"No," sez Ma Seward, "he 's ez good 'z the best,All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest";"He sarsed my Pa," sez one; "He stoned my son,"Another edds. "O, wal, 't wuz jest his fun.""He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.""'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.""Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understoodYou'll take his gun away from him for good;We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play,Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way.You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,'Thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev' sinned!'"
The Pres'dunthethinks thet the slickest plan'Ould be t' allow thet he 's our only man,An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle warJes' for his private glory an' eclor;"Nobody ain't a Union man," sez he,"'Thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me;War n't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine?An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divineTo cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?"Wal, I expec' the People would n' care, ifThe question now wuz techin' bank or tariff,But I conclude they 've 'bout made up their mindThis ain't the fittest time to go it blind,Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings,But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things;Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one dayThey wun't let four years' war be throwed away."Let the South hev her rights?" They say, "Thet's you!But nut greb hold of other folks's tu."Who owns this country, is it they or Andy?Leastways it ough' to be the Peopleandhe;Let him be senior pardner, ef he 's so,But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co;Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbersThink thet the job wuz taken by Columbus.Did he set tu an' make it wut it is?Ef so, I guess the One-Man-powerhezriz.Did he put thru' the rebbles, clear the docket,An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket?Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I exesIs t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes.Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns?Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons?Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we runA kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one?An' is the country goin' to knuckle downTo hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o' Brown?Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell?Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell?An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' wayTill th' underpinnin' 's settled so 's to stay?Who cares for the Resolves of '61,Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun?Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence thenTo l'arn folks they must hendle facts like men?Ain'tthisthe true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em?Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't kep' 'em?War n't theretwosides? an' don't it stend to reasonThet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason?When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed,An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed.
I knowed ez wal ez though I 'd seen 't with eyesThet when the war wuz over copper 'd rise,An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our kettle'T would need Leviathan's whole skin to settle;I thought 't would take about a generation'Fore we could wal begin to be a nation,But I allow I never did imegine'T would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge inTo keep the split from closin' ef it could,An' healin' over with new wholesome wood;For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they thinkThet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's ink;I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin'The curus way in which the States are sovereign;They ain't nutquiteenough so to rebel,But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise h——,Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason,They 're most too much so to be tetched for treason;Theycan'tgo out, but ef they somehowdu,Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu;The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir,But stays to keep the door ajar for her.He thinks secession never took 'em out,An' mebby he 's correc', but I misdoubt;Ef they war n't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin,Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in?In law, p'r'aps nut; but there 's a diffurence, ruther,Betwixt your brother-'n-law an' real brother,An' I, for one, shall wish they 'd all bensom'eres,Long 'z U. S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers.But, O my patience! must we wriggle backInto th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track,When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cutStret to our purpose ef we keep the rut?War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slateClean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate.
Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet,'T wun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het;I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns,Thet pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns:Once on a time the wolves hed certing rightsInside the fold; they used to sleep there nights,An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they tookTheir turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book;But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep,Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep,Till gradilly the shepherds come to seeThings war n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' to be;So they sent off a deacon to remonstrateAlong 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight;They did n' seem to set much by the deacon,Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to speak on;Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out an' stay,An' hev their fill o' mutton every day:Then dogs an' shepherds, arter much hard dammin',Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin',An' sez, "Ye sha' n't go out, the murrain rot ye,To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!"But then the question come, How live together'Thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether?Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep)Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep;They sez, "Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in,An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in;Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they 're swearin';To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.""Be gin'rous for yourselves, whereyou're to pay,Thet 's the best practice," sez a shepherd gray;"Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button,Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton;Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle:Till they 're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle."
I 've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abettersAre in the hebbit o' producin' lettersWrit by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers,'Bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers;I 've noticed, tu, it 's the quack med'cines gits(An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits;Now, sence I lef' off creepin' on all fours,I ha' n't ast no man to endorse my course;It 's full ez cheap to be your own endorser,An' ef I 've made a cup, I 'll fin' the saucer;But I 've some letters here from t' other side,An' them 's the sort thet helps me to decide;Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker,An' I 'll tell you jest where it 's safe to anchor.Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writesThet for a spell he could n' sleep o' nights,Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to,Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto;Et fust he jedged 't would right-side-up his panTo come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man,"But now," he sez, "I ain't nut quite so fresh;The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh;You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course,'Fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse;Nowwe're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track:Jest you take hold an' read the follerin' extrac',Out of a letter I received last weekFrom an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak,A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue,Born coppersheathed an' copperfastened tu."
