Chapter II: Part 2

Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard,
Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight,
O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird;
'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight.

And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire,
Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth,
There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire,
And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth.

And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip,
For the bird of good omen, and joy in each eye,
And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the ship,
Together go forth over ocean and sky.

Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee,
And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown
The ship is alone on a desert of sea,
And the bird in a desert of sky is alone.

In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air,
Down that desert of waters--tremendous in wrath--
The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair,
And cleaves through the waves of the ocean, his path.

And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the wave.
Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales,
And the mariners all rush their cargo to save,
Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales.

Lo! a wonder which never before hath been heard
For it never before hath been given to sight;
On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird,
The Paradise Bird never known to alight!

The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip
Had a song for the omen which gladden'd each eye,
The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship
From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky.

But the mariners heed not the bird any more,
They are felling the masts--they are furling the sails,
Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er
Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales.

Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold;
And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey;
And who heeds the bird? "Save the silk and the gold!"
And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away!

Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more
Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven--
To be whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar,
And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven!

And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the gales:
From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard.
All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales,
Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses--the Bird!

TECUMSEH'S SPEECH TO THE CREEK WARRIORS--_Clairborn's Life of Gen. Dale._

In defiance of the white warriors of Ohio and Kentucky, I have traveled through their settlements, once our favorite hunting-grounds. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood on our knives. The pale faces felt the blow, but knew not whence it came.

Accursed be the race that has seized on our country and made women of our warriors. Our fathers, from their tombs, reproach us as slaves and cowards. I hear them now in the wailing winds.

The Muscogee was once a mighty people. The Georgians trembled at our war-whoop, and the maidens of my tribe, in the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors, and sighed for their embraces.

Now, your very blood is white, your tomahawks have no edge, your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. O Muscogees! brethren of my mother, brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery; once more strike for vengeance--once more for your country! The spirits of the mighty dead complain. The tears drop from the weeping skies. Let the white race perish!

They seize your land; they corrupt your women; they trample on the ashes of your dead!

Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven.

Back! back, ay, into the great water whose accursed waves brought them to our shore!

Burn their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The red man owns the country, and the pale face must never enjoy it!

War now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. Our country must give no rest to a white man's bones.

All the tribes of the North are dancing the war dance. Two mighty warriors across the seas will send us arms.

Tecumseh will soon return to his country. My prophets shall tarry with you. They will stand between you and the bullets of your enemies. When the white man approaches you, the yawning earth shall swallow him up.

Soon shall you see my arm of fire stretched athwart the sky. I will stamp my foot at Tippecanoe, and the very earth shall shake.

TERRITORIAL EXPANSION.--_Hon. S. S. Cox, House of Representatives, March 19th_, 1860.

Is there any American who wishes to consult European Powers as to the propriety or policy of our territorial expansion? Is there any one who fears a fatal blow from these Powers? We do not exist by the sufferance of Europe, but by its insufferance. We did not grow to our present greatness by its fostering care, but by its neglect, and in spite of its malevolence. We do not ask its pardon for being born, nor need we apologize to it for growing. It has endeavored to prevent even the legitimate extension of our commerce, and to confine us to our own continent. But if we can buy Cuba of Spain, it is our business with Spain. If we have to take it, it is our business with Providence. If we must save Mexico, and make its weakness our strength, we have no account to render unto Europe or its dynasties.

If European Powers choose to expand their empire and energize their people, we have no protests, no arms to prevent them. England may push from India through the Himalayas to sell her calicoes to the numberless people of Asia, and divide with France the empires of India, Burmah, and China. Civilization does not lose by their expansion. Russia may push her diplomacy upon Pekin, and her armies through the Caucasus, and upon Persia and Tartary; she may even plant her Greek cross again on the mosque of St. Sophia, and take the Grecian Levant into her keeping as the head of its church and civilization. France may plant her forts and arts upon the shores of the Red Sea; complete the canalization of Suez; erect another Carthage on the shores of the Mediterranean; bind her natural limits from Mont Blanc, in Savoy, to Nice, upon the sea. Sardinia may become the nucleus of the Peninsula, and give to Italy a name and a nationality. Even Spain, proud and poor, may fight over again in Africa the romantic wars with the Morescoes, by which she educated that chivalry and adventure, which three centuries ago made her the mistress of the New World. She may demand territory of Morocco, as she has, as indemnity for the war. America has no inquiry to make, no protocol to sign. These are the movements of an active age. They indicate health, not disease--growth, not decay. They are links in the endless chain of Providence. They prove the mutability of the most imperial of human institutions; but, to the philosophic observer, they move by a law as fixed as that which makes the decay of autumn the herald of spring. They obey the same law by which the constellations change their places in the sky. Astronomers tell us that the "southern cross," which guarded the adventurer upon the Spanish main four centuries ago, and which now can be seen, the most beautiful emblem of our salvation, shining down through a Cuban and Mexican night,--just before the Christian era, glittered in our northern heavens! The same GREAT WILL, which knows no North and no South, and which is sending again, by an irreversible law, the southern cross to our northern skies, on its everlasting cycle of emigration--does it not control the revolutions of nations, and the vicissitudes of empires? The very stars in their courses are "Knights of the Golden Circle," and illustrate the record of human advancement. They are the type of that territorial expansion from which this American continent can not be exempted without annihilation. The finger of Providence points to our nation as the guiding star of this progress. Let him who would either dusk its radiancy, or make it the meteor of a moment, cast again with nicer heed our nation's horoscope.

MARTHA HOPKINS.--_Phoebe Cary._

From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies, Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes; Where along the distant hill-side, her yearning heifer feeds, And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.

All the air is full of noises for there isn't any school, And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool; Blithely frisk unnumber'd chickens, cackling, for they can not laugh, Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps a little calf.

Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze, On the ground that's being furrow'd for the planting of the maize? Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay?

Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine, With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line, And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her faded cheek-- Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.

When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glow'd, She had watch'd a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road; Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn, Till amid her tears she lost him in the shadow of the barn.

Ere the supper-time was over, he had pass'd the kiln of brick, Cross'd the rushing Yellow River, and forded quite a creek, And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans, With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.

Therefore watches Martha Hopkins--holding in her hand the pans, When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's: Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, not a door behind her jars, But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.

Often sees she men on horseback coming down the turnpike rough, But they came not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough; Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps, As he jogs along at leisure, with head down like a sheep's.

She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest, By his socks, which were blue woolen, such as farmers wear out West; By the color of his trowsers, and his saddle which was spread, By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.

None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroken ox can throw None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe; And at all the apple-cuttings, few, indeed, the men are seen, That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin.

He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now; For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow; When the buck-eye tree has blossom'd, and your uncle plants his corn, Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding-morn.

He has invited his relations, bought a Sunday hat and gown, And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town; That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give, To sit down to the first breakfast in the cabin where they'll live.

Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape, 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape; Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees, One man looks like another, when half-hidden by the trees.

But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread, As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed, Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair, 'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there.

THE BASHFUL MAN'S STORY.--_Charles Matthews._

Among the various good and bad qualities incident to our nature, I am unfortunately that being overstocked with the one called bashfulness; for you most know, I inherit such an extreme susceptibility of shame, that on the smallest subject of confusion, my blood rushes into my cheeks, and I appear a perfect full-blown rose; in short, I am commonly known by the appellation of "The Bashful Man." The consciousness of this unhappy failing, made me formerly avoid that social company, I should otherwise have been ambitious to appear in: till at length becoming possessed of an ample fortune, by the death of a rich old uncle, and vainly supposing that "money makes the man," I was now determined to shake off my natural timidity, and join in the gay throng: with this view I accepted of an invitation to dine with one, whose open easy manner left me no room to doubt of a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly, an intimate friend of my late uncle's, with two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I for some time took private lessons of a professor, who teaches "grown gentlemen to dance." Having by this means acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learning to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity but, alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habitual practice. As I approached the house, a dinner-bell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality; impressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery-servants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw. At my first entrance, I summoned all my fortitude, and made my new-learnt bow to Lady Friendly; but, unfortunately, in bringing my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who had followed close to my heels, to be the nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my distress; and of that description, the number, I believe, is very small. The baronet's politeness, by degrees, dissipated my concern, and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to support his feelings, and to appear with perfect ease, after so painful an accident.

The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve and sheepishness, till, at length, I ventured to join in conversation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, and observing an edition of Xenophon, in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of) greatly excited my curiosity. I rose up to examine what it could be; Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and, as I suppose, willing to save me the trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him; and hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly; but, lo! instead of books, a board, which by leather and gilding had been made to look like sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgewood inkstand on the table, under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me, there was no harm; I saw the ink streaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, scarce knowing what I did, I attempted to stop its progress with my cambric handkerchief. In the height of this confusion, we were informed that dinner was served up, and I with joy perceived that the bell, which at first had so alarmed my fears, was only the half-hour dinner-bell.

In walking through the hall and suite of apartments to the dining-room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, and was desired to take my seat between Lady Friendly and her eldest daughter, at the table. Since the fall of the wooden Xenophon, my face had been continually burning, like a firebrand; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and to feel comfortably cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekindled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my clothes, my black silk breeches were not stout enough to save me from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation, and for some minutes my legs and thighs seemed stewing in a boiling caldron; but recollecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture, when I trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, and sat with my lower extremities parboiled, amidst the stifled giggling of the ladies and servants.

I will not relate the several blunders which I made during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desired to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me, spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-cellar; rather let me hasten to the second course, "where fresh disasters overwhelmed me quite."

I had a piece of rich sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood near me. In my haste, scarcely knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal; it was impossible to conceal my agony--my eyes were starting from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, I was obliged to drop the cause of my torment on my plate. Sir Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, and each advised a different application; one recommended oil, another water, but all agreed that wine was the best for drawing out fire, and a glass of sherry was brought me from the side-board, which I snatched up with eagerness: but, oh! how shall I tell the sequel? whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely designed to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth, already flayed and blistered. Totally unused to ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat, and palate as raw as beef, what could I do? I could not swallow; but clapping my hands upon my mouth, the cursed liquor squirted through my nose and fingers like a fountain, over all the dishes; and I, crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady Friendly chide her daughters; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. To relieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every direction. The baronet himself could not support this shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh; while I sprung from the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt could have excited.

Thus, without having deviated from the path of moral rectitude, I am suffering torments like a "goblin damned." The lower half of me has been almost boiled, my tongue and mouth grilled, and I bear the mark of Cain upon my forehead; yet these are but trifling considerations, to the everlasting shame which I must feel, whenever this adventure shall be mentioned. Perhaps, by your assistance, when my neighbors know how much I feel on the occasion, they will spare a bashful man, and, as I am just informed my poultice is ready, I trust you will excuse the haste in which I retire.

THE MATTER-OF-FACT MAN.--_Anon._

I am what the old women call an "Odd Fish." I do nothing under heaven without a motive--never. I attempt nothing, unless I think there is a probability of my succeeding. I ask no favors when I think they are not deserved; and finally, I don't wait upon the girls when I think my attentions would be disagreeable. I am a matter-of-fact man, I am. I do every thing seriously. I once offered to attend a young lady home; I did it seriously; that is, I meant to wait on her home if she wanted me. She accepted my offer; I went home with her, and it has ever since been an enigma with me whether she wanted me or not. I bade her good night, and she said not a word. I met her next morning, and I said not a word. I met her again, and she gave me two hours' talk. It struck me as curious. She feared I was offended, she said, and could not, for the life of her, conceive why. She begged me to explain, but would not give me a chance to do so. She said she hoped I wouldn't be offended, asked me to call, and it has ever since been a mystery to me whether she wanted me or not.

Once I saw a lady at her window. I thought I would call. I did. I inquired for the lady, and was told she was not at home. I expected she was, I went away thinking so. I rather think so still. I met her again--she was offended--said I had not been neighborly. She reproached me for my negligence; said she thought I had been unkind. And I've ever since wondered whether she thought so or not.

A lady once said to me that she should like to be married if she could get a good, congenial husband who would make her happy, or at least try to. She was not difficult to please, she said. I said I should like to get married, too, if I could find a wife that would try to make me happy. She said Umph, and looked as if she meant what she said. She did. For when I asked her if she thought she could not be persuaded to marry me, she said she would rather be excused. I have often wondered why I excused her.

A good many things of this kind have happened to me, that are doubtful, wonderful, mysterious. What is it, then, that causes doubt and mystery to attend the ways of men? It is the want of fact. This is a matter-of-fact world, and in order to act well in it, we must deal in a matter-of-fact way.

RICH AND POOR.--_Joseph Barber._

"Men are born equal;" Jefferson, the Sage,
Upon our history's initial page,
Inscribed that dictum;
But we who live in later times amend
The "declaration" of our patriot friend
With a _postscriptum_.

We deem, like him, swart Labor's son and heir,
And wealth's soft bantling, of _one earthenware_,
But mark the sequel:
One's meanly clothed in threadbare suit forlorn,
The other flaunts in velvet, lace, and lawn;
Are they then equal?

Five thousand children in New York, each year,
Gasp for bare life, in cellars damp and drear,
'Neath the street level.
Deprived of sunshine, chill'd with vapor-blights,
Say what are _their_ "inalienable rights,"
Social and civil?

The right to starve, the right to beg, to float
Among the city's scum--perchance to vote
Some day as "freemen."
Ah! yes, the _polls_ their sovereignty declare,
Not so--in sordid chains they're oft led there
By Faction's Demon.

"The rich and poor are equal," says the State,
But the strong laws of destiny and fate,
O'erride its polity.
Both have a right to _seek_ for "happiness;"
But, with such different chances of success,
Where's the _equality_?

Here wealth like a Colossus doth bestride
With legs of gold, the sorrow-troubled tide
Of Want and Squallor.
Nay, more, Law, Justice, oft becomes the tool
Of that bright tyrant, callous, calm, and cool,
Almighty Dollar!

"All men are equal," where? Why, in their dust,
Your worm cares little for your "upper crust!"
(What impropriety!)
And heaven receives alike all spirits pure,
On equal terms, and heaven is therefore sure
Of good society.

SEEING THE ECLIPSE.--_Anon._

[To be spoken without gesture, as if the speaker were
telling a friend his experience.]

Did you ever see an eclipse? No? Well, you _did_ miss a sight, got up for the especial benefit of darkies, perhaps, but every white man, of good _standing_, could enjoy it--_if_ he was up. I'll tell you _my_ experience, and you may judge what you have lost by not seeing the eclipse.

Well, I got up at three o'clock Wednesday morning. Looked for the sun, but couldn't find it. Concluded that I was up too early. Went to bed.

Got up again at half-past five. Saw something they called the sun. Looked red. Went down town. Sun looked whiter and bright as a tin pan. Thought I would go home and get breakfast. Noticed the breakfast-room looked dark. Opened the blinds when it looked lighter.

Seven o'clock. Went down town again. Sun shining very bright. Tried to look at it but couldn't. Thought I would take a glass. Took one. Smoked it. Thought that I could see better, but wasn't satisfied. Didn't see any eclipse.

Eight o'clock. Took another glass, thinking it might be a better one. Smoked. Could see a patch on the sun's face. Grew bigger. Took another glass--smoked. Looked first-rate.

Half-past eight. Things didn't look right, but could see something. Thought the trouble might be in the last glass. Took another. Saw the biggest kind of an eclipse. Saw the sun and moon. Took another glass and looked again. Saw two suns. Smoked and took another glass. Saw two suns and two moons. Took another glass. Five or six suns and ten or fifteen moons all mixed up and seemed to be drunk.

Nine o'clock. Couldn't see much of any thing. Concluded I must be sun-struck. Thought I would go home. Saw an omnibus, and thought I would get in. Turned out to be one of Swartz's what-d'ye-call-it. Tried another, and got in. Went home in a coal cart. Think eclipses are humbugs, besides making people have headaches.

THE BEAUTIES OF THE LAW.

[Recited in the character of Counsellor Quirk.]

Farmer A. and Farmer B. were good neighbors. Farmer A. was seized or possessed of a white bull; Farmer B. was seized or possessed of, or otherwise well entitled to, a ferry-boat. Farmer B. having made his boat fast to a post on shore, by means of a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, _vulgato vocto_, a hayband, went up to town to get his dinner, which was also very natural for a hungry man to do. In the mean time Farmer A.'s white bull came down to the town to look for his dinner, which was also very natural for a hungry bull to do; the said white bull, discovering, seeing, and spying out, some turnips in the bottom of the ferry-boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat aforesaid, eat up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band. The ferry-boat being ate from its moorings, floated down the river with the white bull in it: it struck against a rock, which beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; whereupon, the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat, for running away with the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against the bull, for running away with the boat; and thus notice of the trial was given, Bullum _versus_ Boatum--Boatum _versus_ Bullum. Now the counsel for the bull began with saying: "Your Honor, and you, Gentlemen of the Jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, your Honor, your Honor may have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, your Honor, I humbly submit to your Honor, the bull could no more have run away with the boat, than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, your Honor, how can an action be maintained against that which is not actionable? How can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think on what is not thinkable? Therefore, your Honor, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury will be guilty of a bull." The learned counsel for the boat, in the cross-action of Bullum _versus_ Boatum, observed, that the bull should be nonsuited, because, in his declaration, he had omitted to state or specify what color he was; for thus wisely and thus learnedly spoke the counsel: "My Lord, if the bull was of no color he must be of some color; and if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be?" I overruled this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color: besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color in the law, for the law can color any thing. The cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave it, as my opinion, that as the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff. My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: how, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a _compos mentis_ evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring, that for his client he would swear any thing. The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original law Latin, which set forth in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood, or the tide of ebb, the charter of the water-bailiff was as follows: Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in choisi, sapor omnibus, fishibus, qui haberunt finnos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui surmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus et well boats, sive oysteri, shrimpini, catinos, sturgeoni, shadini, herringi, crabi, snaperini, flatini, sharkus; that is, not flat-fish alone, but flats and sharps both together. But now comes the nicety of the law, the law is as nice as a new-laid egg, and not to be understood by addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood to avoid quibbling, but it being proved that they were carried away, neither by the flood, nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were consequently nonsuited; but such was the lenity and perfection of our laws, that upon their paying all the costs, they were allowed to begin again, _de novo_.

GE-LANG! GIT UP!--_New Orleans Delta._

The drops of rain were falling fast,
When up through Camp-street quickly pass'd,
An omnibus, whose driver sung,
In accents of the Celtic tongue--
Ge-lang! git up!

His mules were lank, his whip was long;
He touch'd them with a biting thong,
And as they switch'd their threadbare tails,
This sound the listening ear assails--
Ge-lang! git up!

Along the street, on every side,
Were damp ones waiting for a ride;
They call'd, they yell'd, they raised a fuss,
But cried the driver of the 'bus.
Ge-lang! git up!

"Hold on! hold on!" an old man said,
And waved his hand above his head;
Crack went the whip, and all could hear
A sharp sound echoing on the ear--
Ge-lang! git up!

"Stop, driver, stop!" a maiden call'd
"Stop, stop!" a dozen voices bawl'd
The driver look'd on neither side,
But still in clarion voice replied--
Ge-lang! git up!

Far up the street a sound was heard,
And through the distance came a word
That fell on many a waiting soul
Like Hope's lugubrious funeral toll--
Ge-lang! git up!

That night the driver went to bed;
All through his troubled sleep he said
The same strange words which he had flung
All day from his Jehuic tongue--
Ge-lang! git up!

THE RATS OF LIFE.--_Charles T. Congdon._

Rats! rats! rats!
Pen-and-ink rats in their holes on high,
Writing libels for fools to buy;
Squabbling ever--the same old tune--
The hinted lie, or the broad lampoon!
Rats whose virtue can never fail,
Though each one carries his price on his tail;
Some bite like scorpions--some like gnats;
Know ye the names of the Editor Rats?

Rats! rats! rats!
Rats that the belfried churches nurse,
Drearily drawling chapter and verse;
Offering ever for human ills
Only the barren letter that kills;
Gnawing the Ark of the Covenant through,
From velvet cushion to padded pew;
Beating the dust to blind the flats!
Know ye the names of the Reverend Rats?

Rats! rats! rats!
Rats in ermine holding moot,
With law in parcels at prices to suit;
Shaping, inventing to cover the case,
Precedent musty or dictum base,
Gad! how they gibber to suitors below:
"If so be it thus, why then thus be it so!"
_Leges non curant--verhum sat!_
Know ye the name of the Legal Rat?

Rats! rats! rats!
Rats in the ancient Temple of Mind--
Mumbling maggots and munching rind!
Scrubbing and patching, splicing and jointing,
With particles Greek and with Hebrew pointing.
Proving virtue itself a sin,
By a comma left out or a colon left in;
Of guesses and glosses the autocrats:
Know ye the names of the Learned Rats?

Rats! rats! rats!
By beds where the dying pant for life!
How snug they stand with lancet and knife;
While the vampyre tugs at the fluttering heart,
How they jabber jargon of middle-aged art!
Soothing pain when 'tis savage and strong
By naming it something Latin and long!
A grain of this and a scruple of that!--
Know ye the name of the Medical Rat?

Rats! rats! rats!
Rats that run in the month of May
Rats of reform and right are they!
Rats who believe the hottest of speeches
Soonest the shame and sorrow reaches;
Generous rats whose chiefest delight
Is to set the order of Providence right;
Lean, or hairy, or greasy, or fat,
Know ye the name of the Platform Rat?

Rats! rats! rats!
Oh, Truth and Justice, and Common-Sense
When will you drive this rat-tribe hence?
Bait 'em and beat 'em! hurry 'em! skurry 'em!
With satire and scorn and laughter flurry 'em!
In hole and corner and cranny to hide,
The Flunkey Rat, and the Rat of Pride,
Selfishness, Pedantry, Cant, and all that,
Till nobody hears of a single Rat!

"THE CREOWNIN' GLORY OF THE UNITED STATES."--_Knickerbocker Magazine._

My Hearers:--My text ain't in Worcester's Pictorial, nor Webster's big quarto; but it is in the columns of the Bunkum Flagstaff and Independent Echo--"_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n._" Thar ain't a feller in all this great and glorious Republic but has studed readin', ritin', and 'rithmetic. Thar ain't a youngster so big that you couldn't drown him in a spit-box but what has read Shakspeare's gogerphy, and knows that all the world is a stage, with two poles instead of one like a common stage; and that it keeps goin' reound and reound on its own axis, not axin' nothin' o' nobody; for "_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_." Who was it that, durin' the great and glorious Revolution, by his eloquence quenched the spirit of Toryism? An American citizen. Who was it that knocked thunder out of the clouds, and took a streak o' greased lightnin' for a tail to his kite? An American citizen. Who was it that invented the powder that will kill a cockroach, if you put a little on its tail and then tread on it? Who was it that discovered the Fat Boy, and captured the wild and ferocious _What Is It?_ An American citizen! Oh, it's a smashin' big thing to be an American citizen! King David would have been an American citizen, and the Queen of Sheba would have been naturalized, if it could a bin did; for "_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_." When you and I shall be no more; when this glorious Union shall have gone to etarnal smash; when Barnum shall have secured his last curiosity at a great expense; then will the historian dip his pen in a georgious bottle of blue-black ink, and write--"_Edication was the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_."

THREE FOOLS.--_C. H. Spurgeon._

I will show you three fools. One is yonder soldier, who has been wounded on the field of battle--grievously wounded, well-nigh unto death. The soldier asks him a question. Listen, and judge of his folly! What question does he ask? Does he raise his eyes with eager anxiety and inquire if the wound be mortal, if the practitioner's skill can suggest the means of healing, or if the remedies are within reach and the medicine at hand? No, nothing of the sort. Strange to tell, he asks: "Can you inform me with what sword I was wounded, and by what Russian I have been thus grievously mauled? I want," he adds, "to learn every minute particular respecting the origin of my wound." The man is delirious, his head is affected! Surely such questions at such a time are proof enough that he is bereft of his senses.

There is another fool. The storm is raging, the ship is flying impetuously before the gale, the dark scud moves swiftly overhead, masts are creaking, the sails are rent to rags, and still the gathering tempest grows more fierce. Where is the captain? Is he busily engaged on the deck, is he manfully facing the danger, and skillfully suggesting means to avert it? No, sir, he has retired to his cabin; and there, with studious thoughts and crazy fancies, he is speculating on the place where this storm took its rise. "It is mysterious, this wind; no one ever yet," he says, "has been able to discover it." And so, reckless of the vessel, the lives of the passengers, and his own life, he is careful only to solve his curious question. The man is mad, sir; take the rudder from his hand; he is clean gone mad!

The third fool I shall doubtless find among yourselves. You are sick and wounded with sin, you are in a storm and hurricane of Almighty vengeance, and yet the question which you would ask of me this morning would be: "Sir, what is the origin of evil?" You are mad, sir, spiritually mad; that is not the question you would ask if you were in a sane and healthy state of mind. Your question would be: "How can I get rid of the evil?" Not, "How did it come into the world?" but, "How am I to escape from it?" Not, "How is it that fire descended from heaven upon Sodom?" but, "How may I, like Lot, escape out of the city to a Zoar?" Not, "How is it that I am sick?" but, "Are there medicines that will heal me? Is there a physician to be found that can restore my soul to health?" Ah! you trifle with subtleties, while you neglect certainties.

WASHINGTON.--_Hon. Thomas S. Bocock, Feb. 22d, 1860._

As certain vegetable products are the natural growth of particular soils, at particular times, so some men spring almost necessarily out of certain forms of civilization, and stand as the representatives of the times and countries in which they live.

Pericles, able, accomplished, magnificent, was the representative man of Athens in the time of her highest civilization and prosperity. Richard I. was the representative man of England in the days of chivalry, and Charles II. in the days of gallantry. These men could scarcely have lived in any other age or clime. So Washington could scarcely have had his existence in any other time or country. He could no more have been an Italian of the middle ages, than Machiavelli could have been an American, or Cæsar Borgia an Englishman: no more than the Parthenon could have been a Gothic cathedral, or Westminster Abbey a Grecian temple. He was at once the offspring and the type of American civilization at his time. He was our great forest-bred cavalier, with all the high honor of his ancestral stock of De Wessingtons, with all the hardy firmness of a pioneer, and with all the kindly courtesy of his native State. Among the Adamses and Hancocks, the Lees and Henrys, the Sumpters and Rutledges of that day, he stood forth prominently as the representative man, and as the exemplar of our Revolution, just as that triplex monstrosity of Danton, Marat, and Robespierre, was the exemplar of the French.

He was a man of firm adherence to principle. We fought for principle in the revolutionary struggle. He was a man of signal moderation. Such was the spirit of our contest. He had great self-control. Unlike other revolutions, ours advanced not one step beyond the point proposed. Having reached that, it subsided as easily, as gracefully, and as quietly as though the voice of Omnipotence itself had spoken to the great deep of our society, saying: "_Peace, be still._"

Could he have lived in ancient days, the strains of immortal verse would have told his deeds, and fond adherents would have numbered him among the gods.

Those days are past; but we have yet hearts to admire, and pens to record, and tongues to praise his private virtues and his public worth. And when century after century shall have rolled by, bearing its fruits into the bosom of the past; even when men shall look back to this time, through the haze and mist of a remote and far-off antiquity, if this shall still be a land of freemen, this day shall still be fondly cherished as the anniversary of the birth of Washington; increased reverence shall attend his character, and thickening honors shall cluster around his name.

Upon this representative and similitude of the great and honored dead, which we this day put forth before the world, the winds shall blow, the rains shall fall, and the storms shall beat, but it shall stand unhurt amid them all. So shall it be with the fame of him whose image it is. The breath of unfriendly criticism may blow upon it; the storms that betoken moral or social change may break upon it; but it shall stand firmly fixed in the hearts and memories of every true and honest and liberty-loving man who inhabits our land or cherishes our institutions.

The inhabitants of this city, as they behold this statue, day after day, will look upon it as the Palladium of their privileges, and the silent guardian of their prosperity. And the thousands and tens of thousands, that from every nation, kingdom, and tongue, yearly go forth to gaze upon and admire the wonders of the earth, when they shall come up to this "Mecca of the mind," shall pause with reverential awe, as they gaze upon this similitude of the mighty Washington.

Year after year shall that dumb image tell its eloquent story of patriotism, devotion, and self-sacrifice; year after year shall it teach its holy lesson of duty and of faith; with generation after generation shall it plead for institutions founded in wisdom, and a country bought with blood. To the clouds and storms that gather over and break upon it, it will tell of the clouds and storms through which its great antitype did pass, in his devoted course on earth; and when the great luminary of the heavens, descending with his golden shower of beams like imperial Jove, shall wrap it in its warm embrace, it shall tell the sun that He who gave him his beams and bade him shine, has decreed that one day the darkness of eternal night shall settle on his face; but then the spirit of the mighty Washington, basking in an eternal sunlight above, shall still

"A darkening universe defy,
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God."

THE SAME.

Think, then, of the eminent statesmen whose talents have illustrated and qualities ennobled their age and country. I will not attempt to name them; but who is there among them all who, having the wisdom always to perceive, Lad, at the same time, the sense of duty to carry out, the best interests of the country? Consider, if you please, how Richelieu lived, and how Wolsey died; and tell me, then, if these were such as Washington. I will not equal him with the Scripture patriarchs. It would be wrong so to do. What of mere mortality could equal the firmness of Moses, as he came down from Sinai, his face all glowing from the presence of his God? What could equal the faith of Abraham, as he tracked his lonely pilgrimage through the plains of Shinar, seeking a land that he knew not of? These pictures have a far-off, haze-enveloped, oriental background. They are drawn with the pencil of inspiration, and colored with the hues of heaven. I could not say that they correctly represent Washington in any phase of his character. But I will say that, in duty and in faith, he approached them more nearly than any other hero-statesman of whom I have any knowledge. I would not deal in any exaggeration, but I desire to be just.

