'Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in seQuam quod ridiculos homines facit.'
I rejoice in the President's late Message, which at last proclaims theGovernment on the side of freedom, justice, and sound policy.
As I write, comes the news of our disaster at Hampton Roads. I do not understand the supineness which, after fair warning, leaves wood to an unequal conflict with iron. It is not enough merely to have the right on our side, if we stick to the old flint-lock of tradition. I have observed in my parochial experience (haud ignarus mali) that the Devil is prompt to adopt the latest inventions of destructive warfare, and may thus take even such a three-decker as Bishop Butler at an advantage. It is curious, that, as gunpowder made armour useless on shore, so armour is having its revenge by baffling its old enemy at sea; and that, while gunpowder robbed land warfare of nearly all its picturesqueness to give even greater stateliness and sublimity to a sea-fight, armour bids fair to degrade the latter into a squabble between two iron-shelled turtles.
Yours, with esteem and respect,
P.S.—I had wellnigh forgotten to say that the object of this letter is to enclose a communication from the gifted pen of Mr. Biglow.
I sent you a messige, my friens, t'other day,To tell you I'd nothin' pertickler to say:'twuz the day our new nation gut kin' o' stillborn,So 'twuz my pleasant dooty t' acknowledge the corn,An' I see clearly then, ef I didn't before,Thet theaugurin inauguration meansbore.I needn't tellyouthet my messige wuz writtenTo diffuse correc' notions in France an' Gret Britten,An' agin to impress on the poppylar mindThe comfort an' wisdom o' goin' it blind,— 10To say thet I didn't abate not a hooterO' my faith in a happy an' glorious futur',Ez rich in each soshle an' p'litickle blessin'Ez them thet we now hed the joy o' possessin',With a people united, an' longin' to dieFor wutwecall their country, without askin' why,An' all the gret things we concluded to slope forEz much within reach now ez ever—to hope for.We've gut all the ellerments, this very hour,Thet make up a fus'-class, self-governin' power: 20We've a war, an' a debt, an' a flag; an' ef thisAin't to be inderpendunt, why, wut on airth is?An' nothin' now henders our takin' our stationEz the freest, enlightenedest, civerlized nation,Built up on our bran'-new politickle thesisThet a Gov'ment's fust right is to tumble to pieces,—I say nothin' henders our takin' our placeEz the very fus'-best o' the whole human race,A spittin' tobacker ez proud ez you pleaseOn Victory's bes' carpets, or loaf-in' at ease 30In the Tool'ries front-parlor, discussin' affairsWith our heels on the backs o' Napoleon's new chairs,An' princes a-mixin' our cocktails an' slings,—Excep', wal, excep' jest a very few things,Sech ez navies an' armies an' wherewith to pay,An' gettin' our sogers to run t'other way,An' not be too over-pertickler in tryin'To hunt up the very las' ditches to die in.
Ther' are critters so base thet they want it explainedJes' wut is the totle amount thet we've gained, 40Ez ef we could maysure stupenjious eventsBy the low Yankee stan'ard o' dollars an' cents:They seem to forgit, thet, sence last year revolved,We've succeeded in gittin' seceshed an' dissolved,An' thet no one can't hope to git thru dissolootion'thout some kin' o' strain on the best Constitootion.Who asks for a prospec' more flettrin' an' bright,When from here clean to Texas it's all one free fight?Hain't we rescued from Seward the gret leadin' featursThet makes it wuth while to be reasonin' creators? 50Hain't we saved Habus Coppers, improved it in fact,By suspendin' the Unionists 'stid o' the Act?Ain't the laws free to all? Where on airth else d' ye seeEvery freeman improvin' his own rope an' tree?Ain't our piety sech (in our speeches an' messiges)Ez t' astonish ourselves in the bes'-composed pessiges,An' to make folks thet knowed us in th' ole state o' thingsThink convarsion ez easy ez drinkin' gin-slings?It's ne'ssary to take a good confident toneWith the public; but here, jest amongst us, I own 60Things look blacker 'n thunder. Ther' 's no use denyin'We're clean out o' money, an' 'most out o' lyin';Two things a young nation can't mennage without,Ef she wants to look wal at her fust comin' out;For the fust supplies physickle strength, while the secondGives a morril advantage thet's hard to be reckoned:For this latter I'm willin' to du wut I can;For the former you'll hev to consult on a plan,—Though ourfustwant (an' this pint I want your best views on)Is plausible paper to print I.O.U.s on. 70Some gennlemen think it would cure all our cankersIn the way o' finance, ef we jes' hanged the bankers;An' I own the proposle 'ud square with my views,Ef their lives wuzn't all thet we'd left 'em to lose.Some say thet more confidence might be inspired,Ef we voted our cities an' towns to be fired,—A plan thet 'ud suttenly tax our endurance,Coz 'twould be our own bills we should git for th' insurance;But cinders, no matter how sacred we think 'em,Mightn't strike furrin minds ez good sources of income, 80Nor the people, perhaps, wouldn't like the eclawO' bein' all turned into paytriots by law.Some want we should buy all the cotton an' burn it,On a pledge, when we've gut thru the war, to return it,—Then to take the proceeds an' holdthemez securityFor an issue o' bonds to be met at maturityWith an issue o' notes to be paid in hard cashOn the fus' Monday follerin' the 'tarnal Allsmash:This hez a safe air, an', once hold o' the gold,'ud leave our vile plunderers out in the cold, 90An'mighttemp' John Bull, ef it warn't for the dip heOnce gut from the banks o' my own Massissippi.Some think we could make, by arrangin' the figgers,A hendy home-currency out of our niggers;But it wun't du to lean much on ary sech staff,For they're gittin' tu current a'ready, by half.
