[In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning amiles emeritus, to the bosom of his family.Quantum mutatus!The good Father of us all had doubtless entrusted to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect development of Humanity. He had given him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. And this child, so dowered, he had entrusted to the keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the account of that stewardship? The State, or Society (call her by what name you will), had taken no manner of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, vile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of the bar-room,—an own child of the Almighty God! I remember him as he was brought to be christened, a ruddy, rugged babe; and now there he wallows, reeking, seething,—the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul,—a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss those parched,cracked lips; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns down to him,—and there he lies fermenting. O sleep! let me not profane thy holy name by calling that stertorous unconsciousness a slumber! By and by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say,—"My poor, forlorn foster-child! Behold here a force which I will make dig and plant and build for me"? Not so, but,—"Here is a recruit ready-made to my hand, a piece of destroying energy lying unprofitably idle." So she claps an ugly grey suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer.I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of steel. And while I was admiring the adaptation of means to end, the harmonious involutions of contrivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals, a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul said within me, See there a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort of a child,—a force which not merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse all through the infinite future,—a contrivance, not for turning out pins, or stitching button-holes, but for making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with a pin; while the other, with its fire of God in it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon-ball. Unthrifty Mother State! My heart burned within me for pityand indignation, and I renewed this covenant with my own soul,—In aliis mansuetus ero, at, in blasphemiis contra Christum, non ita.—H. W.]
[In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning amiles emeritus, to the bosom of his family.Quantum mutatus!The good Father of us all had doubtless entrusted to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect development of Humanity. He had given him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. And this child, so dowered, he had entrusted to the keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the account of that stewardship? The State, or Society (call her by what name you will), had taken no manner of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, vile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of the bar-room,—an own child of the Almighty God! I remember him as he was brought to be christened, a ruddy, rugged babe; and now there he wallows, reeking, seething,—the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul,—a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss those parched,cracked lips; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns down to him,—and there he lies fermenting. O sleep! let me not profane thy holy name by calling that stertorous unconsciousness a slumber! By and by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say,—"My poor, forlorn foster-child! Behold here a force which I will make dig and plant and build for me"? Not so, but,—"Here is a recruit ready-made to my hand, a piece of destroying energy lying unprofitably idle." So she claps an ugly grey suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer.
I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of steel. And while I was admiring the adaptation of means to end, the harmonious involutions of contrivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals, a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul said within me, See there a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort of a child,—a force which not merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse all through the infinite future,—a contrivance, not for turning out pins, or stitching button-holes, but for making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with a pin; while the other, with its fire of God in it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon-ball. Unthrifty Mother State! My heart burned within me for pityand indignation, and I renewed this covenant with my own soul,—In aliis mansuetus ero, at, in blasphemiis contra Christum, non ita.—H. W.]
I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me,Exacly ware I be myself,—meanin' by thet the holl o' me.Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither),Now one on 'em 's I dunno ware;—they thought I wuz adyin',An' sawed it off, because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin';I 'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther,Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n t'other,Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be;It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's enough fer me:There 's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,—The liquor can't get into it ez 't used to in the true one;So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller could n't beg.A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg;It 's true a chap 's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum,But all the march I 'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.I 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's easy to supplyOut o' the glory thet I 've gut, fer thet is all my eye;An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it,To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it;Off'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins,Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins;So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I 'll larn to go without it,An' not allowmyselfto be no gret put out about it.Now, le' me see, thet is n't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam,To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em:Ware 's my left hand? O, darn it, yes, I recollect wut 's come on 't;I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet 's gut jest a thumb on 't;It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't.I 've hed some ribs broke,—six (I b'lieve),—I haint kep' no account on 'em;Wen pensions git to be the talk, I 'll settle the amount on 'em.An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mindOne thet I could n't never break,—the one I lef' behind;Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your inventionAn' pour the longest sweetnin'-in about an annooal pension,An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to beConsoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be;There 's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet 's woodenCan be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'.I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder,With shiploads o' gold images, an' varus sorts o' plunder;Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o'Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water,Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation,An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation,Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin',Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin',Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em,An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em;Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silverThet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no bill fer;—Thet 's wut I thought afore I went, thet 's wut them fellers told usThet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us;I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than china asters,An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors;But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a grease-spot;I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh a V spot;Although, most anywares we 've ben, you need n't break no locks,Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks.I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feetursO' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs,But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded)How one day you 'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded.The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewterOur Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could du) to suit her;Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a drop 'ould dreen out,Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out,The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver'ould all come downkerswosh!ez though the dam broke in a river.Jest so 't is here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather,An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads togetherEz t' how they 'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,—'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot.The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I 'm allowed to leave here,One piece o' propaty along,—an' thet 's the shakin' fever;It 's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one,Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' arm on;An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it does n't pay,To hev it said you 're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way.'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',—One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',—One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,—Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes.But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's glory to be hed,—Thet 's an investment, arter all, thet may n't turn out so bad;But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanksGut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks;The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,—Wenever gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on;An' spose we hed, I wonder how you 're goin' to contrive itsDivision so 's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits;Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one,You would n't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun;We git the licks,—we 're jest the grist thet 's put into War's hoppers;Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers.It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't,An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in 't;But glory is a kin' o' thingIshan't pursue no furder,Coz thet 's the off'cers parquisite,—yourn 's on'y jest the murder.Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there 's oneThing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet 's theglorious fun;Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume weAll day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy.I 'll tell ye wutmyrevels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em;Wenever gut inside the hall: the nighest everIcomeWuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, itseemeda cent'ry)A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry,An' hearin', ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses,A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses:I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed insideAll I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried,An' not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted,A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted;The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to meWuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee.They say the quarrel 's settled now; fer my part I 've some doubt on 't,'T 'll take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out on 't;At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do no more fightin',The on'y chance thet 's left to me is politics or writin';Now, ez the people 's gut to hev a milingtary man,An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I 've hit upon a plan;The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T,An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea;So I 'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies;Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work 's the time o' day,You know thet 's wut I never did,—except the other way);Ef it 's the Presidential cheer fer wich I 'd better run,Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one?There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it 's said,So useful ez a wooden leg,—except a wooden head;There 's nothin' aint so poppylar—(wy, it 's a parfect sinTo think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;)—Then I haint gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee-high,I neverdidhev any gret, ez you can testify;I 'm a decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war,—Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to gofor?Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should begTo know my views o' state affairs, jest answerwooden leg!Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubtAn' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest sayone eye put out!Thet kin' o' talk I guess you 'll find 'll answer to a charm,An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm;Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous lookAn' tell 'em thet 's percisely wut I never gin nor—took!Then you can call me "Timbertoes,"—thet 's wut the people likes;Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes;Some say the people 's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please,—I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees;"Old Timbertoes," you see 's a creed it 's safe to be quite bold on,There 's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git hold on;It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embodyThet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy-toddy;It gives a Party Platform tu, jest level with the mindOf all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind;Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em,Sech ez theone-eyed Slarterer, thebloody Birdofredum;Them 's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses,An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes.There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about; in order to be Presidunt,It 's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt;The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a fellerMust own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller.Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes,Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes),But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, may be,You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby,An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to sayThey hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every day,Say you 're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusionAn' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion;—But, golly! there 's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'!I 'll be more 'xplicit in my next.
I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me,Exacly ware I be myself,—meanin' by thet the holl o' me.Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither),Now one on 'em 's I dunno ware;—they thought I wuz adyin',An' sawed it off, because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin';I 'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther,Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n t'other,Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be;It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's enough fer me:There 's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,—The liquor can't get into it ez 't used to in the true one;So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller could n't beg.A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg;It 's true a chap 's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum,But all the march I 'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.I 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's easy to supplyOut o' the glory thet I 've gut, fer thet is all my eye;An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it,To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it;Off'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins,Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins;So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I 'll larn to go without it,An' not allowmyselfto be no gret put out about it.Now, le' me see, thet is n't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam,To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em:Ware 's my left hand? O, darn it, yes, I recollect wut 's come on 't;I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet 's gut jest a thumb on 't;It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't.I 've hed some ribs broke,—six (I b'lieve),—I haint kep' no account on 'em;Wen pensions git to be the talk, I 'll settle the amount on 'em.An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mindOne thet I could n't never break,—the one I lef' behind;Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your inventionAn' pour the longest sweetnin'-in about an annooal pension,An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to beConsoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be;There 's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet 's woodenCan be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'.I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder,With shiploads o' gold images, an' varus sorts o' plunder;Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o'Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water,Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation,An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation,Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin',Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin',Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em,An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em;Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silverThet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no bill fer;—Thet 's wut I thought afore I went, thet 's wut them fellers told usThet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us;I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than china asters,An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors;But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a grease-spot;I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh a V spot;Although, most anywares we 've ben, you need n't break no locks,Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks.I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feetursO' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs,But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded)How one day you 'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded.The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewterOur Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could du) to suit her;Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a drop 'ould dreen out,Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out,The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver'ould all come downkerswosh!ez though the dam broke in a river.Jest so 't is here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather,An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads togetherEz t' how they 'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,—'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot.The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I 'm allowed to leave here,One piece o' propaty along,—an' thet 's the shakin' fever;It 's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one,Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' arm on;An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it does n't pay,To hev it said you 're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way.'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',—One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',—One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,—Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes.But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's glory to be hed,—Thet 's an investment, arter all, thet may n't turn out so bad;But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanksGut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks;The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,—Wenever gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on;An' spose we hed, I wonder how you 're goin' to contrive itsDivision so 's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits;Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one,You would n't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun;We git the licks,—we 're jest the grist thet 's put into War's hoppers;Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers.It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't,An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in 't;But glory is a kin' o' thingIshan't pursue no furder,Coz thet 's the off'cers parquisite,—yourn 's on'y jest the murder.Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there 's oneThing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet 's theglorious fun;Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume weAll day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy.I 'll tell ye wutmyrevels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em;Wenever gut inside the hall: the nighest everIcomeWuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, itseemeda cent'ry)A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry,An' hearin', ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses,A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses:I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed insideAll I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried,An' not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted,A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted;The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to meWuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee.They say the quarrel 's settled now; fer my part I 've some doubt on 't,'T 'll take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out on 't;At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do no more fightin',The on'y chance thet 's left to me is politics or writin';Now, ez the people 's gut to hev a milingtary man,An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I 've hit upon a plan;The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T,An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea;So I 'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies;Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work 's the time o' day,You know thet 's wut I never did,—except the other way);Ef it 's the Presidential cheer fer wich I 'd better run,Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one?There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it 's said,So useful ez a wooden leg,—except a wooden head;There 's nothin' aint so poppylar—(wy, it 's a parfect sinTo think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;)—Then I haint gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee-high,I neverdidhev any gret, ez you can testify;I 'm a decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war,—Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to gofor?Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should begTo know my views o' state affairs, jest answerwooden leg!Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubtAn' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest sayone eye put out!Thet kin' o' talk I guess you 'll find 'll answer to a charm,An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm;Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous lookAn' tell 'em thet 's percisely wut I never gin nor—took!Then you can call me "Timbertoes,"—thet 's wut the people likes;Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes;Some say the people 's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please,—I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees;"Old Timbertoes," you see 's a creed it 's safe to be quite bold on,There 's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git hold on;It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embodyThet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy-toddy;It gives a Party Platform tu, jest level with the mindOf all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind;Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em,Sech ez theone-eyed Slarterer, thebloody Birdofredum;Them 's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses,An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes.There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about; in order to be Presidunt,It 's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt;The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a fellerMust own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller.Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes,Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes),But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, may be,You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby,An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to sayThey hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every day,Say you 're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusionAn' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion;—But, golly! there 's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'!I 'll be more 'xplicit in my next.