Washington may have had ambition, but it was not of that stamp that made the angels fall. He loved popularity, but not to gratify a vulgar vanity. His ambition was for his country's good. He took office to achieve a great end. When that was accomplished, he withdrew gladly to that retirement which was ever grateful to his heart, and which, in all circumstances and conditions in which he might be placed, always stretched out before him, in the future, as the calm and peaceful haven of his hopes. Had he been less a good man, he would not thus have desired retirement, for none but a good man could so love the calm delights of privacy and the pure joys of the domestic circle and the family fireside. Had he been not so much a great one, he would never have left his home.

Strange decree of fate! that in this Western world, but recently known to civilization, and only partially reclaimed from the savages; over which the dull oblivion of unnumbered centuries had not yet ceased to brood; without literature, without polite arts, without settled social organization, without position among nations--that in such a land, almost unknown and utterly uncared for, there should have arisen a man who was destined to equal, in the estimation of the virtuous and the good, all ancient glory and all modern fame.

The verdict of the French philosopher, Guizot, pronounced in view of his whole record, was, that "of all great men he was the most virtuous and the most fortunate--in this world God has no higher favors to bestow;" while the great English orator, jurist, and statesman, Lord Brougham, has declared that "until time shall be no more, will a test of the progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington."

THE SAME.

Had Washington never lived, what would have been the result of our revolutionary struggle? Had he died immediately after the close of the war, what would have been the fate of our governmental experiment? These are speculations which it will never be allowed us, in this life, to solve. As, in the one case, we can not say that the struggle would not ultimately have ended triumphantly, so, in the other, we do not know that our present form of government would not have been successfully established. For myself, I doubt the latter proposition fully as much as the former. Under another man, as first President, the fury of party strife would have been far greater, and sectional discord much stronger. Insurrectionary movements would have been more numerous and difficult of suppression, and foreign jealousy more bold and effective.

Though the ship of state may have ultimately made the port, it is certain that she would have encountered more adverse currents, and been tossed upon more tempestuous seas. The political tempest which was passing over the country at the time of his death, gives some faint idea of what might have been expected, without him, in the earlier and more unsettled state of our institutions. The immortal legacy which, in his "_Farewell Address_," he gave to the country on his final retirement, has already exhausted eulogy. The patriot heart has often kindled over it in the past, and will do so forever in the future. It will go down to the remotest posterity which shall inhabit this land of liberty, as an inestimable compend of whatever is true in wisdom, holy in patriotism, and far-seeing in statesmanship. Would that its doctrines were not only infused into every mind, but engraved upon every heart! Would that its lesson of "_equal laws_" involving equal burdens and equal benefits, equal duties and equal protection, and of strict regard for constitutional limitation in all cases, was made the basis of all our political action! Then, indeed, would party feuds and sectional animosities be allayed. A spirit of mutual respect and fraternal concord would fill the land with the fruits of peace, prosperity, and happiness. With all our fertile soil, salubrious climate, skillful industry, and enriching trade, this only is needed to usher in, amid shouts of triumph and songs of rejoicing, the political millennium of our land.

Now, though withdrawn from public position, his controlling sense of duty made Washington still anxious for his country, and ready to render any service which might appear incumbent on him. So, when it seemed that a war with France was inevitable, old man as he was, enshrined as he was in the hearts of his countrymen, with nothing more of fame to attain, and nothing more of glory to covet, from a pure sense of duty, he agreed to take charge of the armies of the nation, and to imperil life, reputation, every thing, for his country's good. The occasion for his services did not arise; but the certainty that it would not was scarcely manifest, when death came to summon him to the "mansions of eternal rest."

It is allowed to few men to carry on a revolution, and to see it successfully terminated in the independence of a nation. Fewer still, perhaps, are permitted to inaugurate a new government, and witness its firm establishment in the freedom of the people. Washington had the singular good fortune to do both, and to die at last at home and in the bosom of his family.

Hero! Patriot! Sage! If there be one title more pure, more lofty, more noble than all others, by that title I would name him. To whom shall we liken him, or with whom shall he be compared? There is the long list of military heroes, in ancient and modern times. Let them pass in solemn procession across the stage, each bearing the light of his past life, like the solemn procession of torch-bearers in the sacred mysteries of Eleusis. Gaze on them as they pass! Great, illustrious, resplendent! There are Alexander and Hannibal, Scylla and Cæsar, Charlemagne and Marlborough, Bonaparte and Wellington. Which one of them all that has not a record marked by some weakness, or marred by some crime? Love of glory, lust of dominion, or greed of gain, is written by the pen of history upon the escutcheon of all.

OUR GREAT INHERITANCE.--_John J. Crittenden, 1860._