One gennleman says, ef we lef' our loan outWhere Floyd could git hold on 'the'd take it, no doubt;But 'tain't jes' the takin', though 't hez a good look,We mus' git sunthin' out on it arter it's took, 100An' we need now more'n ever, with sorrer I own,Thet some one another should let us a loan,Sence a soger wun't fight, on'y jes' while he draws hisPay down on the nail, for the best of all causes,'thout askin' to know wut the quarrel's about,—An' once come to thet, why, our game is played out.It's ez true ez though I shouldn't never hev said it,Thet a hitch hez took place in our system o' credit;I swear it's all right in my speeches an' messiges,But ther's idees afloat, ez ther' is about sessiges: 110Folks wun't take a bond ez a basis to trade on,Without nosin' round to find out wut it's made on,An' the thought more an' more thru the public min' crossesThet our Treshry hez gut 'mos' too many dead hosses.Wut's called credit, you see, is some like a balloon,Thet looks while it's up 'most ez harnsome 'z a moon,But once git a leak in 't, an' wut looked so grandCaves righ' down in a jiffy ez flat ez your hand.Now the world is a dreffle mean place, for our sins,Where ther' ollus is critters about with long pins 120A-prickin' the bubbles we've blowed with sech care,An' provin' ther' 's nothin' inside but bad air:They're all Stuart Millses, poor-white trash, an' sneaks,Without no more chivverlry 'n Choctaws or Creeks,Who think a real gennleman's promise to payIs meant to be took in trade's ornery way:Them fellers an' I couldn' never agree;They're the nateral foes o' the Southun Idee;I'd gladly take all of our other resks on meTo be red o' this low-lived politikle 'con'my! 130
Now a dastardly notion is gittin' aboutThet our bladder is bust an' the gas oozin' out,An' onless we can mennage in some way to stop it,Why, the thing's a gone coon, an' we might ez wal drop it.Brag works wal at fust, but it ain't jes' the thingFor a stiddy inves'ment the shiners to bring,An' votin' we're prosp'rous a hundred times overWun't change bein' starved into livin' in clover.Manassas done sunthin' tow'rds drawin' the woolO'er the green, antislavery eyes o' John Bull: 140Oh,warn'tit a godsend, jes' when sech tight fixesWuz crowdin' us mourners, to throw double-sixes!I wuz tempted to think, an' it wuzn't no wonder,Ther' wuz really a Providence,—over or under,—When, all packed for Nashville, I fust ascertainedFrom the papers up North wut a victory we'd gained.'twuz the time for diffusin' correc' views abroadOf our union an' strength an' relyin' on God;An', fact, when I'd gut thru my fust big surprise,I much ez half b'lieved in my own tallest lies, 150An' conveyed the idee thet the whole Southun popperlaceWuz Spartans all on the keen jump for Thermopperlies,Thet set on the Lincolnites' bombs till they bust,An' fight for the priv'lege o' dyin' the fust;But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an' the restOf our recent starn-foremost successes out West,Hain't left us a foot for our swellin' to stand on,—We've showedtoomuch o' wut Buregard callsabandon,For all our Thermopperlies (an' it's a marcyWe hain't hed no more) hev ben clean vicy-varsy, 160An' wut Spartans wuz lef' when the battle wuz doneWuz them thet wuz too unambitious to run.
Oh, ef we hed on'y jes' gut Reecognition,Things now would ha' ben in a different position!You'd ha' hed all you wanted: the paper blockadeSmashed up into toothpicks; unlimited tradeIn the one thing thet's needfle, till niggers, I swow,Hed ben thicker'n provisional shin-plasters now;Quinine by the ton 'ginst the shakes when they seize ye;Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie; 170The voice of the driver'd be heerd in our land,An' the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand:Wouldn'tthetbe some like a fulfillin' the prophecies,With all the fus' fem'lies in all the fust offices?'twuz a beautiful dream, an' all sorrer is idle,—ButefLincolnwouldha' hanged Mason an' Slidell!For wouldn't the Yankees hev found they'd ketched Tartars,Ef they'd raised two sech critters as them into martyrs?MasonwuzF.F.V., though a cheap card to win on,But t'other was jes' New York trash to begin on; 180They ain't o' no good in European pellices,But think wut a help they'd ha' ben on their gallowses!They'd ha' felt they wuz truly fulfillin' their mission,An' oh, how dog-cheap we'd ha' gut Reecognition!
But somehow another, wutever we've tried,Though the the'ry's fust-rate, the facswun'tcoincide:Facs are contrary 'z mules, an' ez hard in the mouth,An' they allus hev showed a mean spite to the South.Sech bein' the case, we hed best look aboutFor some kin' o' way to slipournecks out: 190Le's vote our las' dollar, ef one can be found,(An', at any rate, votin' it hez a good sound,)—Le''s swear thet to arms all our people is flyin',(The critters can't read, an' wun't know how we're lyin',)—Thet Toombs is advancin' to sack Cincinnater,With a rovin' commission to pillage an' slahter,—Thet we've throwed to the winds all regard for wut's lawfle,An' gone in for sunthin' promiscu'sly awfle.Ye see, hitherto, it's our own knaves an' foolsThet we've used, (those for whetstones, an' t'others ez tools,) 200An' now our las' chance is in puttin' to testThe same kin' o' cattle up North an' out West,—Your Belmonts, Vallandighams, Woodses, an' sech,Poor shotes thet ye couldn't persuade us to tech,Not in ornery times, though we're willin' to feed 'emWith a nod now an' then, when we happen to need 'em;Why, for my part, I'd ruther shake hands with a niggerThan with cusses that load an' don't darst dror a trigger;They're the wust wooden nutmegs the Yankees perdooce,Shaky everywheres else, an' jes' sound on the goose; 210They ain't wuth a cuss, an' I set nothin' by 'em,But we're in sech a fix thet I s'pose we mus' try 'em.I—But, Gennlemen, here's a despatch jes' come inWhich shows thet the tide's begun turnin' agin',—Gret Cornfedrit success! C'lumbus eevacooated!I mus' run down an' hev the thing properly stated,An' show wut a triumph it is, an' how luckyTo fin'lly git red o' thet cussed Kentucky,—An' how, sence Fort Donelson, winnin' the dayConsists in triumphantly gittin' away. 220
No. V
JAALAM, 12th April, 1862.
GENTLEMEN,—As I cannot but hope that the ultimate, if not speedy, success of the national arms is now sufficiently ascertained, sure as I am of the righteousness of our cause and its consequent claim on the blessing of God, (for I would not show a faith inferior to that of the Pagan historian with hisFacile evenit quod Dis cordi est,) it seems to me a suitable occasion to withdraw our minds a moment from the confusing din of battle to objects of peaceful and permanent interest. Let us not neglect the monuments of preterite history because what shall be history is so diligently making under our eyes.Cras ingens iterabimus æquor;to-morrow will be time enough for that stormy sea; to-day let me engage the attention of your readers with the Runick inscription to whose fortunate discovery I have heretofore alluded. Well may we say with the poet,Multa renascuntur quæ jam cecidere. And I would premise, that, although I can no longer resist the evidence of my own senses from the stone before me to the ante-Columbian discovery of this continent by the Northmen,gens inclytissima, as they are called in a Palermitan inscription, written fortunately in a less debatable character than that which I am about to decipher, yet I would by no means be understood as wishing to vilipend the merits of the great Genoese, whose name will never be forgotten so long as the inspiring strains of 'Hail Columbia' shall continue to be heard. Though he must be stripped also of whatever praise may belong to the experiment of the egg, which I find proverbially attributed by Castilian authors to a certain Juanito or Jack, (perhaps an offshoot of our giant-killing mythus,) his name will still remain one of the most illustrious of modern times. But the impartial historian owes a duty likewise to obscure merit, and my solicitude to render a tardy justice is perhaps quickened by my having known those who, had their own field of labour been less secluded, might have found a readier acceptance with the reading publick, I could give an example, but I forbear:forsitan nostris ex ossibus oritur ultor.
Touching Runick inscriptions, I find that they may lie classed under three general heads; 1º. Those which are understood by the Danish Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and Professor Rafn, their Secretary; 2º. Those which are comprehensible only by Mr. Rafn; and 3º. Those which neither the Society, Mr. Rafn, nor anybody else can be said in any definite sense to understand, and which accordingly offer peculiar temptations to enucleating sagacity. These last are naturally deemed the most valuable by intelligent antiquaries, and to this class the stone now in my possession fortunately belongs. Such give a picturesque variety to ancient events, because susceptible oftentimes of as many interpretations as there are individual archæologists; and since facts are only the pulp in which the Idea or event-seed is softly imbedded till it ripen, it is of little consequence what colour or flavour we attribute to them, provided it be agreeable. Availing myself of the obliging assistance of Mr. Arphaxad Bowers, an ingenious photographick artist, whose house-on-wheels has now stood for three years on our Meeting-House Green, with the somewhat contradictory inscription,—'our motto is onward,'—I have sent accurate copies of my treasure to many learned men and societies, both native and European. I may hereafter communicate their different and (me judice) equally erroneous solutions. I solicit also, Messrs. Editors, your own acceptance of the copy herewith enclosed. I need only premise further, that the stone itself is a goodly block of metamorphick sandstone, and that the Runes resemble very nearly the ornithichnites or fossil bird-tracks of Dr. Hitchcock, but with less regularity or apparent design than is displayed by those remarkable geological monuments. These are rather thenon bene junctarum discordia semina rerum. Resolved to leave no door open to cavil, I first of all attempted the elucidation of this remarkable example of lithick literature by the ordinary modes, but with no adequate return for my labour. I then considered myself amply justified in resorting to that heroick treatment the felicity of which, as applied by the great Bentley to Milton, had long ago enlisted my admiration. Indeed, I had already made up my mind, that, in case good fortune should throw any such invaluable record in my way, I would proceed with it in the following simple and satisfactory method. Alter a cursory examination, merely sufficing for an approximative estimate of its length, I would write down a hypothetical inscription based upon antecedent probabilities, and then proceed to extract from the characters engraven on the stone a meaning as nearly as possible conformed to thisa prioriproduct of my own ingenuity. The result more than justified my hopes, inasmuch as the two inscriptions were made without any great violence to tally in all essential particulars. I then proceeded, not without some anxiety, to my second test, which was, to read the Runick letters diagonally, and again with the same success. With an excitement pardonable under the circumstances, yet tempered with thankful humility, I now applied my last and severest trial, myexperimentum crucis. I turned the stone, now doubly precious in my eyes, with scrupulous exactness upside down. The physical exertion so far displaced my spectacles as to derange for a moment the focus of vision. I confess that it was with some tremulousness that I readjusted them upon my nose, and prepared my mind to bear with calmness any disappointment that might ensue. But,O albo dies notanda lapillo!what was my delight to find that the change of position had effected none in the sense of the writing, even by so much as a single letter! I was now, and justly, as I think, satisfied of the conscientious exactness of my interpretation. It is as follows:
that is, drew smoke through a reed stem. In other words, we have here a record of the first smoking of the herbNicotiana Tabacumby an European on this continent. The probable results of this discovery are so vast as to baffle conjecture. If it be objected, that the smoking of a pipe would hardly justify the setting up of a memorial stone, I answer, that even now the Moquis Indian, ere he takes his first whiff, bows reverently toward the four quarters of the sky in succession, and that the loftiest monuments have been read to perpetuate fame, which is the dream of the shadow of smoke. TheSaga, it will be remembered, leaves this Bjarna to a fate something like that of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, on board a sinking ship in the 'wormy sea,' having generously given up his place in the boat to a certain Icelander. It is doubly pleasant, therefore, to meet with this proof that the brave old man arrived safely in Vinland, and that his declining years were cheered by the respectful attentions of the dusky denizens of our then uninvaded forest. Most of all was I gratified, however, in thus linking forever the name of my native town with one of the most momentous occurrences of modern times. Hitherto Jalaam, though in soil, climate, and geographical position as highly qualified to be the theatre of remarkable historical incidents as any spot on the earth's surface, has been, if I may say it without seeming to question the wisdom of Providence, almost maliciously neglected, as it might appear, by occurrences of world-wide interest in want of a situation. And in matters of this nature it must be confessed that adequate events are as necessary as thevates sacerto record them. Jaalam stood always modestly ready, but circumstances made no fitting response to her generous intentions. Now, however, she assumes her place on the historick roll. I have hitherto been a zealous opponent of the Circean herb, but I shall now reëxamine the question without bias.
I am aware that the Rev. Jonas Tutchel, in a recent communication to the 'Bogus Four Corners Weekly Meridian,' has endeavored to show that this is the sepulchral inscription of Thorwald Eriksson, who, as is well-known, was slain in Vinland by the natives. But I think he has been misled by a preconceived theory, and cannot but feel that he has thus made an ungracious return for my allowing him to inspect the stone with the aid of my own glasses (he having by accident left his at home) and in my own study. The heathen ancients might have instructed this Christian minister in the rites of hospitality; but much is to be pardoned to the spirit of self-love. He must indeed be ingenious who can make out the wordshèr hvilirfrom any characters in the inscription in question, which, whatever else it may be, is certainly not mortuary. And even should the reverend gentleman succeed in persuading some fantastical wits of the soundness of his views, I do not see what useful end he will have gained. For if the English Courts of Law hold the testimony of gravestones from the burial-grounds of Protestant dissenters to be questionable, even where it is essential in proving a descent, I cannot conceive that the epitaphial assertions of heathens should be esteemed of more authority by any man of orthodox sentiments.
At this moment, happening to cast my eyes upon the stone, whose characters a transverse light from my southern window brings out with singular distinctness, another interpretation has occurred to me, promising even more interesting results. I hasten to close my letter in order to follow at once the clue thus providentially suggested.
I inclose, as usual, a contribution from Mr. Biglow, and remain,
Gentlemen, with esteem and respect,
Your Obedient Humble Servant,
I thank ye, my frien's, for the warmth o' your greetin':Ther' 's few airthly blessin's but wut's vain an' fleetin';But ef ther' is one thet hain'tnocracks an' flaws,An' is wuth goin' in for, it's pop'lar applause;It sends up the sperits ez lively ez rockets,An' I feel it—wal, down to the eend o' my pockets.Jes' lovin' the people is Canaan in view,But it's Canaan paid quarterly t' hev 'em love you;It's a blessin' thet's breakin' out ollus in fresh spots;It's a-follerin' Moses 'thout losin' the flesh-pots. 10But, Gennlemen, 'scuse me, I ain't sech a raw cusEz to go luggin' ellerkence into a caucus,—Thet is, into one where the call comprehen'sNut the People in person, but on'y their frien's;I'm so kin' o' used to convincin' the massesOf th' edvantage o' bein' self-governin' asses,I forgut thetwe're all o' the sort thet pull wiresAn' arrange for the public their wants an' desires,An' thet wut we hed met for wuz jes' to agreeWut the People's opinions in futur' should be. 20
Now, to come to the nub, we've ben all disappinted,An' our leadin' idees are a kind o' disjinted,Though, fur ez the nateral man could discern,Things ough' to ha' took most an oppersite turn.But The'ry is jes' like a train on the rail,Thet, weather or no, puts her thru without fail,While Fac' 's the ole stage thet gits sloughed in the ruts,An' hez to allow for your darned efs an' buts,An' so, nut intendin' no pers'nal reflections,They don't—don't nut allus, thet is,—make connections: 30Sometimes, when it really doos seem thet they'd oughterCombine jest ez kindly ez new rum an' water,Both'll be jest ez sot in their ways ez a bagnet,Ez otherwise-minded ez th' eends of a magnet,An' folks like you 'n' me, thet ain't ept to be sold,Git somehow or 'nother left out in the cold.
I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a row,Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln is now,With Taney to say 'twuz all legle an' fair,An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to swear 40Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into the ditchBy the fault o' the North in misplacin' the switch.Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss 'em;But the People—they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em!Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 'z you may say,Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean away?An' doosn't the right primy-fashy includeThe bein' entitled to nut be subdued?The fect is, we'd gone for the Union so strong,When Union meant South ollus right an' North wrong, 50Thet the People gut fooled into thinkin' it mightWorry on middlin' wal with the North in the right.We might ha' ben now jest ez prosp'rous ez France,Where p'litikle enterprise hez a fair chance,An' the People is heppy an' proud et this hour,Long ez they hev the votes, to let Nap hey the power;Butourfolks they went an' believed wut we'd told 'emAn', the flag once insulted, no mortle could hold 'em.'Twuz pervokin' jest when we wuz cert'in to win,—And I, for one, wun't trust the masses agin: 60For a People thet knows much ain't fit to be freeIn the self-cockin', back-action style o' J.D.
I can't believe now but wut half on 't is lies;For who'd thought the North wuz agoin' to rise,Or take the pervokin'est kin' of a stump,'thout 'twuz sunthin' ez pressin' ez Gabr'el's las' trump?Or who'd ha' supposed, artersechswell an' bluster'bout the lick-ary-ten-on-ye fighters they'd muster,Raised by hand on briled lightnin', ez op'lent 'z you pleaseIn a primitive furrest ol femmily-trees,— 70Who'd ha' thought thet them Southuners ever 'ud showStarns with pedigrees to 'em like theirn to the foe,Or, when the vamosin' come, ever to findNat'ral masters in front an' mean white folks behind?By ginger, ef I'd ha' known half I know now,When I wuz to Congress, I wouldn't, I swow,Hey let 'em cair on so high-minded an' sarsy,'thoutsomeshow o' wut you may call vicy-varsy.To be sure, we wuz under a contrac' jes' thenTo be dreffle forbearin' towards Southun men; 80We hed to go sheers in preservin' the bellance;An' ez they seemed to feel they wuz wastin' their tellents'thout some un to kick, 'twarn't more 'n proper, you know,Each should furnish his part; an' sence they found the toe,An' we wuzn't cherubs—wal, we found the buffer,For fear thet the Compromise System should suffer.
I wun't say the plan hedn't onpleasant featurs,—For men are perverse an' onreasonin' creaturs,An' forgit thet in this life 'tain't likely to heppenTheir own privit fancy should ollus be cappen,— 90But it worked jest ez smooth ez the key of a safe,An' the gret Union bearin's played free from all chafe.They warn't hard to suit, ef they hed their own way,An' we (thet is, some on us) made the thing pay:'twuz a fair give-an'-take out of Uncle Sam's heap;Ef they took wut warn't theirn, wut we give come ez cheap;The elect gut the offices down to tide-waiter,The people took skinnin' ez mild ez a tater.Seemed to choose who they wanted tu, footed the bills,An' felt kind o' 'z though they wuz havin' their wills, 100Which kep' 'em ez harmless an' cherfle ez crickets,While all we invested wuz names on the tickets;Wal, ther' 's nothin', for folks fond o' lib'ral consumptionFree o' charge, like democ'acy tempered with gumption!
Now warn't thet a system wuth pains in presarvin',Where the people found jints an' their frien's done the carvin',—Where the many done all o' their thinkin' by proxy,An' were proud on 't ez long ez 'twuz christened Democ'cy,—Where the few let us sap all o' Freedom's foundations,Ef you call it reformin' with prudence an' patience, 110An' were willin' Jeff's snake-egg should hetch with the rest,Ef you writ 'Constitootional' over the nest?But it's all out o' kilter, ('twuz too good to last,)An' all jes' by J.D.'s perceedin' too fast;Ef he'd on'y hung on for a month or two more,We'd ha' gut things fixed nicer 'n they hed ben before:Afore he drawed off an' lef all in confusion,We wuz safely entrenched in the ole Constitootion,With an outlyin', heavy-gun, case-mated fortTo rake all assailants,—I mean th' S.J. Court. 120Now I never'll acknowledge (nut ef you should skin me)'twuz wise to abandon sech works to the in'my,An' let him fin' out thet wut scared him so long,Our whole line of argyments, lookin' so strong,All our Scriptur an' law, every the'ry an' fac',Wuz Quaker-guns daubed with Pro-slavery black.Why, ef the Republicans ever should gitAndy Johnson or some one to lend 'em the witAn' the spunk jes' to mount Constitootion an' CourtWith Columbiad guns, your real ekle-rights sort, 130Or drill out the spike from the ole DeclarationThet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' creation,We'd better take maysures for shettin' up shop,An' put off our stock by a vendoo or swop.
But they wun't never dare tu; you'll see 'em in Edom'fore they ventur' to go where their doctrines 'ud lead 'em:They've ben takin' our princerples up ez we dropt 'em,An' thought it wuz terrible 'cute to adopt 'em;But they'll fin' out 'fore long thet their hope's ben deceivin' 'em,An' thet princerples ain't o' no good, ef you b'lieve in 'em;It makes 'em tu stiff for a party to use, 141Where they'd ough' to be easy 'z an ole pair o' shoes.Ifwesay 'n our pletform thet all men are brothers,We don't mean thet some folks ain't more so 'n some others;An' it's wal understood thet we make a selection,An' thet brotherhood kin' o' subsides arter 'lection.The fust thing for sound politicians to larn is,Thet Truth, to dror kindly in all sorts o' harness,Mus' be kep' in the abstract,—for, come to apply it,You're ept to hurt some folks's interists by it. 150Wal, these 'ere Republicans (some on 'em) ectsEz though gineral mexims 'ud suit speshle facts;An' there's where we'll nick 'em, there's where they'll be lost;For applyin' your princerple's wut makes it cost,An' folks don't want Fourth o' July t' interfereWith the business-consarns o' the rest o' the year,No more 'n they want Sunday to pry an' to peekInto wut they are doin' the rest o' the week.
A ginooine statesman should be on his guard,Ef hemusthev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 'em tu hard; 160For, ez sure ez he does, he'll be blartin' 'em out'thout regardin' the natur' o' man more 'n a spout,Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a flawIn a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw:An' so in our own case I ventur' to hintThet we'd better nut air our perceedin's in print,Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your armThet may, ez things heppen to turn, du us harm;For when you've done all your real meanin' to smother,The darned things'll up an' mean sunthin' or 'nother. 170Jeff'son prob'ly meant wal with his 'born free an' ekle,'But it's turned out a real crooked stick in the sekle;It's taken full eighty-odd year—don't you see?—From the pop'lar belief to root out thet idee,An', arter all, suckers on 't keep buddin' forthIn the nat'lly onprincipled mind o' the North.No, never say nothin' without you're compelled tu,An' then don't say nothin' thet you can be held tu,Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' looseFor the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use. 180
You know I'm a feller thet keeps a skinned eyeOn the leetle events thet go skurryin' by,Coz it's of'ner by them than by gret ones you'll seeWut the p'litickle weather is likely to be.Now I don't think the South's more 'n begun to be licked,But Iduthink, ez Jeff says, the wind-bag's gut pricked;It'll blow for a spell an' keep puffin' an' wheezin',The tighter our army an' navy keep, squeezin'—For they can't help spread-eaglein' long 'z ther's a mouthTo blow Enfield's Speaker thru lef' at the South. 190But it's high time for us to be settin' our facesTowards reconstructin' the national basis,With an eye to beginnin' agin on the jolly ticksWe used to chalk up 'hind the back-door o' politics;An' the fus' thing's to save wut of Slav'ry ther's lef'Arter this (I mus' call it) imprudence o' Jeff:For a real good Abuse, with its roots fur an' wide,Is the kin' o' thingIlike to hev on my side;A Scriptur' name makes it ez sweet ez a rose,An' it's tougher the older an' uglier it grows— 200(I ain't speakin' now o' the righteousness of it,But the p'litickle purchase it gives an' the profit).
Things look pooty squally, it must be allowed,An' I don't see much signs of a bow in the cloud:Ther's too many Deemocrats—leaders wut's wuss—Thet go for the Union 'thout carin' a cussEf it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on,So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian bird on.But ther's still some consarvative signs to be foundThet shows the gret heart o' the People is sound: 210(Excuse me for usin' a stump-phrase agin,But, once in the way on 't, theywillstick like sin:)There's Phillips, for instance, hez jes' ketched a TartarIn the Law-'n'-Order Party of ole Cincinnater;An' the Compromise System ain't gone out o' reach,Long 'z you keep the right limits on freedom o' speech.'Twarn't none too late, neither, to put on the gag,For he's dangerous now he goes in for the flag.Nut thet I altogether approve o' bad eggs,They're mos' gin'ly argymunt on its las' legs,— 220An' their logic is ept to be tu indiscriminate,Nor don't ollus wait the right objecs to 'liminate;But there is a variety on 'em, you'll find,Jest ez usefle an' more, besides bein' refined,—I mean o' the sort thet are laid by the dictionary,Sech ez sophisms an' cant, thet'll kerry conviction aryWay thet you want to the right class o' men,An' are staler than all 't ever come from a hen:'Disunion' done wal till our resh Southun friendsTook the savor all out on 't for national ends; 230But I guess 'Abolition' 'll work a spell yit,When the war's done, an' so will 'Forgive-an'-forgit.'Times mus' be pooty thoroughly out o' all jint,Ef we can't make a good constitootional pint;An' the good time'll come to be grindin' our exes,When the war goes to seed in the nettle o' texes:Ef Jon'than don't squirm, with sech helps to assist him,I give up my faith in the free-suffrage system;Democ'cy wun't be nut a mite interestin',Nor p'litikle capital much wuth investin'; 240An' my notion is, to keep dark an' lay lowTill we see the right minute to put in our blow.—
But I've talked longer now 'n I hed any idee,An' ther's others you want to hear more 'n you du me;So I'll set down an' give thet 'ere bottle a skrimmage,For I've spoke till I'm dry ez a real graven image.
No. VI
JAALAM, 17th May, 1862.
GENTLEMEN,—At the special request of Mr. Biglow, I intended to inclose, together with his own contribution, (into which, at my suggestion, he has thrown a little more of pastoral sentiment than usual,) some passages from my sermon on the day of the National Fast, from the text, 'Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them,' Heb. xiii, 3. But I have not leisure sufficient at present for the copying of them, even were I altogether satisfied with the production as it stands. I should prefer, I confess, to contribute the entire discourse to the pages of your respectable miscellany, if it should be found acceptable upon perusal, especially as I find the difficulty in selection of greater magnitude than I had anticipated. What passes without challenge in the fervour of oral delivery, cannot always stand the colder criticism of the closet. I am not so great an enemy of Eloquence as my friend Mr. Biglow would appear to be from some passages in his contribution for the current month. I would not, indeed, hastily suspect him of covertly glancing at myself in his somewhat caustick animadversions, albeit some of the phrases he girds at are not entire strangers to my lips. I am a more hearty admirer of the Puritans than seems now to be the fashion, and believe, that, if they Hebraized a little too much in their speech, they showed remarkable practical sagacity as statesmen and founders. But such phenomena as Puritanism are the results rather of great religious than of merely social convulsions, and do not long survive them. So soon as an earnest conviction has cooled into a phrase, its work is over, and the best that can be done with it is to bury it.Ite, missa est. I am inclined to agree with Mr. Biglow that we cannot settle the great political questions which are now presenting themselves to the nation by the opinions of Jeremiah or Ezekiel as to the wants and duties of the Jews in their time, nor do I believe that an entire community with their feelings and views would be practicable or even agreeable at the present day. At the same time I could wish that their habit of subordinating the actual to the moral, the flesh to the spirit, and this world to the other, were more common. They had found out, at least, the great military secret that soul weighs more than body.—But I am suddenly called to a sick-bed in the household of a valued parishioner.
With esteem and respect,
Your obedient servant,
Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,An' it clings hold like precerdents in law:Your gra'ma'am put it there,—when, goodness knows,—To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es;But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dreadO' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsidesTo holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; 10But better days stick fast in heart an' husk,An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk.
Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly readGits kind o' worked into their heart an' head,So's't they can't seem to write but jest on sheersWith furrin countries or played-out ideers,Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smackO' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back:This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,— 20(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolinkThan a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)—This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May,Which 'tain't, for all the almanicks can say.
O little city-gals, don't never go itBlind on the word o' noospaper or poet!They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looksUp in the country ez it doos in books;They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives,Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. 30I, with my trouses perched on cowhide boots,Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots,Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearseYour muslin nosegays from the milliner's,Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes:I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would,Our Pilgrim stock wuz pethed with hardihood.Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; 40But yit we du contrive to worry thru,Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,Ez stiddily ez though 'twuz a redoubt.
I, country-born an' bred, know where to findSome blooms thet make the season suit the mind,An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,—Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats,Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,Each on 'em's cradle to a baby-pearl,— 50But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin,The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in;For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't,'twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint;Though I own up I like our back'ard springsThet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,An' when you 'most give up, 'uthout more wordsToss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds;Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt,But when itdoosgit stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! 60
Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees,An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,—Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinnedEf all on 'em don't head aginst the wind,'fore long the trees begin to show belief,—The maple crimsons to a coral-reef.Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willersSo plump they look like yaller caterpillars,Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfoldSofter 'n a baby's be at three days old: 70Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knowsThet arter this ther's only blossom-snows;So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse,He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house.
