No More Learning

I, country-born an' bred, know where to find
Some 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,-- 50
But 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 springs
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
An' when you 'most give up, 'uthout more words
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds;
Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt,
But when it _doos_ git 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 skinned
Ef 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 willers
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold
Softer 'n a baby's be at three days old: 70
Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows
Thet 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 dams
Heaped-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, 80
Then all the waters bow themselves an' come,
Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,
Jes' so our Spring gits eyerythin' in tune
An' 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; 90
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o'shade
An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;
In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings
An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings;
All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers
The 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; 100
One 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 veins
In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains
Thet drive me, when I git a chance to walk 110
Off by myself to hev a privit talk
With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree
Along 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 mind
Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind,
An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, 120
My innard vane pints east for weeks together,
My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins
Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins:
Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight
An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight
With 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 rhyme
With nobody's, but off the hendle flew 130
An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view,
I started off to lose me in the hills
Where 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 140
To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, tu;
'tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut
A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:
Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now: I guess
We 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 150
Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it;
Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,--
Soon ez it's past, _thet_ time's wuth ten o' this;
An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told
Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.
A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan
An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man:
Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy
Like dreamin' back along into a boy:
So the ole school'us' is a place I choose 160
Afore all others, ef I want to muse;
I set down where I used to set, an' git
My 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 arternoon
When I sot out to tramp myself in tune,
I found me in the school'us' on my seat, 170
Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.
Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say
Is 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't _feel_ none the better for);
I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win 180
Patchin' 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 pan
Would 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' mingle
In 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 stream
Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream:
Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's
O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's,
An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, 200
Sunthin' 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, 210
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.
He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs
With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs,
An' his gret sword behind him sloped away
Long 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say. --
'Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name
Hosee,' sez he, 'it's arter you I came:
I'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied by three. '--
'My _wut? _' sez I. --'Your gret-gret-gret,' sez he:
'You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. 220
Two hundred an' three year ago this May
The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,--
But wut on airth hev _you_ gut up one for?
Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you
To 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: 230
For 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 view
O' 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, 240
An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,'
Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet 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 known
Nor 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: 250
It knows the wind's opinions to a T,
An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be. '
'I never thought a scion of our stock
Could 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.
When _I_ wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,-- 260
Nothin' 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 find
It's a sight harder to make up my mind,--
Nor I don't often try tu, when events
Will 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 to _du;_ 270
Ef you _read_ History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,--
But come to _make_ it, 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, then
Your facts and figgers change to ign'ant men
Actin' ez ugly--'--'Smite 'em hip an' thigh! '
Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280
Oh 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,
_You_ took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned,
An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now wut I want's to hev all _we_ gain stick, 291
An' 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-shally
Loses 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: 300
Slav'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; 310
This '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' ef _I_ held 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'; 320
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe
He'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

LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW

PRELIMINARY NOTE

[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. ]


TO THE EDITORS OF THE 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 that
_miscet haec 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 voluntas_ is 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 make
Like rockets druv by their own burnin',
All leap an' light, to leave a wake
Men's hearts an' faces skyward turnin'! --
But, it strikes me, 'tain't jest the time
Fer 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; 10
It's gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheap
At no rate, ef it henders doin';
Ther' 's nothin' wuss, 'less 'tis to set
A martyr-prem'um upon jawrin':
Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet
Their lids down on 'em with Fort Warren.

'Bout long enough it's ben discussed
Who sot the magazine afire,
An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust,
'Twould scare us more or blow us higher. 20
D' ye spose the Gret Foreseer's plan
Wuz 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 be
A 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 flat
With half the univarse a-singe-in', 30
Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor Thet
Stop 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 fix
Where 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 doubt
Sunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'. 40

Ther' 's critters yit thet talk an' act
Fer wut they call Conciliation;
They'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract
When they wuz madder than all Bashan.
Conciliate? it jest means _be 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, 50
Ez 'twould to make a sneakin' truce
Without no moral specie-basis:
Ef greenbacks ain't nut jest the cheese,
I guess ther' 's evils thet's extremer,--
Fer instance,--shinplaster idees
Like 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 sword
Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder:
A splendid flash! --but how'd the grasp 61
With 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 Chief
From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', 70
Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief
In 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 Law
In 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! _' multiplied
An 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'-streak
Out 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' stunt
The peth and sperit of a critter.

In six months where'll the People be,
Ef leaders look on revolution 90
Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea,--
Jest social el'ments in solution?
This weighin' things doos wal enough
When war cools down, an' comes to writin';
But while it's makin', the true stuff
Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'.

Democ'acy gives every man
The right to be his own oppressor;
But a loose Gov'ment ain't the plan,
Helpless ez spilled beans on a dresser: 100
I tell ye one thing we might larn
From 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 signs
Thet 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, 110
An' ef it drors into War's mill,
D'ye say them thunder-stones sha'n't grind it?

D' ye s'pose, ef Jeff giv _him_ a lick,
Ole Hick'ry'd tried his head to sof'n
So's 'twouldn't hurt thet ebony stick
Thet'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 muss
About 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 fool
Is safe from all devices human,
It's common (ez a gin'l rule)
To every critter born o' woman.

So _we're_ all right, an' I, fer one,
Don't think our cause'll lose in vally 130
By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun,
An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally:
Thank God, say I, fer even a plan
To 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;
They _will_ miscarry,--I rec'lec'
Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer:
Men ain't made angels in a day, 141
No matter how you mould an' labor 'em,
Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay
With 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-plate
Marks cent'ries with the minute-finger, 150
An' Good can't never come tu late,
Though it does seem to try an' linger.

An' come wut will, I think it's grand
Abe's gut his will et last bloom-furnaced
In trial-flames till it'll stand
The strain o' bein' in deadly earnest:
Thet's wut we want,--we want to know
The folks on our side hez the bravery
To 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 root
Thet 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 soul
An' risen up Earth's Greatest Nation!



No. VIII

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

PRELIMINARY MOTE

[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. '

So far Mr. Hitchcock, who seems perfectly master of Webster's
unabridged quarto, and whose flowing style leads him into certain
farther expatiations for which we have not room. We have since learned
that the young man he speaks of was a sophomore, put under his care
during a sentence of rustication from ---- College, where he had
distinguished himself rather by physical experiments on the comparative
power of resistance in window-glass to various solid substances, than in
the more regular studies of the place. In answer to a letter of inquiry,
the professor of Latin says, 'There was no harm in the boy that I know
of beyond his loving mischief more than Latin, nor can I think of any
spirits likely to possess him except those commonly called animal. He
was certainly not remarkable for his Latinity, but I see nothing in the
verses you enclose that would lead me to think them beyond his capacity,
or the result of any special inspiration whether of beech or maple. Had
that of _birch_ been tried upon him earlier and more faithfully, the
verses would perhaps have been better in quality and certainly in
quantity. ' This exact and thorough scholar then goes on to point out
many false quantities and barbarisms. It is but fair to say, however,
that the author, whoever he was, seems not to have been unaware of some
of them himself, as is shown by a great many notes appended to the
verses as we received them, and purporting to be by Scaliger, Bentley,
and others,--among them the _Esprit de Voltaire_! These we have omitted
as clearly meant to be humorous and altogether failing therein.

Though entirely satisfied that the verses are altogether unworthy of Mr.
Wilbur, who seems to Slave been a tolerable Latin scholar after the
fashion of his day, yet we have determined to print them here, partly as
belonging to the _res gestae_ of this collection, and partly as a
warning to their putative author which may keep him from such indecorous
pranks for the future. ]


KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

P. Ovidii Nasonis carmen heroicum macaronicum perplexametrum, inter
Getas getico moro compostum, denuo per medium ardentispiritualem
adjuvante mensa diabolice obsessa, recuperatum, curaque Jo. Conradi
Schwarzii umbrae, allis necnon plurimis adjuvantibus, restitutum.


LIBER I


Punctorum garretos colens et cellara Quinque,
Gutteribus quae et gaudes sunday-am abstingere frontem,
Plerumque insidos solita fluitare liquore
Tanglepedem quem homines appellant Di quoque rotgut,
Pimpliidis, rubicundaque, Musa, O, bourbonolensque,
Fenianas rixas procul, alma, brogipotentis
Patricii cyathos iterantis et horrida bella,
Backos dum virides viridis Brigitta remittit,
Linquens, eximios celebrem, da, Virginienses
Rowdes, praecipue et TE, heros alte, Polarde! 10
Insignes juvenesque, illo certamine lictos,
Colemane, Tylere, nec vos oblivione relinquam.

