No. VI.

"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!It 's a fact o' wich ther 's bushils o' proofs;Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,Ef't worn't thet it 's oilers under our hoofs?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;"Human rights haint no moreRight to come on this floor,No more 'n the man in the moon," sez he."The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',An' you 've no idee how much bother it saves;We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',We 'reusedto layin' the string on our slaves,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Foote,"I should like to shootThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he."Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther 's no doubt on,It 's sutthin' thet 's—wha' d' ye call it?—divine,—An' the slaves thet we ollersmakethe most out onAir them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Fer all thet," sez Mangum,"'T would be better to hang 'em,An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he."The mass ough' to labour an' we lay on soffies,Thet 's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;It puts all the cunninest on us in office,An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Thet 's ez plain," sez Cass,"Ez thet some one 's an ass,It 's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he."Now don't go to say I 'm the friend of oppression,But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet 's my impression)To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sez Davis o' Miss.,"The perfection o' blissIs in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he."Slavery 's a thing thet depends on complexion,It 's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Hannegan,Afore he began agin,"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he."Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be twitchin' your collar,Yourmerit 's quite clear by the dut on your knees,At the North we don't make no distinctions o' colour;You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Jarnagin,"They wunt hev to larn agin,They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he."The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin'.North an' South hev one int'rest, it 's plain to a glance;No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,But theydusell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Atherton here,"This is gittin' severe,I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he."It 'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,'ll go to work raisin' promiscoous Ned,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt,"Ef we Southerners all quit,Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he."Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky 's brewin'In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin,An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sez Johnson, "in FranceThey 're beginnin' to danceBeelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he."The South 's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blestNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the eryWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"O," sez Westcott o' Florida,"Wut treason is horriderThen our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he."It 's 'coz they 're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpintsStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;We think it 's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis,"It perfectly true isThet slavery 's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',An' you 've no idee how much bother it saves;We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',We 'reusedto layin' the string on our slaves,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Foote,"I should like to shootThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.

"Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther 's no doubt on,It 's sutthin' thet 's—wha' d' ye call it?—divine,—An' the slaves thet we ollersmakethe most out onAir them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Fer all thet," sez Mangum,"'T would be better to hang 'em,An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.

"The mass ough' to labour an' we lay on soffies,Thet 's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;It puts all the cunninest on us in office,An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Thet 's ez plain," sez Cass,"Ez thet some one 's an ass,It 's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I 'm the friend of oppression,But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet 's my impression)To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sez Davis o' Miss.,"The perfection o' blissIs in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.

"Slavery 's a thing thet depends on complexion,It 's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Hannegan,Afore he began agin,"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.

"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be twitchin' your collar,Yourmerit 's quite clear by the dut on your knees,At the North we don't make no distinctions o' colour;You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Mister Jarnagin,"They wunt hev to larn agin,They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.

"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin'.North an' South hev one int'rest, it 's plain to a glance;No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,But theydusell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez Atherton here,"This is gittin' severe,I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.

"It 'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,'ll go to work raisin' promiscoous Ned,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt,"Ef we Southerners all quit,Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.

"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky 's brewin'In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin,An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sez Johnson, "in FranceThey 're beginnin' to danceBeelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

"The South 's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blestNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the eryWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"O," sez Westcott o' Florida,"Wut treason is horriderThen our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It 's 'coz they 're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpintsStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;We think it 's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis,"It perfectly true isThet slavery 's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

[It was said of old time, that riches have wings; and, though this be not applicable in a literal strictness to the wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South, yet it is clear that their possessions have legs, and an unaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly direction. I marvel that the grand jury of Washington did not find a true bill against the North Star for aiding and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It would have been quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by the South on other questions connected with slavery. I think that no ship of state was ever freighted with a more veritable Jonah than this same domestic institution of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three millions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope by this one mighty argument,—Our fathers knew no better!Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall we try the experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe place, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam of him? Let us, then, with equal forethought and wisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in pious confidence, the certain result. Perhaps our suspicious passenger is no Jonah after all, being black. For it is well known that a superintending Providence made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, to be devoured by the Caucasian race.In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the breakers, speak out! But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in danger of the justice; but if he steal my brother, I must be silent. Who says this? Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous suetude of sixty years, and grasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of him whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. Justice, venerable with the undethronable majestyof countless æons, says,—Speak! The Past, wise with the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes,—Speak! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubilant encouragement, and cries,—Speak! From the soul's trembling abysses the still, small voice not vaguely murmurs,—Speak! But, alas! the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., say,—Be dumb!It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connexion, whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., will be expected to take their places on the left as our hircine vicars.Quia sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus?There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an ideal!Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage torub and go? Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and others say shallnotcease. I would by no means deny the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for them.Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos.H. W.]

In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the breakers, speak out! But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in danger of the justice; but if he steal my brother, I must be silent. Who says this? Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous suetude of sixty years, and grasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of him whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. Justice, venerable with the undethronable majestyof countless æons, says,—Speak! The Past, wise with the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes,—Speak! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubilant encouragement, and cries,—Speak! From the soul's trembling abysses the still, small voice not vaguely murmurs,—Speak! But, alas! the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., say,—Be dumb!

It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connexion, whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., will be expected to take their places on the left as our hircine vicars.

Quia sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus?

There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an ideal!

Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage torub and go? Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and others say shallnotcease. I would by no means deny the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for them.

Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos.

H. W.]

[At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the following satire with an extract from a sermon preached during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2:—"Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel." Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was delivered, the editor of the "Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss" has unaccountably absented himself from our house of worship."I know of no so responsible position as that of the public journalist. The editor of our day bears the same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls the Next Life. As ifnextdid not meannearest, and as if any life were nearer than that immediately present one which boils and eddies all around him at the caucus, the ratification meeting, and the polls! Who taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as for some future era of which the present forms no integral part? The furrow which Time is even now turning runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he plant or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and teach that we aregoingto have more of eternity than we have now. Thisgoingof his is like that of the auctioneer, on whichgonefollows before we have made up our minds to bid,—in which manner, not three months back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of being a living force, has faded into an emblematic figure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion offers, he unkennels with astaboy!'to bark and bite as 'tis their nature to,' whence that reproach ofodium theologicumhas arisen."Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among them! And from what a Bible can he choose his text,—a Bible which needs no translation, and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the laity,—the open volume of the world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Present is even now writing the annals of God! Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title ofποιμην λαῶν, which Homer bestows upon princes. He would be the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain, stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the new law here among factories and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order."Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton.Immemor, O, fidei, pecorumque oblite tuorum!For which reason I would derive the nameeditornot so much fromedo, to publish, as fromedo, to eat, that being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself called. He blows up the flames of political discord for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States; and of these, how many have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine labour to impress upon the people the great principles ofTweedledum, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel according toTweedledee."—H. W.]

"I know of no so responsible position as that of the public journalist. The editor of our day bears the same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls the Next Life. As ifnextdid not meannearest, and as if any life were nearer than that immediately present one which boils and eddies all around him at the caucus, the ratification meeting, and the polls! Who taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as for some future era of which the present forms no integral part? The furrow which Time is even now turning runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he plant or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and teach that we aregoingto have more of eternity than we have now. Thisgoingof his is like that of the auctioneer, on whichgonefollows before we have made up our minds to bid,—in which manner, not three months back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of being a living force, has faded into an emblematic figure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion offers, he unkennels with astaboy!'to bark and bite as 'tis their nature to,' whence that reproach ofodium theologicumhas arisen.

"Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among them! And from what a Bible can he choose his text,—a Bible which needs no translation, and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the laity,—the open volume of the world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Present is even now writing the annals of God! Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title ofποιμην λαῶν, which Homer bestows upon princes. He would be the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain, stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the new law here among factories and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order.

"Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton.

Immemor, O, fidei, pecorumque oblite tuorum!

For which reason I would derive the nameeditornot so much fromedo, to publish, as fromedo, to eat, that being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself called. He blows up the flames of political discord for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States; and of these, how many have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine labour to impress upon the people the great principles ofTweedledum, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel according toTweedledee."—H. W.]

I du believe in Freedom's cause,Ez fur away ez Paris is;I love to see her stick her clawsIn them infarnal Pharisees;It 's wal enough agin a kingTo dror resolves an' triggers,—But libbaty 's a kind o' thingThet don't agree with niggers.I du believe the people wantA tax on teas an' coffees,Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—Purvidin' I 'm in office;Fer I hev loved my country senceMy eye-teeth filled their sockets,An' Uncle Sam I reverence,Partic'larly his pockets.I du believe inanyplanO' levyin' the taxes,Ez long ez, like a lumberman,I git jest wut I axes:I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,Because it kind o' rousesThe folks to vote,—an' keeps us inOur quiet custom-houses.I du believe it 's wise an' goodTo sen' out furrin missions,Thet is, on sartin understoodAn' orthydox conditions;—I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,Nine thousan' more fer outfit,An' me to recommend a manThe place 'ould jest about fit.I du believe in special waysO' prayin' an' convartin';The bread comes back in many days,An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;—I mean in preyin' till one bustsOn wut the party chooses,An' in convartin' public trustsTo very privit uses.I du believe hard coin the stuffFer 'lectioneers to spout on;The people 's ollers soft enoughTo make hard money out on;Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,An' gives a good-sized junk to all,—I don't carehowhard money is,Ez long ez mine 's paid punctooal.I du believe with all my soulIn the gret Press's freedom,To pint the people to the goalAn' in the traces lead 'em;Palsied the arm thet forges yokesAt my fat contracts squintin',An' withered be the nose thet pokesInter the gov'ment printin'!I du believe thet I should giveWut 's his'n unto Cæsar,Fer it 's by him I move an' live,From him my bread an' cheese air;I du believe thet all o' meDoth bear his souperscription,—Will, conscience, honour, honesty,An' things o' thet description.I du believe in prayer an' praiseTo him thet hez the grantin'O' jobs,—in every thin' thet pays,But most of all inCantin';This doth my cup with marcies fill,This lays all thought o' sin to rest,—Idon'tbelieve in princerple,But, O, Iduin interest.I du believe in bein' thisOr thet, ez it may happenOne way or t'other hendiest isTo ketch the people nappin';It aint by princerples nor menMy preudunt course is steadied,—I scent wich pays the best, an' thenGo into it baldheaded.I du believe thet holdin' slavesComes nat'ral tu a Presidunt,Let 'lone the rowdedow it savesTo hev a wal-broke precedunt;Fer any office, small or gret,I could n't ax with no face,Without I 'd ben, thru dry an' wet,Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.I du believe wutever trash'll keep the people in blindness,—Thet we the Mexicuns can thrashRight inter brotherly kindness,Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ballAir good-will's strongest magnets,Thet peace, to make it stick at all,Must be druv in with bagnets.In short, I firmly du believeIn Humbug generally,Fer it 's a thing thet I perceiveTo hev a solid vally;This heth my faithful shepherd ben,In pasturs sweet heth led me,An' this 'll keep the people greenTo feed ez they hev fed me.

I du believe the people wantA tax on teas an' coffees,Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—Purvidin' I 'm in office;Fer I hev loved my country senceMy eye-teeth filled their sockets,An' Uncle Sam I reverence,Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe inanyplanO' levyin' the taxes,Ez long ez, like a lumberman,I git jest wut I axes:I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,Because it kind o' rousesThe folks to vote,—an' keeps us inOur quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it 's wise an' goodTo sen' out furrin missions,Thet is, on sartin understoodAn' orthydox conditions;—I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,Nine thousan' more fer outfit,An' me to recommend a manThe place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special waysO' prayin' an' convartin';The bread comes back in many days,An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;—I mean in preyin' till one bustsOn wut the party chooses,An' in convartin' public trustsTo very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuffFer 'lectioneers to spout on;The people 's ollers soft enoughTo make hard money out on;Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,An' gives a good-sized junk to all,—I don't carehowhard money is,Ez long ez mine 's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soulIn the gret Press's freedom,To pint the people to the goalAn' in the traces lead 'em;Palsied the arm thet forges yokesAt my fat contracts squintin',An' withered be the nose thet pokesInter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should giveWut 's his'n unto Cæsar,Fer it 's by him I move an' live,From him my bread an' cheese air;I du believe thet all o' meDoth bear his souperscription,—Will, conscience, honour, honesty,An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praiseTo him thet hez the grantin'O' jobs,—in every thin' thet pays,But most of all inCantin';This doth my cup with marcies fill,This lays all thought o' sin to rest,—Idon'tbelieve in princerple,But, O, Iduin interest.