Then seems to come a hitch,—things lag behind.Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind,An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their damsHeaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams,A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft,Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, 80Then all the waters bow themselves an' come,Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,Jes' so our Spring gits eyerythin' in tuneAn' gives one leap from Aperl into June;Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think,Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink;The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud;The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud;Red—cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 90The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o'shadeAn' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clingsAn' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings;All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowersThe barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers,Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try,With pins,—they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby!But I don't love your cat'logue style,—do you?—Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo; 100One word with blood in 't's twice ez good ez two:'nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year,Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings,Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair,Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.
I ollus feel the sap start in my veinsIn Spring, with curus heats an' prickly painsThet drive me, when I git a chance to walk 110Off by myself to hev a privit talkWith a queer critter thet can't seem to 'greeAlong o' me like most folks,—Mister Me.Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone,An' sort o' suffercate to be alone,—I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh,An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky;Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mindEz wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind,An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, 120My innard vane pints east for weeks together,My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sinsCome drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins:Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sightAn' take it out in a fair stan'-up fightWith the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf,The crook'dest stick in all the heap,—Myself.
'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time:Findin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhymeWith nobody's, but off the hendle flew 130An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view,I started off to lose me in the hillsWhere the pines be, up back o' 'Siah's Mills:Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know,They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,—They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan,You half-forgit you've gut a body on.Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four roads meet,The door-steps hollered out by little feet,An' side-posts carved with names whose owners grew 140To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, tu;'tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gutA high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now: I guessWe thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less,For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin'By overloadin' children's underpinnin':Wal, here it wuz I larned my ABC,An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me.
We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute 150Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it;Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,—Soon ez it's past,thettime's wuth ten o' this;An' yit there ain't a man thet need be toldThet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' planAn' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man:Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoyLike dreamin' back along into a boy:So the ole school'us' is a place I choose 160Afore all others, ef I want to muse;I set down where I used to set, an' gitMy boyhood back, an' better things with it,—Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it isn't Cherrity,It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity,—While Fancy's cushin', free to Prince and Clown,Makes the hard bench ez soft ez milk-weed-down.
Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoonWhen I sot out to tramp myself in tune,I found me in the school'us' on my seat, 170Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks sayIs a hard kind o' dooty in its way:It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue.I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell:I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' Hell,Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun'tfeelnone the better for);I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win 180Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin:I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the wits,So much a month, warn't givin' Natur' fits,—Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their own milk fail,To work the cow thet hez an iron tail,An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the panWould send up cream to humor ary man:From this to thet I let my worryin' creep.Till finally I must ha' fell asleep.
Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide 190'twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side,Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingleIn sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single;An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day,An' down towards To-morrer drift away,The imiges thet tengle on the streamMake a new upside-down'ard world o' dream:Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin'sO' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's,An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, 200Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right.I'm gret on dreams, an' often when I wake,I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache.An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer'thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer.
Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,An' ain't sure yit whether I r'ally dreamed,Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,An' lookin' round, ef two an' two make four, 210I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spursWith rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs,An' his gret sword behind him sloped awayLong 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.—'Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-nameHosee,' sez he, 'it's arter you I came:I'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied by three.'—'Mywut?' sez I.—'Your gret-gret-gret,' sez he:'You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. 220Two hundred an' three year ago this MayThe ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,—But wut on airth hevyougut up one for?Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for youTo git a notion you can du 'em tu:I'm told you write in public prints: ef true,It's nateral you should know a thing or two.'—'Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,—'twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: 230For brains,' sez I, 'wutever you may think,Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an'-ink,—Though mos' folks write ez ef they hoped jes' quickenin'The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin';But skim-milk ain't a thing to change its viewO' wut it's meant for more 'n a smoky flue.But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go,How in all Natur' did you come to know'bout our affairs,' sez I, 'in Kingdom-Come?'—'Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, 240An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,'Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-splitThet I concluded it wuz best to quit.But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin',You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'.'—'Gran'ther,' sez I, 'a vane warn't never knownNor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints.It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: 250It knows the wind's opinions to a T,An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be.''I never thought a scion of our stockCould grow the wood to make a weather-cock;When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver,No airthly wind,' sez he, 'could make me waver!'(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)—'Jes so it wuz with me,' sez I, 'I swow.WhenIwuz younger 'n wut you see me now,— 260Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;But now I'm gittin' on in life, I findIt's a sight harder to make up my mind,—Nor I don't often try tu, when eventsWill du it for me free of all expense.The moral question's ollus plain enough,—It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;'Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,—The pinch comes in decidin' wut todu;270Ef youreadHistory, all runs smooth ez grease,Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,—But come tomakeit, ez we must to-day,Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way;It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,—They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers;But come to try your the'ry on,—why, thenYour facts and figgers change to ign'ant menActin' ez ugly—'—'Smite 'em hip an' thigh!'Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword!'—'Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,But you forgit how long it's ben A.D.;You think thet's ellerkence,—I call it shoddy,A thing,' sez I, 'wun't cover soul nor body;I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence,Youtook to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned,An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;Now wut I want's to hev allwegain stick, 291An' not to start Millennium too quick;We hain't to punish only, but to keep,An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep.''Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru;Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shallyLoses ez often wut's ten times the vally.Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split,Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: 300Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe'—'Our Charles,' sez I, 'hez gut eight million necks.The hardest question ain't the black man's right,The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;One's chained in body an' can be sot free,But t'other's chained in soul to an idee:It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must du it.''Hosee,' sez he, 'I think you're goin' to fail:The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; 310This 'ere rebellion's nothing but the rettle,—You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle:It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,—An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin'Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!'—'God's truth!' sez I,—'an' efIheld the club,An' knowed jes' where to strike,—but there's the rub!'—'Strike soon,' sez he, 'or you'll be deadly ailin',—Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; 320God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believeHe'll settle things they run away an' leave!'He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke,An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.
No. VII
[It is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A.M., which took place suddenly, by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his eighty-fourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D.D., and was called to the charge of the First Society in Jaalam in 1809, where he remained till his death.
'As an antiquary he has probably left no superior, if, indeed, an equal,' writes his friend and colleague, the Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, to whom we are indebted for the above facts; 'in proof of which I need only allude to his "History of Jaalam, Genealogical, Topographical, and Ecclesiastical," 1849, which has won him an eminent and enduring place in our more solid and useful literature. It is only to be regretted that his intense application to historical studies should have so entirely withdrawn him from the pursuit of poetical composition, for which he was endowed by Nature with a remarkable aptitude. His well-known hymn, beginning "With clouds of care encompassed round," has been attributed in some collections to the late President Dwight, and it is hardly presumptuous to affirm that the simile of the rainbow in the eighth stanza would do no discredit to that polished pen.'
We regret that we have not room at present for the whole of Mr. Hitchcock's exceedingly valuable communication. We hope to lay more liberal extracts from it before our readers at an early day. A summary of its contents will give some notion of its importance and interest. It contains: 1st, A biographical sketch of Mr. Wilbur, with notices of his predecessors in the pastoral office, and of eminent clerical contemporaries; 2d, An obituary of deceased, from the Punkin-Falls 'Weekly Parallel;' 3d, A list of his printed and manuscript productions and of projected works; 4th, Personal anecdotes and recollections, with specimens of table-talk; 5th, A tribute to his relict, Mrs. Dorcas (Pilcox) Wilbur; 6th, A list of graduates fitted for different colleges by Mr. Wilbur, with biographical memoranda touching the more distinguished; 7th, Concerning learned, charitable, and other societies, of which Mr. Wilbur was a member, and of those with which, had his life been prolonged, he would doubtless have been associated, with a complete catalogue of such Americans as have been Fellows of the Royal Society; 8th, A brief summary of Mr. Wilbur's latest conclusions concerning the Tenth Horn of the Beast in its special application to recent events, for which the public, as Mr. Hitchcock assures us, have been waiting with feelings of lively anticipation; 9th, Mr. Hitchcock's own views on the same topic; and, 10th, A brief essay on the importance of local histories. It will be apparent that the duty of preparing Mr. Wilbur's biography could not have fallen into more sympathetic hands.
In a private letter with which the reverend gentleman has since favored us, he expresses the opinion that Mr. Wilbur's life was shortened by our unhappy civil war. It disturbed his studies, dislocated all his habitual associations and trains of thought, and unsettled the foundations of a faith, rather the result of habit than conviction, in the capacity of man for self-government. 'Such has been the felicity of my life,' he said to Mr. Hitchcock, on the very morning of the day he died, 'that, through the divine mercy, I could always say,Summum nec metuo diem, nec opto. It has been my habit, as you know, on every recurrence of this blessed anniversary, to read Milton's "Hymn of the Nativity" till its sublime harmonies so dilated my soul and quickened its spiritual sense that I seemed to hear that other song which gave assurance to the shepherds that there was One who would lead them also in green pastures and beside the still waters. But to-day I have been unable to think of anything but that mournful text, "I came not to send peace, but a sword," and, did it not smack of Pagan presumptuousness, could almost wish I had never lived to see this day.'
Mr. Hitchcock also informs us that his friend 'lies buried in the Jaalam graveyard, under a large red-cedar which he specially admired. A neat and substantial monument is to be erected over his remains, with a Latin epitaph written by himself; for he was accustomed to say, pleasantly, "that there was at least one occasion in a scholar's life when he might show the advantages of a classical training."'
The following fragment of a letter addressed to us, and apparently intended to accompany Mr. Biglow's contribution to the present number, was found upon his table after his decease.—EDITORS ATLANTIC MONTHLY.]
JAALAM, 24th Dec., 1862.
RESPECTED SIRS,—- The infirm state of my bodily health would be a sufficient apology for not taking up the pen at this time, wholesome as I deem it for the mind to apricate in the shelter of epistolary confidence, were it not that a considerable, I might even say a large, number of individuals in this parish expect from their pastor some publick expression of sentiment at this crisis. Moreover,Qui tacitus ardet magis uritur. In trying times like these, the besetting sin of undisciplined minds is to seek refuge from inexplicable realities in the dangerous stimulant of angry partisanship or the indolent narcotick of vague and hopeful vaticination:fortunamque suo temperat arbitrio. Both by reason of my age and my natural temperament, I am unfitted for either. Unable to penetrate the inscrutable judgments of God, I am more than ever thankful that my life has been prolonged till I could in some small measure comprehend His mercy. As there is no man who does not at some time render himself amenable to the one,—quum vix justus sit securus,—so there is none that does not feel himself in daily need of the other.
I confess I cannot feel, as some do, a personal consolation for the manifest evils of this war in any remote or contingent advantages that may spring from it. I am old and weak, I can bear little, and can scarce hope to see better days; nor is it any adequate compensation to know that Nature is young and strong and can bear much. Old men philosophize over the past, but the present is only a burthen and a weariness. The one lies before them like a placid evening landscape; the other is full of vexations and anxieties of housekeeping. It may be true enough thatmiscet hæc illis, prohibetque Clotho fortunam stare, but he who said it was fain at last to call in Atropos with her shears before her time; and I cannot help selfishly mourning that the fortune of our Republick could not at least stay till my days were numbered.
Tibullus would find the origin of wars in the great exaggeration of riches, and does not stick to say that in the days of the beechen trencher there was peace. But averse as I am by nature from all wars, the more as they have been especially fatal to libraries, I would have this one go on till we are reduced to wooden platters again, rather than surrender the principle to defend which it was undertaken. Though I believe Slavery to have been the cause of it, by so thoroughly demoralizing Northern politicks for its own purposes as to give opportunity and hope to treason, yet I would not have our thought and purpose diverted from their true object,—the maintenance of the idea of Government. We are not merely suppressing an enormous riot, but contending for the possibility of permanent order coexisting with democratical fickleness; and while I would not superstitiously venerate form to the sacrifice of substance, neither would I forget that an adherence to precedent and prescription can alone give that continuity and coherence under a democratical constitution which are inherent in the person of a despotick monarch and the selfishness of an aristocratieal class.Stet pro ratione voluntasis as dangerous in a majority as in a tyrant.
I cannot allow the present production of my young friend to go out without a protest from me against a certain extremeness in his views, more pardonable in the poet than in the philosopher. While I agree with him, that the only cure for rebellion is suppression by force, yet I must animadvert upon certain phrases where I seem to see a coincidence with a popular fallacy on the subject of compromise. On the one hand there are those who do not see that the vital principle of Government and the seminal principle of Law cannot properly be made a subject of compromise at all, and on the other those who are equally blind to the truth that without a compromise of individual opinions, interests, and even rights, no society would be possible.In medio tutissimus. For my own part, I would gladly—
Ef I a song or two could makeLike rockets druv by their own burnin',All leap an' light, to leave a wakeMen's hearts an' faces skyward turnin'!—But, it strikes me, 'tain't jest the timeFer stringin' words with settisfaction:Wut's wanted now's the silent rhyme'Twixt upright Will an' downright Action.
Words, ef you keep 'em, pay their keep,But gabble's the short cut to ruin; 10It's gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheapAt no rate, ef it henders doin';Ther' 's nothin' wuss, 'less 'tis to setA martyr-prem'um upon jawrin':Teapots git dangerous, ef you shetTheir lids down on 'em with Fort Warren.
'Bout long enough it's ben discussedWho sot the magazine afire,An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust,'Twould scare us more or blow us higher. 20D' ye spose the Gret Foreseer's planWuz settled fer him in town-meetin'?Or thet ther'd ben no Fall o' Man,Ef Adam'd on'y bit a sweetin'?
Oh, Jon'than, ef you want to beA rugged chap agin an' hearty,Go fer wutever'll hurt Jeff D.,Nut wut'll boost up ary party.Here's hell broke loose, an' we lay flatWith half the univarse a-singe-in', 30Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor ThetStop squabblin' fer the gardingingin.
It's war we're in, not politics;It's systems wrastlin' now, not parties;An' victory in the eend'll fixWhere longest will an' truest heart is,An' wut's the Guv'ment folks about?Tryin' to hope ther' 's nothin' doin',An' look ez though they didn't doubtSunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'. 40
Ther' 's critters yit thet talk an' actFer wut they call Conciliation;They'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tractWhen they wuz madder than all Bashan.Conciliate? it jest meansbe kicked,No metter how they phrase an' tone it;It means thet we're to set down licked,Thet we're poor shotes an' glad to own it!
A war on tick's ez dear 'z the deuce,But it wun't leave no lastin' traces, 50Ez 'twould to make a sneakin' truceWithout no moral specie-basis:Ef greenbacks ain't nut jest the cheese,I guess ther' 's evils thet's extremer,—Fer instance,—shinplaster ideesLike them put out by Gov'nor Seymour.
Last year, the Nation, at a word,When tremblin' Freedom cried to shield her,Flamed weldin' into one keen swordWaitin' an' longin' fer a wielder:A splendid flash!—but how'd the grasp 61With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally?Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp,—Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally.
More men? More man! It's there we fail;Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin':Wut use in addin' to the tail,When it's the head's in need o' strengthenin'?We wanted one thet felt all ChiefFrom roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', 70Square-sot with thousan'-ton beliefIn him an' us, ef earth went rockin'!
Ole Hick'ry wouldn't ha' stood see-saw'Bout doin' things till they wuz done with,—He'd smashed the tables o' the LawIn time o' need to load his gun with;He couldn't see but jest one side,—Ef his, 'twuz God's, an' thet wuz plenty;An' so his 'Forrards!' multipliedAn army's fightin' weight by twenty. 80
But this 'ere histin', creak, creak, creak,Your cappen's heart up with a derrick,This tryin' to coax a lightnin'-streakOut of a half-discouraged hayrick,This hangin' on mont' arter mont'Fer one sharp purpose 'mongst the twitter,—I tell ye, it doos kind o' stuntThe peth and sperit of a critter.
In six months where'll the People be,Ef leaders look on revolution 90Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea,—Jest social el'ments in solution?This weighin' things doos wal enoughWhen war cools down, an' comes to writin';But while it's makin', the true stuffIs pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'.
Democ'acy gives every manThe right to be his own oppressor;But a loose Gov'ment ain't the plan,Helpless ez spilled beans on a dresser: 100I tell ye one thing we might larnFrom them smart critters, the Seceders,—Ef bein' right's the fust consarn,The 'fore-the-fust's cast-iron leaders.
But 'pears to me I see some signsThet we're a-goin' to use our senses:Jeff druv us into these hard lines,An' ough' to bear his half th' expenses;Slavery's Secession's heart an' will,South, North, East, West, where'er you find it, 110An' ef it drors into War's mill,D'ye say them thunder-stones sha'n't grind it?
D' ye s'pose, ef Jeff givhima lick,Ole Hick'ry'd tried his head to sof'nSo's 'twouldn't hurt thet ebony stickThet's made our side see stars so of'n?'No!' he'd ha' thundered, 'on your knees,An' own one flag, one road to glory!Soft-heartedness, in times like these,Shows sof'ness in the upper story!' 120
An' why should we kick up a mussAbout the Pres'dunt's proclamation?It ain't a-goin' to lib'rate us,Ef we don't like emancipation:The right to be a cussed foolIs safe from all devices human,It's common (ez a gin'l rule)To every critter born o' woman.
Sowe'reall right, an' I, fer one,Don't think our cause'll lose in vally 130By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun,An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally:Thank God, say I, fer even a planTo lift one human bein's level,Give one more chance to make a man,Or, anyhow, to spile a devil!
Not thet I'm one thet much expec'Millennium by express to-morrer;Theywillmiscarry,—I rec'lec'Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer:Men ain't made angels in a day, 141No matter how you mould an' labor 'em,Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stayWith Abe so of'n ez with Abraham.
The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing,An' wants the banns read right ensuin';But fact wun't noways wear the ring,'Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin':Though, arter all, Time's dial-plateMarks cent'ries with the minute-finger, 150An' Good can't never come tu late,Though it does seem to try an' linger.
An' come wut will, I think it's grandAbe's gut his will et last bloom-furnacedIn trial-flames till it'll standThe strain o' bein' in deadly earnest:Thet's wut we want,—we want to knowThe folks on our side hez the braveryTo b'lieve ez hard, come weal, come woe,In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery. 160
Set the two forces foot to foot,An' every man knows who'll be winner,Whose faith in God hez ary rootThet goes down deeper than his dinner:Then'twill be felt from pole to pole,Without no need o' proclamation,Earth's biggest Country's gut her soulAn' risen up Earth's Greatest Nation!
No. VIII
[In the month of February, 1866, the editors of the 'Atlantic Monthly' received from the Rev. Mr. Hitchcock of Jaalam a letter enclosing the macaronic verses which follow, and promising to send more, if more should be communicated. 'They were rapped out on the evening of Thursday last past,' he says, 'by what claimed to be the spirit of my late predecessor in the ministry here, the Rev. Dr. Wilbur, through the medium of a young man at present domiciled in my family. As to the possibility of such spiritual manifestations, or whether they be properly so entitled, I express no opinion, as there is a division of sentiment on that subject in the parish, and many persons of the highest respectability in social standing entertain opposing views. The young man who was improved as a medium submitted himself to the experiment with manifest reluctance, and is still unprepared to believe in the authenticity of the manifestations. During his residence with me his deportment has always been exemplary; he has been constant in his attendance upon our family devotions and the public ministrations of the Word, and has more than once privately stated to me, that the latter had often brought him under deep concern of mind. The table is an ordinary quadrupedal one, weighing about thirty pounds, three feet seven inches and a half in height, four feet square on the top, and of beech or maple, I am not definitely prepared to say which. It had once belonged to my respected predecessor, and had been, so far as I can learn upon careful inquiry, of perfectly regular and correct habits up to the evening in question. On that occasion the young man previously alluded to had been sitting with his hands resting carelessly upon it, while I read over to him at his request certain portions of my last Sabbath's discourse. On a sudden the rappings, as they are called, commenced to render themselves audible, at first faintly, but in process of time more distinctly and with violent agitation of the table. The young man expressed himself both surprised and pained by the wholly unexpected, and, so far as he was concerned, unprecedented occurrence. At the earnest solicitation, however, of several who happened to be present, he consented to go on with the experiment, and with the assistance of the alphabet commonly employed in similar emergencies, the following communication was obtained and written down immediately by myself. Whether any, and if so, how much weight should be attached to it, I venture no decision. That Dr. Wilbur had sometimes employed his leisure in Latin versification I have ascertained to be the case, though all that has been discovered of that nature among his papers consists of some fragmentary passages of a version into hexameters of portions of the Song of Solomon. These I had communicated about a week or ten days previous[ly] to the young gentleman who officiated as medium in the communication afterwards received. I have thus, I believe, stated all the material facts that have any elucidative bearing upon this mysterious occurrence.'