Ampla aquilae invictae fausto est sub tegmine terra,
Backyfer, ooiskeo pollens, ebenoque bipede,
Socors praesidum et altrix (denique quidruminantium),
Duplefveorum uberrima; illis et integre cordi est
Deplere assidue et sine proprio incommodo fiscum;
Nunc etiam placidum hoc opus invictique secuti,
Goosam aureos ni eggos voluissent immo necare
Quae peperit, saltem ac de illis meliora merentem. 20

Condidit hanc Smithius Dux, Captinus inclytus ille
Regis Ulyssae instar, docti arcum intendere longum;
Condidit ille Johnsmith, Virginiamque vocavit,
Settledit autem Jacobus rex, nomine primus,
Rascalis implens ruptis, blagardisque deboshtis,
Militibusque ex Falstaffi legione fugatis
Wenchisque illi quas poterant seducere nuptas;
Virgineum, ah, littus matronis talibus impar!
Progeniem stirpe ex hoc non sine stigmate ducunt
Multi sese qui jactant regum esse nepotes: 30
Haud omnes, Mater, genitos quae nuper habebas
Bello fortes, consilio cautos, virtute decoros,
Jamque et habes, sparso si patrio in sanguine virtus,
Mostrabisque iterum, antiquis sub astris reducta!
De illis qui upkikitant, dicebam, rumpora tanta,
Letcheris et Floydis magnisque Extra ordine Billis;
Est his prisca fides jurare et breakere wordum:
Poppere fellerum a tergo, aut stickere clam bowiknifo,
Haud sane facinus, dignum sed victrice lauro;
Larrupere et nigerum, factum praestantius ullo: 40
Ast chlamydem piciplumatam, Icariam, flito et ineptam,
Yanko gratis induere, illum et valido railo
Insuper acri equitare docere est hospitio uti.

Nescio an ille Polardus duplefveoribus ortus,
Sed reputo potius de radice poorwitemanorum;
Fortuiti proles, ni fallor, Tylerus erat
Praesidis, omnibus ab Whiggis nominatus a poor cuss;
Et nobilem tertium evincit venerabile nomen.
Ast animosi omnes bellique ad tympana ha! ha!
Vociferant laeti, procul et si proelia, sive 50
Hostem incautum atsito possint shootere salvi;
Imperiique capaces, esset si stylus agmen,
Pro dulci spoliabant et sine dangere fito.
Prae ceterisque Polardus: si Secessia licta,
Se nunquam licturum jurat res et unheardof,
Verbo haesit, similisque audaci roosteri invicto,
Dunghilli solitus rex pullos whoppere molles,
Grantum, hirelingos stripes quique et splendida tollunt
Sidera, et Yankos, territum et omnem sarsuit orbem.
Usque dabant operam isti omnes, noctesque diesque, 60
Samuelem demulgere avunculum, id vero siccum;
Uberibus sed ejus, et horum est culpa, remotis,
Parvam domi vaccam, nec mora minima, quaerunt,
Lacticarentem autem et droppam vix in die dantem;
Reddite avunculi, et exclamabant, reddite pappam!
Polko ut consule, gemens, Billy immurmurat Extra;
Echo respondit, thesauro ex vacuo, pappam!
Frustra explorant pocketa, ruber nare repertum;
Officia expulsi aspiciunt rapta, et Paradisum
Occlusum, viridesque Laud illis nascere backos; 70
Stupent tunc oculis madidis spittantque silenter.
Adhibere usu ast longo vires prorsus inepti,
Si non ut qui grindeat axve trabemve reuolvat,
Virginiam excruciant totis nunc mightibu' matrem;
Non melius, puta, nono panis dimidiumne est?

Readere ibi non posse est casus commoner ullo;
Tanto intentius imprimere est opus ergo statuta;
Nemo propterea pejor, melior, sine doubto,
Obtineat qui contractum, si et postea rhino;
Ergo Polardus, si quis, inexsuperabilis heros, 80
Colemanus impavidus nondum, atque in purpure natus
Tylerus Iohanides celerisque in flito Nathaniel,
Quisque optans digitos in tantum stickere pium,
Adstant accincti imprimere aut perrumpere leges:
Quales os miserum rabidi tres aegre molossi,
Quales aut dubium textum atra in veste ministri,
Tales circumstabant nunc nostri inopes hoc job.

Hisque Polardus voce canoro talia fatus:
Primum autem, veluti est mos, praeceps quisque liquorat,
Quisque et Nicotianum ingens quid inserit atrum, 90
Heroum nitidum decus et solamen avitum,
Masticat ac simul altisonans, spittatque profuse:
Quis de Virginia meruit praestantius unquam?
Quis se pro patria curavit impigre tutum?
Speechisque articulisque hominum quis fortior ullus,
Ingeminans pennae lickos et vulnera vocis?
Quisnam putidius (hic) sarsuit Yankinimicos,
Saepius aut dedit ultro datam et broke his parolam?
Mente inquassatus solidaque, tyranno minante,
Horrisonis (hic) bombis moenia et alta quatente, 100
Sese promptum (hic) jactans Yankos lickere centum,
Atque ad lastum invictus non surrendidit unquam?
Ergo haud meddlite, posco, mique relinquite (hic) hoc job,
Si non--knifumque enormem mostrat spittatque tremendus.

Dixerat: ast alii reliquorant et sine pauso
Pluggos incumbunt maxillis, uterque vicissim
Certamine innocuo valde madidam inquinat assem:
Tylerus autem, dumque liquorat aridus hostis,
Mirum aspicit duplumque bibentem, astante Lyaeo;
Ardens impavidusque edidit tamen impia verba; 110
Duplum quamvis te aspicio, esses atque viginti,
Mendacem dicerem totumque (hic) thrasherem acervum;
Nempe et thrasham, doggonatus (hic) sim nisi faxem;
Lambastabo omnes catawompositer-(hic) que chawam!
Dixit et impulsus Ryeo ruitur bene titus,
Illi nam gravidum caput et laterem habet in hatto.

Hunc inhiat titubansque Polardus, optat et illum
Stickere inermem, protegit autem rite Lyaeus,
Et pronos geminos, oculis dubitantibus, heros
Cernit et irritus hostes, dumque excogitat utrum 120
Primum inpitchere, corruit, inter utrosque recumbit,
Magno asino similis nimio sub pondere quassus:
Colemanus hos moestus, triste ruminansque solamen,
Inspicit hiccans, circumspittat terque cubantes;
Funereisque his ritibus humidis inde solutis,
Sternitur, invalidusque illis superincidit infans;
Hos sepelit somnus et snorunt cornisonantes,
Watchmanus inscios ast calybooso deinde reponit.



No. IX

[The Editors of the 'Atlantic' have received so many letters of inquiry
concerning the literary remains of the late Mr. Wilbur, mentioned by his
colleague and successor, Rev. Jeduthun Hitchcock, in a communication
from which we made some extracts in our number for February, 1863, and
have been so repeatedly urged to print some part of them for the
gratification of the public, that they felt it their duty at least to
make some effort to satisfy so urgent a demand. They have accordingly
carefully examined the papers intrusted to them, but find most of the
productions of Mr. Wilbur's pen so fragmentary, and even chaotic,
written as they are on the backs of letters in an exceedingly cramped
chirography,--here a memorandum for a sermon; there an observation of
the weather; now the measurement of an extraordinary head of cabbage,
and then of the cerebral capacity of some reverend brother deceased; a
calm inquiry into the state of modern literature, ending in a method of
detecting if milk be impoverished with water, and the amount thereof;
one leaf beginning with a genealogy, to be interrupted halfway down with
an entry that the brindle cow had calved,--that any attempts at
selection seemed desperate. His only complete work, 'An Enquiry
concerning the Tenth Horn of the Beast,' even in the abstract of it
given by Mr. Hitchcock, would, by a rough computation of the printers,
fill five entire numbers of our journal, and as he attempts, by a new
application of decimal fractions, to identify it with the Emperor
Julian, seems hardly of immediate concern to the general reader. Even
the Table-Talk, though doubtless originally highly interesting in the
domestic circle, is so largely made up of theological discussion and
matters of local or preterite interest, that we have found it hard to
extract anything that would at all satisfy expectation. But, in order to
silence further inquiry, we subjoin a few passages as illustrations of
its general character. ]

I think I could go near to be a perfect Christian if I were always a
visitor, as I have sometimes been, at the house of some hospitable
friend. I can show a great deal of self-denial where the best of
everything is urged upon me with kindly importunity. It is not so very
hard to turn the other cheek for a kiss. And when I meditate upon the
pains taken for our entertainment in this life, on the endless variety
of seasons, of human character and fortune, on the costliness of the
hangings and furniture of our dwelling here, I sometimes feel a singular
joy in looking upon myself as God's guest, and cannot but believe that
we should all be wiser and happier, because more grateful, if we were
always mindful of our privilege in this regard. And should we not rate
more cheaply any honor that men could pay us, if we remembered that
every day we sat at the table of the Great King? Yet must we not forget
that we are in strictest bonds His servants also; for there is no
impiety so abject as that which expects to be _deadheaded (ut ita
dicam)_ through life, and which, calling itself trust in Providence, is
in reality asking Providence to trust us and taking up all our goods on
false pretences. It is a wise rule to take the world as we find it, not
always to leave it so.

It has often set me thinking when I find that I can always pick up
plenty of empty nuts under my shagbark-tree. The squirrels know them by
their lightness, and I have seldom seen one with the marks of their
teeth in it. What a school-house is the world, if our wits would only
not play truant! For I observe that men set most store by forms and
symbols in proportion as they are mere shells. It is the outside they
want and not the kernel. What stores of such do not many, who in
material things are as shrewd as the squirrels, lay up for the spiritual
winter-supply of themselves and their children! I have seen churches
that seemed to me garners of these withered nuts, for it is wonderful
how prosaic is the apprehension of symbols by the minds of most men. It
is not one sect nor another, but all, who, like the dog of the fable,
have let drop the spiritual substance of symbols for their material
shadow. If one attribute miraculous virtues to mere holy water, that
beautiful emblem of inward purification at the door of God's house,
another cannot comprehend the significance of baptism without being
ducked over head and ears in the liquid vehicle thereof.


[Perhaps a word of historical comment may be permitted here. My late
reverend predecessor was, I would humbly affirm, as free from prejudice
as falls to the lot of the most highly favored individuals of our
species. To be sure, I have heard Him say that 'what were called strong
prejudices were in fact only the repulsion of sensitive organizations
from that moral and even physical effluvium through which some natures
by providential appointment, like certain unsavory quadrupeds, gave
warning of their neighborhood. Better ten mistaken suspicions of this
kind than one close encounter. ' This he said somewhat in heat, on being
questioned as to his motives for always refusing his pulpit to those
itinerant professors of vicarious benevolence who end their discourses
by taking up a collection. But at another time I remember his saying,
'that there was one large thing which small minds always found room for,
and that was great prejudices. ' This, however, by the way. The statement
which I purposed to make was simply this. Down to A. D. 1830, Jaalam had
consisted of a single parish, with one house set apart for religions
services. In that year the foundations of a Baptist Society were laid by
the labors of Elder Joash Q. Balcom, 2d. As the members of the new body
were drawn from the First Parish, Mr. Wilbur was for a time considerably
exercised in mind. He even went so far as on one occasion to follow the
reprehensible practice of the earlier Puritan divines in choosing a
punning text, and preached from Hebrews xiii, 9: 'Be not carried about
with _divers_ and strange doctrines. ' He afterwards, in accordance with
one of his own maxims,--'to get a dead injury out of the mind as soon as
is decent, bury it, and then ventilate,'--in accordance with this maxim,
I say, he lived on very friendly terms with Rev. Shearjashub Scrimgour,
present pastor of the Baptist Society in Jaalam. Yet I think it was
never unpleasing to him that the church edifice of that society (though
otherwise a creditable specimen of architecture) remained without a
bell, as indeed it does to this day. So much seemed necessary to do away
with any appearance of acerbity toward a respectable community of
professing Christians, which might be suspected in the conclusion of the
above paragraph. --J. H. ]


In lighter moods he was not averse from an innocent play upon words.
Looking up from his newspaper one morning, as I entered his study, he
said, 'When I read a debate in Congress, I feel as if I were sitting at
the feet of Zeno in the shadow of the Portico. ' On my expressing a
natural surprise, he added, smiling, 'Why, at such times the only view
which honorable members give me of what goes on in the world is through
their intercalumniations. ' I smiled at this after a moment's reflection,
and he added gravely, 'The most punctilious refinement of manners is the
only salt that will keep a democracy from stinking; and what are we to
expect from the people, if their representatives set them such lessons?
Mr. Everett's whole life has been a sermon from this text. There was, at
least, this advantage in duelling, that it set a certain limit on the
tongue. When Society laid by the rapier, it buckled on the more subtle
blade of etiquette wherewith to keep obtrusive vulgarity at bay. ' In
this connection, I may be permitted to recall a playful remark of his
upon another occasion. The painful divisions in the First Parish, A. D.
1844, occasioned by the wild notions in respect to the rights of (what
Mr. Wilbur, so far as concerned the reasoning faculty, always called)
the unfairer part of creation, put forth by Miss Parthenia Almira Fitz,
are too well known to need more than a passing allusion. It was during
these heats, long since happily allayed, that Mr. Wilbur remarked that
'the Church had more trouble in dealing with one _she_resiarch than with
twenty _he_resiarchs,' and that the men's _conscia recti_, or certainty
of being right, was nothing to the women's.

When I once asked his opinion of a poetical composition on which I had
expended no little pains, he read it attentively, and then remarked
'Unless one's thought pack more neatly in verse than in prose, it is
wiser to refrain. Commonplace gains nothing by being translated into
rhyme, for it is something which no hocus-pocus can transubstantiate
with the real presence of living thought. You entitle your piece, "My
Mother's Grave," and expend four pages of useful paper in detailing your
emotions there. But, my dear sir, watering does not improve the quality
of ink, even though you should do it with tears. To publish a sorrow to
Tom, Dick, and Harry is in some sort to advertise its unreality, for I
have observed in my intercourse with the afflicted that the deepest
grief instinctively hides its face with its hands and is silent. If your
piece were printed, I have no doubt it would be popular, for people like
to fancy that they feel much better than the trouble of feeling. I would
put all poets on oath whether they have striven to say everything they
possibly could think of, or to leave out all they could not help saying.
In your own case, my worthy young friend, what you have written is
merely a deliberate exercise, the gymnastic of sentiment. For your
excellent maternal relative is still alive, and is to take tea with me
this evening, D. V. Beware of simulated feeling; it is hypocrisy's first
cousin; it is especially dangerous to a preacher; for he who says one
day, "Go to, let me seem to be pathetic," may be nearer than he thinks
to saying, "Go to, let me seem to be virtuous, or earnest, or under
sorrow for sin. " Depend upon it, Sappho loved her verses more sincerely
than she did Phaon, and Petrarch his sonnets better than Laura, who was
indeed but his poetical stalking-horse. After you shall have once heard
that muffled rattle of clods on the coffin-lid of an irreparable loss,
you will grow acquainted with a pathos that will make all elegies
hateful. When I was of your age, I also for a time mistook my desire to
write verses for an authentic call of my nature in that direction. But
one day as I was going forth for a walk, with my head full of an "Elegy
on the Death of Flirtilla," and vainly groping after a rhyme for _lily_
that should not be _silly_ or _chilly_, I saw my eldest boy Homer busy
over the rain-water hogshead, in that childish experiment at
parthenogenesis, the changing a horse-hair into a water-snake. All
immersion of six weeks showed no change in the obstinate filament. Here
was a stroke of unintended sarcasm. Had I not been doing in my study
precisely what my boy was doing out of doors? Had my thoughts any more
chance of coming to life by being submerged in rhyme than his hair by
soaking in water? I burned my elegy and took a course of Edwards on the
Will. People do not make poetry; it is made out of _them_ by a process
for which I do not find myself fitted. Nevertheless, the writing of
verses is a good rhetorical exercitation, as teaching us what to shun
most carefully in prose. For prose bewitched is like window-glass with
bubbles in it, distorting what it should show with pellucid veracity. '


It is unwise to insist on doctrinal points as vital to religion. The
Bread of Life is wholesome and sufficing in itself, but gulped down with
these kickshaws cooked up by theologians, it is apt to produce an
indigestion, nay, eyen at last an incurable dyspepsia of scepticism.


One of the most inexcusable weaknesses of Americans is in signing their
names to what are called credentials. But for my interposition, a person
who shall be nameless would have taken from this town a recommendation
for an office of trust subscribed by the selectmen and all the voters of
both parties, ascribing to him as many good qualities as if it had been
his tombstone. The excuse was that it would be well for the town to be
rid of him, as it would erelong be obliged to maintain him. I would not
refuse my name to modest merit, but I would be as cautious as in signing
a bond. [I trust I shall be subjected to no imputation of unbecoming
vanity, if I mention the fact that Mr. W. indorsed my own qualifications
as teacher of the high-school at Pequash Junction. J. H. ] When I see a
certificate of character with everybody's name to it, I regard it as a
letter of introduction from the Devil. Never give a man your name unless
you are willing to trust him with your reputation.


There seem nowadays to be two sources of literary inspiration,--fulness
of mind and emptiness of pocket.


I am often struck, especially in reading Montaigne, with the obviousness
and familiarity of a great writer's thoughts, and the freshness they
gain because said by him. The truth is, we mix their greatness with all
they say and give it our best attention. Johannes Faber sic cogitavit
would be no enticing preface to a book, but an accredited name gives
credit like the signature to a note of hand. It is the advantage of fame
that it is always privileged to take the world by the button, and a
thing is weightier for Shakespeare's uttering it by the whole amount of
his personality.


It is singular how impatient men are with overpraise of others, how
patient with overpraise of themselves; and yet the one does them no
injury while the other may he their ruin.


People are apt to confound mere alertness of mind with attention. The
one is but the flying abroad of all the faculties to the open doors and
windows at every passing rumor; the other is the concentration of every
one of them in a single focus, as in the alchemist over his alembic at
the moment of expected projection. Attention is the stuff that memory is
made of, and memory is accumulated genius.


Do not look for the Millennium as imminent. One generation is apt to get
all the wear it can out of the cast clothes of the last, and is always
sure to use up every paling of the old fence that will hold a nail in
building the new.


You suspect a kind of vanity in my genealogical enthusiasm. Perhaps you
are right; but it is a universal foible. Where it does not show itself
in a personal and private way, it becomes public and gregarious. We
flatter ourselves in the Pilgrim Fathers, and the Virginian offshoot of
a transported convict swells with the fancy ef a cavalier ancestry.
Pride of birth, I have noticed, takes two forms. One complacently traces
himself up to a coronet; another, defiantly, to a lapstone. The
sentiment is precisely the same in both cases, only that one is the
positive and the other the negative pole of it.


Seeing a goat the other day kneeling in order to graze with less
trouble, it seemed to me a type of the common notion of prayer. Most
people are ready enough to go down on their knees for material
blessings, but how few for those spiritual gifts which alone are an
answer to our orisons, if we but knew it!


Some people, nowadays, seem to have hit upon a new moralization of the
moth and the candle. They would lock up the light of Truth, lest poor
Psyche should put it out in her effort to draw nigh, to it.




No. X

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY


DEAR SIR,--Your letter come to han'
Requestin' me to please be funny;
But I ain't made upon a plan
Thet knows wut's comin', gall or honey:
Ther' 's times the world does look so queer,
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em;
An' then agin, for half a year,
No preacher 'thout a call's more solemn.

You're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute,
Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish, 10
An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,
I'd take an' citify my English.
I _ken_ write long-tailed, ef I please,--
But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;
Then, fore I know it, my idees
Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,
I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin';
The parson's books, life, death, an' time
Hev took some trouble with my schoolin'; 20
Nor th' airth don't git put out with me,
Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman;
Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree
But half forgives my bein' human.


An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way
Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger;
Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay,
While book-froth seems to whet your hunger;
For puttin' in a downright lick
'twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it, 30
An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick
Ez stret-grained hickory does a hetchet.

But when I can't, I can't, thet's all,
For Natur' won't put up with gullin';
Idees you hev to shove an' haul
Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein:
Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts
O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards,
Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts
Feel thet th' old arth's a-wheelin' sunwards. 40

Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick
Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,
An' into ary place 'ould stick
Without no bother nor objection;
But sence the war my thoughts hang back
Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,
An' subs'tutes,--_they_ don't never lack,
But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em.