I du believe in bein' thisOr thet, ez it may happenOne way or t'other hendiest isTo ketch the people nappin';It aint by princerples nor menMy preudunt course is steadied,—I scent wich pays the best, an' thenGo into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slavesComes nat'ral tu a Presidunt,Let 'lone the rowdedow it savesTo hev a wal-broke precedunt;Fer any office, small or gret,I could n't ax with no face,Without I 'd ben, thru dry an' wet,Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash'll keep the people in blindness,—Thet we the Mexicuns can thrashRight inter brotherly kindness,Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ballAir good-will's strongest magnets,Thet peace, to make it stick at all,Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believeIn Humbug generally,Fer it 's a thing thet I perceiveTo hev a solid vally;This heth my faithful shepherd ben,In pasturs sweet heth led me,An' this 'll keep the people greenTo feed ez they hev fed me.

[I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned discourse."Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold thewhole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown-paper wrapper!"Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horse-back or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in order to make out any thing distinctly. That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England. That other, in the grey surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference from him in the present alarming juncture. At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motion, is an immense mass-meeting. Look sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity for the Infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world. And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into the dark Beyond."Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who laysdown a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinities (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence for ever. Nay, we see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also."Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a season-ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by Death."Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then suddenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look! deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty;—I hold in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of adeath among them? Are not here two who would have me know of their marriage? And strangest of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me informed that he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins? But to none of us does the Present (even if for a moment discerned as such) continue miraculous. We glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this sheet, in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken victuals."—H. W.]

[I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned discourse.

"Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold thewhole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown-paper wrapper!

"Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horse-back or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in order to make out any thing distinctly. That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England. That other, in the grey surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference from him in the present alarming juncture. At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motion, is an immense mass-meeting. Look sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity for the Infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world. And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into the dark Beyond.

"Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who laysdown a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinities (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence for ever. Nay, we see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also.

"Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a season-ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by Death.

"Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then suddenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look! deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty;—I hold in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of adeath among them? Are not here two who would have me know of their marriage? And strangest of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me informed that he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins? But to none of us does the Present (even if for a moment discerned as such) continue miraculous. We glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this sheet, in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken victuals."—H. W.]

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTISLAVERY STANDARD.

[Curiosity may be said to be the quality which pre-eminently distinguishes and segregates man from the lower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature downward, we find this faculty of the mind (as it may truly be called) diminished in the savage, and quite extinct in the brute. The first object which civilized man proposes to himself I take to be the finding out whatsoever he can concerning his neighbours.Nihil humanum a me alienum puto; I am curious about even John Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an opposite pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of communicating intelligence.Men in general may be divided into the inquisitive and the communicative. To the first class belong Peeping Toms, eaves-droppers, navel-contemplating Brahmins, metaphysicians, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, the various societies for promoting Rhinothism, Columbuses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who present themselves to the mind as so many marks of interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sitting in studies and laboratories. The second class I should again subdivide into four. In the first subdivision I would rank those who have an itch to tell usabout themselves,—as keepers of diaries, insignificant persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, autobiographers, poets. The second includes those who are anxious to impart information concerning other people,—as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong those who labour to give us intelligence about nothing at all,—as novelists, political orators, the large majority of authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the fourth come those who are communicative from motives of public benevolence,—as finders of mares'-nests and bringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls without feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway the whole barn-yard shall know it by our cackle or our cluck.Omnibus hoc vitium est.There are different grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope toward a back-yard, another toward Uranus; one will tell you that he dined with Smith, another that he supped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be considered as belonging to the first grand division, inasmuch as they all seem equally desirous of discovering the mote in their neighbour's eye.To one or another of these species every human being may safely be referred. I think it beyond a peradventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up a letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that, as there are certain persons who continually peep and pry at the key-hole of that mysterious door through which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there are doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other side of it, because they have no means of conveying back to the world the scraps of news they have picked up. For there isan answer ready somewhere to every question, the great law ofgive and takeruns through all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a standing advertisement of information wanted in regard to A. B., or that the friends of C. D. can hear of him by application to such a one.It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and answering, that epistolary correspondence was first invented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, there are those which are not letters at all,—as letters patent, letters dimissory, letters inclosing bills, letters of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, and Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome includes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, and letters generally, which are in no wise letters of mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, Cowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, the first letters from children (printed in staggering capitals), Letters from New York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for the sake of the writer or the thing written. I have read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named Pinto, containing some curious gossip, and which I hope to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There are, besides, letters addressed to posterity,—as epitaphs, for example, written for their own monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year of grace 755 I would place in a class by itself, as also the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate more fully in a note at the end of the followingpoem. At present,sat prata biberunt. Only, concerning the shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to which general figures circular letters and round-robins also conform themselves.—H. W.]

Men in general may be divided into the inquisitive and the communicative. To the first class belong Peeping Toms, eaves-droppers, navel-contemplating Brahmins, metaphysicians, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, the various societies for promoting Rhinothism, Columbuses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who present themselves to the mind as so many marks of interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sitting in studies and laboratories. The second class I should again subdivide into four. In the first subdivision I would rank those who have an itch to tell usabout themselves,—as keepers of diaries, insignificant persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, autobiographers, poets. The second includes those who are anxious to impart information concerning other people,—as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong those who labour to give us intelligence about nothing at all,—as novelists, political orators, the large majority of authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the fourth come those who are communicative from motives of public benevolence,—as finders of mares'-nests and bringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls without feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway the whole barn-yard shall know it by our cackle or our cluck.Omnibus hoc vitium est.There are different grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope toward a back-yard, another toward Uranus; one will tell you that he dined with Smith, another that he supped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be considered as belonging to the first grand division, inasmuch as they all seem equally desirous of discovering the mote in their neighbour's eye.

To one or another of these species every human being may safely be referred. I think it beyond a peradventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up a letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that, as there are certain persons who continually peep and pry at the key-hole of that mysterious door through which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there are doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other side of it, because they have no means of conveying back to the world the scraps of news they have picked up. For there isan answer ready somewhere to every question, the great law ofgive and takeruns through all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a standing advertisement of information wanted in regard to A. B., or that the friends of C. D. can hear of him by application to such a one.

It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and answering, that epistolary correspondence was first invented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, there are those which are not letters at all,—as letters patent, letters dimissory, letters inclosing bills, letters of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, and Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome includes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, and letters generally, which are in no wise letters of mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, Cowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, the first letters from children (printed in staggering capitals), Letters from New York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for the sake of the writer or the thing written. I have read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named Pinto, containing some curious gossip, and which I hope to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There are, besides, letters addressed to posterity,—as epitaphs, for example, written for their own monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year of grace 755 I would place in a class by itself, as also the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate more fully in a note at the end of the followingpoem. At present,sat prata biberunt. Only, concerning the shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to which general figures circular letters and round-robins also conform themselves.—H. W.]

Deer sirits gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 wich I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy.—H. B.

Dear Sir,—You wish to know my notionsOn sartin pints thet rile the land;There 's nothin' thet my natur so shunsEz bein' mum or underhand;I 'm a straight-spoken kind o' creeturThet blurts right out wut 's in his head,An' ef I 've one pecooler feetur,It is a nose thet wunt be led.So, to begin at the beginnin',An' come direcly to the pint,I think the country's underpinnin'Is some consid'ble out o' jint;I aint agoin' to try your patienceBy tellin' who done this or thet,I don't make no insinooations,I jest let on I smell a rat.Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so,But, ef the public think I 'm wrong,I wunt deny but wut I be so,—An', fact, it don't smell very strong;My mind 's tu fair to lose its balanceAn' say wich party hez most sense;There may be folks o' greater talenceThet can't set stiddier on the fence.I 'm an eclectic; ez to choosin''Twixt this an' thet, I 'm plaguy lawth;I leave a side thet looks like losin',But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to both;I stan' upon the Constitution,Ez preudunt statesmun say, who 've plannedA way to git the most profusionO' chances ez towarethey 'll stand.Ez fer the war, I go agin it,—I mean to say I kind o' du,—Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,The best way wuz to fight it thru;Not but wut abstract war is horrid,—I sign to thet with all my heart,—But civlyzationdoosgit forridSometimes upon a powder-cart.About thet darned Proviso matterI never hed a grain o' doubt,Nor I aint one my sense to scatterSo 's no one could n't pick it out;My love fer North an' South is equil,So I 'll jest answer plump an' frank,No matter wut may be the sequil,—Yes, Sir, Iamagin a Bank.Ez to the answerin' o' questions,I 'm an off ox at bein' druv,Though I aint one thet ary test shuns'll give our folks a helpin' shove;Kind o' promiscoous I go itFer the holl country, an' the groundI take, ez nigh ez I can show it,Is pooty gen'ally all round.I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;You 'd ough' to leave a feller free,An' not go knockin' out the wedgesTo ketch his fingers in the tree;Pledges air awfle breachy cattleThet preudunt farmers don't turn out,—Ez long 'z the people git their rattle,Wut is there fer 'm to grout about?Ez to the slaves, there 's no confusionInmyidees consarnin' them,—Ithink they air an Institution,A sort of—yes, jest so,—ahem:DoIown any? Of my meritOn thet pint you yourself may jedge;All is, I never drink no sperit,Nor I haint never signed no pledge.Ez to my principles, I gloryIn hevin' nothin' o' the sort;I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,I 'm jest a candidate, in short;Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler,But, ef the Public cares a fig,To hev me an' thin' in particler,Wy I 'm a kind o' peri-wig.P. S.Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin',O' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer,An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'I 'll mention inyourprivit ear;Ef you gitmeinside the White House,Your head with ile I 'll kin' o' 'nintBy gittin'youinside the Light-houseDown to the eend o' Jaalam Pint.An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'At bein' scrouged frum off the roost,I 'll tell ye wut 'll save all tusslin'An' give our side a harnsome boost,—Tell 'em thet on the Slavery questionI 'mright, although to speak I 'm lawth;This gives you a safe pint to rest on,An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

