Somewhere in India, upon a time,(Read it not Injah, or you spoil the verse,)There dwelt two saints whose privilege sublimeIt was to sit and watch the world grow worse,Their only care (in that delicious clime)At proper intervals to pray and curse;Pracrit the dialect each prudent brotherUsed for himself, Damnonian for the other.
One half the time of each was spent in prayingFor blessings on his own unworthy head, 10The other half in fearfully portrayingWhere certain folks would go when they were dead;This system of exchanges—there's no sayingTo what more solid barter 'twould have led,But that a river, vext with boils and swellingsAt rainy times, kept peace between their dwellings.
So they two played at wordy battledoreAnd kept a curse forever in the air,Flying this way or that from shore to shore;Nor other labor did this holy pair, 20Clothed and supported from the lavish storeWhich crowds lanigerous brought with daily care;They toiled not, neither did they spin; their biasWas tow'rd the harder task of being pious.
Each from his hut rushed six score times a day,Like a great canon of the Church full-rammedWith cartridge theologic, (so to say,)Touched himself off, and then, recoiling, slammedHis hovel's door behind him in awayThat to his foe said plainly,—you'llbe damned; 30And so like Potts and Wainwright, shrill and strongThe two D—— D'd each other all day long.
One was a dancing Dervise, a Mohammedan,The other was a Hindoo, a gymnosophist;One kept his whatd'yecallit and his Ramadan,Laughing to scorn the sacred rites and laws of hisTransfluvial rival, who, in turn, called Ahmed anOld top, and, as a clincher, shook across a fistWith nails six inches long, yet lifted notHis eyes from off his navel's mystic knot. 40
'Who whirls not round six thousand times an hourWill go,' screamed Ahmed, 'to the evil place;May he eat dirt, and may the dog and GiaourDefile the graves of him and all his race;Allah loves faithful souls and gives them powerTo spin till they are purple in the face;Some folks get you know what, but he that pure isEarns Paradise and ninety thousand houris.'
'Upon the silver mountain, South by East,Sits Brahma fed upon the sacred bean; 30He loves those men whose nails are still increased,Who all their lives keep ugly, foul, and lean;'Tis of his grace that not a bird or beastAdorned with claws like mine was ever seen;The suns and stars are Brahma's thoughts divine,Even as these trees I seem to see are mine.'
'Thou seem'st to see, indeed!' roared Ahmed back;'Were I but once across this plaguy stream,With a stout sapling in my hand, one whackOn those lank ribs would rid thee of that dream! 60Thy Brahma-blasphemy is ipecacTo my soul's stomach; couldst thou grasp the schemeOf true redemption, thou wouldst know that DeityWhirls by a kind of blessed spontaneity.
'And this it is which keeps our earth here goingWith all the stars.'—'Oh, vile! but there's a placePrepared for such; to think of Brahma throwingWorlds like a juggler's balls up into Space!Why, not so much as a smooth lotos blowingIs e'er allowed that silence to efface 70Which broods round Brahma, and our earth, 'tis known,Rests on a tortoise, moveless as this stone.'
So they kept up their banning amoebæan,When suddenly came floating down the streamA youth whose face like an incarnate pæanGlowed, 'twas so full of grandeur and of gleam;'If therebegods, then, doubtless, this must be one,'Thought both at once, and then began to scream,'Surely, whate'er immortals know, thou knowest,Decide between us twain before thou goest!' 80
The youth was drifting in a slim canoeMost like a huge white water-lily's petal,But neither of our theologians knewWhereof 'twas made; whether of heavenly metalSeldseen, or of a vast pearl split in twoAnd hollowed, was a point they could not settle;'Twas good debate-seed, though, and bore large fruitIn after years of many a tart dispute.
There were no wings upon the stranger's shoulders.And yet he seemed so capable of rising 90That, had he soared like thistle-down, beholdersHad thought the circumstance noways surprising;Enough that he remained, and, when the scoldersHailed him as umpire in their vocal prize-ring,The painter of his boat he lightly threwAround a lotos-stem, and brought her to.
The strange youth had a look as if he mightHave trod far planets where the atmosphere(Of nobler temper) steeps the face with light,Just as our skins are tanned and freckled here; 100His air was that of a cosmopoliteIn the wide universe from sphere to sphere;Perhaps he was (his face had such grave beauty)An officer of Saturn's guards off duty.
Both saints began to unfold their tales at once,Both wished their tales, like simial ones, prehensile,That they might seize his ear;fool! knave!anddunce!Flew zigzag back and forth, like strokes of pencilIn a child's fingers; voluble as duns,They jabbered like the stones on that immense hill 110In the Arabian Nights; until the strangerBegan to think his ear-drums in some danger.
