With respect,Your ob't humble serv't,HOMER WILBUR, A.M. I love to start out arter night's begun, An' all the chores about the farm are done, The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast, Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past, An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,— I love, I say, to start upon a tramp, To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs, An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs Thet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch Of folks thet foller in one rut too much: Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt; But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out. Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know, There's certin spots where I like best to go: The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one, Most gin'lly ollers call it
John Bull's Run.)— The field o' Lexin'ton, where England tried The fastest colors thet she ever dyed,— An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came, Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,— Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll. They're 'most too fur away, take too much time To visit often, ef it ain't in rhyme; But there's a walk thet's hendier, a sight, An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,— I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill. I love to loiter there while night grows still, An' in the twinklin' villages about, Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out, An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms, Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms, Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way) Stands to't thet moon-rise is the break o' day: So Mister Seward sticks a three-months pin Where the war'd oughto end, then tries agin;— My gran'ther's rule was safer'n 't is to crow:
Don't never prophesy—onless ye know. I love to muse there till it kind o' seems Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams. The Northwest wind thet twitches at my baird Blows out o' sturdier days not easy scared, An' the same moon thet this December shines Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines; The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs, Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns; Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, An' 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh, Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply. Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence, Mixin' the perfect with the present tense, I heerd two voices som'ers in the air, Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where: Voices I call 'em: 't was a kind o' sough Like pine-trees thet the wind is geth'rin' through; An', fact, I thought it
was the wind a spell,— Then some misdoubted,—couldn't fairly tell,— Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel,— I knowed, an' didn't,—fin'lly seemed to feel 'T was Concord Bridge a-talkin' off to kill With the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker Hill: Whether't was so, or ef I only dreamed, I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed.THE BRIDGE Wal, neighbor, tell us, wut's turned up thet's new? You're younger'n I be,—nigher Boston, tu; An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin', Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'. There's
sunthin' goin' on, I know: las' night The British sogers killed in our gret fight (Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke) Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke: Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With his own crossbones on a holler tree, Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five. Wut
is the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'. Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.THE MONIMENTI don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,—THE BRIDGEAt wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had.THE MONIMENT You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent, An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?THE BRIDGE Wut! hev they hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone! Thet's a sure way to make a goose a swan!THE MONIMENT No: England she
would hev 'em,
Fee, Faw, Fum! (Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,) So they've returned 'em—THE BRIDGE
Hev they? Wal, by heaven, Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven!
By George, I meant to say, though I declare It's 'most enough to make a deacon, swear.THE MONIMENT Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gains By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains. Come, neighbor, you don't understand—THE BRIDGE How? Hey? Not understand? Why, wut's to hender, pray? Must I go huntin' round to find a chap To tell me when my face hez hed a slap?THE MONIMENT See here: the British they found out a flaw In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law: (They
make all laws, you know, an' so, o' course, It's nateral they should understand their force:) He'd oughto took the vessel into port, An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court; She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu, An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view, Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails, Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' falls; You
may take out despatches, but you mus'n't Take nary man—THE BRIDGE You mean to say, you dus'n't! Changed pint o' view! No, no,—it's overboard With law an' gospel, when their ox is gored! I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land, Hez ollers ben, "
I've gut the heaviest hand." Take nary man? Fine preachin' from
her lips! Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships, An' would agin, an' swear she hed a right to, Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to. Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind, England
doos make the most onpleasant kind: It's you're the sinner ollers, she's the saint; Wut's good's all English, all thet isn't ain't; Wut profits her is ollers right an' just, An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must; She's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks There ain't no light in Natur when she winks; Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus? Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus? She ain't like other mortals, thet's a fact:
She never stopped the habus-corpus act, Nor specie payments, nor she never yet Cut down the int'rest on her public debt;
She don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed, An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede; She's all thet's honest, honnable, an' fair, An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.THE MONIMENT Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right; Ef we're mistaken, own it, an' don't fight: For gracious' sake, hain't we enough to du 'Thout gittin' up a fight with England, tu? She thinks we're rabble-rid–THE BRIDGE An' so we can't Distinguish 'twixt
You oughtn't an'
You shan't! She jedges by herself; she's no idear How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer: The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain's a steeple,— Her People's turned to Mob, our Mob's turned People.THE MONIMENTShe's riled jes' now–THE BRIDGE Plain proof her cause ain't strong,— The one thet fust gits mad's most ollers wrong.THE MONIMENT You're ollers quick to set your back aridge,— Though't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober bridge: Don't you git het: they thought the thing was planned; They'll cool off when they come to understand.THE BRIDGE Ef
thet's wilt you expect, you'll
hev to wait: Folks never understand the folks they hate: She'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good, 'Fore the month's out, to git misunderstood. England cool off! She'll do it, ef she sees She's run her head into a swarm o' bees. I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose: I hev thought England was the best thet goes; Remember, (no, you can't,) when
I was reared,
God save the King was all the tune you heerd: But it's enough to turn Wachuset roun', This stumpin' fellers when you think they're down.THE MONIMENT But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law, The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricks We'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix: That 'ere's most frequently the kin' o' talk Of critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk; Your "You'll see
nex' time!" an' "Look out bimeby!" Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay To fear thet meaner bully, old "They'll say"? Suppose they
du say: words are dreffle bores, But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours. Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit Where it'll help to widen out our split: She's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to come An' lend the beetle thet's to drive it home. For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle, When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle. England ain't
all bad, coz she thinks us blind: Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind; An' you will see her change it double-quick, Soon ez we've proved thet we're a-goin' to lick. She an' Columby's gut to be fas' friends; For the world prospers by their privit ends: 'T would put the clock back all o' fifty years, Ef they should fall together by the ears.THE BRIDGE You may be right; but hearken in your ear,— I'm older 'n you,—Peace wun't keep house with Fear: Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut to du Is jest to show you're up to fightin', tu.
I recollect how sailors' rights was won Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun: Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea; You'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will, An' ef you knuckle down,
he'll think so still. Better thet all our ships an' all their crews Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze, Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went, An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment, Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave: Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!THE MONIMENT I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth: You'd oughto learned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth. It ain't
our nose thet gits put out o' jint; It's England thet gives up her dearest pint. We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du In our own fem'ly fight, afore we're thru. I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame, When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame, An' all the people, startled from their doubt, Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,— I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall, The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all; Then come Bull Run, an'
sence then I've ben waitin' Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin', Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's trace Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base, With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's gittin' slow, An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em go. I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin' to cost—THE BRIDGE An' I tell
you it wun't be money lost; Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you'll allow Thet havin' things onsettled kills the cow: We've gut to fix this thing for good an' all; It's no use buildin' wut's a-goin' to fall. I'm older 'n you, an' I've seen things an' men, An' here's wut my experience hez ben: Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv, But bad work follers ye ez long's ye live; You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin, It's ollers askin' to be done agin: Ef we should part, it wouldn't be a week 'Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak. We've turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru, We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu; 'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't perlite,— You've gut to be in airnest, ef you fight; Why, two-thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut dirt, Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment meant to hurt; An' I
du wish our Gin'rals hed in mind The folks in front more than the folks behind; You wun't do much ontil you think it's God, An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod; We want some more o' Gideon's sword, I jedge, For proclamations hain't no gret of edge; There's nothin' for a cancer but the knife, Onless you set by 't more than by your life.
I've seen hard times; I see a war begun Thet folks thet love their bellies never'd won,— Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long year,— But when't was done, we didn't count it dear. Why, law an' order, honor, civil right, Ef they
ain't wuth it, wut
is wuth a fight? I'm older 'n you: the plough, the axe, the mill, All kinds o' labor an' all kinds o' skill, Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw, Ef't warn't for thet slow critter, 'stablished law; Onsettle
thet, an' all the world goes whiz, A screw is loose in everythin' there is: Good buttresses once settled, don't you fret An' stir 'em: take a bridge's word for thet! Young folks are smart, but all ain't good thet's new; I guess the gran'thers they knowed sunthin', tu.THE MONIMENT Amen to thet! build sure in the beginning', An' then don't never tech the underpinnin': Th' older a Guv'ment is, the better 't suits; New ones hunt folks's corns out like new boots: Change jest for change is like those big hotels Where they shift plates, an' let ye live on smells.THE BRIDGE Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes down: It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't drown; An' God wun't leave us yet to sink or swim, Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by Him. This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be A better country than man ever see. I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' prophesy!" O strange New World, thet yet wast never young, Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung,— Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed Was prowled round by the Injun's cracklin' tread, An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains, Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains, Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane,— Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret events To pitch new States ez Old-World men pitch tents,— Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's plan Thet only manhood ever makes a man, An' whose free latch-string never was drawed in Aginst the poorest child o' Adam's kin,— The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall lay In fearful haste thy murdered corse away! I see– Jest here some dogs began to bark, So thet I lost old Concord's last remark: I listened long, but all I seemed to hear Was dead leaves goss'pin' on some birch-trees near; But ez they hedn't no gret things to say, An' said 'em often, I come right away, An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the time, I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme: I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, But here they be,—it's
JONATHAN TO JOHN
It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J.B., Thet's fit for you an' me!" Blood ain't so cool as ink, John: It's likely you'd ha' wrote, An' stopped a spell to think, John, Arter they'd cut your throat? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he, "To mind his p-s an' q-s, ef thet weasan' Hed b'longed to ole J.B., Instid o' you an' me!" Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, "Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win,—ditto, tails? "J.B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, (I'm good at thet,)" sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J.B., No more than you or me!" When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,— Britanny's trident-prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J.B.,' Put up by you an' me!" We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n't take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef thet's his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor, when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent.? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, He's like the rest," sez he: "When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Coz Abram thought 't was right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow, May heppen to J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess It is a fact," sez he, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, Think him so, J.B., Ez much ez you or me!" Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef't warn't for law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J.B. (When't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)" We know we've gut a cause, John, Thet's honest, just, an' true; We thought't would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An' "All men up!" say we,— "White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee?" Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Why, there's the old J.B. A-crowdin' you an' me!" Shall it be love or hate, John? It's you thet's to decide; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J.B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The wuth o' bein' free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, God's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J.B. May learn like you an' me!"* * * * *REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES
The Cloister and the Hearth; or, Maid, Wife, and Widow. A Matter-of-Fact Romance. By CHARLES READE, Author of "Never too Late to Mend," etc., etc. New York: Rudd & Carleton. 8vo.
The novels of Charles Reade are generally marked not only by individuality of genius, but by individualisms of egotism and caprice. The latter provoke the reader almost as much as the former gives him delight. It disturbs the least critical mind to find the keenest insight in company with the loudest bravado, and the statement of a wise or beautiful thought followed up by a dogmatic assertion of infallibility as harsh as a slap on the face. The indisposition to recognize such a genius comes from the fact that he irritates as well as stimulates the minds he addresses. Everybody reads him, but the fooling he inspires is made up of admiration and exasperation. The public is both delighted and insulted. He not only does not attempt to conceal his contemptuous sense of superiority to common men, but he absolutely screeches and bawls it out. Fearful that the dull Anglo-Saxon mind cannot appreciate his finest strokes, he emphasizes his inspirations not merely by Italics, but by capitals, thus conveying his brightest wit and deepest contrivances by a kind of typographic yell. Were there not a solid foundation of observation, learning, genius, and conscience to his work, his egotistic eccentricities would awake a tempest of hisses. Being, in reality, superficial and not central, they are readily pardoned by discerning critics. Even these, however, must object to his disposition to cluck or crow, in a manner altogether unseemly, whenever he hits upon a thought of more than ordinary delicacy or depth.
It is but just to say, in palliation of this fault, that Mr. Reade's insolent tone is not peculiar to him. It characterizes almost every prominent person who has attempted to mould the opinions of the age. We find it in Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin, and Kingsley, as well as in Reade. Modesty is not the characteristic of the genius of the nineteenth century; and the last thing we look for in any powerful work of the present day is toleration for other minds and opposing opinions. Each capable person who puts in his thumb and pulls out a plum draws instantly the same inference which occurred to the first explorer of the Christmas-pie. Charles Reade has no reservation at all, and boldly echoes Master Horner's sage conclusion.
"The Cloister and the Hearth," in spite of its faults, is really a great book. It is a positive contribution to history as well as to romance. It would be vain to point to any other volume which could convey to common minds so clear and accurate a conception of European life in the fifteenth century as this. The author has deeply studied the annals, memoirs, and histories which record the peculiarities of that life, and he has carried into the study a knowledge of those powers and passions of human nature which are the same in every age. The result is a "romance of history" which contains more essential truth than the most labored histories; for the writer is a man who has both the heart to feel and the imagination to conceive the realities of the time about which he writes.
The characterization of the book is original, various, and powerful. It ranges from the lowest hind to the most exquisite representative of female tenderness and purity. The scenes of passion show a clear conception of and a strong hold upon the emotional elements of character, and a capacity to exhibit their most terrible workings in language which seems identical with the feelings it so burningly expresses. In vigor and vividness of description and narration the novel excels any of Reade's previous books. The plot is about the same as that of "The Good Fight," though the dénouement is different. "The Cloister and the Hearth," indeed, incorporates "The Good Fight" in its pages, but the latter forms not more than a fourth of the extended work. Altogether the romance must be classed among the best which have appeared during the last twenty years.
Lessons in Life. A Series of Familiar Essays. By TIMOTHY TITCOMB. New York: Charles Scribner, 16 mo.
Who is more popular than honest Timothy? Opening this, his latest volume, we read on, a fly-leaf fronting the title-page that twenty-six editions of the "Letters to Young People," fifteen editions each of "Bitter-Sweet" and "Gold Foil," and thirteen editions of "Miss Gilbert's Career" have gone the way of all good books. The author says, in his modest preface to the "Lessons," that he can hardly pretend to have done more than to organize and put into form the average thinking of those who read his books, and be only claims for his essays that they possess the quality of common sense. He herein pays a very high compliment to the crowd which demands over the bookseller's counter so many thousands of his volumes. Wisdom, admirably put, is not a commodity glutting the market every day. We find in the pages of this new venture so many healthy maxims and so much excellent advice, that we hope the volume will spread itself farther and wider than any of its predecessors. This wish fulfilled will give it no mean circulation. "The Ways of Charity," one of the papers in this volume, ought to be printed in tract form, and scattered broadcast everywhere. And there are other articles in the book quite as good as this.
English Sacred Poetry of the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth Centuries. Selected and edited by ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT, M.A. Illustrated by Holman Hunt, John Gilbert, and others. London: Routledge & Co. 4to.
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