So, to begin at the beginnin',An' come direcly to the pint,I think the country's underpinnin'Is some consid'ble out o' jint;I aint agoin' to try your patienceBy tellin' who done this or thet,I don't make no insinooations,I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so,But, ef the public think I 'm wrong,I wunt deny but wut I be so,—An', fact, it don't smell very strong;My mind 's tu fair to lose its balanceAn' say wich party hez most sense;There may be folks o' greater talenceThet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I 'm an eclectic; ez to choosin''Twixt this an' thet, I 'm plaguy lawth;I leave a side thet looks like losin',But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to both;I stan' upon the Constitution,Ez preudunt statesmun say, who 've plannedA way to git the most profusionO' chances ez towarethey 'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it,—I mean to say I kind o' du,—Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,The best way wuz to fight it thru;Not but wut abstract war is horrid,—I sign to thet with all my heart,—But civlyzationdoosgit forridSometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matterI never hed a grain o' doubt,Nor I aint one my sense to scatterSo 's no one could n't pick it out;My love fer North an' South is equil,So I 'll jest answer plump an' frank,No matter wut may be the sequil,—Yes, Sir, Iamagin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions,I 'm an off ox at bein' druv,Though I aint one thet ary test shuns'll give our folks a helpin' shove;Kind o' promiscoous I go itFer the holl country, an' the groundI take, ez nigh ez I can show it,Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;You 'd ough' to leave a feller free,An' not go knockin' out the wedgesTo ketch his fingers in the tree;Pledges air awfle breachy cattleThet preudunt farmers don't turn out,—Ez long 'z the people git their rattle,Wut is there fer 'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there 's no confusionInmyidees consarnin' them,—Ithink they air an Institution,A sort of—yes, jest so,—ahem:DoIown any? Of my meritOn thet pint you yourself may jedge;All is, I never drink no sperit,Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I gloryIn hevin' nothin' o' the sort;I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,I 'm jest a candidate, in short;Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler,But, ef the Public cares a fig,To hev me an' thin' in particler,Wy I 'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin',O' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer,An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'I 'll mention inyourprivit ear;Ef you gitmeinside the White House,Your head with ile I 'll kin' o' 'nintBy gittin'youinside the Light-houseDown to the eend o' Jaalam Pint.

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'At bein' scrouged frum off the roost,I 'll tell ye wut 'll save all tusslin'An' give our side a harnsome boost,—Tell 'em thet on the Slavery questionI 'mright, although to speak I 'm lawth;This gives you a safe pint to rest on,An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

[And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two kinds,—namely, letters of acceptance, and letters definitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an election, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. Epistolary composition becomes then an epidemic, which seizes one candidate after another, not seldom cutting short the thread of political life. It has come to such a pass, that a party dreads less the attacks of its opponents than a letter from its candidate.Litera scripta manet,and it will go hard if something bad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, with thecordon sanitaireof a vigilance committee. No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously deprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped carefully from the chimney-places; outposts of expert rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain limited distance of North Bend; and all domestic fowls about the premises were reduced to the condition of Plato's original man. By these precautions the General was saved.Parva componere magnis, I remember, that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about that result which I deemed most desirable. My stratagem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Complete Letter-Writer in the way of the candidate whom I wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and addressed a short note to his constituents, in which the opposite party detected so many and so grave improprieties (he had modeled it upon the letter of a young lady accepting a proposal of marriage), that he not only lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabellianism and I know not what (the widow Endive assured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain knowledge), was forced to leave the town. Thus it is that the letter killeth.The object which candidates propose to themselves in writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptographies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a wonderful amount and variety of significance.Omne ignotum pro mirifico.How do we admire at the antique world striving to crack those oracular nuts fromDelphi, Ammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged; that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have written six thousand books on the single subject of grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the labours of his successors, and which seems still to possess an attraction for authors in proportion as they can make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two hundred and three several interpretations, each lethiferal to all the rest.Non nostrum est tantas componere lites, yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the minds of my people. It is true that my views on this important point were ardently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Holden, the then preceptor of our academy, and in other particulars a very deserving and sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been lately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction of re-affirming my cherished sentiments in a sermon preached upon the Lord's-day immediately succeeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made provision in his last will (being celibate) for the publication of a posthumous tractate in support of his own dangerous opinions.I know of nothing in our modern times which approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, and this same prohibition on the partof Pythagoras to his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other explication,quod videlicet sensus eo cibo obtundi existimaret, though supportedpugnis et calcibusby many of the learned, and not wanting the countenance of Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial expressions, and knotty points generally, which is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to the questioning of candidates. And very properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to discover what a person in that position is, or what he will do, but whether he can be elected.Vos exemplaria Græca nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particular (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates will answer, whether they are questioned or not, I would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or confined to the language of signs, like the famous interview of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial of Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their respective constituencies. These answers would be susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the exigencies of the political campaign might seem to demand, and the candidate could take his position on either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if letters must be written, profitable use might be made of the Dightonrock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to educe a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply posterity, with a very vast and various body of authentic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordinary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any style so compressed that superfluous words may not be detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that famous brevity of Cæsar's by two thirds, drawing his pen through the supererogatoryveniandvidi. Perhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and less of qualification in candidates. Already have statesmanship, experience, and the possession (nay, the profession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability to write will follow? At present, there may be death in pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may suffice for a bow-string, and all the dreadful heresies of Anti-slavery may lurk in a flourish.—H. W.]

The object which candidates propose to themselves in writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptographies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a wonderful amount and variety of significance.Omne ignotum pro mirifico.How do we admire at the antique world striving to crack those oracular nuts fromDelphi, Ammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged; that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have written six thousand books on the single subject of grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the labours of his successors, and which seems still to possess an attraction for authors in proportion as they can make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two hundred and three several interpretations, each lethiferal to all the rest.Non nostrum est tantas componere lites, yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the minds of my people. It is true that my views on this important point were ardently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Holden, the then preceptor of our academy, and in other particulars a very deserving and sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been lately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction of re-affirming my cherished sentiments in a sermon preached upon the Lord's-day immediately succeeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made provision in his last will (being celibate) for the publication of a posthumous tractate in support of his own dangerous opinions.

I know of nothing in our modern times which approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, and this same prohibition on the partof Pythagoras to his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other explication,quod videlicet sensus eo cibo obtundi existimaret, though supportedpugnis et calcibusby many of the learned, and not wanting the countenance of Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial expressions, and knotty points generally, which is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to the questioning of candidates. And very properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to discover what a person in that position is, or what he will do, but whether he can be elected.Vos exemplaria Græca nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particular (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates will answer, whether they are questioned or not, I would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or confined to the language of signs, like the famous interview of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial of Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their respective constituencies. These answers would be susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the exigencies of the political campaign might seem to demand, and the candidate could take his position on either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if letters must be written, profitable use might be made of the Dightonrock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to educe a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply posterity, with a very vast and various body of authentic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordinary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any style so compressed that superfluous words may not be detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that famous brevity of Cæsar's by two thirds, drawing his pen through the supererogatoryveniandvidi. Perhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and less of qualification in candidates. Already have statesmanship, experience, and the possession (nay, the profession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability to write will follow? At present, there may be death in pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may suffice for a bow-string, and all the dreadful heresies of Anti-slavery may lurk in a flourish.—H. W.]

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