University of Virginia Library

SECOND SERIES

THE COURTIN'

No. I.
BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

[It's some consid'ble of a spell sence I hain't writ no letters]

She hed another motive, tu: I mention of it here
T' encourage lads thet 's growin' up to study 'n' persevere,
An' show 'em how much better 't pays to mind their winter-schoolin'
Than to go off on benders 'n' sech, an' waste their time in foolin';
Ef 't warn't for studyin' evenins, why, I never 'd ha' ben here
An orn'ment o' saciety, in my approprut spear:
She wanted somebody, ye see, o' taste an' cultivation,
To talk along o' preachers when they stopt to the plantation;
For folks in Dixie th't read an' rite, onless it is by jarks,
Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th' origenle patriarchs;
To fit a feller f' wut they call the soshle higherarchy,
All thet you 've gut to know is jes' beyund an evrage darky;
Schoolin' 's wut they can't seem to stan', they 're tu consarned high-pressure,
An' knowin' t' much might spile a boy for bein' a Secesher.
We hain't no settled preachin' here, ner ministeril taxes;
The min'ster's only settlement 's the carpet-bag he packs his
Razor an' soap-brush intu, with his hymbook an' his Bible,—
But they du preach, I swan to man, it 's puf'kly indescrib'le!
They go it like an Ericsson's ten-hoss-power coleric ingine,
An' make Ole Split-Foot winch an' squirm, for all he 's used to singein';
Hawkins's whetstone ain't a pinch o' primin' to the innards
To hearin' on 'em put free grace t' a lot o' tough old sinhards!
But I must eend this letter now: 'fore long I'll send a fresh un;
I 've lots o' things to write about, perticklerly Seceshun:
I'm called off now to mission-work, to let a leetle law in
To Cynthy's hide: an' so, till death,

Yourn, BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.

No. II.
MASON AND SLIDELL: A YANKEE IDYLL

[But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they show]

“But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they show,
So much ez Em'son, Hawthorne, an' Thoreau.
I know the village, though; was sent there once
A-schoolin', 'cause to home I played the dunce;
An' I 've ben sence a-visitin' the Jedge,
Whose garding whispers with the river's edge,
Where I 've sot mornin's lazy as the bream,
Whose on'y business is to head up-stream,
(We call 'em punkin-seed,) or else in chat
Along 'th the Jedge, who covers with his hat
More wit an' gumption an' shrewd Yankee sense
Than there is mosses on an ole stone fence.”

[I love to start out arter night's begun]

I love to start out arter night's begun,
An' all the chores about the farm are done,
The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast,
Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past,
An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,—
I love, I say, to start upon a tramp,
To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs,
An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs
Thet 's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch
Of folks thet foller in one rut too much:
Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt;
But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out.
Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know,
There 's certin spots where I like best to go:
The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one,
Most gin'lly ollers call it John Bull's Run,)
The field o' Lexin'ton where England tried
The fastest colours thet she ever dyed,
An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came,
Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,
Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul
Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so 's to save the toll.
They 're 'most too fur away, take too much time
To visit of'en, ef it ain't in rhyme;
But the' 's a walk thet 's hendier, a sight,
An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,—
I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill.
I love to l'iter there while night grows still,
An' in the twinklin' villages about,
Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out,
An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms,
Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms,
Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way)
Stands to 't thet moon-rise is the break o' day:
(So Mister Seward sticks a three-months' pin
Where the war 'd oughto eend, then tries agin;
My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 't is to crow:
Don't never prophesy—onless ye know.)
I love to muse there till it kind o' seems
Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams;
The northwest wind thet twitches at my baird
Blows out o' sturdier days not easy scared,
An' the same moon thet this December shines
Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines;
The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs,
Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns;
Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light,
Along the firelock won at Concord Fight,
An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh,
Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply.
Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence,
Mixin' the puffict with the present tense,
I heerd two voices som'ers in the air,
Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where:
Voices I call 'em: 't was a kind o' sough
Like pine-trees thet the wind 's ageth'rin' through;
An', fact, I thought it was the wind a spell,
Then some misdoubted, could n't fairly tell,
Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel,
I knowed, an' did n't,—fin'lly seemed to feel
'T was Concord Bridge a talkin' off to kill
With the Stone Spike thet 's druv thru Bunker's Hill;
Whether 't was so, or ef I on'y dreamed,
I could n't say; I tell it ez it seemed.
THE BRIDGE.
Wal, neighbor, tell us wut 's turned up thet 's new?
You 're younger 'n I be,—nigher Boston, tu:
An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin',
Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'.
There 's sunthin' goin' on, I know: las' night
The British sogers killed in our gret fight
(Nigh fifty year they hed n't stirred nor spoke)
Made sech a coil you 'd thought a dam hed broke:
Why, one he up an' beat a revellee
With his own crossbones on a holler tree,
Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive
With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five.
Wut is the news? 'T ain't good, or they 'd be cheerin'.
Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.

THE MONIMENT.
I don't know hardly ef it 's good or bad,—

THE BRIDGE.
At wust, it can't be wus than wut we 've had.

THE MONIMENT.
You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent,
An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?

THE BRIDGE.
Wut! they ha'n't hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone!
Thet 's the sure way to make a goose a swan!

THE MONIMENT.
No: England she would hev 'em, Fee, Faw, Fum!
(Ez though she hed n't fools enough to home,)
So they 've returned 'em—

THE BRIDGE.
Hev they? Wal, by heaven,
Thet 's the wust news I 've heerd sence Seventy-seven!
By George, I meant to say, though I declare
It 's 'most enough to make a deacon swear.

THE MONIMENT.
Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gains
By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains.
Come, neighbor, you don't understan'—

THE BRIDGE.
How? Hey?
Not understan'? Why, wut 's to hender, pray?
Must I go huntin' round to find a chap
To tell me when my face hez hed a slap?

THE MONIMENT.
See here: the British they found out a flaw
In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law:
(They make all laws, you know, an' so, o' course,
It 's nateral they should understan' their force:)
He 'd oughto ha' took the vessel into port,
An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court;
She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu,
An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view,
Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails,
Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' fails;
You may take out despatches, but you mus' n't
Take nary man—

THE BRIDGE.
You mean to say, you dus' n't!
Changed pint o' view! No, no,—it 's overboard
With law an' gospel, when their ox is gored!
I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land,
Hez ollers ben, “I've gut the heaviest hand.”
Take nary man? Fine preachin' from her lips!
Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships,
An' would agin, an' swear she had a right to,
Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to.
Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind,
England doos make the most onpleasant kind:
It 's you 're the sinner ollers, she 's the saint;
Wut 's good 's all English, all thet is n't ain't;
Wut profits her is ollers right an' just,
An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must;
She 's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks
There ain't no light in Natur when she winks;
Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus?
Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus?
She ain't like other mortals, thet 's a fact:
She never stopped the habus-corpus act,
Nor specie payments, nor she never yet
Cut down the int'rest on her public debt;
She don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed,
An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede;
She 's all thet 's honest, honnable, an' fair,
An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.

THE MONIMENT.
Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right;
Ef we 're mistaken, own up, an' don't fight:
For gracious' sake, ha'n't we enough to du
'thout gettin' up a fight with England, tu?
She thinks we 're rabble-rid—

THE BRIDGE.
An' so we can't
Distinguish 'twixt You ought n't an' You sha 'n't!
She jedges by herself; she 's no idear
How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer:
The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain 's a steeple,—
Her People 's turned to Mob, our Mob 's turned People.

THE MONIMENT.
She 's riled jes' now—

THE BRIDGE.
Plain proof her cause ain't strong,—
The one thet fust gits mad 's 'most ollers wrong.
Why, sence she helped in lickin' Nap the Fust,
An' pricked a bubble jest agoin' to bust,
With Rooshy, Prooshy, Austry, all assistin',
Th' ain't nut a face but wut she 's shook her fist in,
Ez though she done it all, an' ten times more,
An' nothin' never hed gut done afore,
Nor never could agin, 'thout she wuz spliced
On to one eend an' gin th' old airth a hoist.
She is some punkins, thet I wun't deny,
(For ain't she some related to you 'n' I?)
But there 's a few small intrists here below
Outside the counter o' John Bull an' Co,
An' though they can't conceit how 't should be so,
I guess the Lord druv down Creation's spiles
'thout no gret helpin' from the British Isles,
An' could contrive to keep things pooty stiff
Ef they withdrawed from business in a miff;
I ha'n't no patience with sech swellin' fellers ez
Think God can't forge 'thout them to blow the bellerses.

THE MONIMENT.
You 're ollers quick to set your back aridge,
Though 't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober bridge:
Don't you git het: they thought the thing was planned;
They 'll cool off when they come to understand.

THE BRIDGE.
Ef thet's wut you expect, you 'll hev to wait:
Folks never understand the folks they hate:
She 'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good,
'fore the month 's out, to git misunderstood.
England cool off! She 'll do it, ef she sees
She 's run her head into a swarm o' bees.
I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose:
I hev thought England was the best thet goes;
Remember (no, you can't), when I was reared,
God save the King was all the tune you heerd:
But it 's enough to turn Wachuset roun'
This stumpin' fellers when you think they 're down.

THE MONIMENT.
But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law,
The best way is to settle, an' not jaw.
An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricks
We 'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix:
That 'ere 's most frequently the kin' o' talk
Of critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk;
Your “You 'll see nex' time!” an' “Look out bumby!”
'Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie.
'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay
To fear thet meaner bully, old “They 'll say”?
Suppose they du say: words are dreffle bores,
But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours.
Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit
Where it 'll help to widen out our split:
She 's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to come
An' lend the beetle thet 's to drive it home.
For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle,
When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle.
England ain't all bad, coz she thinks us blind:
Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind;
An' we shall see her change it double-quick,
Soon ez we 've proved thet we 're a-goin' to lick.
She an' Columby 's gut to be fas' friends:
For the world prospers by their privit ends:
'T would put the clock back all o' fifty years
Ef they should fall together by the ears.

THE BRIDGE.
I 'gree to thet; she 's nigh us to wut France is;
But then she 'll hev to make the fust advances;
We 've gut pride, tu, an' gut it by good rights,
An' ketch me stoopin' to pick up the mites
O' condescension she 'll be lettin' fall
When she finds out we ain't dead arter all!
I tell ye wut, it takes more 'n one good week
Afore my nose forgits it 's hed a tweak.

THE MONIMENT.
She 'll come out right bumby, thet I'll engage,
Soon ez she gits to seein' we 're of age;
This talkin' down o' hers ain't wuth a fuss;
It 's nat'ral ez nut likin' 't is to us;
Ef we 're agoin' to prove we be growed-up,
'T wun't be by barkin' like a tarrier pup,
But turnin' to an' makin' things ez good
Ez wut we 're ollers braggin' that we could;
We 're boun' to be good friends, an' so we'd oughto,
In spite of all the fools both sides the water.

THE BRIDGE.
I b'lieve thet 's so; but hearken in your ear,—
I'm older 'n you,—Peace wun't keep house with Fear:
Ef you want peace, the thing you 've gut to du
Is jes' to show you 're up to fightin', tu.
I recollect how sailors' rights was won,
Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun:
Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he
Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea;
You 'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will,
An' ef you knuckle down, he 'll think so still.
Better thet all our ships an' all their crews
Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze,
Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went,
An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment,
Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave:
Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!

THE MONIMENT.
I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth:
You 'd oughto larned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth.
It ain't our nose thet gits put out o' jint;
It 's England thet gives up her dearest pint.
We 've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du
In our own fem'ly fight, afore we 're thru.
I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame,
When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame,
An' all the people, startled from their doubt,
Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,—
I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall,
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all;
Then come Bull Run, an' sence then I 've ben waitin'
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin',
Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's trace
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base,
With daylight's flood an' ebb: it 's gittin' slow,
An' I 'most think we 'd better let 'em go.
I tell ye wut, this war 's a-goin' to cost—

THE BRIDGE.
An' I tell you it wun't be money lost;
Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you 'll allow
Thet havin' things onsettled kills the cow:
We 've gut to fix this thing for good an' all;
It 's no use buildin' wut 's a-goin' to fall.
I'm older 'n you, an' I 've seen things an' men,
An' my experunce,—tell ye wut it 's ben:
Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv,
But bad work follers ye ez long 's ye live;
You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin,
It 's ollers askin' to be done agin:
Ef we should part, it would n't be a week
'Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak,
We 've turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru,
We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu;
'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't perlite,—
You 've gut to be in airnest, ef you fight;
Why, two thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut dirt,
Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment meant to hurt;
An' I du wish our Gin'rals hed in mind
The folks in front more than the folks behind;
You wun't do much ontil you think it 's God,
An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod;
We want some more o' Gideon's sword, I jedge,
For proclamations ha'n't no gret of edge;
There 's nothin' for a cancer but the knife,
Onless you set by 't more than by your life.
I 've seen hard times; I see a war begun
Thet folks thet love their bellies never 'd won;
Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long year;
But when 't was done, we did n't count it dear.
Why, law an' order, honor, civil right,
Ef they ain't wuth it, wut is wuth a fight?
I'm older 'n you: the plough, the axe, the mill,
All kin's o' labor an' all kin's o' skill,
Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw,
Ef 't warn't for thet slow critter, 'stablished law;
Onsettle thet, an' all the world goes whiz,
A screw 's gut loose in everythin' there is:
Good buttresses once settled, don't you fret
An' stir 'em; take a bridge's word for thet!
Young folks are smart, but all ain't good thet 's new;
I guess the gran'thers they knowed sunthin', tu.

THE MONIMENT.
Amen to thet! build sure in the beginnin':
An' then don't never tech the underpinnin':
Th' older a guv'ment is, the better 't suits;
New ones hunt folks's corns out like new boots:
Change jes' for change, is like them big hotels
Where they shift plates, an' let ye live on smells.

THE BRIDGE.

JONATHAN TO JOHN

No. III.
BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

[I hed it on my min' las' time, when I to write ye started]

This cairn the Constitooshun roun' ez Jeff doos in his hat
Is hendier a dreffle sight, an' comes more kin' o' pat.
I tell ye wut, my jedgment is you 're pooty sure to fail,
Ez long 'z the head keeps turnin' back for counsel to the tail:
Th' advantiges of our consarn for bein' prompt air gret,
While, 'long o' Congress, you can't strike, 'f you git an iron het;
They bother roun' with argooin', an' var'ous sorts o' foolin',
To make sure ef it 's leg 'lly het, an' all the while it 's coolin',
So 's 't when you come to strike, it ain't no gret to wish ye j'y on,
An' hurts the hammer 'z much or more ez wut it doos the iron,
Jeff don't allow no jawin'-sprees for three months at a stretch,
Knowin' the ears long speeches suits air mostly made to metch;
He jes' ropes in your tonguey chaps an' reg'lar teninch bores
An' lets 'em play at Congress, ef they 'll du it with closed doors;
So they ain't no more bothersome than ef we 'd took an' sunk 'em,
An' yit enj'y th' exclusive right to one another's Buncombe
'thout doin' nobody no hurt, an' 'thout its costin' nothin',
Their pay bein' jes' Confedrit funds, they findin' keep an' clothin';
They taste the sweets o' public life, an' plan their little jobs,
An' suck the Treash'ry, (no gret harm, for it 's ez dry ez cobs,)
An' go thru all the motions jest ez safe ez in a prison,
An' hev their business to themselves, while Buregard hez hisn:
Ez long 'z he gives the Hessians fits, committees can't make bother
'bout whether 't 's done the legle way or whether 't 's done the tother.
An' I tell you you 've gut to larn thet War ain't one long teeter
Betwixt I wan' to an' 'Twun't du, debatin' like a skeetur
Afore he lights,—all is, to give the other side a millin',
An' arter thet 's done, th' ain't no resk but wut the lor 'll be willin';
No metter wut the guv'ment is, ez nigh ez I can hit it,
A lickin' 's constitooshunal, pervidin' We don't git it.
Jeff don't stan' dilly-dallyin', afore he takes a fort,
(With no one in,) to git the leave o' the nex' Soopreme Court,
Nor don't want forty-'leven weeks o' jawin' an' expoundin',
To prove a nigger hez a right to save him, ef he 's drowndin';
Whereas ole Abe 'ud sink afore he 'd let a darkie boost him,
Ef Taney should n't come along an' hed n't interdooced him.
It ain't your twenty millions thet 'll ever block Jeff's game,
But one Man thet wun't let 'em jog jest ez he 's takin' aim:
Your numbers they may strengthen ye or weaken ye, ez 't heppens
They 're willin' to be helpin' hands or wuss'n-nothin' cap'ns.
I 've chose my side, an' 't ain't no odds ef I wuz drawed with magnets,
Or ef I thought it prudenter to jine the nighes' bagnets;
I 've made my ch'ice, an' ciphered out, from all I see an' heard,
Th' ole Constitooshun never 'd git her decks for action cleared,
Long 'z you elect for Congressmen poor shotes thet want to go
Coz they can't seem to git their grub no otherways than so,
An' let your bes' men stay to home coz they wun't show ez talkers,
Nor can't be hired to fool ye an' sof'-soap ye at a caucus,—
Long 'z ye set by Rotashun more 'n ye do by folks's merits,
Ez though experunce thriv by change o' sile, like corn an' kerrits,—
Long 'z you allow a critter's “claims” coz, spite o' shoves an' tippins,
He 's kep' his private pan jest where 't would ketch mos' public drippins',—
Long 'z A. 'll turn tu an' grin' B. 's exe, ef B. 'll help him grin' hisn,
(An' thet 's the main idee by which your leadin' men hev risen,)—
Long 'z you let ary exe be groun', 'less 't is to cut the weasan'
O' sneaks thet dunno till they 're told wut is an' wut ain't Treason,—
Long 'z ye give out commissions to a lot o' peddlin' drones
Thet trade in whiskey with their men an' skin 'em to their bones,—
Long 'z ye sift out “safe” canderdates thet no one ain't afeard on
Coz they 're so thund'rin' eminent for bein' never heard on,
An' hain't no record, ez it 's called, for folks to pick a hole in,
Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with a soul in,
An' it wuz ostentashun to be showin' on 't about,
When half his feller-citizens contrive to du without,—
Long 'z you suppose your votes can turn biled kebbage into brain,
An' ary man thet 's pop'lar 's fit to drive a lightnin'-train,—
Long 'z you believe democracy means I'm ez good ez you be,
An' that a feller from the ranks can't be a knave or booby,—
Long 'z Congress seems purvided, like yer streetcars an' yer 'busses,
With ollers room for jes' one more o' your spiled-in-bakin' cusses,
Dough 'thout the emptins of a soul, an' yit with means about 'em
(Like essence-peddlers ) thet 'll make folks long to be without 'em,
Jes heavy 'nough to turn a scale thet 's doubtfle the wrong way,
An' make their nat'ral arsenal o' bein' nasty pay,—
Long 'z them things last, (an' I don't see no gret signs of improvin',)
I sha'n't up stakes, not hardly yit, nor 't would n't pay for movin';
For, 'fore you lick us, it 'll be the long'st day ever you see.
Yourn, (ez I 'xpec' to be nex' spring,)

B., Markiss o' Big Boosy.

No. IV.
A MESSAGE OF JEFF DAVIS IN SECRET SESSION

FESTINA LENTE.

[I sent you a messige, my friens, t' other day]

No. V.
SPEECH OF HONOURABLE PRESERVED DOE IN SECRET CAUCUS

[I thank ye, my frien's, for the warmth o' your greetin']

No. VI.
SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE

[Once git a smell o' musk into a draw]

No. VII.
LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW

[Ef I a song or two could make]

No. VIII.

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

No. X.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

[Dear Sir,—Your letter come to han']

No. XI.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING

[I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it]

My feller kebbige-heads, who look so green,
I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen
The world of all its hearers but jest you,
't would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to,
An' you, my ven'able ol' frien's, thet show
Upon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow,
Ez ef mild Time had christened every sense
For wisdom's church o' second innocence,
Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing,
But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring,—
[Sev'ril noses blowed.]
We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to decide
Which is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side,
Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen
Is 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen.
[Cries o' “Thet 's so!”]
Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oak
Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke;
The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen,
(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an' green;
The birds are here, for all the season 's late;
They take the sun's height an' don' never wait;
Soon 'z he officially declares it 's spring
Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing,
An' th' ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear,
Can't by the music tell the time o' year;
But thet white dove Carliny scared away,
Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day;
Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last year
An' coo by every housedoor, is n't here,—
No, nor wun't never be, for all our jaw,
Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war!
O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could see
The begnet-pint there is to an idee!
[Sensation.]
Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel;
They run your soul thru an' you never feel,
But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin',
Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin',
Tell you come bunt ag'in a real live fect,
An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to ect!
Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now,
An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,
'ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom Come,
While t' other side druv their cold iron home.
My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth,
No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South,
Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black,
Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back;
But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust
To write up on his door, “No goods on trust”;
[Cries o' “Thet 's the ticket!”]
Give us cash down in ekle laws for all,
An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex' fall.
Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker,
Wuth minus some consid'able an acre;
Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore long
A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong;
Make 'em Amerikin, an' they 'll begin
To love their country ez they loved their sin;
Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a sore
Ready to fester ez it done afore.
No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision,
But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision,
An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor state
Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great.
Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you?
'T was commonsense afore the war wuz thru;
Thet loaded all our guns an' made 'em speak
So 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek;
“They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now,” sez she,
“To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee;
Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fear
The tallest airthquakes we can git up here.”
Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge,
An' say 't will only set their teeth on edge,
But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see,
Are 'bout ez mad 'z they wal know how to be;
It 's better than the Rebs themselves expected
'fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected;
Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast,
For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 'll last;
Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks say,
How could we punish it a milder way
Than sayin' to 'em, “Brethren, lookee here,
We 'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer,
An sence both come o' pooty strong-backed dad dies,
You take the Darkies, ez we 've took the Paddies;
Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand,
An' they 're the bones an' sinners o' the land.”
I ain't o' them thet fancy there 's a loss on
Every inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on;
But I know this: our money 's safest trusted
In sunthin', come wut will, thet can't be busted,
An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee,
To make a man a Man an' let him be.
[Gret applause.]
Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't,
But I do' want to block their only road to 't
By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git
Mor 'n wut they lost, out of our little wit:
I tell ye wut, I'm 'fraid we 'll drif' to leeward
'thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward;
He seems to think Columby 'd better ect
Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked
Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper;
She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper,
Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm,
Tell he 'll eccept her 'pologies in form:
The neighbors tell her he 's a cross-grained cuss
Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus;
“No,” sez Ma Seward, “he 's ez good 'z the best,
All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest”;
“He sarsed my Pa,” sez one; “He stoned my son,”
Another edds. “Oh wal, 't wus jes' his fun.”
“He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.”
“'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.”
“Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understood
You 'll take his gun away from him for good;
We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play,
Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way.
You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,
'thout his fust sayin', ‘Mother, I hev sinned!’”
[“Amen!” frum Deac'n Greenleaf.]
The Pres'dunt he thinks thet the slickest plan
'ould be t' allow thet he 's our on'y man,
An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war
Jes' for his private glory an' eclor;
“Nobody ain't a Union man,” sez he,
“'thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me;
War n't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine?
An' ain't thet sunthin like a right divine
To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,
An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?”
Wal, I expec' the People would n' care, if
The question now wuz techin' bank or tariff,
But I conclude they 've 'bout made up their min'
This ain't the fittest time to go it blin',
Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings,
But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things;
Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one day
They wun't let four years' war be throwed away.
“Let the South hev her rights?” They say, “Thet 's you!
But nut greb hold of other folks's tu.”
Who owns this country, is it they or Andy?
Leastways it ough' to be the People and he;
Let him be senior pardner, ef he 's so,
But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co;
[Laughter.]
Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbers
Think thet the job wuz taken by Columbus.
Did he set tu an' make it wut it is?
Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power hez riz.
Did he put thru the rebbles, clear the docket,
An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket?
Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I exes
Is t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes.
[Profoun' sensation.]
Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns?
Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons?
Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we run
A kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one?
An' is the country goin' to knuckle down
To hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o' Brown?
Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell?
Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell?
An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' way
Till th' underpinnin' 's settled so 's to stay?
Who cares for the Resolves of '61,
Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun?
Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence then
To larn folks they must hendle fects like men?
Ain't this the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em?
Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't kep 'em?
War n't there two sides? an' don't it stend to reason
Thet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason?
When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed,
An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed.
I knowed ez wal ez though I 'd seen 't with eyes
Thet when the war wuz over copper 'd rise,
An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our kettle
't would need Leviathan's whole skin to settle:
I thought 't would take about a generation
'fore we could wal begin to be a nation,
But I allow I never did imegine
't would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge in
To keep the split from closin' ef it could,
An' healin' over with new wholesome wood;
For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they think
Thet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's ink;
I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin'
The curus way in which the States are sovereign;
They ain't nut quite enough so to rebel,
But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise h---,
[A groan from Deac'n G.]
Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason,
They 're 'most too much so to be tetched for treason;
They can't go out, but ef they somehow du,
Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu;
The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir,
But stays to keep the door ajar for her.
He thinks secession never took 'em out,
An' mebby he 's correc', but I misdoubt;
Ef they war'n't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin,
Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in?
In law, p'r'aps nut; but there 's a diffurence, ruther,
Betwixt your mother-'n-law an' real mother,
[Derisive cheers.]
An' I, for one, shall wish they 'd all ben som'eres,
Long 'z U. S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers.
But, O my patience! must we wriggle back
Into th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track,
When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cut
Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut?
War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slate
Clean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate.
[Applause.]
Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet,
't wun't bind 'em mor 'n the ribbin roun' my het;
I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns,
That pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns:
Onct on a time the wolves hed certing rights
Inside the fold; they used to sleep there nights.
An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they took
Their turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book;
But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep,
Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep,
Till gradilly the shepherds come to see
Things war'n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' to be;
So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate
Along 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight;
They did n' seem to set much by the deacon,
Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to speak on;
Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out an' stay,
An' hev their fill o' mutton every day;
Then dogs an' shepherds, after much hard dammin',
[Groan from Deac'n G.]
Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin',
An' sez, “Ye sha' n't go out, the murrain rot ye,
To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!”
But then the question come, How live together
'thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether?
Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep)
Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep;
They sez, “Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in,
An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in;
Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they 're swearin';
To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.”
“Be gin'rous for yourselves, where you 're to pay,
Thet 's the best prectice,” sez a shepherd gray;
“Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button,
Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton;
Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle:
Tell they 're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle.”
[Cries of “Bully for you!”]
I 've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abetters
Are in the hebbit o' producin' letters
Writ by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers,
'bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers;
I 've noticed, tu, it 's the quack med'cine gits
(An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits;
[Two pothekeries goes out.]
Now, sence I lef' off creepin' on all fours,
I hain't ast no man to endorse my course;
It 's full ez cheap to be your own endorser,
An' ef I 've made a cup, I'll fin' the saucer;
But I 've some letters here from t' other side,
An' them 's the sort thet helps me to decide;
Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker,
An' I'll tell you jest where it 's safe to anchor.
[Faint hiss.]
Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writes
Thet for a spell he could n't sleep o' nights,
Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to,
Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto;
Et fust he jedged 't would right-side-up his pan
To come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man,
“But now,” he sez, “I ain't nut quite so fresh;
The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh;
You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course,
'fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse;
Now we 're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track:
Jest you take hol' an' read the follerin' extrac',
Out of a letter I received last week
From an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak,
A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue,
Born copper-sheathed an' copper-fastened tu.”
[Groan from Deac'n G.]
[Three cheers for Grant and Sherman.]
[Applause.]
[Continood applause.]
[Laughter.]
[Gret laughter.]
[Tumult'ous applause and cries of “Go on!” “Don't stop!”]