"These four years past, it hez been toughTo say which side a feller went for;Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough,An' nothin' duin' wut 't wuz meant for;Pickets afirin' left an' right,Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,—Life war n't wuth hardly payin' rent for.
"Columby gut her back up so,It war n't no use a tryin' to stop her,—War's emptin's riled her very doughAn' made it rise an' act improper;'T wuz full ez much ez I could duTo jes' lay low an' worry thru','Thout hevin' to sell out my copper.
"Afore the war your mod'rit menCould set an' sun 'em on the fences,Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' thenJump off which way bes' paid expenses;Sence, 't wuz so resky ary way,Idid n't hardly darst to sayI 'greed with Paley's Evidences.
"Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fenceWar n't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't,Headin' your party with a senseO' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't,And tryin' to think thet, on the whole,You kin' o' quasi own your soulWhen Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't?
"Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould likeTheir pol'tics done ag'in by proxy,Give their noo loves the bag an' strikeA fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy;But the drag 's broke, now slavery 's gone,An' there 's gret resk they 'll blunder on,Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy.
"We've gut an awful row to hoeIn this 'ere job o' reconstructin';Folks dunno skurce which way to go,Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in;But one thing 's clear; thereisa crack,Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black,Where the old makebate can be tucked in.
"No white man sets in airth's broad aisleThet I ain't willin' t' own az brother,An' ef he 's heppened to strike ile,I dunno, fin'ly, but I 'd ruther;An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right,Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white,I hold one on 'em good 'z another.
"Wutisthere lef' I 'd like to know,Ef 't ain't the difference o' color,To keep up self-respec' an' showThe human natur' of a fullah?Wut good in bein' white, onlessIt 's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess,Thet we are smarter an' they duller?
"Ef we 're to hev our ekle rights,'T wunt du to 'low no competition;Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whitesAin't safe onless we stop th' emissionO' these noo notes, whose specie baseIs human natur', 'thout no traceO' shape, nor color, nor condition.
"So fur I 'd writ an' could n' jedgeAboard wut boat I 'd best take pessige,My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edgeUpon 'em more than tu a sessige,But now it seems ez though I seeSunthin' resemblin' an idee,Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message.
"I like the speech best, I confess,The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't,An' it 's so mad, I ruther guessThere 's some dependence to be placed on 't;It 's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me,Out o' the allies o' J. D.A temp'ry party can be based on 't.
"Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru'An' dug his Presidential grave is,An'then!—who knows but we could slewThe country roun' to put in ——?Wun't some folks rare up when we pullOut o' their eyes our Union woolAn' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!
"O, did it seem 'z ef ProvidunceCouldever send a second Tyler?To see the South all back to once,Reapin' the spiles o' the Freesiler,Is cute ez though an engineerShould claim th' old iron for his sheerBecause 't wuz him that bust the biler!"
Thet tells the story! Thet 's wut we shall gitBy tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit;For the day never comes when it 'll duTo kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe.I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air,A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair,Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere,An' seems to say, "Why died we? war n't it, then,To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men?O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted,The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted!O, you we lef, long-lingerin' et the door,Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more,Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feelEf she upon our memory turned her heel,An' unregretful throwed us all awayTo flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!"
My frien's, I 've talked nigh on to long enough.I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye 're tough;My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delightsOur ears, but even kebbigeheads hez rights.It 's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye,But you 'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye!
In the beautiful life which the English-speaking foreigners lead at Rome, the great sensations are purely æsthetic. To people who know one another so familiarly as must the members of a community united in a strange land by the ties of alien race, language, and religion, there cannot, of course, be wanting the little excitements of personal gossip and scandal; but even these have generally an innocent, artistic flavor, and it is ladies' statues, not reputations, which suffer,—gentlemen's pictures, not characters, which are called into question; while the events which interest the whole community are altogether different from those which move us at home. In the Capital of the Past, people meeting at thecafé, or at the tea-tables of lady-acquaintance, speak, before falling upon the works of absent friends, concerning the antique jewel which Castellani lately bought of a peasant, and intends to reproduce, for the delight of all who can afford to love the quaint and exquisite forms of the ancient workers in gems and gold; or they talk of that famous statue of the young Hercules, dug up by the lucky proprietor, who received from the Pope a marquisate, and forgiveness of all his debts, in return for his gift of the gilded treasure. At the worst these happy children of art, and their cousins the connoisseurs, (every English-speaking foreigner in Rome is of one class or the other,) are only drawn from the debate of such themes by some dramatic aspect of the picturesque Roman politics: a scene between the French commandant and Antonelli, or the arrest of a restaurateur for giving his guests white turnips, red beets, and green beans in the same revolutionary plate; or the like incident.