In general those who nothing have to sayContrive to spend the longest time in doing it;They turn and vary it in every way,Hashing it, stewing it, mincing it,ragoutingit;Sometimes they keep it purposely at bay,Then let it slip to be again pursuing it;They drone it, groan it, whisper it and shout it,Refute it, flout it, swear to 't, prove it, doubt it. 120
Our saints had practised for some thirty years;Their talk, beginning with a single stem,Spread like a banyan, sending down live piers,Colonies of digression, and, in them,Germs of yet new dispersion; once by the ears,They could convey damnation in a hem,And blow the pinch of premise-priming offLong syllogistic batteries, with a cough.
Each had a theory that the human earA providential tunnel was, which led 130To a huge vacuum (and surely hereThey showed some knowledge of the general head,)For cant to be decanted through, a mereAuricular canal or mill-race fedAll day and night, in sunshine and in shower,From their vast heads of milk-and-water-power.
The present being a peculiar case,Each with unwonted zeal the other scouted,Put his spurred hobby through its every pace, 139Pished, pshawed, poohed, horribled, bahed, jeered, sneered, flouted,Sniffed, nonsensed, infideled, fudged, with his faceLooked scorn too nicely shaded to be shouted,And, with each inch of person and of vesture,Contrived to hint some most disdainful gesture.
At length, when their breath's end was come about,And both could now and then just gasp 'impostor!'Holding their heads thrust menacingly out,As staggering cocks keep up their fighting posture,The stranger smiled and said, 'Beyond a doubt'Tis fortunate, my friends, that you have lost your 150United parts of speech, or it had beenImpossible for me to get between.
'Produce! says Nature,—what have you produced?A new strait-waistcoat for the human mind;Are you not limbed, nerved, jointed, arteried, juiced,As other men? yet, faithless to your kind,Rather like noxious insects you are usedTo puncture life's fair fruit, beneath the rindLaying your creed-eggs, whence in time there springConsumers new to eat and buzz and sting. 160
'Work! you have no conception how 'twill sweetenYour views of Life and Nature, God and Man;Had you been forced to earn what you have eaten,Your heaven had shown a less dyspeptic plan;At present your whole function is to eat tenAnd talk ten times as rapidly as you can;Were your shape true to cosmogonic laws,You would be nothing but a pair of jaws.
'Of all the useless beings in creationThe earth could spare most easily you bakers 170Of little clay gods, formed in shape and fashionPrecisely in the image of their makers;Why it would almost move a saint to passion,To see these blind and deaf, the hourly breakersOf God's own image in their brother men,Set themselves up to tell the how, where, when,
'Of God's existence; one's digestion's worse—So makes a god of vengeance and of blood;Another,—but no matter, they reverseCreation's plan, out of their own vile mud 180Pat up a god, and burn, drown, hang, or curseWhoever worships not; each keeps his studOf texts which wait with saddle on and bridleTo hunt down atheists to their ugly idol.
'This, I perceive, has been your occupation;You should have been more usefully employed;All men are bound to earn their daily ration,Where States make not that primal contract voidBy cramps and limits; simple devastationIs the worm's task, and what he has destroyed 190His monument; creating is man's work,And that, too, something more than mist and murk.'
So having said, the youth was seen no more,And straightway our sage Brahmin, the philosopher,Cried, 'That was aimed at thee, thou endless bore,Idle and useless as the growth of moss overA rotting tree-trunk!' 'I would square that scoreFull soon,' replied the Dervise, 'could I cross overAnd catch thee by the beard. Thy nails I'd trimAnd make thee work, as was advised by him. 200
'Work? Am I not at work from morn till nightSounding the deeps of oracles umbilicalWhich for man's guidance never come to light,With all their various aptitudes, until I call?''And I, do I not twirl from left to rightFor conscience' sake? Is that no work? Thou silly gull,He had thee in his eye; 'twas GabrielSent to reward my faith, I know him well.'
'Twas Vishnu, thou vile whirligig!' and soThe good old quarrel was begun anew; 210One would have sworn the sky was black as sloe,Had but the other dared to call it blue;Nor were the followers who fed them slowTo treat each other with their curses, too,Each hating t'other (moves it tears or laughter?)Because he thought him sure of hell hereafter.
At last some genius built a bridge of boatsOver the stream, and Ahmed's zealots filedAcross, upon a mission to (cut throatsAnd) spread religion pure and undefiled; 220They sowed the propagandist's wildest oats,Cutting off all, down to the smallest child,And came back, giving thanks for such fat mercies,To find their harvest gone past prayers or curses.
All gone except their saint's religious hops,Which he kept up with more than common flourish;But these, however satisfying cropsFor the inner man, were not enough to nourishThe body politic, which quickly dropsReserve in such sad junctures, and turns currish; 230So Ahmed soon got cursed for all the famineWhere'er the popular voice could edge a damn in.
At first he pledged a miracle quite boldly.And, for a day or two, they growled and waited;But, finding that this kind of manna coldlySat on their stomachs, they erelong beratedThe saint for still persisting in that old lie,Till soon the whole machine of saintship grated,Ran slow, creaked, stopped, and, wishing him in Tophet,They gathered strength enough to stone the prophet. 240
Some stronger ones contrived (by eatting leather,Their weaker friends, and one thing or another)The winter months of scarcity to weather;Among these was the late saint's younger brother,Who, in the spring, collecting them together,Persuaded them that Ahmed's holy potherHad wrought in their behalf, and that the placeOf Saint should be continued to his race.
Accordingly, 'twas settled on the spotThat Allah favored that peculiar breed; 250Beside, as all were satisfied, 'twould notBe quite respectable to have the needOf public spiritual food forgot;And so the tribe, with proper forms, decreedThat he, and, failing him, his next of kin,Forever for the people's good should spin.
[I have observed, reader (bene-or male-volent, as it may happen), that it is customary to append to the second editions of books, and to the second works of authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, under the title ofNotices of the Press. These, I have been given to understand, are procurable at certain established rates, payment being made either in money or advertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate outlay of servility on the part of the author. Considering these things with myself, and also that such notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial accompaniment of literature, and resembling certificates to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I conceived that it would be not only more economical to prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also more immediately subservient to the end in view to prefix them to this our primary edition rather than to await the contingency of a second, when they would seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching thebobsuntil the second attempt at flying the kite would indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. Neither has it escaped my notice nor failed to afford me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a caravan is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send forward large and highly ornamented bills of performance, to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, truly, the boys also (in whom I find it impossible to repress, even during school-hours, certain oral and telegraphic communications concerning the expected show), upon some fine morning the band enters in a gayly painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets. Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, 'whose looks were as a breeching to a boy.' Then do I perceive, with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage of a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the revolving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes for the first time credible to me (albeit confirmed by the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the period of his exit), as I behold how those strains, without pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, whom I follow into the street, chiefly lest some mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of such a band, I send forward the following notices of domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if our little craft,cymbula sutilis, shall seem to leave port with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually existing specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of natural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied with tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own discourses, which, from its superior tone and appearance of vast experience, I concluded to have been written by a man at least three hundred years of age, though I recollected no existing instance of such antediluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterwards discovered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for the ministry under the direction of one of my brethren in a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinctively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have been forced to omit, from its too great length.—H.W.]
* * * * *
From the Universal Littery Universe.
Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader…. Under a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which should be committed to the memory and engraven on the heart of every moral and social being…. We consider this auniqueperformance…. We hope to see it soon introduced into our common schools…. Mr. Wilbur has performed his duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment…. This is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted…. We hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward the formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, native, and American literature. We rejoice to meet with an author national enough to break away from the slavish deference, too common among us, to English grammar and orthography…. Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make extracts…. On the whole, we may call it a volume which no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to place upon its shelves.
* * * * *
From the Higginbottomopolis Snapping-turtle.
A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it was ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vulgar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We use strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them!) they will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallum-brozer, or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up…. We should like to know how muchBritish goldwas pocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest patriots.
* * * * *
From the Oldfogrumville Mentor.
We have not had time to do more than glance through this handsomely printed volume, but the name of its respectable editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a sufficient guaranty for the worth of its contents…. The paper is white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and attractive size…. In reading this elegantly executed work, it has seemed to us that a passage or two might have been retrenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction was susceptible of a higher polish…. On the whole, we may safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is, for the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expression, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with advantage…. The work is admirably got up…. This work will form an appropriate ornament to the centre table. It is beautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality.
* * * * *
From the Dekay Bulwark.
We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that tremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a man, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us by 'The Biglow Papers' to pass by without entering our earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas! too common) at demoralizing the public sentiment. Under a wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social glass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored institutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the respectable and religious portion of our community should be aroused to the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sansculottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread nature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion and virtue are given from under the cloak (credite, posteri!) of a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the patriot and Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely so called,—they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred precincts of the pulpit…. On the whole, we consider this volume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted would spring out of the late French 'Revolution' (!)
* * * * *
From the Bungtown Copper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try-weakly family journal).
Altogether an admirable work…. Full of humor, boisterous, but delicate,—of wit withering and scorching, yet combined with a pathos cool as morning dew,—of satire ponderous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Saladin…. A work full of 'mountain-mirth,' mischievous as Puck, and lightsome as Ariel…. We know not whether to admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and compass of style, at once both objective and subjective…. We might indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a wonderfulpose, which flits from flower to flower, and bears the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Ganymede) to the 'highest heaven of invention.' … We love a book so purely objective … Many of his pictures of natural scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidelity…. In fine, we consider this as one of the most extraordinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English author who could have written it. It is a work to which the proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up the star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the punier efforts of enslaved Europe…. We hope soon to encounter our author among those higher walks of literature in which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame. Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position in the bright galaxy of our American bards.