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz;
I can't see wut there is to hender, 50
An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz,
Like bumblebees agin a winder;
'fore these times come, in all airth's row,
Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in,
Where I could hide an' think,--but now
It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.

Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
An' creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white,
Walk the col' starlight into summer; 60
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev been gladder o' sech things
Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
They filled my heart with livin' springs,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 70
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me
To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.

Indoors an' out by spells I try;
Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry
Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin';
An' her jes' keepin' on the same,
Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin'
An' findin' nary thing to blame,
Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 80

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane
The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,
Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin'
Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale
To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Under the yaller-pines I house,
When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, 90
An' hear among their furry boughs
The baskin' west-wind purr contented,
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low
Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',
The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow,
Further an' further South retreatin'.

Or up the slippery knob I strain
An' see a hundred hills like islan's
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
Out o' the sea o' snowy silence; 100
The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,
Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth
Of empty places set me thinkin'.

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows,
An' rattles di'mon's from his granite;
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,
An' into psalms or satires ran it;
But he, nor all the rest thet once
Started my blood to country-dances, 110
Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce
Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street
I hear the drummers makin' riot,
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet
Thet follered once an' now are quiet,--
White feet ez snowdrops innercent,
Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan,
Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't,
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin', 120

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?
Didn't I love to see 'em growin',
Three likely lads ez wal could be,
Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?
I set an' look into the blaze
Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,
An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth
On War's red techstone rang true metal, 130
Who ventered life an' love an' youth
For the gret prize o' death in battle?
To him who, deadly hurt, agen
Flashed on afore the charge's thunder,
Tippin' with fire the bolt of men
Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?

'Tain't right to hev the young go fust,
All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces,
Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust
To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: 140
Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,
Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in,
An' _thet_ world seems so fur from this
Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth
Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;
I pity mothers, tu, down South,
For all they sot among the scorners:
I'd sooner take my chance to stan'
At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, 150
Than at God's bar hol' up a han'
Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis!

Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted,
But proud, to meet a people proud,
With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted!
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,
An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter!
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt
Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. 160

Come, while our country feels the lift
Of a gret instinct shoutin' 'Forwards! '
An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift
Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards!
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when
They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,
An' bring fair wages for brave men,
A nation saved, a race delivered!



No. XI

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, April 5, 1866.


MY DEAR SIR,--

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you're some dearer than wut you wuz, I
enclose the deffrence) I dunno ez I know Jest how to interdoose this
las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Wilber allus called 'em, which is
goin' to _be_ the last an' _stay_ the last onless sunthin' pertikler
sh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ez
pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence Mr. Wilbur's disease I hevn't hed
no one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o' wine me up an'
set the penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it
wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain't of the same brewin' nor
I can't seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort of
slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur is
wal enough an' a site better'n most other kines I know on, but the other
sort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord's makin' an' naterally more
wonderfle an' sweet tastin' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. He
used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile athout sayin' nothin' in pertickler
an' I misdoubt he didn't set so much by the sec'nd Ceres as wut he done
by the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort of
fallin' off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwester _he_ wuz, but I
tole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketch
a good many times fust afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I see Jethro
C. Swett from the meetin' house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' took
up for dead but he's alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turnin' of it
over I recelected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the
frunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a
spell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you'd go in or nut espeshully
ware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to go
in fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu. I dno as
speechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I
guess they never du but tha must allus be a B'ginnin' to everythin'
athout it is Etarnity so I'll begin rite away an' anybody may put it
afore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim no
paytent.

THE ARGYMUNT

Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself:
thet's jest natur an' most gin'ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I've
notist, to _one_ of the cumpany, an' thet's more than wut you can say of
most speshes of talkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the
orjunce by lettin' 'em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop
thet they air about East, A one, an' no mistaik, skare 'em up an' take
'em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach
finally begins witch nobuddy needn't feel obolygated to read as I never
read 'em an' never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; expanded;
delayted; extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so's to avide all
mistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o'
gin out. Subjick _re_staited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pump
ag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketches
into Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick;
stretches it; turns it; folds it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so's't, no
one can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud to
say nothin' in replye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfide
he's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into his head.