At home, here, in the multiplicity of our rude affairs, by what widely different events and topics are we excited to talk! It must be some occurrence of very terrible, vile, or grotesque effect that can take our minds from our business. We discuss the ghastly particulars of a steamboat explosion, or the evidence in a trial for murder; or if the chief magistrate addresses his fellow-citizens in his colloquial, yet dignified way, we dispute whether he was not, at the time of the speech, a martyr to those life-long habits of abstinence from which he is known to have once suffered calamities spared the confirmed wine-bibber. Once, indeed, we seemed as a nation to rise to the appreciation of those beautiful interests which occupy our Roman friends, and once, not a great while ago, we may be said to have known an æsthetic sensation. For the first time in our history as a people, we seemed to feel the necessity of art, and to regard it as a living interest, like commerce, or manufacturing, or mining, when, shortly after the close of the war, and succeeding the fall of the last and greatest of its dead, the country expressed a universal desire to commemorate its heroes by the aid of art. But we do not husband our sensations as our Roman friends do theirs: the young Hercules lasted them two months, while a divorce case hardly satisfies us as many days, and a railroad accident not longer. We hasten from one event to another, and it would be hard to tell now whether it was a collision on the Saint Jo line, or a hundred and thirty lives lost on the Mississippi, or some pleasantry from our merry Andrew, which distracted the public mind from the subject of monumental honors. It is certain, however, that, at the time alluded to, there was much talk of such things in the newspapers and in the meetings. A popular subscription was opened for the erection of a monument to Abraham Lincoln at his home in Springfield; each city was about to celebrate him by a statue in its public square; every village would have his bust or a funeral tablet; and our soldiers were to be paid the likereverence and homage. Then the whole affair was overwhelmed by some wave of novel excitement, and passed out of the thoughts of the people; so that we feel, in recurring to it now, like him who, at dinner, turns awkwardly back to a subject from which the conversation has gracefully wandered, saying, "We were speaking just now about"—something the company has already forgotten. So far as we have learned, not an order for any memorial sculpture of Lincoln has been given in the whole country, and we believe that only one design by an American sculptor has been offered for the Springfield monument. There is time, however, to multiply designs; for the subscription, having reached a scant fifty thousand dollars, rests at that sum, and rises no higher.
But we hope that the people will not altogether relinquish the purpose of monumental commemoration of the war, and we are not wholly inclined to lament that the fever-heat of their first intent exhausted itself in dreams of shafts and obelisks, groups and statues, which would probably have borne as much relation to the real idea of Lincoln's life, and the war and time which his memory embodies and represents, as the poetry of the war has borne. In the cool moments of our convalescence from civil disorder, may we not think a little more clearly, and choose rather more wisely than would have been possible earlier?
No doubt there is in every epoch a master-feeling which art must obey, if it would flourish, and remain to represent something intelligible after the epoch is past. We know by the Gothic churches of Italy how mightily the whole people of that land were once moved by the impulses of their religion (which might be, and certainly was, a thing very different from purity and goodness): the Renaissance temples remind us of a studious period passionately enamored of the classic past; in the rococo architecture and sculpture of a later time, we have the idle swagger, the unmeaning splendor, the lawless luxury, of an age corrupted by its own opulence, and proud of its licentious slavery. Had anything come of the æsthetic sensation immediately following the war, and the spirit of martial pride with which it was so largely mixed, we should probably have had a much greater standing-army in bronze and marble than would have been needed for the suppression of any future rebellion. An excitement, a tumult, not a tendency of our civilization, would thus have been perpetuated, to misrepresent us and our age to posterity; for we are not a military people, (though we certainly know how to fight upon occasion,) and the pride which we felt in our army as a body, and in the men merely as soldiers, was an exultation which has already in a great part subsided. Indeed, the brave fellows have themselves meantime given us a lesson, in the haste they have made to put off their soldier-costume and resume the free and individual dress of the civilian. The ignorant poets might pipe of the glory and splendor of war, but these men had seen the laurel growing on the battle-field, and knew
"Di che lagrime grondi e di che sangue"
"Di che lagrime grondi e di che sangue"
its dazzling foliage. They knew that the fighting, in itself horrible, and only sublime in its necessity and purpose, was but a minor part of the struggle; and they gladly put aside all that proclaimed it as their vocation, and returned to the arts of peace.
The idea of our war seems to have interpreted itself to us all as faith in the justice of our cause, and in our immutable destiny, as God's agents, to give freedom to mankind; and the ideas of our peace are gratitude and exultant industry. Somehow, we imagine, these ideas should be represented in every memorial work of the time, though we should be sorry to have this done by the dreary means of conventional allegory. A military despotism of martial statues would be far better than a demagogy of these virtues, posed in their well-known attitudes, to confront perplexed posterity with lifted brows and superhuman simpers. A sublime parable,like Ward's statue of the Freedman, is the full expression of one idea that should be commemorated, and would better celebrate the great deeds of our soldiers than bass-reliefs of battles, and statues of captains, and groups of privates, or many scantily-draped, improper figures, happily called Liberties.
With the people chosen to keep pure the instinct of the Beautiful, as the Hebrews were chosen to preserve a knowledge of the Divine, it was not felt that commemorative art need be descriptive. He who triumphed the first and second time in the Olympic games was honored with a statue, but not a statue in his own likeness. Neither need the commemorative art of our time be directly descriptive of the actions it celebrates. There is hardly any work of beautiful use which cannot be made to serve the pride we feel in those who fought to enlarge and confirm the freedom of our country, and we need only guard that our monuments shall in no case express funereal sentiment. Their place should be, not in the cemeteries, but in the busy hearts of towns, and they should celebrate not only those who fought and died for us in the war, but also those who fought and lived, for both are equally worthy of gratitude and honor. The ruling sentiment of our time is triumphant and trustful, and all symbols and images of death are alien to it.
While the commemoration of the late President may chiefly take visible shape at the capital, or at Springfield, near the quiet home from which he was called to his great glory, the era of which he was so grand a part should be remembered by some work of art in every community. The perpetuation of the heroic memories should in all cases, it seems to us, be committed to the plastic arts, and not, as some would advise, to any less tangible witness to our love for them. It is true that a community might endow a charity, to be called forever by some name that would celebrate them, or might worthily record its reverence for them by purchase of a scholarship to be given in our heroes' names to generations of struggling scholars of the place. But the poor we have always with us; while this seems the rare occasion meant for the plastic arts to supply our need of beautiful architecture and sculpture, and to prove their right to citizenship among us, by showing themselves adequate to express something of the spirit of the new order we have created here. Their effort need not, however, be toward novel forms of expression. That small part of our literature which has best answered the want of our national life has been the most jealous in its regard for the gospels of art, and only incoherent mediums and false prophets have disdained revelation. Let the plastic arts, in proving that they have suffered the change which has come upon races, ethics, and ideas in this new world, interpret for us that simple and direct sense of the beautiful which lies hidden in the letter of use. There is the great, overgrown, weary town of Workdays, which inadequately struggled at the time of our national æsthetic sensation, in all its newspapers, pulpits, and rostrums, with the idea of a monument to the regiments it sent to the war. The evident and immediate want of Workdays is a park or public garden, in which it can walk about, and cool and restore itself. Why should not the plastic arts suggest that the best monument which Workdays could build would be this park, with a great triumphal gateway inscribed to its soldiers, and adorned with that sculpture and architecture for which Workdays can readily pay? The flourishing village of Spindles, having outgrown the days of town-pumps and troughs, has not, in spite of its abundant water-power, a drop of water on its public ways to save its operatives from drunkenness or its dogs from madness. O plastic arts! give Spindles a commemorative fountain, which, taking a little music from the mills, shall sing its heroes forever in drops of health, refreshment, and mercy. In the inquiring town of Innovation, successive tides of doubt and revival and spiritualism have left the differentreligious sects with little more than their names; let Innovation build a votive church to the memory of the Innovators sent to the war, and meet in it for harmonious public worship. At Dulboys and Slouchers, it must be confessed that they sadly need a new union school-house and town-hall, (the old school-house at Dulboys having been at last whittled to pieces, and no town-hall having ever been built in Slouchers,) and there seems no good reason why these edifices should not be given the honor to proclaim the pride of the towns in the deeds of their patriots.
On their part, we hope none of these places will forget that it is bound to the arts and to itself not to build ignobly in memory of its great. A commemorative edifice, to whatever purpose adapted, must first be beautiful, since a shabby or ugly gateway, fountain, or church would dishonor those to whom it was dedicated; a school-house or town-hall built to proclaim pride and reverence cannot be a wooden box; but all must be structures of enduring material and stately architecture. All should, if possible, have some significant piece of statuary within or upon them, or at least some place for it, to be afterwards filled; and all should be enriched and beautified to the full extent of the people's money and the artist's faculty.
For the money, the citizens will, of course, depend upon themselves; but may we pray them to beware of the silliness of local pride—(we imagine that upon reading this paper the cities and towns named will at once move in the business of monuments, and we would not leave them unadvised in any particular)—in choosing their sculptors and architects? Home talent is a good thing when educated and developed, but it must be taught in the schools of art, and not suffered to spoil brick and mortar in learning. Our friends, the depraved Italian popes and princes (of whom we can learn much good), understood this, and called to their capitals the best artist living, no matter what the city of his birth. If a famous sculptor or architect happens to be a native of any of the places mentioned, he is the man to make its monument; and if he is a native of any other place in the country, he is equally the man, while home talent must be contented to execute his design.
Mind in Nature; or the Origin of Life, and the Mode of Development of Animals.ByHenry James Clark, A. B., B. S., Adjunct Professor of Zoölogy in Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
When all lower branches of Natural History have been finally exhausted, and we begin upon the Natural History of Scientific Men, we shall no doubt discover why it is necessary for eachsavantto season his mild pursuits by some desperate private feud with the nearest brother in the service. The world of scoffers no doubt revels in this particular weakness, and gladly omits all the rest of the book, in haste to get at the personalities. But to the sedate inquirer it only brings dismay. How painful, as one glides pleasantly on amid "concentric vesicles" and "albuminous specialization," tracing the egg from the germinal dot to the very verge of the breakfast-table, to be suddenly interrupted, like Charles O'Malley's pacific friend in Ireland, by the crack of a duelling-pistol and the fracture of all the teacups! It makes it all the worse to know that the brother professor thus assailed is no mean antagonist, and certainly anything but a non-resistant; and that undoubtedly in his next book our joys will again be disturbed by an answering volley.
Yet it should be said, in justice to Professor Clark, that all this startling fusillade occurs at two or three points only, and that reading the rest of the book is like a peaceful voyage down the Mississippi after the few guerilla-haunted spots are passed. The general tone of the book is eminently quiet, reasonable, and free from partisanship. Indeed, this studied moderation of statement sometimes mars even the clearness of the book, and the reader wishes for more emphasis. Professor Clark loves fact so much better than theory, that he sometimes leaves the theory rather obscure, and the precise bearing of the facts doubtful. To this is added the difficulty of a style, earnest and laborious indeed, but by no means luminous. In a treatise professedly popular, one has a right to ask a few more facilities for the general reader. It can hardly be expected of all scientific men to attain the singular success, in this direction, of Professor Huxley; but the art of popularization is too important a thing to be ignored, and much may be done to cultivate the gift by literary training and by persistent effort. The new researches into the origin of life are awakening the interest of all; and though the popular tendency is no doubt towards the views mainly held by Professor Clark, yet most men prefer an interesting speech on the wrong side of any question to a dull speech in behalf of the right.
When one takes the book piecemeal, however, the author's statements of his own observations and analysis are so thorough and so admirable, his drawings so good, and the interest of many separate portions so great, that it seems hardly fair to complain of the rather fragmentary effect of their combination, and the rather obscure tenor of the whole. Professor Clark holds that the old doctrine,Omne vivum ex ovo, is now virtually abandoned by all, since all admit the origin of vast numbers of animated individuals by budding and self-division. There are, in fact, types of animals, as the Zoöphyta, where these appear the normal modes of reproduction, and the egg only an exceptional process. From this he thinks it but a slight step to admit the possibility of spontaneous generation, and he accordingly does admit it. Touching the development theory, his conclusion is that the barriers between the five great divisions of the animal world are insurmountable, but "that, by the multiplication and intensifying of individual differences, and the projection of these upon the branching lines of the courses of development from a lower to a higher life, the diverse and successively more elevated types among each grand division have originated upon this globe." (p. 248.) This sentence, if any, gives the key-note of the book. To say that this is one of its clearest statements, may help to justify the above criticisms on the rest.
A Noble Life.By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman," etc. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1866.
The story of a man born cruelly deformed and infirm, with a body dwarfish, but large enough to hold a good heart and clear brain,—and of such a man's living many years of pain, happy in the blessings which his great wealth and high rank, and, above all, his noble nature, enable him to confer on every one approaching him,—could hardly have been told more simply and pathetically than it is in this book, but it might certainly have been told more briefly. The one slight incident of the fiction—the marriage of the Earl of Cainforth'sprotégéeand protectress and dearest friend to his worthless cousin, who, having found out that the heirless Earl will leave her his fortune, wins her heart by deceit, and then does his worst to break it—occurs when the book is half completed, and scarcely suffices to interest, since it is so obvious what the end must be; while the remaining pages, devoted to study of the Earl's character, do not develop much that is new in literature or humanity. Still, the story has its charm: it is healthful, unaffected, and hopeful; and most people will read it through, and be better for having done so.
Literature in Letters; or, Manners, Art, Criticism, Biography, History, and Morals, illustrated in the Correspondence of Eminent Persons.Edited byJames Holcombe, LL. D.New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1866.
The very comprehensive title of this work leaves us little to say in explanation of its purpose, and we can only speak in compliment of the taste with which the editor has performed a not very arduous task. As a matter of course, the famous epistles of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, Pope, Horace Walpole, Madame de Sévigné, Miss Burney, Lady Russell, and Hannah Morego to form a large part of the collection; but Mr. Holcombe has drawn from other sources epistolary material of interest and value, and has performed a service to literature by including in his book the occasional letters of great men not addicted to letter-writing, but no doubt as natural and true to themselves and their time as habitual letter-writers. It is curious to note the deterioration in the artistic quality of the letters as the period of their production approaches our own, when people dash off their correspondence rapidly and incoherently, instead of bestowing upon it the artifice and care which distinguished the epistolarians of an elder date, whose letters, fastidiously written, faithfully read, and jealously kept and shown about in favored circles, supplied the place of newspapers. The lowest ebb of indifference seems to be reached in a letter by Daniel Webster, written from Richmond, and devoted to some very commonplace and jejune praises of morning and early rising. Except as an instance of our epistolary degeneracy, we could hardly wish it to have a place in Mr. Holcombe's collection, which is otherwise so judiciously made.
The Criterion; or the Test of Talk about Familiar Things. A Series of Essays.ByHenry T. Tuckerman. New York: Hurd and Houghton. 1866.
Mr. Tuckerman's books, if they possess no great value as works of original thought, are characterized by the hardly less desirable quality of unfailing good taste. He has a quiet and meditative way of treating those topics of literature and art with which he chiefly loves to deal, and has much in him which reminds of the race of essayists preceding the brilliant dogmatists of our time; and we confess that we find a great enjoyment in the lazy mood in which he here gossips of twenty desultory matters. The name of the present work is, to be sure, a somewhat formidable mask under which to hide the cheerful visage of a rambler among Inns, Pictures, Sepulchres, Statues and Bridges, and a tattler of Authors, Doctors, Holidays, Lawyers, Actors, Newspapers, and Preachers; but it is only a mask after all, and the talk really tests nothing,—not even the reader's patience. With much charming information from books concerning these things, Mr. Tuckerman agreeably blends personal knowledge of many of the subjects. Bits of reminiscence drift down the tranquil current of story and anecdote, and there is just enough of intelligent comment and well-bred discussion to give each paper union and direction. In fine, "The Criterion" is one of the best of that very pleasant class of books made for the days of unoccupied men and the half-hours of busy ones,—which may be laid down at any moment without offence to their purpose, and taken up again with profit to their readers.
The History of Henry the Fifth: King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Heir of France.ByGeorge Makepeace Towle. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
The doubt whether Mr. Towle is writing historical romance or romantic history must often embarrass the reader of a work uniting the amiable weaknesses of both species of composition, and presenting much more that is tedious in narration, affected in style, and feeble in thought, than we have lately found in any large octavo volume of five hundred pages. We begin with four introductory chapters recounting the events which led to the usurpation of Bolingbroke, and the succession of Mr. Towle's hero to the English throne; we go on with two chapters descriptive of the youthful character and career of Henry the Fifth; we end with six chapters devoted to the facts of his reign. Through all this, it appears to us, we are conducted at a pace of singular equality, not to be lightened by the triviality of minor incidents, nor greatly delayed by the most important occurrences. Nearly all the figures of the picture are in the foreground, and few are more prominent than the least significant accessory of the landscape; and, for once, it is scarcely possible to say that the picture would have been better if the painter had taken more pains. Indeed, we incline to think the contrary, and would have been willing to accept a result somewhat less labored than that given us. We confess, for example, that it is a matter of small interest to us to know that the Duke of Lancaster's wife is the "fair Blanche"; that, when Katharine consented to wed Henry, "a blush mounted her clear temple"; that over every part of her wedding dress "glittered the rarest gems of Golconda"; that Henry's heart "ever beat affectionately forhis beloved isle" of England; that at a certain moment of the battle of Agincourt a large body of the French forces "shook in their shoes"; that the crossbow was "an object of wonder and delight to the children of olden chivalry"; that Shakespeare "caressed the fame of the hero-king with the richest coruscations of his genius";—not to name a multitude of other facts stated with equal cost of thought and splendor of diction. But Mr. Towle spares us nothing, and sometimes leaves as little to the opinion of his readers as to their imagination. Having to tell us that Henry learned, in his boyhood, to play upon the harp, he will not poorly say as much, but will lavishly declare, "He learned, with surprising quickness, to play upon that noblest of instruments, the harp"; which is, indeed, a finer turn of language, but, at the same time, an invasion of the secret preference which some of us may feel for the bass-viol or the accordion.
The same excellent faculty for characterization serves our historian on great occasions as well as small ones. Of an intriguing nobleman like the Duke of Norfolk, he is as prompt to speak as of the harp itself: "He was one of those politicians who are never contented; who plot and counterplot incessantly; who are always running their heads fearlessly, to be sure, but indiscreetly, into danger of decapitation." This fine analytic power appears throughout the book. Describing the enthusiasm of the Londoners for Henry of Bolingbroke, and their coldness towards the captive King Richard, the historian acutely observes: "Ever thus, from the beginning of the world, have those been insulted who have fallen from a high estate. The multitude follows successful usurpation, but never offers a shield to fallen dignity." The bashfulness and silence of Prince Henry an ordinary writer would perhaps have called by those names; but Mr. Towle says: "He was neither loud nor forward in giving his views; he apparently felt that one so young should never seem dogmatic or positive on questions in regard to which age and learning were in doubt." Such a sentence might perhaps suggest the idea that Mr. Towle's History was intended for the more youthful reader, but when you read, farther on, in the analysis of Henry's character, "It was fitting that so fine a soul should be illustrated by brilliancy of intellect and eloquence of speech, that so precious a jewel should be encased in a casket of beauty and graceful proportion,"—or when you learn, in another place, that "the eloquence of Stephen Partington stirred the religious element of Henry'scharacter, which appreciated and admiredsuperior ability of speech,"—we say, you can no longer doubt that Mr. Towle addresses himself to minds as mature as his own. It is natural that an historian whose warmth of feeling is visible in his glow of language should be an enthusiastic worshipper of his hero, and should defend him against all aspersions. Mr. Towle finds that, if Henry was a rake in youth and a bigot in manhood, he was certainly a very amiable rake and a very earnest bigot. "There can be no doubt," says our historian, in his convincing way, "that he often paused in his reckless career, filled with remorse, wrestling with his flighty spirit, to overcome his unseemly sports"; and as to the sincerity of his fanaticism, "to suppose otherwise is to charge a mere youth with a hypocritical cunning worthy of the Borgias in their zenith." Masterly strokes like these are, of course, intended to console the reader for a want of distinctness in Mr. Towle's narrative, from which one does not rise with the clearest ideas of the civilization and events of the time which he describes.
We can understand how great an attraction so brilliant and picturesque an epoch of history should have for a spirit like Mr. Towle's; but we cannot help thinking it a pity that he should have attempted to reproduce, in such an ambitious form, the fancies which its contemplation suggested. The book is scarcely too large for the subject, but it is much too large for Mr. Towle, whose grievous fashion ofpaddingmust be plain enough, even in the few passages which we have quoted from his book. A writer may, by means of a certain dead-a-lively expansive style of narration, contrived out of turns of expression adapted from Percy's Reliques, the Waverly Novels, the newspapers, and the imitators of Thackeray's historical gossip, succeed in filling five hundred pages, but he will hardly satisfy one reader; and we are convinced by Mr. Towle's work that, whatever other species of literature may demand the exercise of a childish imagination,—a weak fancy easily caught with the prettiness as well as the pomp of words,—a slender philosophy incapable of grasping the true significance of events,—a logic continually tripped upon its own rapier,—and a powerful feeling for anti-climax, with no small sentimentfor solecism,—History, at least, has little to gain from them.
War of the Rebellion; or, Scylla and Charybdis. Consisting of Observations upon the Causes, Course, and Consequences of the Late Civil War in the United States.ByH. S. Foote. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1866.
The slight value which this volume possesses is of a nature altogether different from that which the author doubtless ascribes to it, though we imagine most of his readers will agree with us in esteeming it chiefly for its personal reminiscences of great events and people. As for Mr. Foote's philosophization of the history he recounts, it is so generally based upon erroneous views of conditions and occurrences, that we would willingly have spared it all, if we could have had in its place a full and simple narrative of his official career from the time he took part in secession up to the moment of his departure from the Rebel territory. We find nothing new in what he has to say concerning the character of our colonial civilization and the unity of our colonial origin; and, as we get farther from the creation of the world and approach our own era, we must confess that the light shed upon the slavery question by Mr. Foote seems but vague and unsatisfactory. A few disastrous years have separated us so widely from all the fallacies once current here, that Mr. Foote's voice comes like an utterance from Antediluvia, when he tells us how compromises continually restored us to complete tranquillity, which the machinations of wicked people, North and South, instantly disturbed again. There was once a race of feeble-minded politicians who thought that, if the Northern Abolitionists and Southern fire-eaters were destroyed, there could be no possible disagreement between the sections concerning slavery; and Mr. Foote, surviving his contemporaries, still clings to their delusions, and believes that the late war resulted from the conflict of ambitious and unscrupulous men, and not from the conflict of principles. Now that slavery is forever removed, it might seem that this was a harmless error enough, and would probably hurt nobody,—not even Mr. Foote. But the fact is important, since it is probable that Mr. Foote represents the opinions of a large class of people at the South, who were friendly to the Union in the beginning of the war, but yielded later to the general feeling of hostility. They were hardly less mischievous during the struggle than the original Secessionists, and, now that the struggle is ended, are likely to give us even more trouble.
Mr. Foote offers no satisfactory explanation of his own course in taking part in the Rebel government, which was founded upon a principle always abhorrent to him, and opposed to all his ideas of good faith and good policy; but he gives us to understand that he was for a long time about the only honest man unhanged in the Confederacy. Concerning the political transactions of that short-lived state, he informs us of few things which have not been told us by others, and his criticism of Davis's official action has little to recommend it except its disapproval of Davis.
We must do Mr. Foote the justice to say that his book is not marred by any violence towards the great number of great men with whom he has politically differed; that he frankly expresses his regret for such of his errors as he now sees, and is not ashamed to be ashamed of certain offences (like that which won him a very unpleasant nickname) against good taste and good breeding, which the imperfect civilization of Southern politicians formerly tempted them to commit. Remoteness from the currents of modern thought—such as life in a region so isolated as the South has always been involves—will account for much cast-off allusion in his book to Greece and Rome, as well as that inflation of style generally characteristic of Southern literature.
Poems in Sunshine and Firelight.ByJohn James Piatt. Cincinnati: R. W. Carroll & Co. 1866.
Among the best poems of the earlier days of the Atlantic was Mr. Piatt's "Morning Street," which we think some of our readers may remember even at this remote period, after so much immortality in all walks of literature has flourished and passed away. Mr. Piatt later published a little volume of verses together with another writer of the West; and yet later, "The Nests at Washington,"—a book made up of poems from his own pen and from that of Mrs. Piatt. He now at last appears in a volume wholly his, which we may regard as the work of a mind in some degree confirmed in its habits of perception and expression.
We must allow to the author as great originality as belongs to any of our younger poets. It is true that the presence of the all-pervading Tennyson is more sensibly felt here than in the first poems of Mr. Piatt; but even here it is very faint, and if the diction occasionally reminds of him, Mr. Piatt's poems are undoubtedly conceived in a spirit entirely his own. This spirit, however, is one to which its proper sense of the beautiful is often so nearly sufficient, that the effort to impart it is made with apparent indifference. The poet's ideal so wins him and delights him, in that intangible and airy form which it first wore to his vision, that he seems to think, if he shall put down certain words by virtue of which he can remember its loveliness, he shall also have perfectly realized its beauty to another. We do not know one poem by Mr. Piatt in which a full and clear sense of his whole meaning is at once given to the reader; and he is obscure at times, we fear, because he has not himself a distinct perception of that which he wishes to say, though far oftener his obscurity seems to result from impatience, or the flattery of those hollow and alluring words which beset the dreams of poets, and must be harshly snubbed before they can be finally banished. There are many noble lines in his poems, but not much unity of effect or coherence of sentiment; and it happens now and then that the idea which the reader painfully and laboriously evolves from them is, after all, not a great truth or beauty, but some curious intellectual toy, some plaything of the singer's fancy, some idle stroke of antithesis.
In the poem called "At Evening," in which the poet can be so preposterous as to say,