I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me,Exacly ware I be myself,—meanin' by thet the holl o' me.Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither),Now one on 'em 's I dunno ware;—they thought I wuz adyin',An' sawed it off, because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin';I 'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther,Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n t'other,Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be;It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's enough fer me:There 's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,—The liquor can't get into it ez 't used to in the true one;So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller could n't beg.A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg;It 's true a chap 's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum,But all the march I 'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.
I 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's easy to supplyOut o' the glory thet I 've gut, fer thet is all my eye;An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it,To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it;Off'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins,Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins;So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I 'll larn to go without it,An' not allowmyselfto be no gret put out about it.Now, le' me see, thet is n't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam,To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em:Ware 's my left hand? O, darn it, yes, I recollect wut 's come on 't;I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet 's gut jest a thumb on 't;It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't.I 've hed some ribs broke,—six (I b'lieve),—I haint kep' no account on 'em;Wen pensions git to be the talk, I 'll settle the amount on 'em.An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mindOne thet I could n't never break,—the one I lef' behind;Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your inventionAn' pour the longest sweetnin'-in about an annooal pension,An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to beConsoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be;There 's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet 's woodenCan be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'.
I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder,With shiploads o' gold images, an' varus sorts o' plunder;Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o'Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water,Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation,An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation,Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin',Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin',Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em,An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em;Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silverThet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no bill fer;—Thet 's wut I thought afore I went, thet 's wut them fellers told usThet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us;I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than china asters,An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors;But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a grease-spot;I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh a V spot;Although, most anywares we 've ben, you need n't break no locks,Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks.
I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feetursO' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs,But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded)How one day you 'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded.The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewterOur Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could du) to suit her;Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a drop 'ould dreen out,Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out,The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver'ould all come downkerswosh!ez though the dam broke in a river.Jest so 't is here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather,An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads togetherEz t' how they 'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,—'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot.
The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I 'm allowed to leave here,One piece o' propaty along,—an' thet 's the shakin' fever;It 's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one,Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' arm on;An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it does n't pay,To hev it said you 're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way.'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',—One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',—One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,—Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes.But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's glory to be hed,—Thet 's an investment, arter all, thet may n't turn out so bad;But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanksGut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks;The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,—Wenever gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on;An' spose we hed, I wonder how you 're goin' to contrive itsDivision so 's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits;Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one,You would n't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun;We git the licks,—we 're jest the grist thet 's put into War's hoppers;Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers.It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't,An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in 't;But glory is a kin' o' thingIshan't pursue no furder,Coz thet 's the off'cers parquisite,—yourn 's on'y jest the murder.
Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there 's oneThing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet 's theglorious fun;Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume weAll day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy.I 'll tell ye wutmyrevels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em;Wenever gut inside the hall: the nighest everIcomeWuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, itseemeda cent'ry)A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry,An' hearin', ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses,A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses:I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed insideAll I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried,An' not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted,A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted;The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to meWuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee.
They say the quarrel 's settled now; fer my part I 've some doubt on 't,'T 'll take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out on 't;At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do no more fightin',The on'y chance thet 's left to me is politics or writin';Now, ez the people 's gut to hev a milingtary man,An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I 've hit upon a plan;The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T,An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea;So I 'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies;Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work 's the time o' day,You know thet 's wut I never did,—except the other way);Ef it 's the Presidential cheer fer wich I 'd better run,Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one?There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it 's said,So useful ez a wooden leg,—except a wooden head;There 's nothin' aint so poppylar—(wy, it 's a parfect sinTo think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;)—Then I haint gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee-high,I neverdidhev any gret, ez you can testify;I 'm a decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war,—Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to gofor?Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should begTo know my views o' state affairs, jest answerwooden leg!Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubtAn' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest sayone eye put out!Thet kin' o' talk I guess you 'll find 'll answer to a charm,An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm;Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous lookAn' tell 'em thet 's percisely wut I never gin nor—took!
Then you can call me "Timbertoes,"—thet 's wut the people likes;Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes;Some say the people 's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please,—I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees;"Old Timbertoes," you see 's a creed it 's safe to be quite bold on,There 's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git hold on;It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embodyThet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy-toddy;It gives a Party Platform tu, jest level with the mindOf all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind;Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em,Sech ez theone-eyed Slarterer, thebloody Birdofredum;Them 's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses,An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes.
There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about; in order to be Presidunt,It 's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt;The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a fellerMust own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller.Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes,Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes),But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, may be,You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby,An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to sayThey hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every day,Say you 're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusionAn' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion;—But, golly! there 's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'!I 'll be more 'xplicit in my next.
Yourn,BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.
[We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating how the balance-sheet stands between our returned volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set down on both sides of the account in fractional parts of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the following result:—
[We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating how the balance-sheet stands between our returned volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set down on both sides of the account in fractional parts of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the following result:—
B. Sawin, Esq.,in account with(Blank)Glory.Cr.Dr.Byloss of one leg20Toone 675th three cheers"do. one arm15in Faneuil Hall30"do. four fingers5"do. do. on occasion"do. one eye10of presentation of"the breaking of six ribs6sword to Colonel Wright25"having served under"one suit of grey clothesColonel Cushing one(ingeniously unbecoming)15month44"musical entertainments(drum and fife sixmonths)5"one dinner after return1"chance of pension1"privilege of drawinglongbow during rest ofnatural life23————E. E.100100
It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised in Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object seems to have been the making of his fortune.Quærenda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos.He hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation.Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames?The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of drought which intervenes between quarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I have seen, in the entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and innutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not without examples; as those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? In thesylvaof our own Southern States, the females of my family have called my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply examples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in the smaller branches of which has been implanted so miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek languages, and which may well therefore be classed among the trees producing necessaries of life,—venerabile donum fatalis virgæ. That money-trees existed in the golden age there want notprevalent reasons for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when it asserts that money does not grow oneverybush, implyà fortiori, that there were certain bushes which did produce it? Again, there is another ancient saw to the effect that money is therootof all evil. From which two adages it may be safe to infer that the aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, vanished altogether. In favourable exposures it may be conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, as in the garden of the Hesperides; and, indeed, what else could that tree in the Sixth Æneid have been, with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory, for the entering of which money is a surer passport than to a certain other more profitable (too) foreign kingdom? Whether these speculations of mine have any force in them, or whether they will not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to the determination of an indulgent posterity. That there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops where money was sold,—and that, too, on credit and at a bargain,—I take to be matter of demonstration. For what but a dealer in this article was that Æolus who supplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet in bags? What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds in his cap? What, in more recent times, those Lapland Nornas who traded in favourable breezes? All which will appear the more clearly when we consider, that, even to this day,raising the windis proverbial for raising money, and that brokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a later period.And now for the improvement of this digression. I find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure of my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to myself the before-stated natural-historical and archæological theories, as I waspassing,hæc negotia penitus mecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a sign-board,—Cheap Cash-Store. Here was at once the confirmation of my speculations, and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the fragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, as he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting-office window, or speculated from the summit of that mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cunning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy (even during that first half-believing glance) expended in various useful directions the funds to be obtained by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower of the Jaalam meeting-house—a gift appropriately, but modestly, commemorated in the parish and town records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and whether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Spanish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough that I found that sign-board to be no other than a bait to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of immense flights of harpy flies, who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in the very scales), which purchase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too-frequent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astræa-forsaken nineteenth century.Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the titleSawin, B., let us extend our investigations, and discover if that instructive volume does not contain some charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we should be more economical of our resources, did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever Brother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess that the latemuckwhich the country has been running, has materially changed my views as to the best method of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty housekeepers, we could see where and how fast the money was going, we should be less likely to commit extravagances. At present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay for; the poor man is charged as much as the rich; and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, the government is drawing off at the bung. If we could know that a part of the money we expend for tea and coffee goes to buy powder and ball, and that it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. During the present fall, I have often pictured to myself a government official entering my study, and handing me the following bill:—
It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised in Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object seems to have been the making of his fortune.Quærenda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos.He hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation.Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames?The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of drought which intervenes between quarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I have seen, in the entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and innutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not without examples; as those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? In thesylvaof our own Southern States, the females of my family have called my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply examples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in the smaller branches of which has been implanted so miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek languages, and which may well therefore be classed among the trees producing necessaries of life,—venerabile donum fatalis virgæ. That money-trees existed in the golden age there want notprevalent reasons for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when it asserts that money does not grow oneverybush, implyà fortiori, that there were certain bushes which did produce it? Again, there is another ancient saw to the effect that money is therootof all evil. From which two adages it may be safe to infer that the aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, vanished altogether. In favourable exposures it may be conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, as in the garden of the Hesperides; and, indeed, what else could that tree in the Sixth Æneid have been, with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory, for the entering of which money is a surer passport than to a certain other more profitable (too) foreign kingdom? Whether these speculations of mine have any force in them, or whether they will not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to the determination of an indulgent posterity. That there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops where money was sold,—and that, too, on credit and at a bargain,—I take to be matter of demonstration. For what but a dealer in this article was that Æolus who supplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet in bags? What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds in his cap? What, in more recent times, those Lapland Nornas who traded in favourable breezes? All which will appear the more clearly when we consider, that, even to this day,raising the windis proverbial for raising money, and that brokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a later period.
And now for the improvement of this digression. I find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure of my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to myself the before-stated natural-historical and archæological theories, as I waspassing,hæc negotia penitus mecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a sign-board,—Cheap Cash-Store. Here was at once the confirmation of my speculations, and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the fragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, as he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting-office window, or speculated from the summit of that mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cunning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy (even during that first half-believing glance) expended in various useful directions the funds to be obtained by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower of the Jaalam meeting-house—a gift appropriately, but modestly, commemorated in the parish and town records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and whether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Spanish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough that I found that sign-board to be no other than a bait to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of immense flights of harpy flies, who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in the very scales), which purchase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too-frequent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astræa-forsaken nineteenth century.
Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the titleSawin, B., let us extend our investigations, and discover if that instructive volume does not contain some charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we should be more economical of our resources, did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever Brother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess that the latemuckwhich the country has been running, has materially changed my views as to the best method of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty housekeepers, we could see where and how fast the money was going, we should be less likely to commit extravagances. At present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay for; the poor man is charged as much as the rich; and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, the government is drawing off at the bung. If we could know that a part of the money we expend for tea and coffee goes to buy powder and ball, and that it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. During the present fall, I have often pictured to myself a government official entering my study, and handing me the following bill:—
Washington, Sept. 30, 1848.Rev. Homer WilburtoUncle Samuel,Dr.To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership account, sundry jobs, as below." killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mexicans$2.00" slaughtering one woman carrying water to wounded.10" extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bombardment and one assault) whereby the Mexicans were prevented from defiling themselves with the idolatries of high mass3.50" throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant bomb-shell into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz, whereby several female Papists were slain at the altar.50" his proportion of cash paid for conquered territory1.75" do. do. for conquering do.1.50" manuring do. with new superior compost called "American Citizen".50" extending the area of freedom and Protestantism.01" glory.01———$9.87Immediate payment is requested.
N.B. Thankful for former favours, U. S. requests a continuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor for the same kind and style of work.
I can fancy the official answering my look of horror with,—"Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir; but in these days slaughtering is slaughtering." Verily, I would that every one understood that it was; for it goes about obtaining money under the false pretence of being glory. For me, I have an imagination which plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from his day's work, and forthwith my imagination puts a cocked-hat upon his head, and epaulettes upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the Presidency. So, also, on arecent public occasion, as the place assigned to the "Reverend Clergy" is just behind that of "Officers of the Army and Navy" in processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings, court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians in America. Now what does my over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his trousers thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the temporal mercies upon the board before me.—H. W.]
I can fancy the official answering my look of horror with,—"Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir; but in these days slaughtering is slaughtering." Verily, I would that every one understood that it was; for it goes about obtaining money under the false pretence of being glory. For me, I have an imagination which plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from his day's work, and forthwith my imagination puts a cocked-hat upon his head, and epaulettes upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the Presidency. So, also, on arecent public occasion, as the place assigned to the "Reverend Clergy" is just behind that of "Officers of the Army and Navy" in processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings, court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians in America. Now what does my over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his trousers thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the temporal mercies upon the board before me.—H. W.]
[Upon the following letter slender comment will be needful. In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favour, we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not jilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his plough with a goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand; figuratively returning, however, to a figurative plough, and from no profound affection for that honoured implement of husbandry (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never displayed any decided predilection), but in order to be gracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial labours. It would seem that the character of the ancient Dictator had become part of the recognised stock of our modern political comedy, though, as our term of office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is sufficiently so, however, for purposes of scenic representation. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This rustic paradise is labeled Ashland, Jaalam, North Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Bâton Rouge, as occasion demands. Before the door stands a something with one handle (the other painted in proper perspective), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with delirious joy, welcomed as a father byappropriate groups of happy labourers, or from it the successful one is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if the scene be laid at Bâton Rouge or Ashland, the labourers are kept carefully in the background, and are heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular tone, resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic population of those localities. The precise connexion between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have not been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But, that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I will mention one curious statistical fact, which I consider thoroughly established, namely, that no real farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted station.It is probable that some other prospect has been opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this great sacrifice without some definite understanding in regard to a seat in the cabinet, or a foreign mission. It may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not untouched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary to a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers, reduced him so nearly to the condition of avox et præterea nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss of his head by which his chance could have been bettered. But since he has chosen to baulk our suffrages, we must content ourselves with what we can get, rememberinglactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui sufficiant.—H. W.]
[Upon the following letter slender comment will be needful. In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favour, we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not jilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his plough with a goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand; figuratively returning, however, to a figurative plough, and from no profound affection for that honoured implement of husbandry (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never displayed any decided predilection), but in order to be gracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial labours. It would seem that the character of the ancient Dictator had become part of the recognised stock of our modern political comedy, though, as our term of office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is sufficiently so, however, for purposes of scenic representation. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This rustic paradise is labeled Ashland, Jaalam, North Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Bâton Rouge, as occasion demands. Before the door stands a something with one handle (the other painted in proper perspective), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with delirious joy, welcomed as a father byappropriate groups of happy labourers, or from it the successful one is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if the scene be laid at Bâton Rouge or Ashland, the labourers are kept carefully in the background, and are heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular tone, resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic population of those localities. The precise connexion between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have not been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But, that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I will mention one curious statistical fact, which I consider thoroughly established, namely, that no real farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted station.
It is probable that some other prospect has been opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this great sacrifice without some definite understanding in regard to a seat in the cabinet, or a foreign mission. It may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not untouched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary to a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers, reduced him so nearly to the condition of avox et præterea nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss of his head by which his chance could have been bettered. But since he has chosen to baulk our suffrages, we must content ourselves with what we can get, rememberinglactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui sufficiant.—H. W.]
I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle viewsIn the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze,Jest arter I 'd a kind o' ben spontanously sot upTo run unanimously fer the Presidential cup;O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 't wuz ferfiely distressin',But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin'Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' sorrered,There did n't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd:Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help admittin'The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 'ould fit in,Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed,Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I need;An', tell ye wut, them shoes 'll want a thund'rin' sight o' patchin',Ef this ere fashion is to last we 've gut into o' hatchin'A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,—Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, I don't make no objection.I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I sawThe masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father-'n-law(They would ha' hed itFather, but I told 'em 't would n't du,Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu,An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door,Nor dars n't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore),But 't aint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated,'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated,An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh,I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh.Sence I 've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to findStrong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind;It 's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a phthisis,Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis,An' 't would n't noways du to hev the people's mind distractedBy bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted;'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw,Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw;So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like—like ole (I swow,I dunno ez I know his name)—I 'll go back to my plough.Now, 't aint no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a sitooationTo hint the course you think 'll be the savin' o' the nation;To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing,Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing;So I edvise the noomrous friends thet 's in one boat with meTo jest up killock, jam right down their hellum hard a lee,Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun tack,Make fer the safest port they can, wich,Ithink, is Ole Zack.Next thing you 'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seemTo see thet makes me think this ere 'll be the strongest team;Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in bar-rooms an' saloonsAgethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons,An' 't aint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes inFer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin;I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see,I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee;I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a pegHigher than him,—a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg;But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I 'm burnin',Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin';Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,—'T wuz Birdofredumone, Cassaught, an' Taylortwenty-six,An', bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground,They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;Ef I 'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my footBy goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot;It did n't make no diff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust,Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't trust!Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedgesIs thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges;He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin'But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin';This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases,Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases:I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral is n't bound to neither;—I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there.Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry(He 's like a holsome hayinday, thet 's warm, but is n't sultry);He 's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o'scratch, ez 't ware,Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair;I 've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate sort,An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I thought;They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' cus;They 're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwell's pus;Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in between 'em,Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em;To nary one on 'em I 'd trust a secon'-handed railNo furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail.Webster sot matters right in that air Mashfiel' speech o' his'n;—"Taylor," sez he, "aint nary ways the one thet I 'd a chizzen,Nor he ain't fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aintNo more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint;But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote ferEz though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer;Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a boxFer one ez 't is fer t' other, fer the bulldog ez the fox?"It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' doors,To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours;I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to voteFer Taylor arter all,—it 's jest to go an' change your coat;Wen he's once greased, you 'll swaller him an' never know on't, source,Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air Gin'ral's spurs.I 've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock,But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a shock;Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they foundWich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round;They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform one by oneAn' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz done,Till, fur 'z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on,But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on,An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone,Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hay-ricks on.I spose it 's time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan,Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole Van.I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I 'm clean disgusted,—He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted;He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be,He 'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby;An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me sick 'zA horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six.An' then, another thing;—I guess, though mebby I am wrong,This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror almighty strong;Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough 'll rise,Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust my eyes;'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party 's gut,To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut.But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no endurin'To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;—An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap should dareTo speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear!I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairsA feller with long legs wuz throwed thet would n't say his prayers.This brings me to another pint: the leaders o' the partyAint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty;They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's morrilsDon't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils.I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think I see?A feller wuz aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me,About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge,An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce pledge!He 's one o' them thet goes about an' sez you hed n't ough' toDrink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an Taunton water.There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, ollers,—I take the side thetis n'ttook by them consarned tee-totallers.Ez fer the niggers, I 've been South, an' thet hez changed my mind;A lazier, more ungrateful set you could n't nowers find.You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger,Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger;So, ez there 's nothin' in the world I 'm fonder of 'an gunnin',I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnin'.I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp,'T worn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp;I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', playin' round the door,Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more.At fust I thought o' firin', butthink twiceis safest ollers;There aint, thinks I, not one on em' but 's wuth his twenty dollars,Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a Christian land,—How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction-stand!(Not but wutIhate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to starn,—I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.)Soon 'z they seeme, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein'A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there aint no knowin'He would n't ha' took a pop at me; but I hed gut the start,An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he'd broke his heart;He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur,The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus 'an a boy constrictur."You can 't gumme, I tell ye now, an' so you need n't try,I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up," sez I."Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I 'll jest let strip,You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I 've gut ye on the hip;Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disasterTo be benev'lently druv back to a contented master,Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware of,Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care of;Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he saidHe 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead;Wite folks aint sot by half ez much; 'member I run away,Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay;Don' know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean ole codger wentAn' offered—wut reward, think? Wal, it worn't noless'n a cent."Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an druv 'em on afore me,The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore me;We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hotI thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spotJest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot;Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe,An' laid it down jest by my side, supposin' all wuz safe;I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring,An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would bring;But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' mind(Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then), Pomp he snaked up behind,An', creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink,Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could wink,An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a tree,An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see,An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun,Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg an' fairly cut the run.I vow I did n't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligaturThet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur;However, ez there worn't no help, I finally gev inAn' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned,He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You 're fairly pinned;Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come,'T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from hum."At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't budge."Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or trudge."So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me backAlong the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track,An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, an' worked me, tu, like sin,Till I bed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in;He made me larn him readin', tu (although the crittur sawHow much it hurt my morril sense to act agin the law),So 'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut; an' axed ef I could pintThe North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint,Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit,Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it.Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick,Sez,—"Ef you know wut 's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick;The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye cheap,You 're so darned lazy, I don't think you 're hardly wuth your keep;Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the modelI 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you 'd better toddle!"Now is there any thin' on airth 'll ever prove to meThet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free?D' you think they 'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' themRank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem?Not by a jugfull! sooner 'n thet, I 'd go thru fire an' water;Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter;No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin',—I guess we 're in a Christian land,—
I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle viewsIn the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze,Jest arter I 'd a kind o' ben spontanously sot upTo run unanimously fer the Presidential cup;O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 't wuz ferfiely distressin',But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin'Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' sorrered,There did n't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd:Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help admittin'The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 'ould fit in,Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed,Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I need;An', tell ye wut, them shoes 'll want a thund'rin' sight o' patchin',Ef this ere fashion is to last we 've gut into o' hatchin'A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,—Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, I don't make no objection.I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I sawThe masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father-'n-law(They would ha' hed itFather, but I told 'em 't would n't du,Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu,An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door,Nor dars n't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore),But 't aint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated,'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated,An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh,I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh.Sence I 've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to findStrong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind;It 's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a phthisis,Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis,An' 't would n't noways du to hev the people's mind distractedBy bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted;'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw,Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw;So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like—like ole (I swow,I dunno ez I know his name)—I 'll go back to my plough.Now, 't aint no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a sitooationTo hint the course you think 'll be the savin' o' the nation;To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing,Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing;So I edvise the noomrous friends thet 's in one boat with meTo jest up killock, jam right down their hellum hard a lee,Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun tack,Make fer the safest port they can, wich,Ithink, is Ole Zack.Next thing you 'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seemTo see thet makes me think this ere 'll be the strongest team;Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in bar-rooms an' saloonsAgethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons,An' 't aint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes inFer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin;I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see,I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee;I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a pegHigher than him,—a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg;But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I 'm burnin',Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin';Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,—'T wuz Birdofredumone, Cassaught, an' Taylortwenty-six,An', bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground,They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;Ef I 'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my footBy goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot;It did n't make no diff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust,Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't trust!Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedgesIs thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges;He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin'But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin';This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases,Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases:I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral is n't bound to neither;—I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there.Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry(He 's like a holsome hayinday, thet 's warm, but is n't sultry);He 's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o'scratch, ez 't ware,Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair;I 've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate sort,An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I thought;They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' cus;They 're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwell's pus;Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in between 'em,Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em;To nary one on 'em I 'd trust a secon'-handed railNo furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail.Webster sot matters right in that air Mashfiel' speech o' his'n;—"Taylor," sez he, "aint nary ways the one thet I 'd a chizzen,Nor he ain't fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aintNo more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint;But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote ferEz though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer;Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a boxFer one ez 't is fer t' other, fer the bulldog ez the fox?"It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' doors,To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours;I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to voteFer Taylor arter all,—it 's jest to go an' change your coat;Wen he's once greased, you 'll swaller him an' never know on't, source,Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air Gin'ral's spurs.I 've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock,But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a shock;Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they foundWich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round;They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform one by oneAn' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz done,Till, fur 'z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on,But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on,An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone,Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hay-ricks on.I spose it 's time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan,Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole Van.I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I 'm clean disgusted,—He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted;He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be,He 'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby;An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me sick 'zA horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six.An' then, another thing;—I guess, though mebby I am wrong,This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror almighty strong;Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough 'll rise,Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust my eyes;'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party 's gut,To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut.But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no endurin'To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;—An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap should dareTo speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear!I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairsA feller with long legs wuz throwed thet would n't say his prayers.This brings me to another pint: the leaders o' the partyAint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty;They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's morrilsDon't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils.I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think I see?A feller wuz aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me,About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge,An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce pledge!He 's one o' them thet goes about an' sez you hed n't ough' toDrink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an Taunton water.There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, ollers,—I take the side thetis n'ttook by them consarned tee-totallers.Ez fer the niggers, I 've been South, an' thet hez changed my mind;A lazier, more ungrateful set you could n't nowers find.You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger,Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger;So, ez there 's nothin' in the world I 'm fonder of 'an gunnin',I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnin'.I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp,'T worn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp;I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', playin' round the door,Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more.At fust I thought o' firin', butthink twiceis safest ollers;There aint, thinks I, not one on em' but 's wuth his twenty dollars,Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a Christian land,—How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction-stand!(Not but wutIhate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to starn,—I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.)Soon 'z they seeme, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein'A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there aint no knowin'He would n't ha' took a pop at me; but I hed gut the start,An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he'd broke his heart;He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur,The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus 'an a boy constrictur."You can 't gumme, I tell ye now, an' so you need n't try,I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up," sez I."Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I 'll jest let strip,You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I 've gut ye on the hip;Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disasterTo be benev'lently druv back to a contented master,Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware of,Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care of;Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he saidHe 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead;Wite folks aint sot by half ez much; 'member I run away,Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay;Don' know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean ole codger wentAn' offered—wut reward, think? Wal, it worn't noless'n a cent."Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an druv 'em on afore me,The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore me;We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hotI thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spotJest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot;Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe,An' laid it down jest by my side, supposin' all wuz safe;I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring,An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would bring;But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' mind(Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then), Pomp he snaked up behind,An', creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink,Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could wink,An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a tree,An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see,An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun,Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg an' fairly cut the run.I vow I did n't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligaturThet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur;However, ez there worn't no help, I finally gev inAn' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned,He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You 're fairly pinned;Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come,'T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from hum."At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't budge."Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or trudge."So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me backAlong the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track,An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, an' worked me, tu, like sin,Till I bed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in;He made me larn him readin', tu (although the crittur sawHow much it hurt my morril sense to act agin the law),So 'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut; an' axed ef I could pintThe North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint,Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit,Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it.Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick,Sez,—"Ef you know wut 's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick;The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye cheap,You 're so darned lazy, I don't think you 're hardly wuth your keep;Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the modelI 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you 'd better toddle!"Now is there any thin' on airth 'll ever prove to meThet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free?D' you think they 'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' themRank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem?Not by a jugfull! sooner 'n thet, I 'd go thru fire an' water;Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter;No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin',—I guess we 're in a Christian land,—
I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle viewsIn the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze,Jest arter I 'd a kind o' ben spontanously sot upTo run unanimously fer the Presidential cup;O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 't wuz ferfiely distressin',But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin'Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' sorrered,There did n't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd:Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help admittin'The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 'ould fit in,Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed,Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I need;An', tell ye wut, them shoes 'll want a thund'rin' sight o' patchin',Ef this ere fashion is to last we 've gut into o' hatchin'A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,—Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, I don't make no objection.
I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I sawThe masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father-'n-law(They would ha' hed itFather, but I told 'em 't would n't du,Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu,An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door,Nor dars n't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore),But 't aint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated,'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated,An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh,I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh.
Sence I 've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to findStrong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind;It 's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a phthisis,Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis,An' 't would n't noways du to hev the people's mind distractedBy bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted;'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw,Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw;So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like—like ole (I swow,I dunno ez I know his name)—I 'll go back to my plough.Now, 't aint no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a sitooationTo hint the course you think 'll be the savin' o' the nation;To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing,Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing;So I edvise the noomrous friends thet 's in one boat with meTo jest up killock, jam right down their hellum hard a lee,Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun tack,Make fer the safest port they can, wich,Ithink, is Ole Zack.
Next thing you 'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seemTo see thet makes me think this ere 'll be the strongest team;Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in bar-rooms an' saloonsAgethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons,An' 't aint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes inFer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin;I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see,I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee;I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a pegHigher than him,—a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg;But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I 'm burnin',Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin';Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,—'T wuz Birdofredumone, Cassaught, an' Taylortwenty-six,An', bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground,They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;Ef I 'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my footBy goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot;It did n't make no diff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust,Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't trust!
Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedgesIs thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges;He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin'But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin';This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases,Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases:I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral is n't bound to neither;—I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there.Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry(He 's like a holsome hayinday, thet 's warm, but is n't sultry);He 's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o'scratch, ez 't ware,Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair;I 've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate sort,An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I thought;They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' cus;They 're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwell's pus;Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in between 'em,Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em;To nary one on 'em I 'd trust a secon'-handed railNo furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail.Webster sot matters right in that air Mashfiel' speech o' his'n;—"Taylor," sez he, "aint nary ways the one thet I 'd a chizzen,Nor he ain't fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aintNo more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint;But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote ferEz though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer;Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a boxFer one ez 't is fer t' other, fer the bulldog ez the fox?"It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' doors,To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours;I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to voteFer Taylor arter all,—it 's jest to go an' change your coat;Wen he's once greased, you 'll swaller him an' never know on't, source,Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air Gin'ral's spurs.I 've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock,But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a shock;Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they foundWich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round;They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform one by oneAn' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz done,Till, fur 'z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on,But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on,An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone,Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hay-ricks on.
I spose it 's time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan,Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole Van.I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I 'm clean disgusted,—He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted;He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be,He 'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby;An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me sick 'zA horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six.An' then, another thing;—I guess, though mebby I am wrong,This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror almighty strong;Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough 'll rise,Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust my eyes;'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party 's gut,To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut.But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no endurin'To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;—An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap should dareTo speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear!I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairsA feller with long legs wuz throwed thet would n't say his prayers.
This brings me to another pint: the leaders o' the partyAint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty;They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's morrilsDon't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils.I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think I see?A feller wuz aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me,About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge,An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce pledge!He 's one o' them thet goes about an' sez you hed n't ough' toDrink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an Taunton water.There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, ollers,—I take the side thetis n'ttook by them consarned tee-totallers.
Ez fer the niggers, I 've been South, an' thet hez changed my mind;A lazier, more ungrateful set you could n't nowers find.You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger,Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger;So, ez there 's nothin' in the world I 'm fonder of 'an gunnin',I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnin'.I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp,'T worn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp;I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', playin' round the door,Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more.At fust I thought o' firin', butthink twiceis safest ollers;There aint, thinks I, not one on em' but 's wuth his twenty dollars,Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a Christian land,—How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction-stand!(Not but wutIhate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to starn,—I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.)Soon 'z they seeme, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein'A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there aint no knowin'He would n't ha' took a pop at me; but I hed gut the start,An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he'd broke his heart;He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur,The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus 'an a boy constrictur."You can 't gumme, I tell ye now, an' so you need n't try,I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up," sez I."Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I 'll jest let strip,You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I 've gut ye on the hip;Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disasterTo be benev'lently druv back to a contented master,Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware of,Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care of;Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he saidHe 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead;Wite folks aint sot by half ez much; 'member I run away,Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay;Don' know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean ole codger wentAn' offered—wut reward, think? Wal, it worn't noless'n a cent."
Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an druv 'em on afore me,The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore me;We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hotI thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spotJest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot;Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe,An' laid it down jest by my side, supposin' all wuz safe;I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring,An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would bring;But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' mind(Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then), Pomp he snaked up behind,An', creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink,Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could wink,An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a tree,An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see,An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun,Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg an' fairly cut the run.I vow I did n't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligaturThet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur;However, ez there worn't no help, I finally gev inAn' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned,He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You 're fairly pinned;Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come,'T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from hum."At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't budge."Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or trudge."So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me backAlong the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track,An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, an' worked me, tu, like sin,Till I bed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in;He made me larn him readin', tu (although the crittur sawHow much it hurt my morril sense to act agin the law),So 'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut; an' axed ef I could pintThe North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint,Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit,Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it.Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick,Sez,—"Ef you know wut 's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick;The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye cheap,You 're so darned lazy, I don't think you 're hardly wuth your keep;Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the modelI 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you 'd better toddle!"
Now is there any thin' on airth 'll ever prove to meThet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free?D' you think they 'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' themRank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem?Not by a jugfull! sooner 'n thet, I 'd go thru fire an' water;Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter;No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin',—I guess we 're in a Christian land,—
Yourn,BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.