Chapter XXII: Introduction (9)

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. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back'ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads some xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. _Mis_states it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. Finely concloods to conclood. Yeels the flore.

You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doos an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made for: wut's left's jest pummis.

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, 'Hosee,' sez he, 'in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It's amazin' hard to come at,' sez he, 'but onct git it an' you've gut everythin'. Wut's the sweetest small on airth?' sez he. 'Noomone hay,' sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. 'Nawthin' of the kine,' sez he. 'My leetle Huldy's breath,' sez I ag'in. 'You're a good lad,' sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age,--'you're a good lad; but 'tain't thet nuther,' sez he. 'Ef you want to know,' sez he, 'open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and you'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, _fresh air_,' sez he, emphysizin', 'athout no mixtur. Thet's wut _I_ call natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a whiff on 't.' sez he. I often think o' thet when I set down to write but the winders air so ept to git stuck, an' breakin' a pane costs sunthin'.

Yourn for the last time,

_Nut_ to be continooed,

HOSEA BIGLOW.

I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit,-- Nut while the twolegged gab-machine's so plenty, 'nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty; I'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hard To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, An' maysure off, accordin' to demand, The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand, The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru, An' nothin' but the customer thet's new. 10 I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I've settled my idees, I find 'twarn't I sheered most in makin' up my mind; 'twuz this an' thet an' t'other thing thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I couldn' seek nor shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion, All th' ole flint-locks seems altered to percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint, Thet I'm percussion changin' back to flint; 20 Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Queen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,-- It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' margin To kin' o make its will afore dischargin': I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule,-- No man need go an' _make_ himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare.

Ez I wuz say'n', I hain't no chance to speak So's't all the country dreads me onct a week, 30 But I've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Thet sets to home an' thinks wut _might_ be said, The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!) 'mongst other stories of ole times he hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads, 40 (Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please; 'An',' sez the Parson, 'to hit right, you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't, when all's come an' past, The kebbige-heads'll cair the day et last; Th' ain't ben a meetin' sence the worl' begun But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one.' 50

I've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence then About ez good for talkin' tu ez men; They'll take edvice, like other folks, to keep, (To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu cheap,) They listen wal, don' kick up when you scold 'em, An' ef they've tongues, hev sense enough to hold 'em; Though th' ain't no denger we shall lose the breed, I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed, An' when my sappiness gits spry in spring, So's't my tongue itches to run on full swing, 60 I fin' 'em ready-planted in March-meetin', Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin', An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum the fence,-- Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f expense. This year I made the follerin' observations Extrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience, An', no reporters bein' sent express To work their abstrac's up into a mess Ez like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur' Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor, 70 I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies 'twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's.

(N.B. Reporters gin'lly git a hint To make dull orjunces seem 'live in print, An', ez I hev t' report myself, I vum, I'll put th' applauses where they'd _ough' to_ come!)

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, 'twould leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to, 80 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 91 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; 100 But thet white dove Carliny seared away, Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day; Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last year An' coo by every housedoor, isn'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, 110 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 feet, 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, 120 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; 130 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? 'Twas commonsense afore the war wuz thru; 140 _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 needn't fear The tallest airthquakes _we_ can git up here.' Some call 't insultin' to ask _ary_ pledge, An' say 'twill 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; 150 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 in 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 daddies, You take the Darkies, ez we've took the Paddies; 160 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 170 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: 180 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, 'twuz jes' his fun.' 'He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.' ''Twuz 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; 190 We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play, Seem' 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; 200 Warn'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 wouldn' 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; 210 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. 220 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? 230 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? 240 Ain't _this_ the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em? Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hevn't kep 'em? Warn'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 'twould need Leviathan's whole skin to settle: 250 I thought 'twould take about a generation 'fore we could wal begin to be a nation, But I allow I never did imegine 'twould 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; 260 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? 270 Ef they warn'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? 280 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, 'twun't bind 'em more '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; 290 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 warn'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 didn't seem to set much by the deacon, Nor preachin' didn' 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; 300 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; 310 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 320 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; 330 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 couldn'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 'twould 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; 340 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.'

'These four years past it hez ben tough To say which side a feller went for; 350 Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough, An' nothin' duin' wut 'twuz meant for; Pickets a-firin' left an' right, Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,-- Life warn't wuth hardly payin' rent for.

'Columby gut her back up so, It warn't no use a-tryin' to stop her,-- War's emptin's riled her very dough An' made it rise an' act improper; 'Twuz full ez much ez I could du 360 To jes' lay low an' worry thru, 'Thout hevin' to sell out my copper.

'Afore the war your mod'rit men, Could set an' sun 'em on the fences, Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' then Jump off which way bes' paid expenses; Sence, 'twuz so resky ary way, _I_ didn't hardly darst to say I 'greed with Paley's Evidences. [Groan from Deac'n G.]

'Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fence 370 Warn't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't, Headin' your party with a sense O' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't, An' tryin' to think thet, on the whole, You kin' o' quasi own your soul When Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't? [Three cheers for Grant and Sherman.]

'Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould like Their pol'tics done ag'in by proxy; Give their noo loves the bag an' strike A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy; 380 But the drag's broke, now slavery's gone, An' there's gret resk they'll blunder on, Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy.

'We've gut an awful row to hoe In this 'ere job o' reconstructin'; Folks dunno skurce which way to go, Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in; But one thing's clear; there _is_ a crack, Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black, Where the ole makebate can be tucked in. 390

'No white man sets in airth's broad aisle Thet I ain't willin' t' own ez brother, An' ef he's happened to strike ile, I dunno, fin'ly, but I'd ruther; An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right, Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white, I hold one on 'em good 'z another, [Applause.]

'Wut _is_ there lef I'd like to know, Ef 'tain't the defference o' color, To keep up self-respec' an' show 400 The human natur' of a fullah? Wut good in bein' white, onless It's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess, We're a heap smarter an' they duller?

'Ef we're to hev our ekle rights, 'twun't du to 'low no competition; Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whites Ain't safe onless we stop th' emission O' these noo notes, whose specie base Is human natur', thout no trace 410 O' shape, nor color, nor condition. [Continood applause.]

'So fur I'd writ an' couldn' jedge Aboard wut boat I'd best take pessige, My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edge Upon 'em more than tu a sessige, But now it seems ez though I see Sunthin' resemblin' an idee, Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message.

'I like the speech best, I confess, The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't; 420 An' it's so mad, I ruther guess There's some dependence to be placed on 't; [Laughter.] It's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me, Out o' the allies o' J.D. A temp'ry party can be based on 't.

'Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru An' dug his Presidential grave is, An' _then!_--who knows but we could slew The country roun' to put in----? Wun't some folks rare up when we pull 430 Out o' their eyes our Union wool An' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!

'Oh, did it seem 'z ef Providunce _Could_ ever send a second Tyler? To see the South all back to once, Reapin' the spiles o' the Free-siler, Is cute ez though an ingineer Should claim th' old iron for his sheer Coz 'twas himself that bust the biler!' [Gret laughter.]

Thet tells the story! Thet's wut we shall git 440 By tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit; For the day never comes when it'll du To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe. I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air, A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair, Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere, An' seems to say, 'Why died we? warn't it, then, To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men? Oh, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted, The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted! 450 Oh, you we lef', long-lingerin' et the door, Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more, Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel Ef she upon our memory turned her heel, An' unregretful throwed us all away To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!'

My frien's, I've talked nigh on to long enough. I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye're tough; My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delights Our ears, but even kebbige-heads hez rights. 460 It's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye, But you'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye! [Tumult'ous applause and cries of 'Go on!' 'Don't stop!']

UNDER THE WILLOWS AND OTHER POEMS

TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON

AGRO DOLCE

The wind is roistering out of doors, My windows shake and my chimney roars; My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning to me, As of old, in their moody, minor key, And out of the past the hoarse wind blows, As I sit in my arm-chair, and toast my toes.

'Ho! ho! nine-and-forty,' they seem to sing, 'We saw you a little toddling thing. We knew you child and youth and man, A wonderful fellow to dream and plan, With a great thing always to come,--who knows? Well, well! 'tis some comfort to toast one's toes.

'How many times have you sat at gaze Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, Shaping among the whimsical coals Fancies and figures and shining goals! What matters the ashes that cover those? While hickory lasts you can toast your toes.

'O dream-ship-builder: where are they all, Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested and tall, That should crush the waves under canvas piles, And anchor at last by the Fortunate Isles? There's gray in your beard, the years turn foes, While you muse in your arm-chair, and toast your toes.'

I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar; If much be gone, there is much remains; By the embers of loss I count my gains, You and yours with the best, till the old hope glows In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes.

Instead of a fleet of broad-browed ships, To send a child's armada of chips! Instead of the great gun, tier on tier, A freight of pebbles and grass-blades sere! 'Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,' I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes.

UNDER THE WILLOWS

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, June is the pearl of our New England year. Still a surprisal, though expected long. Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, With one great gush of blossom storms the world. A week ago the sparrow was divine; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 10 From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come; But now, oh rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, The bobolink has come, and, like the soul Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what Save _June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June_. 20

May is a pious fraud of the almanac, A ghastly parody of real Spring Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind; Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, And, with her handful of anemones, Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, The season need but turn his hour-glass round, And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms, Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front 30 With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books, While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect, Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, I take my May down from the happy shelf Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row, Waiting my choice to open with full breast, And beg an alms of springtime, ne'er denied Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year. 40

July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields, Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge, And every eve cheats us with show of clouds That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly, Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged, Conjectured half, and half descried afar, Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea.

But June is full of invitations sweet, 50 Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-read tomes To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue. The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane Brushes, then listens, _Will he come?_ The bee, All dusty as a miller, takes his toll Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day To sun me and do nothing! Nay, I think Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes The student's wiser business; the brain 60 That forages all climes to line its cells, Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish, Will not distil the juices it has sucked To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, Except for him who hath the secret learned To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take The winds into his pulses. Hush! 'tis he! My oriole, my glance of summer fire, Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, Twitches the packthread I had lightly wound 70 About the bough to help his housekeeping,-- Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, Divines the providence that hides and helps. _Heave, ho! Heave, ho!_ he whistles as the twine Slackens its hold; _once more, now!_ and a flash Lightens across the sunlight to the elm Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. Nor all his booty is the thread; he trails 80 My loosened thought with it along the air, And I must follow, would I ever find The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life.

I care not how men trace their ancestry, To ape or Adam: let them please their whim; But I in June am midway to believe A tree among my far progenitors, Such sympathy is mine with all the race, Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet There is between us. Surely there are times 90 When they consent to own me of their kin, And condescend to me, and call me cousin, Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills Moving the lips, though fruitless of all words. And I have many a lifelong leafy friend, Never estranged nor careful of my soul, That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me Within his tent as if I were a bird, Or other free companion of the earth, 100 Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse, In outline like enormous beaker, fit For hand of Jotun, where mid snow and mist He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, I know not by what grace,--for in the blood Of our New World subduers lingers yet Hereditary feud with trees, they being 110 (They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes,-- Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing, Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank. The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers And glints his steely aglets in the sun, Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 120 Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl A rood of silver bellies to the day. Alas! no acorn from the British oak 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those rings Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed, Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; With horn and hoof the good old Devil came, 130 The witch's broomstick was not contraband, But all that superstition had of fair, Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, Fearing their god as if he were a wolf That snuffed round every home and was not seen, There should be some to watch and keep alive All beautiful beliefs. And such was that,-- By solitary shepherd first surmised Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 140 Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished, As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared Confess a mortal name,--that faith which gave A Hamadryed to each tree; and I Will hold it true that in this willow dwells The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe, Of ancient Hospitality, long since, With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors.

In June 'tis good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, 150 Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. There muse I of old times, old hopes, old friends,-- Old friends! The writing of those words has borne My fancy backward to the gracious past, The generous past, when all was possible. For all was then untried; the years between 160 Have taught some sweet, some bitter lessons, none Wiser than this,--to spend in all things else, But of old friends to be most miserly. Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, As to an oak, and precious more and more, Without deservingness or help of ours, They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade, Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, Which Nature's milliners would scrape away; 170 Most dear and sacred every withered limb! 'Tis good to set them early, for our faith Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come, Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears.

This willow is as old to me as life; And under it full often have I stretched, Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive, And gathering virtue in at every pore Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, Or was transfused in something to which thought 180 Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost. Gone from me like an ache, and what remained Become a part of the universal joy. My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, Saw its white double in the stream below; Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, Dilated in the broad blue over all. I was the wind that dappled the lush grass, The tide that crept with coolness to its roots, 190 The thin-winged swallow skating on the air; The life that gladdened everything was mine. Was I then truly all that I beheld? Or is this stream of being but a glass Where the mind sees its visionary self, As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his bay, Across the river's hollow heaven below His picture flits,--another, yet the same? But suddenly the sound of human voice Or footfall, like the drop a chemist pours, 200 Doth in opacous cloud precipitate The consciousness that seemed but now dissolved Into an essence rarer than its own. And I am narrowed to myself once more.

For here not long is solitude secure, Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. Here, sometimes, in this paradise of shade, Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp, Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 210 And munch an unearned meal. I cannot help Liking this creature, lavish Summer's bedesman, Who from the almshouse steals when nights grow warm, Himself his large estate and only charge, To be the guest of haystack or of hedge, Nobly superior to the household gear That forfeits us our privilege of nature. I bait him with my match-box and my pouch, Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of smoke, His equal now, divinely unemployed. 220 Some smack of Robin Hood is in the man, Some secret league with wild wood-wandering things; He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot Earl, By right of birth exonerate from toil, Who levies rent from us his tenants all, And serves the state by merely being. Here The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat, And lets the kind breeze, with its delicate fan, Winnow the heat from out his dank gray hair,-- A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 230 Whose feet are known to all the populous ways, And many men and manners he hath seen, Not without fruit of solitary thought. He, as the habit is of lonely men,-- Unused to try the temper of their mind In fence with others,--positive and shy, Yet knows to put an edge upon his speech, Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. Him I entrap with my long-suffering knife, And, while its poor blade hums away in sparks, 240 Sharpen my wit upon his gritty mind, In motion set obsequious to his wheel, And in its quality not much unlike.

Nor wants my tree more punctual visitors. The children, they who are the only rich, Creating for the moment, and possessing Whate'er they choose to feign,--for still with them Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother, Strewing their lives with cheap material For wingèd horses and Aladdin's lamps, 250 Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch profane To dead leaves disenchanted,--long ago Between the branches of the tree fixed seats, Making an o'erturned box their table. Oft The shrilling girls sit here between school hours, And play at _What's my thought like?_ while the boys, With whom the age chivalric ever bides, Pricked on by knightly spur of female eyes, Climb high to swing and shout on perilous boughs, Or, from the willow's armory equipped 260 With musket dumb, green banner, edgeless sword, Make good the rampart of their tree-redoubt 'Gainst eager British storming from below, And keep alive the tale of Bunker's Hill.

Here, too, the men that mend our village ways, Vexing Macadam's ghost with pounded slate, Their nooning take; much noisy talk they spend On horses and their ills; and, as John Bull Tells of Lord This or That, who was his friend, So these make boast of intimacies long 270 With famous teams, and add large estimates, By competition swelled from mouth to mouth. Of how much they could draw, till one, ill pleased To have his legend overbid, retorts: 'You take and stretch truck-horses in a string From here to Long Wharf end, one thing I know, Not heavy neither, they could never draw,-- Ensign's long bow!' Then laughter loud and long. So they in their leaf-shadowed microcosm Image the larger world; for wheresoe'er 280 Ten men are gathered, the observant eye Will find mankind in little, as the stars Glide up and set, and all the heavens revolve In the small welkin of a drop of dew.

I love to enter pleasure by a postern, Not the broad popular gate that gulps the mob; To find my theatres in roadside nooks, Where men are actors, and suspect it not; Where Nature all unconscious works her will, And every passion moves with easy gait, 290 Unhampered by the buskin or the train. Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men Lead lonely lives, I love society, Nor seldom find the best with simple souls Unswerved by culture from their native bent, The ground we meet on being primal man, And nearer the deep bases of our lives.