* * * * *
From the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom.
A volume in bad grammar and worse taste…. While the pieces here collected were confined to their appropriate sphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered them wholly beneath contempt, but, as the author has chosen to come forward in this public manner, he must expect the lash he so richly merits…. Contemptible slanders…. Vilest Billingsgate…. Has raked all the gutters of our language…. The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians not safe from his malignant venom…. General Cushing comes in for a share of his vile calumnies…. TheReverendHomer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth….
* * * * *
From the World-Harmonic-Æolian-Attachment.
Speech is silver: silence is golden. No utterance more Orphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, we reverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten, we have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) record the thing that is revealed…. Under mask of quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh ship-wracked) soul, thunder-scarred, semi-articulate, but ever climbing hopefully toward the peaceful summits of an Infinite Sorrow…. Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with Hebrew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laughingest mirth. Conceivable enough! Through coarse Thersites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the life-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, careless of the 'nicer proprieties,' inexpert of 'elegant diction,' yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, indiarubber-like salt-marshes of native Jaalam. To this soul also theNecessity of Creatingsomewhat has unveiled its awful front. If not Oedipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then in God's name Birdofredum Sawins! These also shall get born into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsistence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. Yet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses-wanderings, and Divine Comedies,—if only once he could come at them! Therein lies much, nay all; for what truly is this which we nameAll, but that which we donotpossess?… Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not without paternal pride, as is the wont of such. A brown, parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, gray-eyed, we fancy,queuedperhaps, with much weather-cunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair in good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more…. Of 'Rev. Homer Wilbur, A.M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam,' we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in him of his Melesigenes namesake, save, haply, the—blindness! A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long practice and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations (somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, there, 'Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam,' our Hosea presents himself as a quite inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A rich poverty of Latin and Greek,—so far is clear enough, even to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial spectacles,—but naught farther? O purblind, well-meaning, altogether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him incommunicable by stroke of birch! Did it ever enter that old bewildered head of thine that there was thePossibility of the Infinitein him? To thee, quite wingless (and even featherless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever come? 'Talented young parishioner'? Among the Arts whereof thou artMagister, does that ofseeinghappen to be one? UnhappyArtium Magister!Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wildernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild-glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. In heaven's name, go not near him with that flybite crook of thine! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go to the appointed place of departed Artillery-Election Sermons, Right-hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort; thou too, shalt have thy reward; but on him the Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger-threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems; for him paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing unwelcome bit; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far-flashing splendors await.
* * * * *
From the Onion Grove Phoenix.
A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that eminent man with a copy of the 'Biglow Papers.' The next morning he received the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for publication. We prefer to print itverbatim, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into which the lllustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our language.
'I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken full-worthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be upset.
'Pardon my in the English-speech un-practice!
'Von Humbug.'
He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on 'Cosmetics,' to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Department. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and world-renowned German. We love to see these reciprocations of good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race.
[The following genuine 'notice' having met my eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more especially as it contains one of Mr. Biglow's poems not elsewhere printed.—H.W.]
From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss.
… But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. The title of it is 'The Courtin'.'
Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,An' peeked in thru the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther YoungFetched back frum Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her!An' leetle fires danced all aboutThe chlny on the dresser.
The very room, coz she wuz in,Looked warm frum floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz th' apples she wuz peelin'.
She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu,Araspin' on the scraper,—All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the seekle;His heart kep' goin' pitypat,But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yet she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to workEz ef a wager spurred her.
'You want to see my Pa, I spose?''Wall, no; I come designin'—''To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrow's i'nin'.'
He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on tother,An' on which one he felt the wustHe couldn't ha' told ye, nuther.
Sez he, 'I'd better call agin;'Sez she,'Think likely,Mister;'The last word pricked him like a pin,An'—wal, he up and kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kind o'smily round the lipsAn' teary round the lashes.
Her blood riz quick, though, like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,An' all I know is they wuz criedIn meetin', come nex Sunday.
SATIS multis sese emptores futuros libri professis, Georgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiæ naturalis, cum titulo sequente, videlicet:
Conatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonnihil perfectiorem Scarabæi Bombilatoris, vulgo dictiHUMBUG, ab HOMERO WILBUR, Artium Magistro, Societatis historico-naturalis Jaalamensis Præside (Secretario, Socioque (eheu!) singulo), multarumque aliarum Societatum eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tam domesticarum quam transmarinarum Socio—forsitan futuro.
Toga scholastica nondum deposita, quum systemata varia entomologica, a viris ejus scientiæ cultoribus studiosissimis summa diligentia ædificata, penitus indagassem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti perciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum (Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nec ab isto labore, [Greek: daimonios] imposito, abstinui antequam tractatulum sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula perfeceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro ineptiæ [Greek: ton bibliopolon] (necnon 'Publici Legentis') nusquam explorato, me composuisse quod quasi placentas præfervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent credidi. Sed, quum huic et alio bibliopolæ MSS. mea submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa in Musæum meum retulissem, horror ingens atque misericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cerebris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin 'Mundus Scientificus' (ut aiunt) crumenam meam ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo parvulo segetem demessui præter gaudium vacuum bene de Republica merendi. Iste panis meus pretiosus super aquas literarias fæculentas præfidenter jactus, quasi Harpyiaram quarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse tali victu ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo æque ac pueri naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argâ meam chartaceam fluctibus laborantem a quæsitu velleris aurei, ipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida revocavi. Metaphoram ut mutem,boomarangammeam a scopo aberrantem, retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione ministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast mihi, talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille [Greek: paidoboros], liberos intellectûs mei depascere fidenti, casus miserandus, nec antea inauditus, supervenit. Nam, ut ferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimoniæ, parentes suos mortuos devorâsse, sic filius hic meus primogenitus, Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nec tamen hac de causa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque potius habui, cibumque ad eam satiandam, salva paterna mea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad æs etiam concoquendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde æs alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi. Rebus ita se habentibus, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doolittie, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relinquendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus pervenissem. Tune ego, salvum facere patronum meum munificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primæ editionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in omne ævum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo meo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, curæ vociferantes familiæ singulis annis crescentis eo usque insultabant ut nunquam tam carum pignus e vinculis istis aheneis solvere possem.
Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios consanguineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenissem, erectis auribus verba talia sequentia accepi: 'Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepotem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi experientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, beneficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur,—ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in illum magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranominato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nec ponderabiles nec computabiles meas quæ sequuntur, scilicet: quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravit dictus Homerus, anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi opus istud "scientificum" (quod dicunt) suum, si sic elegerit. Tamen D.O.M, precor oculos Homeri nepotis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos in bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus tuto abscondat.'
His verbis vix credibilibus, auditis, cor meum in pectore exsultavit. Deinde, quoniam tractatus Anglice scriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studium Historiæ Naturalis in Republica nostra inter factionis strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statui, et eo potius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo diplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum omnino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste [Greek: panourgos] Guilielmus Cobbett) nos faciant.
Et mihi adhue superstes est tota illa editio prima, quam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos dentibam retineo.
* * * * *
(Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologiæ)
12. S.B.Militaris, WILBUR.Carnifex, JABLONSK.Profanus, DESFONT.
[Male hanece speciemCyclopemFabricius vocat, ut qui singulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero Isaacus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit]
Habitat civitat. Americ. austral.
Aureis lineis splendidus; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote lanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima conatione detruditur.Candidatusergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam publicam callide mulget; abdomen enorme; facultas suctus haud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus; ferox nihilominus, semperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit.
Capite sæpe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimentum etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram.
Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi; nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis pæne humanæ demonstrans.
24. S.B.Criticus, WILBUR.Zoilus, FABRIC.Pygmæus, CARLSEN.
[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctato (Fabric. 64-109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi microscopicæ subjeci, nunquam tamen unum ulla indicia puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.]
Præcipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima anonyma sese abscondit,we, we, creberrime stridens. Ineptus, segnipes.
Habitat ubique gentium; in sicco; nidum suum terebratione indefessa ædificans. Cibus. Libros depascit; siccos præcipue.
* * * * *
Biglow Papers
(for which see page 227.)
The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute.Quarles's Emblems, B. ii. E. 8.
Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti: en, siliquas accipe.Jac. Car. Fil. ad Pub. Leg.Section 1.
It will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary appendages to the editorial name which not only add greatly to the value of every book, but whet and exacerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and scientific societies implies a certain amount of necessary distinction on the part of the recipient of such decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more entirely to an author who writes under the fearful responsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies as theS. Archæol. Dahom.or theAcad. Lit. et Scient. Kamtschat. I cannot but think that the early editions of Shakespeare and Milton would have met with more rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of their respective title-pages; and I believe that, even now, a publisher of the works of either of those justly distinguished men would find his account in procuring their admission to the membership of learned bodies on the Continent,—a proceeding no whit more incongruous than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feeling of the importance of this precaution which induced Mr. Locke to style himself 'Gent.' on the title-page of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentleman.
Nevertheless, finding that, without descending to a smaller size of type than would have been compatible with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I could not compress my intended list within the limits of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my private closet, and there not only exhibit to him the diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, without undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the reach of human ambition and attainment. And I am the rather induced to this from the fact that my name has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial catalogue of our belovedAlma Mater. Whether this is to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, the matter being in course of painful investigation. But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, enriched the library of the Jaalam Athenæum with the old one then in my possession, by which means it has come about that my children will be deprived of a never-wearying winter evening's amusement in looking out the name of their parent in that distinguished roll. Those harmless innocents had at least committed no—but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping of my private diary, intended for posthumous publication. I state this fact here, in order that certain nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch congratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly incensed posterity will apply to their memories.
The careful reader will note that, in the list which I have prepared, I have included the names of several Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and genius, but also because I have never been able to perceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my researches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally reach America, I have discovered no generic difference between the antipodalFogrum Japonicumand theF. Americanum, sufficiently common in our own immediate neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the popular belief that distinctions of this sort are enhanced in value by every additional mile they travel, I have intermixed the names of some tolerably distant literary and other associations with the rest.
I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it may be the more readily understood by those persons especially interested therein, I have written in that curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the writing and reading of which they are accustomed.
Minim. gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest. orans, vir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant. glor. nom. meum (dipl. fort. concess.) catal. vest. temp. futur. affer., ill. subjec., addit. omnib. titul. honorar. qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put.
***Litt. Uncial, distinx. ut Præs. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal.
HOMERUS WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam, S.T.D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, etNeo-Cæs. et Brun. et Gulielm. 1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. etGeorgiop. et Viridimont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst. etWatervill. et S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, et S. And. Scot.1854. et Nashvill. et Dart. et Dickins. et Concord. et Wash. etColumbian. et Charlest. et Jeff. et Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab. et Cæt.1855. P.U.N.C.H. et J.U.D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et Acad.BORE US. Berolin. Soc., et SS. RR. Lugd. Bat. et Patav. et Lond. etEdinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr. et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S.H.S etS.P.A. et A.A.S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. Aliar.Promov. Passamaquod. et H.P.C. et I.O.H, et [Greek: A.D.Ph.] et[Greek: P.K.P.] et [Greek: Ph.B.K.] et Peucin. et Erosoph. etPhiladelph. et Frat. in Unit. et [Greek: S.T.] et S. Archæolog.Athen. et Acad. Scient, et Lit. Panorm. et SS.R.H. Matrit. etBeeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M.S. Reg. Paris, et S. Am.Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P.D. Gott. et LL.D. 1852, et D.C.L. et Mus. Doc.Oxon. 1860, et M.M.S.S. et M.D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. Harv. Soc. etS. pro Convers. Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgl. Piggl. et LL.B. 1853, etS. pro Christianiz. Moschet. Soc. et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc.Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. General. Tenebr.Secret. Corr.
When, more than three years ago, my talented young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and submitted to my animadversions the first of his poems which he intended to commit to the more hazardous trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered my imagination to conceive that his productions would ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into the august presence of the reading public by myself.
So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict the event! I confess that there is to me a quite new satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleeping partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For there is always this drawback from the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough to make a separate volume, those religious and godly-minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them so) of the brain must at first be buried in an undistinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapped with a score of others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of distinction than the word 'Miscellaneous' printed upon the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I know myself, I am measurably free from the itch of vanity; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not backward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery, acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point which, in our rustic phrase, is termedshut-eyed) flavor, not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own, here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and authorship.[9]
I was at first inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's attempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, who might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest friends and relatives. But thinking, on a further experience that there was a germ of promise in him which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds from about it, I thought it best to set before him the acknowledged examples of English composition in verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With this view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, he brought me some verses written upon that model, a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objectionable to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortunate education began in a country village. And, first, let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school-dame.
'Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now, I seeThe humble school-house of my A, B, C,Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire,Waited in ranks the wished command to fire,Then all together, when the signal came,Discharged theira-b absagainst the dame.Daughter of Danaus, who could daily pourIn treacherous pipkins her Pierian store,She, mid the volleyed learning firm and calm,Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm,And, to our wonder, could divine at onceWho flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.
'There young Devotion learned to climb with easeThe gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees,And he was most commended and admiredWho soonest to the topmost twig perspired;Each name was called as many various waysAs pleased the reader's ear on different days,So that the weather, or the ferule's stings,Colds in the head, or fifty other things,Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a weekTo guttural Pequot or resounding Greek,The vibrant accent skipping here and there,Just as it pleased invention or despair;No controversial Hebraist was the Dame;With or without the points pleased her the same;If any tyro found a name too tough.And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough;She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing,And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.
'Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap,Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap;From books degraded, there I sat at ease,A drone, the envy of compulsory bees;Rewards of merit, too, full many a time,Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme,And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gayAbout my neck (to be restored next day)I carried home, rewards as shining thenAs those that deck the lifelong pains of men,More solid than the redemanded praiseWith which the world beribbons later days.
'Ah, dear old times! how brightly ye return!How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces burn!The ramble schoolward through dewsparkling meads,The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds,The impromptu pin-bent hook, the deep remorseO'er the chance-captured minnow's inchlong corse;The pockets, plethoric with marbles round,That still a space for ball and peg-top found,Nor satiate yet, could manage to confineHorsechestnuts, flagroot, and the kite's wound twine,Nay, like the prophet's carpet could take in,Enlarging still, the popgun's magazine;The dinner carried in the small tin pail,Shared with some dog, whose most beseeching tailAnd dripping tongue and eager ears beliedThe assumed indifference of canine pride;The caper homeward, shortened if the cartOf Neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the mart,O'ertook me,—then, translated to the seatI praised the steed, how stanch he was and fleet,While the bluff farmer, with superior grin,Explained where horses should be thick, where thin,And warned me (joke he always had in store)To shun a beast that four white stockings wore.What a fine natural courtesy was his!His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss;How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor rapt,Its curve decorous to each rank adapt!How did it graduate with a courtly easeThe whole long scale of social differences,Yet so gave each his measure running o'er,None thought his own was less, his neighbor's more;The squire was flattered, and the pauper knewOld times acknowledged 'neath the threadbare blue!Dropped at the corner of the embowered lane,Whistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again,While eager Argus, who has missed all dayThe sharer of his condescending play,Comes leaping onward with a bark elateAnd boisterous tail to greet me at the gate;That I was true in absence to our loveLet the thick dog's-ears in my primer prove.'
I add only one further extract, which will possess a melancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to glean the materials of revolutionary history from the lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, continued the supply in an adequate proportion to the demand.
'Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goadHis slow artillery lip the Concord road,A tale which grew in wonder, year by year,As, every time he told it, Joe drew nearTo the main fight, till, faded and grown gray,The original scene to bolder tints gave way;Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quickBeat on stove drum with one un-captured stick,And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop,Himself had fired, and seen a redcoat drop;Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fightHad squared more nearly with his sense of right,And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale,Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.'
I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the HarvardGratulatioon the accession of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young friend could never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue,—that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-strickentick, tick, after all,—and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius.
Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a further effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided by the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows:—
Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,One Sundy mornin' 'greed to goAgunnin' soon 'z the bells wuz doneAnd meetin' finally begun,So'st no one wouldn't be aboutTher Sabbath-breakin' to spy out.
Joe didn't want to go a mite;He felt ez though 'twarn't skeercely right,But, when his doubts he went to speak on,Isrel he up and called him Deacon,An' kep' apokin' fun like sinAn' then arubbin' on it in,Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrongThan bein' laughed at, went along.
Past noontime they went trampin' roundAn' nary thing to pop at found,Till, fairly tired o' their spree,They leaned their guns agin a tree,An' jest ez they wuz settin' downTo take their noonin', Joe looked roun'And see (acrost lots in a pondThat warn't mor'n twenty rod beyond)A goose that on the water sotEz ef awaitin' to be shot.
Isrel he ups and grabs his gun;Sez he, 'By ginger, here's some fun!''Don't fire,' sez Joe, 'it ain't no use,Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wil'-goose:'Sez Isrel, 'I don't care a cent.I've sighted an' I'll let her went;'Bang!went queen's-arm, ole gander floppedHis wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped.
Sez Joe, 'I wouldn't ha' been hiredAt that poor critter to ha' fired,But since it's clean gin up the ghost,We'll hev the tallest kind o' roast;I guess our waistbands'll be tight'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight.'
'I won't agree to no such bender,'Sez Isrel; 'keep it tell it's tender;'Tain't wuth a snap afore it's ripe.'Sez Joe, 'I'd jest ez lives eat tripe;Youaira buster ter supposeI'd eat what makes me hol' my nose!'
So they disputed to an' froTill cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe,'Don't le's stay here an' play the fool,Le's wait till both on us git cool,Jest for a day or two le's hide it,An' then toss up an' so decide it.''Agreed!' sez Joe, an' so they did,An' the ole goose wuz safely hid.
Now 'twuz the hottest kind o' weather,An' when at last they come together,It didn't signify which won,Fer all the mischief hed been done:The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul,Joe wouldn't ha' tetched it with a pole;But Isrel kind o' liked the smell on 'tAn' madehisdinner very well on 't.
My own humble attempt was in manner and form following, and I print it here, I sincerely trust, out of no vainglory, but solely with the hope of doing good.
Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair,Together dwelt (no matter where),To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one,Had left a house and farm in common.The two in principles and habitsWere different as rats from rabbits;Stout Farmer North, with frugal care,Laid up provision for his heir,Not scorning with hard sun-browned handsTo scrape acquaintance with his lands;Whatever thing he had to doHe did, and made it pay him, too;He sold his waste stone by the pound,His drains made water-wheels spin round,His ice in summer-time he sold,His wood brought profit when 'twas cold,He dug and delved from morn till night,Strove to make profit square with right,Lived on his means, cut no great dash,And paid his debts in honest cash.
On tother hand, his brother SouthLived very much from hand to mouth.Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands,Borrowed North's money on his lands,And culled his morals and his gracesFrom cock-pits, bar-rooms, fights, and races;His sole work in the farming lineWas keeping droves of long-legged swine,Which brought great bothers and expensesTo North in looking after fences,And, when they happened to break through,Cost him both time and temper too,For South insisted it was plainHe ought to drive them home again,And North consented to the workBecause he loved to buy cheap pork.
Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast;His farm became too small at last;So, having thought the matter over,And feeling bound to live in cloverAnd never pay the clover's worth,He said one day to Brother North:—
'Our families are both increasing,And, though we labor without ceasing,Our produce soon will be too scantTo keep our children out of want;They who wish fortune to be lastingMust be both prudent and forecasting;We soon shall need more land; a lotI know, that cheaply can be bo't;You lend the cash, I'll buy the acres.And we'll be equally partakers.'
Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon bloodGave him a hankering after mud,Wavered a moment, then consented,And, when the cash was paid, repented;To make the new land worth a pin,Thought he, it must be all fenced in,For, if South's swine once get the run on 'tNo kind of farming can be done on 't;If that don't suit the other side,'Tis best we instantly divide.'
But somehow South could ne'er inclineThis way or that to run the line,And always found some new pretence'Gainst setting the division fence;At last he said:—'For peace's sake,Liberal concessions I will make;Though I believe, upon my soul,I've a just title to the whole,I'll make an offer which I callGen'rous,—we'll have no fence at all;Then both of us, whene'er we choose,Can take what part we want to use;If you should chance to need it first,Pick you the best, I'll take the worst.'
'Agreed!' cried North; thought he, This fallWith wheat and rye I'll sow it all;In that way I shall get the start,And South may whistle for his part.So thought, so done, the field was sown,And, winter haying come and gone,Sly North walked blithely forth to spy,The progress of his wheat and rye;Heavens, what a sight! his brother's swineHad asked themselves all out to dine;Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving,The soil seemed all alive and moving,As for his grain, such work they'd made on 't,He couldn't spy a single blade on 't.
Off in a rage he rushed to South,'My wheat and rye'—grief choked his mouth:'Pray don't mind me,' said South, 'but plantAll of the new land that you want;''Yes, but your hogs,' cried North;
'The grainWon't hurt them,' answered South again;'But they destroy my crop;'
'No doubt;'Tis fortunate you've found it out;Misfortunes teach, and only they,You must not sow it in their way;''Nay, you,' says North, 'must keep them out;''Did I create them with a snout?'Asked South demurely; 'as agreed,The land is open to your seed,And would you fain prevent my pigsFrom running there their harmless rigs?God knows I view this compromiseWith not the most approving eyes;I gave up my unquestioned rightsFor sake of quiet days and nights;I offered then, you know 'tis true,To cut the piece of land in two.''Then cut it now,' growls North;
'AbateYour heat,' says South, 'tis now too late;I offered you the rocky corner,But you, of your own good the scorner,Refused to take it: I am sorry;No doubt you might have found a quarry,Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know,Containing heaps of native rhino;You can't expect me to resignMy rights'—
'But where,' quoth North, 'are mine?''Yourrights,' says tother, 'well, that's funny,Ibought the land'—'Ipaid the money;''That,' answered South, 'is from the point,The ownership, you'll grant, is joint;I'm sure my only hope and trust isNot law so much as abstract justice,Though, you remember, 'twas agreedThat so and so—consult the deed;Objections now are out of date,They might have answered once, but FateQuashes them at the point we've got to;Obsta principiisthat's my motto.'So saying, South began to whistleAnd looked as obstinate as gristle,While North went homeward, each brown pawClenched like a knot of natural law,And all the while, in either ear,Heard something clicking wondrous clear.
To turn now to other matters, there are two things upon which it should seem fitting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place,—the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil.
New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto thirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, if the Greek might boast his Thermopylæ, where three hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invinciblestorgethat drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west-wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown.
As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud be long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long a-healing, and an east-wind of hard times puts a new ache into every one of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmistress, Necessity. Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half-master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what willdo, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no [Greek: pou sto] but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthusiasm, such sour-faced-humor, such close-fisted-generosity. This newGræculus esurienswill make a living out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterward.In coelum, jusseris, ibit,—or the other way either,—it is all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remains. He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in the world of the Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan.