The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 103, May, 1866

Our chief bankers estimate their annual remittances to American citizens for foreign travel and residence abroad at less than five millions yearly. Our exports again exceed our imports, and foreign exchange is at 7-1/4 in gold, or two per cent below par. An emigration, chiefly from Germany, greatly in excess of any former year is predicted. It has been well ascertained that each emigrant brings, on the average, seventy dollars in funds to this country, and these funds alone will suffice to meet our interest abroad. What period could be more auspicious for a gradual return, say in six months, to specie? Of course there would be some decline in merchandise, but the loss would fall on declining stocks, often sold in advance, and would not reach stocks in bond, the price of which is to be paid in specie. The improvident might suffer a little; but when the first shock was past, would not a strong impulse be given to industry? Would not enterprise be at once directed to the erection of the houses, factories, ships, steamers, locomotives, and railways which our growth demands? Would not the community immediately seek to renew their wardrobes and furniture, now worn out or exhausted by the war? Our mutual friend Mr. Smith might then meet his friend the coal-merchant with a smile, and cheer himself with his open fireplace, putting away his stifling but economic stove; he might postpone his retirement from the three-story brick to the wooden two-story in the suburbs, eat his roast beef again on Sunday, and regale himself with black coffee after dinner, without a thought of the slow but sagacious Dutchman, who is transferring at his expense a national debt of $800,000,000 from the sea-girt dikes of little Holland to the populous and fertile isles and spice groves and coffee plantations of Sumatra and Java.

MEPHISTOPHELEAN

You have been, I presume, Madam, among the crowds of young and old, to the musical revival of the great wonder-work of the last century. You have heard the Frenchman's musical expression of the German poet's thought, uttered by the motley assemblage of nationalities which constitutes an opera troupe in these latter days. You have seen the learned Dr. Faustus's wig and gown whisked off behind his easy chair, and the rejuvenated Doctor emerge from his antiquated apparel as fresh and sprightly as Harlequin himself, to make love in Do-di-pettos. You have seen the blonde young Gretchen, beauteous and pure at her spinning-wheel, gay and frolicsome before that box looking-glass and that kitchen table,—have heard her tender vows of affection and her passionate outbursts of despair. You have heard the timid Siebel warble out his adolescent longings for the gentle maid in the very scantiest of tunics, as becomes the fair proportions of the stage girl-boy. You have seen the respectable old Martha faint at the news of her husband's death, and forthwith engage in a desperate flirtation with the gentleman who brings the news. You have seen the gallant Valentin lead off the march of that band of stalwart warriors, who seem to have somehow lost the correct step in their weary campaigns. Your memory, even now, has a somewhat confused impression of Frederici, moonlight, Mazzoleni, Kermesse, Sulzer, gardens, Kellogg, churches, Himmer, flaming goblets, Stockton, and an angelic host with well-rounded calves in pink tights, radiant in the red light that, from some hidden regions, illuminates the aforesaid scantily clad angels, as they hang, like Mahomet's coffin, 'twixt heaven and earth.

But I question, Madam, whether the strongest impression which your memory retains be not exactly the one personage in the drama whom I have omitted to mention,—the red-legged, gleaming-eyed, loud-voiced gentleman who pulls the hidden wires which set all the other puppets in motion,—Mr. Mephistopheles himself. Marguerite, studied, refined, unimpassioned in the pretty Yankee girl,—simple, warm, outpouring in the sympathetic German woman,—and Faust, gallant, ardent, winning in the bright-eyed Italian,—thoughtful, tender, fervent in the intelligent German,—are background figures in the picture your memory paints; while the ubiquitous, sneering, specious, cunning, tempting, leering, unholy Mephistopheles is a character of himself, in the foreground, whose special interpreter you do not care to distinguish.

Ring down the curtain. Put out the lights. We will leave the mimic scene, and return to the broad stage of life, whereon all are actors and all are audience. There are Gretchens and Fausts everywhere,—American, English, French, German, Italian,—of all nations and tongues,—but there is only one Mephistopheles. They have lived and loved and fallen and died. But he, indestructible, lives on to flash fire in the cups of beings yet unborn, and lurk with unholy intent in hearts which have not yet learned to beat. There is only one Mephistopheles; but he is protean in shape. The little gentleman in black, the hero of so many strange stories, is but the Teutonic incarnation of a spirit which takes many forms in many lands. Out of the brain of the great German poet he steps, in a guise which is known and recognized wherever the story of love and betrayal finds an echo in human hearts. Poor Gretchen! She had heard of Satan, and had been rocked to sleep by tales of the Loreley, and knew from her Bible that there was an evil spirit in the world seeking whom he might devour. But little did she dream, when she stopped her spinning-wheel to think for a moment of the gallant young lover who wooed her so ardently, that the glance of his eye was lighted with the flame of eternal fire, and that the fond words of love he spoke were hot breathings from the regions of the accursed. Poor Gretchen!

But, my dear Madam, this is all a fable. Mephistopheles—the real, vital, moving Mephistopheles—has outlived Goethe, and will outlast the very memory of the unhappy heroine of his noble poem. He walks the streets to-day as fresh and persuasive as when, in ophidian form, he haunted that lovely garden which is said to have once stood near the banks of the Euphrates, and there beguiled the mother of mankind. Your friend Asmodeus—albeit not the quondam friend of that name for whose especial amusement he unroofed so many houses in the last century, when he was suffering from severe lameness—has a discerning eye to pierce his many disguises. He does not walk our streets now-a-days in red tights or with tinsel eyes; he does not limp about with a sardonic laugh; nor could you see the cloven hoof which is said to betray his identity. Were such the case, the little street-boys would point him out, and the daily papers, with which his friend Dr. Faustus had so much to do in their origin, would record his movements with greater eagerness than they do the comings and goings of generals and governors. No, my dear Madam, he assumes no such striking costumes. But he brushes by you in your daily walks, he sits beside you in the car, the theatre, and even in the church, in respectable, fashionable attire. Frank dickers with him in his counting-room, Tommy chases him in the play-ground, Mrs. Asmodeus makes him a fashionable call, and—God help us all!—we sometimes find him sitting domiciliated at our hearthstones. He changes like the wizard we used to read of in our wonderful fairy books, who was an ogre one moment and a mouse the next. He is more potent than the philosopher's stone; for that changed everything into gold only, while he becomes, at will, all the ores and alloys of creation. Fortunatus's wishing-cap and Prince Hussein's tapestry were baby toys to him. They whisked their owners away to the place where they wished, at the moment, to be. He is ubiquitous.

He lurks under the liberty-cap of the goddess whose features are stamped in the shining gold, and his laugh is the clink of the jingling pieces. He turns himself into a regal sceptre that sways the gaping crowd, and it becomes a magnet that draws with resistless power the outstretched, itching palms of men. He takes the witching form of woman, paints her pulpy cheek with peachy bloom, knots into grace her mass of wavy hair, lights in her sparkling eye the kindling flame, hangs on her pouting lip the expectant kiss, and bids her supple waist invite caress; and more seductive far than gold or power are these cunning lures to win men to bow down in abject, grovelling worship of his might. My dear Madam, I would not imply that your beauty and grace are exhibitions of his skill. By no manner of means! I faithfully believe that Frank was drawn to you by the holiest, purest, best of emotions. But then, you know, so many of your lovely sex are under the influence of that cunning gentleman while they least suspect it. When a poor girl who owns but one jewel on earth—the priceless one that adorns and ennobles her lowliness—barters that treasure away for the cheap glitter of polished stones or the rustling sweep of gaudy silk, is not the basilisk gleam of the Mephistophelean eye visible in the sparkling of those gewgaws and the sheen of that stuff? When your friend Asmodeus, honest in his modest self-respect, is most ignominiously ignored by the stylish Mrs. Money,—her father was a cobbler,—more noted for brocades than brains,—or the refined Miss Blood,—her grandfather was third-cousin to some Revolutionary major,—more distinguished for shallowness than for spirit,—does he not smile in his sleeve, with great irreverence for the brocades and the birth, at the easy way in which the old fellow has wheedled them into his power by tickling their conceit and vanity? He creeps into all sorts of corners, and lurks in the smallest of hiding-places. He lies perdu in the folds of figurante's gauze, nestles under the devotee's sombre veil, waves in the flirt's fan, and swims in the gossip's teacup. He burrows in a dimple, floats on a sigh, rides on a glance, and hovers in a thought.

But I would not infer, Madam, that he is the particular pet of the fair, or that he specially devotes himself to their subjugation. It is certain that he employs them with his most cunning skill, and sways the world most powerfully by their regnant charms. But the lords of creation are likewise the slaves of his will and the dupes of his deception. He bestrides the nib of the statesman's pen and guides it into falsehood and treason. He perches on the cardinal's hat and counsels bigotry and oppression. He sits on the tradesman's counter and bears down the unweighted scale. He hides in the lawyer's bag and makes specious pleas for adroit rogues. He slips into the gambler's greasy pack and rolls over his yellow dice. He dances on the bubbles of the drunkard's glass, swings on the knot of the planter's lash, and darts on the point of the assassin's knife. He revels in a coarse oath, laughs in a perjured vow, and breathes in a lie. He has kept celebrated company in times gone by. He was Superintendent of the Coliseum when the Christian martyrs were given to the wild beasts. He was long time a familiar in the Spanish Inquisition, and adviser of the Catholic priesthood in those days, and Governor of the Bastile afterwards. He was the king's minister of pleasure in the days of the latter Louises. He was court chaplain when Ridley and Latimer were burned. He was Charles IX.'s private secretary at the time of the St. Bartholomew affair, and Robespierre's right-hand man in the days of Terror. He was Benedict Arnold's counsellor, Jefferson Davis's bedfellow, and John Wilkes Booth's bosom friend.

A personage, and yet none ever saw him. His cloven hoof, his twisted horns, his suit of black, his gleaming eyes, his limbs of flame, are but the poet's dream, the painter's color. Mephistopheles is but the creature of our fancy, and exists but in the fears, the passions, the desires of mankind. He is born in hearts where love is linked with license, in minds where pride weds with folly, in souls where piety unites with intolerance. We never meet the roaring lion in our path; yet our hearts are torn by his fangs and lacerated by his claws. We never see the sardonic cavalier; yet we hear his specious whisperings in our ears. The sunlight of truth shines forever upon us; yet we sit in the cold shadow of error. We put the cup of pleasure to our lips, and quaff, instead of cooling draughts, the fiery flashes of searing excess. We long for forbidden delights, and when the fiend Opportunity places them within our reach, we sign the compact of our misery to obtain them. The charmed circle this unholy spirit draws around his fatal power is traced along the devious line that marks our weakness and our ignorance. Storm as we may, he stands intrenched within our souls, defying all our wrath. But he shrinks and crouches before us when, bold and fearless, we lift the cross of truth, and bid him fly the upborne might of our intelligence. Mephistopheles is an unholy spirit, nestling in the hearts of myriads of poor human beings who never heard of Goethe. Long after the mimic scene in which he shares shall have been forgot,—long after the sirens who have warbled poor Gretchen's joys and sorrows shall have mouldered in their graves,—long after the witching beauty of the Frenchman's harmony shall have been forever hushed,—long after the very language in which the German poet portrayed him shall have passed into oblivion,—will Mephistopheles carry his diabolisms into the souls of human kind, and hold there his mystic reign. Yet there are those, and you find Asmodeus is one, who dream of a day when the Mephistophelean dynasty is to be overthrown,—when the sappers and miners of the great army of human progress are to besiege him in his strong-holds, and to lead him captive in eternal bondage. Of all the guides who lead that mighty host, none rank above the Faust of whom tradition tells such wondrous tales. Not the bewigged and motley personage Gounod has sung, not the impassioned lover Goethe drew, but the great genius who first taught mankind to stamp its wisdom in imperishable characters, and to bequeath it unto races yet to rise. The Faust of history shall long outlive the Faust of wild romance. The victim in the transient poem shall be a conqueror in the unwritten chronicles of time.

My dear Madam, let us draw around us a charmed circle; not with the trenchant point of murderous steel, but with the type that Faust gave to the world. Within its bounds, intelligence and thought shall guard us safe from Mephistopheles. Come he in whatever guise he may, its subtile potency shall, like Ithuriel's spear, compel him to display his real form in all its native ugliness and dread. And we must pass away; yet may we leave behind, secure in the defence we thus may raise, the dear ones that we love, to be the parents of an angel race that, in the distant days to come, shall tread the sod above our long-forgotten dust.

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING

Jaalam, April 5, 1866.

My dear Sir,—

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you're some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the diffrence) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce this las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber 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 M^r 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 recclected 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' any body 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 need n'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 restaited; 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 repleye. 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 sum xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. Misstates it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. 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 't ain'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 offen think o' thet when I set down to write, but the winders air so ept to git stuck, and 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 hardTo mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard,An' maysure off, acordin' 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.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'T war n't I sheered most in makin' up my mind;'T wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it,Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' 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 hintThet I 'm percussion changin' back to flint;Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit,For th' ole Oueen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,—It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' marginTo 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 bearCookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare.Ez I wuz say'n', I ha'n't no chance to speakSo 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week,But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' headThet 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 gardinThet 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 spreadsBeforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads,(Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,)Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row,Accordin' ez he thought thet his ideesTheir diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please;"An'," sez the Parson, "to hit right, you mustGit 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' sense the worl' begunBut they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one."I 've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence thenAbout ez good for talkin' to 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 loose the breed,I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed,An' when my sappiness gits spry in springSo 's 't my tongue itches to run on full swing,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' observationsExtrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience,An', no reporters bein' sent expressTo work their abstrac's up into a messEz like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur'Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor,I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's.My feller kebbige-heads, who look so green,I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreenThe world of all its hearers but jest you,'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to,An' you, my venerable frien's, thet showUpon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow,Ez ef mild Time had christened every senseFor wisdom's church o' second innocence,Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing,But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring,—We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to decideWhich is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side,Coz all the good or evil thet can heppenIs 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen.Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oakDim 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 springTheir light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing,An' th'ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear,Can't by the music tell the time o' year;But thet white dove Carliny scared away,Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day;Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last yearAn' coo by every housedoor, is n't here,—No, nor won'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 seeThe bagnet-pint there is to an idee!Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel;They run your soul thru an' you never feel,But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin',Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin',Till you come bunt agin a real live fact,An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to act!Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now,An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,'Ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom ComeWhile t' other side druv their cold iron home.My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth,No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South,Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black,Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back;But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fustTo write up on his door, "No goods on trust";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 longA nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong;Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll beginTo love their country ez they loved their sin;Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a soreReady 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 stateThet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great.Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you?'T wuz commonsense afore the war wuz thru;Thet loaded all our guns an' made 'em speakSo 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek;"They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now," sez she,To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee;"Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fearThe tallest airthquakes we can git up here."Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge,An' say 't will only set their teeth on edge,But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see,Are 'bout ez mad ez they know how to be;It 's better than the Rebs themselves expected'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected;Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast,For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 'll last;Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks say,How could we punish it a milder wayThan sayin' to 'em, "Brethren, lookee here,We 'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer,An' sence both come o' pooty strongbacked daddies,You take the Darkies, ez we 've took the Paddies;Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand,An' the 're the bones an' sinners o' the land."I ain't o' those thet fancy there 's a loss onEvery inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on;But I know this: our money 's safest trustedIn 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.Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't,But I do' want to block their only road to 'tBy lettin' 'em believe thet they can gitMore '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 actLike a scared widder with a boy stiff-neckedThet 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,Till he 'll accept her 'pologies in form:The neighbors tell her he 's a cross-grained cussThet 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. "O, wal, 't wuz jest his fun.""He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.""'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.""Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understoodYou'll take his gun away from him for good;We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play,Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way.You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,'Thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev' sinned!'"The Pres'dunt he thinks thet the slickest plan'Ould be t' allow thet he 's our only man,An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle warJes' for his private glory an' eclor;"Nobody ain't a Union man," sez he,"'Thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me;War n't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine?An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divineTo cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?"Wal, I expec' the People would n' care, ifThe question now wuz techin' bank or tariff,But I conclude they 've 'bout made up their mindThis ain't the fittest time to go it blind,Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings,But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things;Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one dayThey 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;Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbersThink thet the job wuz taken by Columbus.Did he set tu an' make it wut it is?Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power hez riz.Did he put thru' the rebbles, clear the docket,An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket?Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I exesIs t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes.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 runA kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one?An' is the country goin' to knuckle downTo 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' wayTill 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 thenTo l'arn folks they must hendle facts like men?Ain't this the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em?Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't kep' 'em?War n't there two sides? an' don't it stend to reasonThet 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 eyesThet when the war wuz over copper 'd rise,An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our kettle'T would need Leviathan's whole skin to settle;I thought 't would take about a generation'Fore we could wal begin to be a nation,But I allow I never did imegine'T would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge inTo 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 thinkThet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's ink;I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin'The curus way in which the States are sovereign;They ain't nut quite enough so to rebel,But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise h–,Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason,They 're most too much so to be tetched for treason;They can't go out, but ef they somehow du,Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu;The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir,But stays to keep the door ajar for her.He thinks secession never took 'em out,An' mebby he 's correc', but I misdoubt;Ef they war n't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin,Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in?In law, p'r'aps nut; but there 's a diffurence, ruther,Betwixt your brother-'n-law an' real brother,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 backInto th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track,When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cutStret to our purpose ef we keep the rut?War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slateClean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate.Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet,'T wun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het;I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns,Thet pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns:Once on a time the wolves hed certing rightsInside the fold; they used to sleep there nights,An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they tookTheir turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book;But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep,Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep,Till gradilly the shepherds come to seeThings war n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' to be;So they sent off a deacon to remonstrateAlong 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight;They did n' seem to set much by the deacon,Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to speak on;Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out an' stay,An' hev their fill o' mutton every day:Then dogs an' shepherds, arter much hard dammin',Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin',An' sez, "Ye sha' n't go out, the murrain rot ye,To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!"But then the question come, How live together'Thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether?Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep)Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep;They sez, "Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in,An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in;Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they 're swearin';To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.""Be gin'rous for yourselves, where you 're to pay,Thet 's the best practice," 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:Till they 're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle."I 've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abettersAre in the hebbit o' producin' lettersWrit 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'cines gits(An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits;Now, sence I lef' off creepin' on all fours,I ha' n't ast no man to endorse my course;It 's full ez cheap to be your own endorser,An' ef I 've made a cup, I 'll fin' the saucer;But I 've some letters here from t' other side,An' them 's the sort thet helps me to decide;Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker,An' I 'll tell you jest where it 's safe to anchor.Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writesThet for a spell he could n' sleep o' nights,Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to,Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto;Et fust he jedged 't would right-side-up his panTo come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man,"But now," he sez, "I ain't nut quite so fresh;The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh;You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course,'Fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse;Now we 're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track:Jest you take hold an' read the follerin' extrac',Out of a letter I received last weekFrom an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak,A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue,Born coppersheathed an' copperfastened tu.""These four years past, it hez been toughTo say which side a feller went for;Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough,An' nothin' duin' wut 't wuz meant for;Pickets afirin' left an' right,Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,—Life war n't wuth hardly payin' rent for."Columby gut her back up so,It war n't no use a tryin' to stop her,—War's emptin's riled her very doughAn' made it rise an' act improper;'T wuz full ez much ez I could duTo jes' lay low an' worry thru','Thout hevin' to sell out my copper."Afore the war your mod'rit menCould set an' sun 'em on the fences,Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' thenJump off which way bes' paid expenses;Sence, 't wuz so resky ary way,I did n't hardly darst to sayI 'greed with Paley's Evidences."Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fenceWar n't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't,Headin' your party with a senseO' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't,And tryin' to think thet, on the whole,You kin' o' quasi own your soulWhen Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't?"Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould likeTheir pol'tics done ag'in by proxy,Give their noo loves the bag an' strikeA fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy;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 hoeIn 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 old makebate can be tucked in."No white man sets in airth's broad aisleThet I ain't willin' t' own az brother,An' ef he 's heppened 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."Wut is there lef' I 'd like to know,Ef 't ain't the difference o' color,To keep up self-respec' an' showThe human natur' of a fullah?Wut good in bein' white, onlessIt 's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess,Thet we are smarter an' they duller?"Ef we 're to hev our ekle rights,'T wunt du to 'low no competition;Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whitesAin't safe onless we stop th' emissionO' these noo notes, whose specie baseIs human natur', 'thout no traceO' shape, nor color, nor condition."So fur I 'd writ an' could n' jedgeAboard wut boat I 'd best take pessige,My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edgeUpon 'em more than tu a sessige,But now it seems ez though I seeSunthin' 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,An' it 's so mad, I ruther guessThere 's some dependence to be placed on 't;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 slewThe country roun' to put in –?Wun't some folks rare up when we pullOut o' their eyes our Union woolAn' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!"O, did it seem 'z ef ProvidunceCould ever send a second Tyler?To see the South all back to once,Reapin' the spiles o' the Freesiler,Is cute ez though an engineerShould claim th' old iron for his sheerBecause 't wuz him that bust the biler!"Thet tells the story! Thet 's wut we shall gitBy tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit;For the day never comes when it 'll duTo 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? war n't it, then,To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men?O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted,The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted!O, 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 feelEf she upon our memory turned her heel,An' unregretful throwed us all awayTo 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 delightsOur ears, but even kebbigeheads hez rights.It 's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye,But you 'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye!