Jniversity of Ca] 
 Southern Regi< 
 Library Facili
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 BIGLOW PAPERS 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 ' The top of the hill 
 He will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 Till he learns the distinction 
 Twixt singing and preaching." 
 
 A. L BURT COMPANY, Publishers 
 
 52-55 Duane Street, New York
 
 Copyright, 1900, by A. L. HURT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY KETCH AM. 
 
 Lowell's Poem*.
 
 
 PS 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 THE genius of James Russell Lowell places him in 
 the front rank of American poets. He is one of the few 
 who are read and appreciated on both sides of the At 
 lantic. He made his mark in his earliest published 
 volume, when he was but twenty-two years of age. 
 From that time to the end of a long career he grew 
 steadily in fame. Nor did his power wane, while his 
 literary form showed an increasing perfection of polish. 
 
 He was born in Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. 
 His father was the Rev. Charles Lowell, D.D., minister 
 of the West Church (Unitarian) of Boston, a scholar 
 of high standing and author of several devotional 
 books. He was descended from Percival Lowell, who 
 came from England in 1639 and settled in Newbury, 
 Mass. The subject of this sketch showed throughout 
 life a fine example of the Puritan conscience, joined 
 with a rare tenderness of nature and winsomeness of 
 character. While he never lacked the moral courage 
 which dared to stand 
 
 " in the right with two or three," 
 
 his nature and method were gentle and persuasive 
 rather than severe or antagonizing. 
 
 He was more than a poet. He was symmetrically 
 developed as a man of letters. To his admirers he 
 was the ideal man of letters. As such his life was 
 
 vii 
 
 5000937
 
 viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 quiet, and his biography will record the growth and 
 products of his mind rather than external events which 
 were never romantic. 
 
 He was graduated from Harvard College in 1838. At 
 that time he was class poet, but the reading of the 
 poems was omitted from the exercises of Class Day 
 owing to the unavoidable absence of the poet. This 
 absence was caused by the fact that at just that time 
 he happened to be under suspension from the college. 
 His offence, however, was playful and in no wise seri 
 ous, and his Alma Mater never ceased to do him honor 
 in after years. 
 
 On leaving college Lowell entered a law office and 
 after the usual preliminary studies was, in 1840, ad 
 mitted to the bar. He was, however, by nature a man 
 of letters and was unsuited to the peculiar exactions 
 of the legal profession. One is therefore not surprised 
 tha f , 'here is no record of his practice of the law, but 
 there was a tolerably steady stream of poems, essays 
 and reviews flowing from his facile pen. 
 
 The first year of his nominal law practice records a 
 volume of poems (1841) entitled "A Year's Life." In 
 this were evidences that he was a true seer, a genuine 
 poet. His friends recognized the promise of a brilliant 
 career, and they were not mistaken. 
 
 Two years later he became editor of a magazine of 
 which, however, only three numbers were issued. A 
 year after that he issued another volume of poems. 
 
 In this year, 1844, he married Miss Maria White, of 
 Watertown, Mass. She was a charming and accom 
 plished woman, possessing literary talent of no mean 
 order. To her translations from the German she 
 added original poems of more than ordinary merit.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. j^ 
 
 She died in 1853, and it was her death which elicited 
 from Longfellow one of the sweetest and most beautiful 
 of all poems on death. It is that entitled Two Angels. 
 
 T was at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
 
 Pausing, descended, and, with voice divine, 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin, 
 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
 Two angels issued where but one went in. 
 
 In 1845 he published a volume of essays, " Conver 
 sations on Some of the Poets/' and thus we see that he 
 was permanently out of the current of the law and in 
 that of literature. 
 
 In 1848 he published a volume that contained what 
 have proved to be two of his most popular poems : 
 namely, The Vision of Sir Launfal and The Biglow 
 Papers. 
 
 In 1851-2 he made his first trip to Europe. Most 
 of the time he spent in Italy, especially in Some with 
 his friend W. W. Story, the famous sculptor. In 
 1854-5 he delivered the Lowell Institute lectures on 
 " British Poets." 
 
 The most important event occurred that year when 
 he was appointed professor of Belles Lettres at Harvard 
 to succeed his distinguished friend H. W. Longfellow. 
 Before assuming the duties of the professorhip he spent 
 another year in Europe, chiefly in Dresden. 
 
 In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlap of Portland, 
 Maine. 
 
 When the Atlantic Monthly was established he was
 
 X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 its first regular editor, and continued in that work fol 
 about five years, or from 1857 to 1862. Relinquishing 
 this he edited the North American Review, then a quar 
 terly, for a p eriod, of about ten years. In addition to 
 his editorial work he contributed a large number of 
 articles to this magazine, thirty-four in all, not count 
 ing editorial notes, etc. During these fifteen years of 
 editorship, while he had also the duties of professor, his 
 general literary work did not lag, and he issued vol 
 umes both of poetry and of prose. 
 
 In 1872-4 he again travelled in Europe, receiving the 
 unusual honors of the degrees of D. C. L. from the 
 University of Oxford, and LL.D. from that of Cam 
 bridge, England. 
 
 In 1877 he was appointed Minister to Spain, and 
 took up the duties of a post made illustrious by 
 Irving. The lustre of the literary tradition suffered 
 no diminution in his incumbency. 
 
 He was later (1880-5) minister to England, and it is 
 not too much to say that in that difficult and exacting 
 position he stands second to none of all who have ever 
 served. His honest, stiirdy, and outspoken democracy, 
 his fineness of culture, his breadth of spirit, and his 
 genial persuasiveness have had incalculable influence 
 in promoting the friendliness between Americans and 
 their British cousins. At this time he was honored 
 by being appointed Lord Rector of St. Andrews Uni 
 versity at St. Andrews, Scotland. But he soon resigned 
 this position as being incompatible with his obliga 
 tions as minister of the United States. 
 
 In his later years he published several volumes of 
 essays and addresses, the latter being largely on pa 
 triotic or democratic subjects. The excellence of their
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 
 
 substance and the finish of their form entitle them to 
 a permanent place in literature. They are, however, 
 outside the scope of this sketch, which concerns Lowell 
 as a poet. 
 
 Lowell was one of a remarkable circle of literary 
 friends, such as has hardly existed before in all his 
 tory, and certainly never in the United States. His 
 friendships included Longfellow, Emerson, E. H. 
 Dana, W. W. Story, Fields, Holmes, Whittier, Agas- 
 siz, E. E. Hale, and others of nearly equal prominence. 
 Such friendship greatly enriched his life, but it in no 
 wise quenched his originality nor weakened his vigor. 
 
 In looking over his poetical works for a critical esti 
 mate, we find no one poem which towers up above 
 the rest, like Milton's Paradise Lost, Byron's Childe 
 Harold, or Wordsworth's Excursion. But there are 
 many shorter ones, each of which is sufficient to justify 
 the high reputation which he holds on both sides of 
 the Atlantic. In his first published volume, there is 
 one, entitled " Ode," which must have been written 
 when he was little more than a boy, which gave abun 
 dant evidence of his high aspiration and of the earnest 
 ness of his spirit. His admirers were justified in 
 predicting from this poem a brilliant future for the 
 author, and the result was not disappointing. 
 
 The Biglow Papers are a political satire upon the 
 Invasion by the United States of Mexico, the State of 
 the Slavery Question, etc. They are written in the 
 Yankee dialect verse by one Hosea Biglow, Birdofre- 
 dum Sawin, edited with an introduction, notes, glos 
 sary, and copious index, by Homer Wilbur, A. M., 
 pastor of the First Church in Jaalam, and (prospec 
 tive) member of many literary, learned, and scientific
 
 xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 societies. These placed Lowell in the front rank ol 
 hnmorists. They were the first attempt to use the 
 quaint New England dialect in verse, and they are 
 probably the best imitations to be found either in 
 poetry or in prose. 
 
 They were received with favor, and their keen satire, 
 their quaint drollery, their irresistible good humor, 
 have held them in popularity for a half century. Po 
 litical opponents enjoyed them hardly less than polit 
 ical friends. The experiences of the Bay State recruit, 
 with sly wit, set forth political questions and practices 
 in a way to fill one with laughter. There is an under 
 tone of seriousness, especially a hot hatred of slavery 
 and all its concomitants, and indeed of all injustice. 
 But the form is humorous, and they have been called 
 an attempt to laugh down slavery. In the larger sense 
 of the word, they are intensely patriotic. They are 
 classic in their way, and are the only production in the 
 English language worthy to stand by the side of Hudi- 
 bras. It is this combination of fun that bubbles over 
 and sturdy morality which places them on so high a 
 plane both intellectual and ethical. They have held 
 their place for fifty years and doubtless will hold it for 
 many years to come. 
 
 A second series of these charming papers was called 
 out by the Civil War of 1861-5. These had not the 
 advantage of newness enjoyed by the first series, never 
 theless they are worthy of their name and do not de 
 tract from the quality of the whole. If there is less 
 rollicking fun in the second series, there is also more 
 poetry. The Civil War was nearer to the poet than the 
 Mexican War, and this fact could not other than influ 
 ence his writing even of wit, humor, and satire.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Another masterly piece of humor is the Fable for 
 Critics, which is no fable at all, but a rhymed review, 
 or at least criticism, of some of the more prominent 
 American writers. One after another they pass under 
 his scrutiny and receive his criticism or characteriza 
 tion. It is not to be expected that this poem should 
 have the balance of the regular review, but on the 
 whole its criticisms are just, while his wit is as keen as 
 a Damascus blade. It is to be noted that the poet does 
 not spare himself, but raps his own knuckles quite as 
 hard as any. 
 
 There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb, 
 With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. 
 
 The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 
 Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; 
 
 The purpose and character of the Fable preclude the 
 usual finish of form, so that it has been called clever 
 doggerel. But along with its trenchant humor may 
 be discovered a manly vigor, with occasional touches 
 of the pathos which is rarely lacking in any of Lowell's 
 poetry, either humorous or serious, and all joined by a 
 good sense that bears the light of day. 
 
 In 1865 Harvard College had a memorial service for 
 those of her sons who fell in the Civil War, and for 
 this was written the Commemoration Ode, whose stately 
 measures rise sometimes to sublime heights. Patriotism 
 tinges much of his poetry, for love of country and of 
 freedom was a passion with him, but in this poem it 
 has a freer course than elsewhere. He touches the 
 
 ideal manhood, 
 
 God's plan 
 And measure of a stalwart man.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 The concrete example of this manhood is Lincolc 
 " our Martyr-Chief." Then follows a characterization 
 of him unequalled certainly in poetry, leading up to 
 the climax, 
 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
 New birth of our new soil, the first American. 
 
 The Present Crisis is probably the most quoted of 
 his poems. It was written in December, 1844, and 
 refers to one of the many crises of slavery. It displays 
 the author's noble loyalty to Truth and his withering 
 scorn of evasion or temporizing expedients. Later he 
 treated similar subjects with humorous form in the 
 Biglow papers ; but here he is serious in form as well 
 as earnest in thought. Lord Bacon raised the ques 
 tion of "jesting Pilate." What is Truth? Lowell 
 answers with a clarion ring : 
 
 Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, 
 Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim un 
 known, 
 
 Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His 
 own. 
 
 History is to Lowell a divine revelation, and the crisis 
 of which he writes has the solemnity of the Judgment 
 Day. 
 
 Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide 
 In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil 
 side. 
 
 This leads us to speak of the religious characteristic 
 of the author's poetry. His poems are not religious in 
 the same sense as those of Cowper. Possibly they are
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. X V 
 
 not evangelical. But they are religious in the finest 
 sense of the word, holding to an unshaken belief in 
 God's everlasting righteousness, with sweet confidence 
 in His overruling providence, with a profound belief 
 in the practical piety of considering the poor and un 
 fortunate, and especially with broad sympathy for 
 " seekers after God." His " Vision of Sir Launfal" 
 is a universal ^favorite. It tells of the quest of the 
 Holy Grail, or the cup which Our Lord blessed in the 
 Last Supper. The way the knight treats the beggai 
 on his issuing from the castle and the way he treats 
 him upon his return from his wanderings present 
 a striking contrast. Other poems which may be 
 classed as distinctly religious are Parable (two by this 
 name) Ambrose, Extreme Unction, and The Cathedral. 
 The Death of a Friend's Child may be" studied profit 
 ably by every preacher, and After the Burial should 
 be mastered by every pastor for the purpose of enter 
 ing into the experiences of others where one so easily 
 misunderstands. 
 
 The Cathedral was originally entitled "A Day at 
 Chartres." The reader can spend with profit and de 
 light not merely one, but many, days in that poem. It 
 opens with a discussion of first impressions, then 
 describes the poet's overwhelming impressi n of the 
 cathedral. Within he observes a solitary beldam list 
 lessly counting her beads and has at first a scornful 
 feeling towards her, which quickly gives place to sym 
 pathy. This leads to the discussion of the various 
 Faiths that grope after God, and the teaching is that 
 God is nearer than men realize. The ancient forms, 
 bare to the refined descendant of the Puritans, have 
 their uses.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Be He nowhere else, 
 God is in all that liberates and lifts, 
 In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles. 
 
 The cathedral was built with a sense of piety and 
 consecration. Each person came bringing his "vote 
 for God," for such were the stones built into that 
 stately structure. From that work of conscience and 
 devotion the " Western Goth " may learn that 
 
 nothing pays but God, 
 
 Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field, 
 In work obscure done honestly, or vote 
 For truth unpopular, or faith maintained 
 To ruinous convictions, or good deeds 
 Wrought for good's sake, mindless of heaven or hell. 
 
 The poem closes with witnessing to the universal 
 presence of God, and leaves the reader in that frame of 
 solemn awe as if he had shared the poet's own vision 
 and experience in the aisles of that impressive cathe 
 dral. 
 
 One further poem ought to be mentioned for its del 
 icacy of thought and perfectness of finish, and that is 
 Auf WiederseJien. 
 
 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art I 
 The English words had seemed to fain, 
 
 But these they drew us heart to heart, 
 
 Yet held us tenderly apart ; 
 She said, " Auf Wiedersehen ! " 
 
 Gathering together the impressions of this poet, we 
 find him fearless in moral courage, with unconquerable 
 devotion to truth and scorn of temporizing expedients, 
 with passionate love of freedom and hatred of slavery, 
 with broad philanthropy and pervading piety. His 
 satire is clever, his imagination vivid, his range of
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. X vij 
 
 thought wide, his intellectual grasp firm, and his ex 
 pression vigorous. The introductions to the two parts 
 of The Vision of Sir Launfal are models of graceful 
 and delicate fancy clothed in absolute beauty of ex 
 pression. 
 
 Lowell's duties as minister to England came to an 
 end in 1885. The later years of his life, however, were 
 well filled with work. His residence was at Elmwood, 
 Cambridge, where for many years he had been near 
 neighbor to Longfellow. In 1885 he had buried in 
 England his wife. The solitude of his latest years was 
 broken by frequent visits to England where he had 
 many friends, while his time was also occupied by lec 
 tures and addresses. He prepared his complete works 
 for the press, so that the public now have them in the 
 form which the author would wish. His friend, Prof. 
 Charles Eliot Norton, has since published his life and 
 letters, to which the reader is referred for a fuller 
 knowledge of this rare man. 
 
 He died at Cambridge, August 12, 1891. He left 
 an added dignity to American letters. He not only 
 received the highest honors which his alma mater, 
 Harvard, could give, but he was decorated by the uni 
 versities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Bologna, in addi 
 tion to Oxford and Cambridge above mentioned. To 
 him may be applied the words which he wrote to a s 
 friend, 
 
 The birds are hushed, the poets gone 
 Where no harsh critic's lash can reach, 
 
 And still your winged brood sing on 
 To all who love our English speech. 
 
 HENRY KETCHAM,
 
 MELIBCEUS-HIPPONAX. 
 THE 
 
 BIGLOW PAPEKS 
 
 EDITED 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 HOMER WILBUR, A. M. 
 
 PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF 
 MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES 
 
 (for which tee page v) 
 
 The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, 
 Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. 
 
 Quarles's Emblems, B. n. E. 8. 
 
 Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti : en, siliquas accipe. 
 
 Jac. Car. Fil. ad Pub. Leg. L
 
 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 
 
 IT will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I 
 have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary ap 
 pendages to the editorial name which not only add 
 greatly to the value of every book, but whet and ex 
 acerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does 
 he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and 
 scientific societies implies a certain amount of neces 
 sary distinction on the part of the recipient of such 
 decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more 
 entirely to an author who writes under the fearful re 
 sponsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies 
 as the S. Archceol. Daliom., or the Acad. Lit. et Scient. 
 Kamtscliat. I cannot but think that the early editions 
 of Shakspeare and Milton would have met with more 
 rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of 
 their respective title-pages ; and I believe, that, even 
 now, a publisher of the works of either of those justly 
 distinguished men would find his account in procuring 
 their admission to the membership of learned bodies on 
 the Continent, a proceeding no whit more incongruous 
 than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when 
 he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the 
 reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired 
 a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feel 
 ing of the importance of this precaution which induced 
 Mr. Locke to style himself " Gent/' on the title-page 
 of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they 
 
 3
 
 4 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 
 
 could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Nevertheless, finding, that, without descending to a 
 smaller size of type than would have been compatible 
 with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I 
 could not compress my intended list within the limits 
 of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act 
 would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have 
 chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my 
 private closet, and there not only exhibit to him the 
 diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish 
 him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, with 
 out undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the 
 reach of human ambition and attainment. And I am 
 the rather induced to this from the fact, that my name 
 has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial 
 catalogue of our beloved Alma Mater. Whether this is 
 to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of 
 those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which 
 I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year 
 beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more 
 culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, 
 the matter being in course of painful investigation. 
 But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more 
 keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, 
 enriched the library of the Jaalam Athenaeum with the 
 old one then in my possession, by which means it has 
 come about that my children will be deprived of a 
 never-wearying winter-evening's amusement in looking 
 out the name of their parent in that distinguished roll. 
 
 Those harmless innocents had at least committed no 
 
 but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and 
 animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping
 
 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 5 
 
 of my private diary, intended for posthumous publica 
 tion. I state this fact here, in order that certain 
 nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch con 
 gratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that 
 a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly 
 incensed posterity will apply to their memories. 
 
 The careful reader will note, that, in the list which 
 I have prepared, I have included the names of several 
 Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly 
 assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured 
 to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and 
 genius, but also because I have never been able to per 
 ceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at 
 the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned 
 bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my re 
 searches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally 
 reach America, I have discovered no generic difference 
 between the antipodal Fogrum Japonicum and the F. 
 Americanum sufficiently common in our own immediate 
 neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the 
 popular belief, that distinctions of this sort are enhanced 
 in value by every additional mile they travel, I have in 
 termixed the names of some tolerably distant literary 
 and other associations with the rest. 
 
 I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it 
 may be the more readily understood by those persons 
 especially interested therein, I have written in that 
 curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the 
 writing and reading of which they are accustomed. 
 
 OMNIB. PER TOT. ORB. TERRAR. CATALOG. ACADEM. 
 EDD. 
 
 Minim, gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest, orans,
 
 6 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 
 
 vir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant, glor. 
 nora. meum (dipl. fort, concess.) catal. vest. temp, 
 futur. afEer., ill. subjec., addit. omnib. titul. honorar. 
 qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put. 
 
 *** Litt. Uncial, distinx. ut Frees. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal. 
 
 HOMER US WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam. S. T. 
 D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et Neo-Caes. et Brun. et Gnlielm. 
 1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridi- 
 mont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst. et 
 Watervill. et S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, 
 et S. Aud. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et. Dickins. 
 et Concord, et Wash, et Columbian, et Chariest, et Jeff. 
 etDubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et cast. 1855, P. U. N. C. H. 
 et J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et 
 Acad. BORE us. Berolin. Soc. et SS. EE. Lugd. Bat. 
 et Patav. et Lond. et Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. 
 Terr, et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. P. A. et A. 
 A. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. 
 Aliar. Promov. Passamaqnod. et H. P. C. et I. 0. H. et 
 A. A. 0. et II. K. P. et B. K. et Peucin, et Erosoph. 
 et Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit, et -. T. et S. Archaeo- 
 log. Athen. et Acad. Scient. et Lit. Panorm. et SS. E. 
 H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. 
 S. Eeg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P. D. 
 Gott. et LL. D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 
 1860, et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. 
 Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et 
 Higgl. Piggl. et LL. B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz. 
 Moschet. Soc., et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc. 
 Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. Gen 
 eral. Tenebr. Secret. Corr.
 
 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PEES8. 
 
 [ I HAVE observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it 
 may happen,) that it is customary to append to the 
 second editions of books, and to the second works of 
 authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, 
 under the title of Notices of the Press. These, I have 
 been given to understand, are procurable at certain estab 
 lished rates, payment being made either in money or ad 
 vertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate 
 outlay of servility on the part of the author. Con 
 sidering these things with myself, and also that such 
 notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to 
 convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial ac 
 companiment of literature, and resembling certificates 
 to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I con 
 ceived that it would be not only more economical to 
 prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also 
 more immediately subservient to the end in view to 
 prefix them to this our primary edition rather than 
 await the contingency of a second, when they would 
 seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the 
 bobs until the second attempt at flying the kite would 
 indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. 
 Neither has it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford 
 me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a cara 
 van is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send 
 forward large and highly ornamented bills of perform- 
 
 7
 
 8 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 
 
 ance to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. 
 These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning 
 to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, 
 truly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible to 
 repress, even .during school hours, certain oral and 
 telegraphic correspondences concerning the expected 
 show,) upon some fine morning tne baud enters in a 
 gaily-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with 
 noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and 
 sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets. 
 Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do 
 I desiderate those eyes of A-ristarchus, " whose looks 
 were as a breeching to a boy." Then do I perceive, 
 with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage 
 of a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most 
 reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the 
 cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the re 
 volving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes 
 for the first time credible to me, (albeit confirmed by 
 the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the 
 period of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, with 
 out pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary 
 legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. 
 For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should 
 suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, 
 whom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some 
 mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of 
 such a band, I send forward the following notices of 
 domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, 
 not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if 
 our little craft, cymbula sutilis, shall seem to leave port 
 with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, 
 a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as
 
 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 9 
 
 being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently 
 objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish 
 to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually 
 existing specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of 
 natural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied 
 with tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own 
 discourses, which, from its superior tone and appear 
 ance of vast experience, I concluded to have been 
 written by a man at least three hundred years of age, 
 though I recollected no existing instance of such ante 
 diluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterward discov 
 ered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for 
 the ministry under the direction of one of my brethren 
 in a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinc 
 tively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have 
 been forced to omit, from its too great length. H. W.] 
 
 From the Universal Littery Universe. 
 
 Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader. 
 . . . Under a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which 
 should be committed to the memory and engraven on the 
 heart of every moral and social being . . . We consider this 
 a unique performance . . . We hope to see it soon introduced 
 into our common schools . . . Mr. Wilbur has performed his 
 duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment . . . This 
 is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted . . . 
 We hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward 
 the formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, nati e and 
 American literature. We rejoice to meet with an author 
 national enough to break away from the slavish deference, 
 too common among us, to English grammar and orthography 
 . . . Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make ex 
 tracts. . . . On the whole, we may call it a volume which 
 no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to 
 place upon its shelves.
 
 10 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 
 From the Higginbottomopolis Snapping-turtle. 
 
 A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it 
 was ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vul 
 gar buffoon, and the'editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We 
 use strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the 
 book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them !) they 
 will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallumbrozer, 
 or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined 
 heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up 
 . . . We should like to know how much British gold was 
 pocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest 
 patriots. 
 
 From the Oldfogrumville Mentor. 
 
 We have not had time to do more than glance through this 
 handsomely printed volume, but the name of its respectable 
 editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a suffi 
 cient guaranty for the worth of its contents . . . The paper 
 is white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and 
 attractive size ... In reading this elegantly executed work, 
 it has seemed to us that a passage or two might have been re 
 trenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction 
 was susceptible of a higher polish . . . On the whole, we may 
 safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. 
 We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is, 
 for the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expres 
 sion, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with ad 
 vantage . . . The work is admirably got up ... This work 
 will form an appropriate ornament to the centre-table. It is 
 beautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality. 
 
 From the Dekay Bulwark. 
 
 We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that 
 tremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a 
 man, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us 
 by " The Biglow Papers " to pass by without entering our
 
 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. H 
 
 earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas ! too com 
 mon) at demoralizing the public sentiment. Under a 
 wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social 
 glass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored insti 
 tutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially 
 to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless 
 ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the 
 respectable and religious portion of our community should be 
 aroused to the alarming inroads of foreiga Jacobinism, sanscu- 
 lottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread 
 nature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion 
 and virtue are given from under the cloak (credite, posteri /) 
 of a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the pa 
 triot and the Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely 
 so called, they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred pre 
 cincts of the pulpit . . . On the whole, we consider this vol 
 ume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted 
 would spring out of the late French " Revolution " (!) 
 
 From the Bungtown Copper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try- 
 weakly family journal) . 
 
 Altogether an admirable work . . . Full of humor, boister 
 ous, but delicate, of wit withering and scorching, yet com 
 bined with a pathos cool as morning dew, of satire ponder 
 ous as the rnace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Sala- 
 din . . . A work full of "mountain mirth," mischievous as 
 Puck and lightsome as Ariel . . . We know not whether to 
 admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of 
 the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and com 
 pass of style, at once both objective and subjective . . . We 
 might indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other 
 than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a 
 wonderful pose, which flits from flower to flower, and bears 
 the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Gany 
 mede) to the " highest heaven of invention." . . . We love a 
 book so purely objective . . . Many of his pictures of natural 
 scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidel-
 
 12 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 
 
 it}- ... In fine, we consider thi:? as one of the most extraor 
 dinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English 
 author who could have written it. It is a work to which the 
 proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the 
 Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up 
 the star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the 
 crush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the 
 punier efforts of enslaved Europe . . . We hope soon to en 
 counter our author among those higher walks of literature in 
 which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame. 
 Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position 
 in the bright galaxy of our American bards. 
 
 From the Salt river Pilot and Flay of Freedom. 
 
 A volume of bad grammar and worse taste . . . While the 
 pieces here collected were confined to their appropriate 
 sphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered 
 them wholly beneath contempt, but. as the author has chosen 
 to come forward in this public manner, he must expect the 
 lash he so richly merits . . . Contemptible slanders . . . 
 Vilest Billingsgate . . . Has raked all the gutters of oui: lan 
 guage . . . The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians 
 not safe from his malignant venom ". . . General Cashing 
 comes in for a share of his vile calumnies . . . the Reverend 
 Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth . . . 
 
 From tJte World-Harmonic-^Eolian-Attachinent. 
 
 Speech is silver : silence is golden. No utterance more 
 Orphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, \ve 
 reverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten, 
 we have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from 
 wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) 
 record the thing that is revealed . . . Under mfi.sk of 
 quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh 
 shipwrecked) soul, thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever 
 climbing hopefully toward the peaceful summitb of uu In-
 
 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 13 
 
 finite Sorrow . . . Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with He 
 brew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours 
 has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laugh- 
 ingest mirth. Conceivable enough ! Through coarse Ther- 
 sites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, 
 world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the 
 life-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, 
 careless of the " nicer proprieties," inexpert of " elegant dic 
 tion," yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up 
 there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, India- 
 rubber-like salt-marshes of native Jaalam. To this soul 
 also the Necessity of Creating somewhat has unveiled its aw 
 ful front. If not CEdipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then 
 in God's name Birdofredum Sawins ! These also shall get 
 born into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsist 
 ence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He 
 shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. 
 Yet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses- 
 wanderings, and Divine Comedies, if only once he could 
 come at them ! Therein lies much, nay all; for what truly 
 is this which we name All, but that which we do not possess ? 
 . . . Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not 
 without paternal pride, as is the wont of such. A brown, 
 parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, 
 gray -eyed, we fancy, queued perhaps, with much weather- 
 cunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair 
 in good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such 
 hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more . . . Of 
 " Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in 
 Jaalam," we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in 
 him of his Melesigenes namesake, save haply, the blindness ! 
 A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, 
 with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long 
 practice, and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, 
 well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations 
 (somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, 
 there, " Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," our Hosea 
 presents himself as a quiet inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A 
 rich poverty of Latin and Greek, so far is clear enough, even
 
 14 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 
 
 to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial specta 
 cles, but naught farther ? O pur-blind, well-meaning, alto 
 gether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him 
 incommunicable by stroke of birch ! Did it ever enter that 
 old bewildered head of thine that there was the Possibility of 
 the Infinite in him ? To thee, quite wingless (and even feath- 
 erless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever 
 come? "Talented young parishioner "? Among the Arts 
 whereof thou art Magister, does that of seeing happen to be 
 one ? Unhappy Artium Magister ! Somehow a Nemean lion, 
 fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wil 
 dernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) 
 has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild- 
 glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, 
 gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. 
 In Heaven's name, go not near him with that fly-bite crook 
 of thine ! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go 
 to the appointed place of departed Artillery -Election Sermons, 
 Right-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered 
 to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort ; 
 thou, too, shalt have thy reward ; but on him the Eumenides 
 have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake- tressed, finger- 
 threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems ; for him 
 paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing un 
 welcome bit ; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, 
 and far-flashing splendors await. 
 
 From the Onion Grove Phwnix. 
 
 A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned 
 from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known 
 to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which 
 have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We 
 learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privi 
 lege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated 
 Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that emi 
 nent man with a copy of the " Biglow Papers/' The next 
 morning he received the following note, which he has kindly
 
 NOTICES OP AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 15 
 
 furnished us for publication. We prefer to print verbatim., 
 knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors 
 into which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance 
 of our language. 
 
 " HIGH- WORTHY MISTER ! 
 
 " I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have 
 more or less a work of one of those aboriginal Red-Men seen 
 in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken fullworthy on 
 the self shelf with our Gootsched to be upset. 
 
 " Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice ! 
 
 " VON HUMBUG." 
 
 He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work 
 on " Cosmetics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow ; but this was 
 taken from our friend by the English customhouse officers, 
 probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by 
 this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust 
 this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We 
 shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the Sta,te Depart 
 ment. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we 
 experience at seeing our young and vigorous national litera 
 ture thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable 
 and world-renowned German. We love to see these reciproca 
 tions of good-feeling between the different branches of the 
 great Anglo-Saxon race. 
 
 [The following genuine "notice" having met my 
 eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more espe 
 cially as it contains a portion of one of Mr. Biglow's 
 poems not elsewhere printed. H. W.] 
 
 From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss. 
 
 . . . But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus 
 mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think 
 we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly 
 directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a
 
 16 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 
 
 proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of 
 poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral 
 by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. 
 The title of it is " The Courtin'." 
 
 ZEKLE crep' up, quite unbeknown, 
 
 An' peeked in thru the winder, 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 
 'ith no one nigh to hender. 
 
 Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The old queen's arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back frum Concord busted. 
 
 The wannut logs shot sparkles out 
 
 Toward the pootiest, bless her ! 
 An' leetle fires danced all about 
 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 The very room, coz she wuz in, 
 
 Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. 
 
 She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, 
 
 Araspin' on the scraper, 
 All ways to once her feelins flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' 1'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle o' the seekle ; 
 His heart kep' goin' pity pat, 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle.
 
 SATIS mnltis sese emptores futures libri professis, 
 Georgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de 
 parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiae naturalis, cum 
 titulo sequent!, videlicet : 
 
 Conatus ad Dehneationem naturalem nonnihil per- 
 fectiorem Scarabcei Bombilatoris, vulgo dicti HUMBUG, 
 ab HOMERO WILBUR, Artium Magistro, Societatis his- 
 torico-naturalis Jaalamensis Praeside, (Secretario, So- 
 cioque (eheu !) singulo,) multarumque aliarum Societa- 
 tum eruditarum (sive iueruditarum) tarn domesticarura 
 quam transmarinarum Socio forsitan future. 
 
 PROEMIUM. 
 
 LECTORI BENEVOLO S. 
 
 Toga scholastica nondum deposita, quum systemata 
 varia entomologica, a viris ejus scientias cultoribus stu- 
 diosissimis summa diligentia aedificata, peiiitus inda- 
 gassem, non fnit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis 
 aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti per- 
 ciperem. Tune, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, 
 aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum 
 (Curtins alter) me solemniter devovi. Nee ab isto 
 labore, 8aifj.ovna<s imposito, abstinui antequam tractatu- 
 lum. sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula per- 
 feceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro 
 ineptiae r<bv /9j/9Ato7rwAo>v (necnon " Publici Legentis ") 
 nusquam explorato, me composnisse quod quasi pla 
 centas praef ervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent 
 2 17
 
 18 PROEMIUM. 
 
 credidi. Sed, qunm huic et alii bibliopolae MSS. mea 
 iubmisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa 
 in Museum meum retulissem, horror ingens atque 
 misericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cere- 
 bris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira 
 infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius irapensis 
 librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin 
 "Mundns Scientificus" (ut aiunt) crnmenam nieam 
 ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo 
 parvulo segetem demessui, prater gandium vacuum bene 
 de Eepublica merendi. Iste panis meus pretiosus super 
 aquas literarias fseculentas praefidenter jactus, quasi 
 Harpyiarumquarmidam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum 
 facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra 
 perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse 
 tali victn ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit 
 pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum 
 esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo seque ac pueri 
 naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo nt e recto cursn 
 delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argo meam char- 
 taceam fluctibus laborantem a quaesitu velleris aurei, 
 ipse potius tonsns pelleque exutus, mente solida revo- 
 cavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, boomarangam meam a 
 scopo aberrantem retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione 
 ministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast 
 mihi, [talia volventi, et, sicnt Saturnus ille xatdoflopos, 
 liberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, casus mise- 
 randus, nee antea inauditns, supervenit. Nam, ut 
 ferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimoniae, parentes 
 suos mortuos devordsse, sic filius hie meus primogenitus, 
 Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et 
 calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nee tamen hac de 
 eausa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed
 
 PROEMIUM. 19 
 
 famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque 
 potius habui, cibumque ad earn satiandam, salvapaterna 
 mea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad 
 aes etiam concoqaendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde 
 aes aliennm, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi. 
 Eebus ita se habentibus, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doo- 
 little, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias 
 suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relin- 
 quendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus per- 
 venissern. Tune ego, salvum facere patronum meum 
 mnnificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primae edi- 
 tionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in 
 omne asvum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo 
 meo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, 
 curae vociferantes families singulis annis crescentis eo 
 usque insultabant ut nunquam tarn carum pignns e 
 vinculis istis abeneis solvere possem. 
 
 Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios con- 
 sangnineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa 
 advenissem, erectisauribus verba talia sequentia accepi : 
 " Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepo- 
 tem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi 
 experientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, bene- 
 ficenterque ac prndenter iis divinis creditis utatur, 
 ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in 
 ilium magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranomi- 
 nato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nee ponder- 
 abiles nee computabiles meas quge sequuntur, scilicet : 
 quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravit dictus Homerns, 
 anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio ydendi et repetendi 
 opus istud 'scientificum' (quod dicunt) suum, si sic 
 elegerit. Tamen D. 0. M. precor oculos Homeri nepo- 
 tis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos ia
 
 PROEMIUM. 
 
 bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis snis Hispaniensibus 
 tuto abscondat." 
 
 His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor menm in 
 pectore exsultavit. Deinde, quoniam tractatus Anglico 
 scriptns spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studinm 
 Historiae Naturalis in Bepublica uostra inter factionis 
 strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statui, et eo 
 potius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo 
 diplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum om- 
 nino mortnarnm (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste 
 xavoupros Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant. 
 
 Et mihi adhnc snperstes est tota ilia editio prima, 
 quam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos den- 
 tibam retineo. 
 
 OPERIS SPECIMEN. 
 (Ad exemplum JoJiannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologice. 
 
 12. S. B. Militaris, WILBUR. Carnifex, JABLONSK. Prof anus, 
 DESPONT. 
 
 [Male hancce speciem Cyclopem Fabricius vocat, ut qui sin- 
 gulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero 
 Isaacus Outis nullum inter S. rnilit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 
 152) discrimen esse defendit.] 
 
 Habitat civitat. Americ. austral. 
 
 Aureis lineis splendidus ; plerumquetamen sordidus, utpote 
 lanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Aniat 
 quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima co- 
 natione, detruditur. Candidatus ergo populariter vocatus. 
 Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam 
 publicam callide mulget ; abdomen enorme ; faoultas suctus 
 baud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus : ferox nihilominus, 
 eemperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. 
 
 Capite saepe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimen-
 
 PROEMIUM. 21 
 
 turn etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere 
 poteram. 
 
 Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi ; nam S. 
 Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis 
 summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas' rationis psene 
 humanse demonstrans. 
 
 24 S. B. Criticus, WILBUR. Zoilus, FABRIC. Pygmceus, 
 CARLSEN. 
 
 [Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctate (Fabric. 64- 
 109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi micro- 
 scopicae subjeci, nunquam tamen unum ulla indicia puncti 
 cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.] 
 
 Praecipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima riina 
 anoiiyma sese abscondit, ive, we, creberrime stridens. Inep- 
 tus, segnipes. 
 
 Habitat ubique gentium ; in sicco ; nidum suum terebra- 
 tione indefessa aedificans. Cibus. Libros depascit ; siccos 
 praacipue seligens, et forte succidum.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHEN", more than three years ago, my talented 
 young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and sub 
 mitted to my animadversions the first of his poems 
 which he intended to commit to the more hazardous 
 trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered 
 my imagination to conceive that his productions would 
 ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into 
 the august presence of the reading public by myself. 
 So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict 
 the event ! I confess that there is to me a quite new 
 satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleep 
 ing partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an 
 independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For 
 there is always this drawback from the pleasure of 
 printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach 
 of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough 
 to make a separate volume, those religious and godly- 
 minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them 
 so) of the brain must at first lie buried in an undis 
 tinguished heap, and then get stich resurrection as is 
 vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of 
 others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of dis 
 tinction than the word " Miscellaneous " printed upon 
 the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for 
 the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased 
 to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I 
 know myself, 1 am measurably free from the itch of 
 
 23
 
 24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 vanity ; yet I may be allowed to say that I was no 4 ; 
 backward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery. 
 acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point 
 which, in our rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor, 
 not wholly unpleasing, ^or unwholesome, to palates 
 cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated 
 fruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own, 
 here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, 
 albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and 
 authorship.* 
 
 I was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's 
 attempts, as knowing that the desire- to poetize is one 
 of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, 
 if the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold 
 hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, 
 who might else have become in due time an ornament 
 of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest 
 friends and relatives. But thinking, on a further ex 
 perience, that there was a germ of promise in him 
 which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds 
 from around it, I thought it best to set before him the 
 acknowledged examples of English compositions in 
 verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With 
 this view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope 
 and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he 
 promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, 
 he brought me some verses written upon that model, 
 
 * The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can 
 find them) to " A Sermon Preached on the Anniversary of 
 the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," " A Dis 
 course on the Late Eclipse," " Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on 
 the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experi 
 ence Tidd, Esq.," &c., &c.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some 
 phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objection 
 able to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of 
 childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow 
 will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortu 
 nate education began in a country village. And, first, 
 let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school- 
 dame. 
 
 " Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see 
 The humble schoolhouse of my A, B, C, 
 Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, 
 Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, 
 Then all together, when the signal came, 
 Discharged their a-b abs against the dame, 
 Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, 
 Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, 
 And, to our wonder, could detect at once 
 Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. 
 There young Devotion learned to climb with ease 
 The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, 
 And he was most commended and admired 
 Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired ; 
 Each name was called as many various ways 
 As pleased the reader's ear on different days, 
 So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, 
 Colds in the head, or fifty other things, 
 Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week 
 To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, 
 The vibrant accent skipping here and there, 
 Just as it pleased invention or despair ; 
 No controversial Hebraist was the Dame ; 
 With or without the points pleased her the same ; 
 If any tyro found a name too tough, 
 And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough ; 
 She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, 
 And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.
 
 26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Ah, dear old times ! there once it was my hap, 
 Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap ; 
 From books degraded, there I sat at ease, 
 A drone, the envy of compulsory bees." 
 
 I add only one further extract, which will possess a 
 melancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to 
 gleam the materials of Kevolntionary history from the 
 lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual 
 making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, 
 continued the supply in an adequate proportion to the 
 demand. 
 
 " Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad 
 His slow artillery up the Concord road, 
 A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, 
 As, every time he told it, Joe drew near 
 To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, 
 The original scene to bolder tints gave way ; 
 Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick 
 Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, 
 And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, 
 Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop ; 
 Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight 
 Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, , 
 And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale, 
 Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." 
 
 I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not 
 to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as indeed, 
 he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of 
 his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to 
 take so great liberties with them, had I not more than 
 suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very 
 near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Har- 
 yard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such 
 limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, 
 or from a sense of natural inaptitude, I know not, cer 
 tain it is that my young friend could never be induced 
 to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that 
 it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, that 
 Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of 
 one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after 
 long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but 
 which yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after 
 all, and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a 
 trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his 
 eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He 
 added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet- 
 water would only be the more disfigured by having its 
 leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so 
 he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and 
 tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I 
 did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather 
 to a defective education and senses untuned by too long 
 familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a per 
 verted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this 
 leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that 
 his verses, as wanting as they certainly were in classic 
 polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public 
 ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right 
 as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left 
 him to follow the bent of his natural genius. 
 
 There are two things upon which it would seem fit 
 ting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place, 
 the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, 
 first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither 
 open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in
 
 28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the persons of those unskilful painters who have given 
 to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper per 
 spective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their sub 
 ject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil. 
 
 New England was not so much the colony of a mother 
 country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. 
 The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 
 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. 
 They came that they might have the privilege to work 
 and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to pain 
 ful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto 
 thirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, 
 if the Greek might boast his Thermopylae, Avhere three 
 hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well 
 be proud of our Plymouth Kock, where a handful of 
 men, women, and children not merely faced, but van 
 quished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet 
 more invincible storge that drew them back to the green 
 island far away. These found no lotus growing upon 
 the surly shore, the taste of which could make them 
 forget their little native Ithaca ; nor were they so 
 wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, 
 but could see the fair west wind belly the homeward 
 sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the 
 terrible Unknown. 
 
 As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had 
 to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if 
 that traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock. 
 The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and 
 an east wind of hard times puts a new ache in every one 
 of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, 
 pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the 
 hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those
 
 INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a 
 hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from 
 long wrestling with the Lord in prayer,- and who had 
 taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two 
 hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposure, 
 with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have 
 the present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of 
 all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of 
 shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points 
 against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at 
 patching, not so careful for what is best as for Aviiat 
 will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his 
 pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old 
 countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed 
 to move the world with no x<>u arS> but his own two feet, 
 and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hy 
 brid, indeed, did circumstances beget, here in the New 
 World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never 
 before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-gen 
 iality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthu 
 siasm, such unwilling-humor, such close-fisted-gener 
 osity. This new Grceculus esuriens will make a living 
 out of any thing. He will invent new trades as well as 
 tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get educa 
 tion at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he 
 would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan after 
 ward. In ccelum jusseris, Hit, or the other way 
 either, it is all one, so any thing is to be got by it. 
 Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like 
 the Englishman of two centuries ago than. John Bull 
 himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has be 
 come fluent and adaptable, but more of the original 
 groundwork of character remains. He feels more
 
 30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 at home with Fnlke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, 
 Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his 
 modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by 
 at least a hundred years, -to Naseby, Marston Moor, 
 Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true 
 Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the 
 Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jona 
 than is conscious still that he lives in the world of the 
 Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John, you 
 must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding ; an 
 abstract idea will do for Jonathan. 
 
 V TO THE INDULGENT READER. 
 
 MY friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilbur, having been 
 seized with a dangerous fit of illness, before this In 
 troduction had passed through the press, and being 
 incapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his 
 notes, memoranda, &c., and requested me to fashion 
 them into some shape more fitting for the general eye. 
 This, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of 
 his manuscripts, I have felt wholly unable tq do ; yet, 
 being unwilling that the reader should be deprived of 
 such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished, 
 and not well discerning how to segregate these from 
 the rest, I have concluded to send them all to the press 
 precisely as they are. 
 
 COLUMBUS NYE, Pastor of a Church in Bungtown 
 Corner. 
 
 IT remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, 
 first, it may be premised, in a general way, that any
 
 INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 one much read in the writings of the early colonists 
 need not be told that the far greater share of the words 
 and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and 
 local there, were brought from the mother country. A 
 person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of 
 Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary dis 
 course, many words now noted in English vocabularies 
 as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use 
 about the time of the King James translation of the 
 Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to 
 most New Englanders than to many a native of the 
 Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, how 
 ever, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country 
 where reading is so universal and newspapers are so 
 multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is 
 transplanted in the mail bags to every remotest corner 
 of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches 
 nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation. 
 
 The English have complained of us for coining new 
 words. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones 
 by them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned 
 part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. 
 Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as 
 they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life 
 presents itself here in the New World ; and, indeed, 
 wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be 
 questioned whether we could not establish a stronger 
 title to the ownership of the English tongue than the 
 mother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question, 
 is to be its great home and centre. And not only is it 
 already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a 
 far higher popular average of correctness, than in 
 Britain. The great writers of it, too, we might claim
 
 32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of 
 readers and lovers. 
 
 As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this 
 volume, I may say that the reader will not find one 
 which is not (as I believe) either native or imported 
 with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with 
 my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical 
 portion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the 
 spelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of 
 pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me over 
 particular remember this caution of Martial : 
 
 " Quern recitas, meus est, O Fidentine libellus ; 
 Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuns.'' 
 
 A few further explanatory remarks will not be im 
 pertinent. 
 
 I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the 
 reader's guidance. 
 
 1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound 
 to the r when he can help it, and often displays con 
 siderable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel. 
 
 2. He seldom sounds the final g, a piece of self-denial, 
 if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of 
 the final d, as han' and stan' for hand and stand. 
 
 3. The h in such words as while, when, where, he 
 omits altogether. 
 
 4. In regard to a, he shows some inconsistency, some 
 times giving a close and obscure sound, as liev for have, 
 liendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that, and again 
 giving it the broad sound it has in father, as hdnsome 
 for handsome. 
 
 5. To the sound on he prefixes an e (hard to ex 
 emplify otherwise than orally).
 
 INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite 
 thus : 
 
 " Neow is the winta uv eour discontent 
 Med glorious summa by this sun o' Yock, 
 An' all the cleouds thet leowered upon eour heouse 
 In the deep buzzum o' the oshiii buried ; 
 Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths ; 
 Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce ; 
 Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins, 
 Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures. 
 Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front, 
 An' neow, instid o' mountin' barebid steeds 
 To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, 
 He capers nimly in a lady's chamber, 
 To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot." 
 
 6. Au, in such words as daughter and slaughter, he 
 pronounces ah. 
 
 7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl ad libitum. 
 [Mr. Wibur's notes here become entirely fragmen 
 tary. C. N.] 
 
 . Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I 
 thought the curious reader might be gratified with a 
 sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice be 
 tween two was offered, the one a profile (entirely 
 black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a 
 native artist of much promise. The first of these 
 seemed wanting in expression, and in the second a 
 slight obliquity of the visual organs has been height 
 ened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part 
 of the artist) into too close an approach to actual 
 strabismus. This slight divergence in my optical 
 apparatus from the ordinary model however I may 
 have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy 
 3
 
 34 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much 
 of directness and personal application to my discourses 
 as met the wants of my congregation, without risk of 
 offending any by being supposed to have him or her in 
 my eye (as the saying is) seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur 
 a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid 
 painting. We read of many who either absolutely 
 refused to allow the copying of their features, as espe 
 cially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, 
 not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius 
 Palseottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or 
 were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell. 
 
 ft. Yet was Caesar desirous of concealing his bald 
 ness. Per contra, my Lord Protector's carefulness in 
 the matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally 
 more desirous of being improved in their portraits than 
 characters. Shall probably find very unflattered like 
 ness of ourselves in Eecording Angel's gallery. 
 
 f. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be 
 traced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the 
 lips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness 
 of disposition, seldom roused to open flame ? An un 
 restrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to 
 generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans 
 used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hak- 
 luyt, III., 468, but Popish priests not always reliable 
 authority. 
 
 To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by 
 attacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was 
 justifiable in preserving this class of insects ?
 
 INTRODUCTION. 35 
 
 8. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably 
 certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. 
 An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, 
 but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the 
 creative faculty. 
 
 His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael 
 Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than 
 houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression. 
 
 e. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest 
 said to be a wild boar, whence, perhaps, the name.(?) 
 A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham (quasi wild 
 boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth 
 
 following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect , had 
 
 issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 
 5. Desire. 
 
 " Hear lyes ye bodye of Mrs. Expect "Wilber, 
 Y crewell salvages they kil'd her 
 Together wth other Christian soles eleaven, 
 October ye ix daye, 1707. 
 Ye stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore 
 And now expeacts me on ye other shore : 
 I live in hope her soon to join ; 
 Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine." 
 
 From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish. 
 
 This is unquestionably the same John who afterward 
 (1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Ragg. 
 
 But if this were the case, she seems to have died 
 early ; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we 
 have evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of 
 Lieutenant Tipping. 
 
 He seems to have been a man of substance, for we 
 find him in 1696 conveying " one undivided eightieth
 
 36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 part of a salt-meadow " in Yabbok, and he commanded 
 a sloop in 1702. 
 
 Those who doubt the importance of genealogical 
 studies fuste potius quam argumento erudiendi. 
 
 I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In' 
 that year he was chosen selectman. 
 
 No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new 
 hearse-house was built, 1802. 
 
 He was probably the son of John, who came from 
 Bilham Comit. Salop, circa 1642. 
 
 This first John was a man of considerable importance, 
 being twice mentioned with the honorable prefix of Mr. 
 in the town records. Name spelt with two Z's. 
 
 " Hear lyeth ye bod [stone unhappily broken.] 
 Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [I enclose this in brackets 
 as doubtful. To me it seems clear.] 
 
 Ob'tdie [illegible ; looks like xviii.] iii \prob. 1693. J 
 
 .... paynt 
 .... deseased seinte : 
 A friend and [fath]er untoe all ye opreast, 
 Hee gave ye wicked familists noe reast, 
 When Sat [an bljewe his Antinomian Waste, 
 Wee clong to [Willber as a steadfjast maste. 
 [A]gaynst ye horrid Qua[kers] 
 
 It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph 
 is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British 
 soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of 
 Independence. How odious an animosity which 
 pauses not at the grave ! How brutal that which 
 spares not the monuments of authentic history ! This 
 is not improbably from the pen of Kev. Moody Pyram, 
 who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted 
 for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, 
 a copy might possibly be recovered.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 No. I. 
 A LETTER 
 
 FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. 
 JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON" 
 COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA 
 BIGLOW. 
 
 JAYLEM, June 1846. 
 
 MISTER EDDYTER : Our Hosea wuz down to Boston 
 last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round 
 as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drum- 
 min and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he 
 thout Hosea hedu't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a 
 kindo's though he's jest com down, so he cal'lated to 
 hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse 
 for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his 
 hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on 
 his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let 
 alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 
 pounder out on. 
 
 wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and 
 arter I 'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like 
 a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she 
 
 37
 
 38 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chol- 
 lery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, 
 ses I, he's oney amakin pottery * ses i, he's oilers on 
 hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure 
 enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chiz- 
 zle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to 
 go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he hain't aney 
 grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back 
 and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i 
 hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. 
 
 Hosea ses, tain't hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos 
 the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, bat 
 he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch 
 to the Rest on 'em, bein they wnz verry well As thay 
 wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about 
 Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea 
 kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' 
 that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and 
 boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair ain't no 
 wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be. 
 
 If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who 
 hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater 
 to be curus ses she, she ain't livin though and he's a 
 likely kind o' lad. 
 
 EZEKIEL BIGLOW. 
 
 THE ASH away, you '11 hev to rattle 
 On them kittle drums o' yourn, 
 
 'Tain't a knowin' kind o' cattle 
 
 Thet is ketched with mouldy corn ; 
 
 * Aut insanit, aut versos facit. H. W.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39 
 
 Put in stiff, yon fifer feller, 
 Let folks see how spry you be, 
 
 Guess you '11 toot till you are yeller 
 'Pore you git ahold o' me 1 
 
 Thet air flag 's a lettle rotten, 
 
 Hope it ain't your Sunday's best; 
 Fact ! it takes a sight o' cotton 
 
 To stuff out a soger's chest : 
 Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, 
 
 Ef you must wear humps like these, 
 Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't, 
 
 It would du ez slick ez grease. 
 
 'T would n't suit them Southern fellers, 
 
 They 're a dreffle graspin' set, 
 We must oilers blow the bellers 
 
 Wen they want their irons het ; 
 May be it 's all right ez preachin', 
 
 But my narves it kind o' grates, 
 Wen I see the overreachin' 
 
 0' them nigger-drivin' States. 
 
 Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, 
 
 Hain't they cut a thunderin' swarth, 
 (Helped by Yankee renegaders,) 
 
 Thru the vartu o' the North ! 
 We begin to think it 's nater 
 
 To take sarse an' not be riled ; 
 Who 'd expect to see a tater 
 
 All on eend at bein' biled ?
 
 40 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Ez fer war. I call it murder, 
 
 There you hev it plain an' flat ; 
 I don't want to go no furder 
 
 Than my Testyment fer that ; 
 God hez sed so plump an' fairly, 
 
 It 's ez long ez it is broad, 
 An' you 've gut to git up airly 
 
 Ef you want to take in God. 
 
 'T ain't your eppyletts an' feathers 
 
 Make the thing a grain more right ; 
 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers 
 
 Will excuse ye in His sight : 
 Ef you take a sword an' dror it, 
 
 An' go stick a feller thru, 
 Guv'ment ain't to answer for it, 
 
 God '11 send the bill to you. 
 
 Wut 's the use o' meeting-goin* 
 
 Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 
 Ef it 's right to go amowin' 
 
 Feller-men like oats an' rye ? 
 I dunno but wut it 's pooty 
 
 Training round in bobtail coats, 
 But it 's cnrus Christian dooty 
 
 This ere cuttin' folks's throats. 
 
 They may talk o' Freedom's airy 
 Tell they 're pupple in the face, 
 
 It 's a grand gret cemetary 
 
 Fer the barthrights of our race ;
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 4| 
 
 They jest want this Califdrny 
 
 So 's to lug new slave-states in 
 To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, 
 
 An' to plunder ye like sin. 
 
 Ain't it cute to see a Yankee 
 
 Take sech everlastin' pains, 
 All to git the Devil's thankee, 
 
 Helpin' on 'em weld their chains ? 
 Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers, 
 
 Clear ez one an' one make two, 
 Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers 
 
 Want to make wite slaves o' you. 
 
 Tell me jest the eend I 've come . to 
 
 Arter cipherin* plaguy smart, 
 An' it makes a handy sum, tu, 
 
 Any gump could larn by heart ; 
 Laborin' man an' laborin' woman 
 
 Hev one glory an' one shame, 
 Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhuman 
 
 Injers all on 'em the same. 
 
 'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks 
 
 You 're goin' to git your right, 
 Nor by lookin' down on black folks 
 
 Coz you 're put upon by wite ; 
 Slavery ain't o' nary color, 
 
 'Tain't the hide thet makes it wus, 
 All it keers fer in a feller 
 
 'S jest to make him fill its pus.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Want to tackle me in, du ye ? 
 
 I expect you '11 hev to wait ; 
 "Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye 
 
 You '11 begin to kaPlate ; 
 'Spose the crows T ,vuu't fall to pickin* 
 
 All the carkiss from your bones, 
 Coz yon helped to give a lickin' 
 
 To them poor half -Spanish drones ? 
 
 Jest go home an' ask our Nancy 
 
 Wether I 'd be sech a goose 
 Ez to jine ye, guess you 'd fancy 
 
 The etarnal bung wuz loose ! 
 She wants me fer home consumption, 
 
 Let alone the hay 's to mow, 
 Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption, 
 
 You 've a darned long row to hoe. 
 
 Take them editors thet 's crowin* 
 
 Like a cockerel three months old, 
 Don't ketch any on 'em goin', 
 
 Though they ~be so blasted bold ; 
 Ain't they a prime set o' fellers ? 
 
 Tore they think on 't they will sprout, 
 (Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) 
 
 With the meanness bustin' out. 
 
 Wai, go 'long to help 'em stealin* 
 Bigger pens to cram with slaves, 
 
 Help the men thet 's oilers dealin' 
 Insults on your fathers' graves ;
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 43 
 
 Help the strong to grind the feeble, 
 
 Help the many agin the few, 
 Help the men thet call your people 
 
 Witewashed slaves an' peddling crew ! 
 
 Massachusetts, God forgive her, 
 
 She 's akneelin' with the rest, 
 She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever 
 
 In her grand old eagle-nest ; 
 She thet ough' to stand so fearless 
 
 Wile the wracks are round her hurled, 
 Holdin* up a beacon peerless 
 
 To the oppressed of all the world ! 
 
 Hain't they sold your colored seamen ? 
 
 Hain't they made your env'ys wiz ? 
 Wut '11 make ye act like freemen ? 
 
 Wut '11 git your dander riz ? 
 Come, I '11 tell ye wut I 'm thinkin* 
 
 Is our dooty in this fix, 
 They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin* 
 
 In the days o' seventy-six. 
 
 Clang the bells in every steeple, 
 
 Call all true men to disown 
 The tradoocers of our people, 
 
 The enslavers o ? their own ; 
 Let our dear old Bay State proudly 
 
 Put the trumpet to her mouth, 
 Let her ring this messidge loudlj 
 
 In the ears of all the South :
 
 44 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 
 
 " I '11 return ye good fer evil 
 
 Much ez we frail mortils can, 
 But I wun't go help the Devil 
 
 Makin' man the cus o' man ; 
 Call me coward, call me traiter, 
 
 Jest ez suits your mean idees, 
 Here I stand a tyrant-hater, 
 
 An' the friend o' God an' Peace ! " 
 
 Ef I 'd my way I hed ruther 
 
 "We should go to work an' part, 
 They take one way, we take t'other, 
 
 Guess it would n't break my heart ; 
 Man hed ough' to put asunder 
 
 Them thet God has noways jined ; 
 An' I should n't gretly wonder 
 
 Ef there 's thousands o' my mind. 
 
 [The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive 
 to have been that individual who is mentioned in the 
 Book of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and walk 
 ing up and down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him 
 to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling 
 would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is 
 not yet extinct, who esteemed the firstborn of Adam 
 to be the most worthy, not only because of that priv 
 ilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to 
 overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a 
 wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal 
 Legate, that it was impossible for men to serve Mars 
 and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the pro 
 fession of arms was judged to be xar i^o^ijv that of a 
 gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 45 
 
 upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, 
 that the profession of Christianity was only intended 
 for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian 
 ambition ? Or shall we hold with that nicely meta 
 physical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count 
 Konigsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. 
 uhynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been ar 
 ranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the 
 upper classes, and that " God would consider a gentle 
 man and deal with him suitably to the condition and, 
 profession he had placed him in ? " It may be said of 
 us all, Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus. H. W.]
 
 No. IL 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 FROM ME. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCK 
 INGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON" COURIER, COVERING 
 A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THB 
 MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT. 
 
 [THIS letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written 
 in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly suscep 
 tible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, 
 into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time 
 to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of 
 expression natural to the human race. If leisure from 
 other and more important avocations be granted, I 
 will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to 
 the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, 
 that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prat- 
 tlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, 
 and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we 
 may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo- 
 Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of 
 Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in 
 these remarks that pious theory which supposes that 
 children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally 
 discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one 
 experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas 
 Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the 
 
 46
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 47 
 
 acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be 
 facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the 
 conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of ai 
 dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that 
 a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a 
 Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we 
 have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent 
 investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will 
 add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though 
 a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant 
 on the religious exercises of my congregation. I con 
 sider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of 
 my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of 
 war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a 
 militia training. Not that my flock are backward to 
 undergo the hardship of defensive warfare. They serve 
 cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto 
 death pro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the 
 axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other 
 such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and 
 unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem 
 our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be 
 stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips 
 and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed 
 intelligence and more perfect organization. H. W.] 
 
 MISTER BUCKIKTUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum 
 by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool 
 enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and 
 fife, it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick 
 o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will 
 and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o* 
 roluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put de-
 
 48 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 pendunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin 
 bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur 
 cals a pongshong for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a 
 soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin 
 Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. 
 
 his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson 
 Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to 
 mister Buckinnm, ses he, i don't allers agree with him, 
 ses he, but by Time,* ses he, I du like a feller that 
 ain't a Feared. 
 
 I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. 
 We're kind o' prest with Hayin. 
 
 Ewers respecfly 
 
 HOSEA BIGLOW. 
 
 THIS kind o* sogerin* ain't a mite like our October 
 
 training 
 A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only 
 
 looked like raininV 
 An' th' Gunnies, tu, could kiver up their shappoes 
 
 with bandanners, 
 An' send the insines skootin' to the barroom with their 
 
 banners, 
 (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted,) an' a feller could cry 
 
 quarter 
 
 * In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that 
 Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though 
 Time be a comparatively innocent personage to swear by, 
 and though Longinus in his discourse Ilepi T^ovf has com 
 mended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure 
 of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that 
 abomination. Odi profanum vulgus, I hate your swearing 
 and hectoring fellows. H. W.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 49 
 
 Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' 
 
 water. 
 
 Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an Ezry Hollis, 
 Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Corn- 
 
 wallis ? * 
 This sort o' thing ain't jest like thet, I wish thet I was 
 
 furder, f 
 Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer 
 
 murder, 
 
 (Wy I 've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Ce 
 phas Billins, 
 An' in the hardest times there wuz I oilers tetched ten 
 
 shillins, 
 There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard 
 
 to swaller, 
 
 It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar ; 
 It 's glory, but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, 
 I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin* to the gallus. 
 But wen it comes to bein' killed, I tell ye I felt 
 
 streaked 
 The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz 
 
 peaked ; 
 
 Here 's how it wuz : I started out to go to a fandango, 
 The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you 
 
 can go." 
 " None o' your sarse," sez I ; sez he, " Stan' back ! " 
 
 "Ain't you a buster?" 
 Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to 
 
 muster ; 
 
 * i hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But 
 their is fun to a cornwallis I ain't agoin' to deny it. H. B. 
 f he means Not quite so fur i guess. H. B. 
 4
 
 50 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. J 
 
 I know wy sentinuls air sot ; you ain't agoin' to cat 
 
 us ; 
 
 Caleb hain't no monopoly to court the seenoreetas ; 
 My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly ! " 
 An* so cz I wuz goin' by, not thinkin wut would folly, 
 The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork 
 
 in me 
 An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an 
 
 in'my. 
 
 Wai, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Fun 
 nel 
 Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant 
 
 Cunnle, 
 (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize 
 
 peace essay ; 
 
 Thet's why he did n't list himself along o* us, I dessay,) 
 An' Rantonl, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put his 
 
 foot in it, 
 Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's principled agin* 
 
 it, 
 Though I myself can 't rightly see it 's any wus achokin* 
 
 on 'em 
 Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet 
 
 pokin' on 'em ; 
 How dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at onr 
 
 lyceum 
 Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely 
 
 see 'em,) 
 About the Anglo-Saxon race (an* saxons would be 
 
 handy 
 To du the buryin* down here upon the Rio Grandy), 
 
 * the ignerant creeter meens Sekketary ; but he oilers stuck 
 to hi* books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone. H. B. '
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 51 
 
 About our patriotic pas an' onr star-spangled banner, 
 
 Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, 
 
 An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Amer- 
 iky, 
 
 I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. 
 
 I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privi 
 lege 
 
 Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's 
 drivelage ; 
 
 I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drum- 
 min', 
 
 An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' 
 
 Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the 
 state prison) 
 
 An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.* 
 
 This 'ere 's about the meanest place a sknnk could wal 
 
 diskiver 
 
 (Saltillo 's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver). 
 The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, 
 I 'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose 
 
 tater ; 
 The country here that Mister Bolles declared to be so 
 
 charmin 
 Throughout is swarmin* with the most alarmin' kind o* 
 
 varmin'. 
 
 * it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, 
 but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things in nater to see a ris- 
 pecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a 
 riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round 
 in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of him 
 self. Ef any thin 's f oolisher and moor dicklus than militerry 
 gloary it is milishy gloary. H. B.
 
 52 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 He talked about delishis f roots, but then it wuz a woppei 
 
 all, 
 The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an* 
 
 there a chapparal ; 
 
 You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat 
 Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, 
 
 " Wut air ye at ? " * 
 You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be 
 
 irrelevant 
 To say I 've seen a scarabceus pilularius t big ez a year 
 
 old elephant,) 
 The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red 
 
 bug 
 From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright, 't wuz jest a 
 
 common cimex lectularius. 
 One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to 
 
 hum agin, 
 I heern a horn, thinks I it 'a Sol the fisherman hez come 
 
 agin, 
 
 His bellowses is sound enough, ez I 'm a livin creeter, 
 I felt a thing go thru my leg, 't wuz nothin* more *n 
 
 a skeeter ! 
 Then there 's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el 
 
 vomito, 
 (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to 
 
 le' go my toe ! 
 
 * these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and 
 the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum. 
 H. B. 
 
 f it wuz " tumblebug " as he Writ it, but the parson put the 
 Latten instid. i sed tother maid better meeter, but he said 
 tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha would n't stan' it 
 no how. idnow as tha wood and idnow as tha wood. H. B,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 53 
 
 My gracious ! it 'a a scorpion thet 's took a shine to 
 
 play with 'i, 
 I dars n't skeer the tarnal thing f er fear he M run away 
 
 witfa't.) 
 
 Afore I come away from hum I lied a strong persuasion 
 Thet Mexicans worn't human beans,* an ourang 
 
 outang nation, 
 A sort o' folks a chap could kill an* never dream on 't 
 
 arter, 
 No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet he lied lied to 
 
 slarter ; 
 I 'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion 
 
 all, 
 An* kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' 
 
 national ; 
 But when I jined I woru't so wise ez thet air queen o' 
 
 Sheby, 
 Fer, come to look at 'em, they ain't much diff'rent from 
 
 wut we be, 
 
 An* here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own do 
 minions, 
 
 Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pin 
 ions, 
 Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's 
 
 trowsis 
 An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes 
 
 an' houses ; 
 Wai, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer 
 
 Jackson ! 
 It must be right, fer Caleb sez it 's reglar Anglo-saxon. 
 
 * he means human beins, that 's wut he means. I spose he 
 kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles 
 comes from. H. B.
 
 54 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 
 
 The Mexicans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all 
 
 the water, 
 
 An' dn amazin' lots o' things thet is n't wut they ough' to ; 
 Bein' they hain't no lead, they make their bullets out o' 
 
 copper 
 An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez 
 
 ain't proper ; 
 He sez they 'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em 
 
 fairly, 
 (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he '11 hev to git up 
 
 airly,) 
 Thet our nation 's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air 
 
 bigger, 
 
 An' thet it 's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trig 
 ger, 
 
 Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee 's abreakin' 'em to pieces, 
 An' thet idee 's thet every man doos jest wut he damn 
 
 pleases ; 
 Ef I don't make his meanin' Qlear, perhaps in some re- 
 
 spex I can, 
 I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a 
 
 Mexican ; 
 An' there 's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these 
 
 creeturs, 
 Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison 
 
 feeturs, 
 Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout 
 
 on 't, 
 The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they 
 
 cleared out on 't. 
 
 This goin' ware glory waits ye hain't one agreeable 
 feetur,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 55 
 
 An" if it worn't f er wakin' snakes, F d home agin short 
 meter ; 
 
 0, would n't I be off, quick time, eft worn't that I 
 wuz sartin 
 
 They 'd let the daylight into me to pay me f er desartin ! 
 
 I don't approve o' tellin' tales, bat jest to you I may 
 state 
 
 Our ossifers ain't wut they wuz afore they left the Bay- 
 state ; 
 
 Then it wnz " Mister Sawin, sir, you 're middlin' well 
 now, be ye ? 
 
 Step up an' take a nipper, sir ; I 'm dreffle glad to see 
 
 VP" 
 
 j b > 
 
 But now it 's " Ware 's my eppylet ? here, Sawin, step 
 
 an' fetch it ! 
 An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, 
 
 you shall ketch it ! " 
 Wai, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by 
 
 mighty, 
 
 Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 'em linkum vity, 
 I 'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other 
 
 music follerin' 
 
 But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em 's ahol- 
 
 lerin', 
 
 These Anglosaxon ossifers, wal, tain't no use ajawin', 
 I 'm safe enlisted f er the war, 
 Yourn, 
 
 BIKDOFREDOM SAWIN. 
 
 [Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath 
 Satan been to seek for attorneys ?) who have maintained 
 that our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not 
 so much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for
 
 56 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 the spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism. 
 Capita vix duabus Anticyris medenda ! Verily I ad 
 mire that no pious sergeant among these new Cru 
 saders beheld Martin Luther riding at the front of the 
 host upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that former 
 invasion of Mexico, the zealous Diaz (spawn though he 
 were of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision 
 of St. James of Compostella, skewering the infidels upon 
 his apostolical lance. We read, also, that Kichard of 
 the lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar 
 errand of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the 
 throats of such Paynims as refused to swallow the 
 bread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter 
 incapacitated for swallowing the filthy gobbets of Ma- 
 hound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and 
 his knights, Seigneurs, tuez ! tuez ! providentially 
 using the French tongue, as being the only one under 
 stood by their auditors. This would argue for the pan- 
 toglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the 
 other hand, the Devil teste Cotton Mather, is unversed 
 in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a 
 semeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible 
 to every people and kindred by signs ; no other dis 
 course, indeed, being needful, than such as the mack 
 erel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other 
 bait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the 
 end of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such pis 
 catorial oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he 
 trails a hat and feather or a bare feather without a hat ; 
 before another, a Presidential chair, or a tidewaiter's 
 stool, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us, 
 dangling there over our heads, they seem junkets 
 dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped iq
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 57 
 
 nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits 
 of fuzzy cotton. 
 
 This, however, by the way. It is time now revocare 
 gradum. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched 
 by eyewitnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, 
 not to speak of those Dioscuri (whom we must conclude 
 imps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan 
 Eoman soldiery, it is strange that our first American 
 crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. 
 Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered 
 our armies. This opens the question, whether, when 
 our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of 
 our enemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively cer 
 tain that this might is added to us from above, or 
 whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may 
 not have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which 
 his meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sancti- 
 fier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in 
 a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late 
 war ? Or has that day become less an object of his es 
 pecial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a pro 
 vidence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer 
 to whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with 
 him were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, *' which 
 was enough to serve 'em ; only on Saturdays they still 
 catched a couple, and on the Lord's Days they could 
 catch none at all " ? Haply they might have been per 
 mitted, by way of mortification, to take some few scul- 
 pins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which un 
 seemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a 
 symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being 
 known in the rude dialect of our mariners as Cape Cod 
 Clergymen,
 
 58 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences 
 to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard 
 with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful 
 pastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of 
 that mind, that I could not but set my face against this 
 Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential pip 
 ing with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country 
 should be seized with another such mania de propa 
 ganda fide, I think it would be wise to fill our bomb 
 shells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform 
 and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a 
 mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap 
 every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Tes 
 tament, the reading of which is denied to those who 
 git in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists 
 would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and 
 Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary 
 missionary. I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the 
 more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure 
 pickerel, taking their unwary siesta beneath the lily- 
 pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. 
 Why not, then, since gunpowder Avas unknown to the 
 Apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether 
 it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), 
 suit our metaphor to the age in which we live and say 
 shooters as well as fishers of men ? 
 
 I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then 
 with a Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor 
 Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our 
 horror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness 
 of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest 
 Protestants have been made by this war, I mean those 
 who protested against it. Fewer they were than I
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 59 
 
 could wish, for one might imagine America to have 
 been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African 
 animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is No to us 
 all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal 
 organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or 
 gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. 
 A mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering 
 in expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this 
 refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Pub 
 lic Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to pro 
 test against e corde cordium.. And by what College of 
 Cardinals is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, 
 elected ? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, 
 Rag, and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of the 
 grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. 
 This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's 
 pri, this wags the senator's tongue. This decides 
 what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away 
 into the Apocrypha. " According to that sentence fath 
 ered upon Solon, Ourut 8ijiJ.6fft.ov xaxdv ep%Tat ofza<5' 
 ixdffrtp. This unclean spirit is skilful to assume various 
 shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and 
 nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of 
 a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a 
 great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum 
 we call popular sentiment could carry about the name 
 of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a 
 stab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy, " Our 
 country, right or wrong," by tracing its original to a 
 speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Buugtown 
 Fencibles. H. W.]
 
 No. III. 
 WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 
 
 [A FEW remarks on the following verses will not be 
 out of place. The satire in them was not meant to 
 have any personal, but only a general, application. Of 
 the gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as 
 a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw 
 the letter itself. The position of the satirist is often 
 times one which he would not have chosen, had the 
 election been left to himself. In attacking bad prin 
 ciples, he is obliged to select some individual who has 
 made himself their exponent, and in whom they are 
 impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, 
 through ambiguity, be dissipated tenues in auras. For 
 what says Seneca ? Longum Her per prcecepta, breve et 
 efficace per exempla. A bud principle is comparatively 
 harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can 
 the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed 
 in that large type which all men can read at sight, 
 namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, 
 of particular persons. It is one of the cunningest 
 fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly 
 to our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbor 
 or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through 
 them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, 
 the while he patches up a truce with our conscience. 
 
 Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true 
 60
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 61 
 
 satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon 
 falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the 
 same point, and sometimes even go along together for a 
 little way, his business is to follow the path of the lat 
 ter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the 
 bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach 
 of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that 
 she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or 
 pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use 
 may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. 
 He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than 
 he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his 
 boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they 
 grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. 
 Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly 
 drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel 
 glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures 
 Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes 
 thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a 
 monitory hand laid on his arm, aliquid sufflaminan- 
 dus erat. I have never thought it good husbandry to 
 water the tender plants of reform with aquafortis, yet, 
 where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry 
 gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an 
 iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden- 
 walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt 
 will wither them up. Est ars etiam maledicendi, says 
 Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the 
 graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright 
 sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise 
 Dr. Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, 
 but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are 
 asses which are not lions." H. W.j
 
 62 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 GUVENER B. is a sensible man ; 
 
 He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ; 
 He draws his fnrrer ez straight ez he can, 
 An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
 But John P. 
 Kobinson he 
 Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 
 
 My ! ain't it terrible ? Wut shall we du ? 
 
 We can't never choose him, o' course, thet's flat ; 
 Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you ?) 
 An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 
 
 Gineral 0. is a dreffle smart man : 
 
 He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf ; 
 But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, 
 He's ben true to one party, an' thet is himself ; 
 So John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 
 
 Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 
 
 He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud ; 
 Wut did God make us raytional creetnrs fer, 
 But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? 
 So John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 
 
 We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, 
 With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 63 
 
 We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an* pil 
 lage, 
 
 An' thet epplyetts worn't the best mark of a saint ; 
 But John P. 
 Kobinson he 
 Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 
 
 The side of our country must oilers be took, 
 
 An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country ; 
 An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
 Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ; 
 An' John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 
 
 Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 
 
 Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, 
 
 fum ; 
 
 An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
 Is half on it ignorance, an 't'other half rum ; 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 
 Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an', of course, so must 
 we. 
 
 Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
 Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 
 
 coats, 
 
 An* marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, 
 To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ; 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee,
 
 64 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 "Wai, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us 
 
 The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow, . 
 God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
 To drive the world's team, wen it gits in a slough ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 
 
 [The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in 
 the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sen 
 timent, " Our country, right or wrong/' It is an 
 abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much 
 more, certain personages elevated for the time being to 
 high station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen 
 a single one of those ties by which we are united to the 
 spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect 
 due to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too 
 well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself 
 for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the 
 function of Justice of the Peace, having been called 
 thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent 
 man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Patrice fumus 
 igne aheno luculentior is best qualified with this, Ubi 
 libertas, ibi patria. We are inhabitants of two worlds, 
 and owe a double, but not a divided, allegiance. In vir 
 tue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain 
 loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are 
 admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland. 
 There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves 
 us from our other and terrene fealty. Our true coun 
 try is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves 
 under the names of religion, duty, and the like. Our 
 terrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 65 
 
 fair a model, and they all are verily traitors who resist 
 not any attempt to divert them from this their original 
 intendment. When, therefore, one would have us to 
 fling up our caps and shout with the multitude, " 0^l 
 country, however bounded!" he demands of us that we 
 sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, 
 and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres 
 of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. 
 Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, 
 on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she over 
 steps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's 
 breadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather 
 to be looked upon quasi noverca. That is a hard choice, 
 when our earthly love of country calls upon us to 
 tread one path and our duty points us to another. We 
 must make as noble and becoming an election as did 
 Penelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling our 
 faces, we must take silently the hand of Duty to follow 
 her. 
 
 Shortly after the publication of the foregoing poem, 
 there appeared some comments upon it in one of the 
 public prints which seemed to call for some animadver 
 sion. I accordingly addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of 
 the Boston Courier, the following letter. 
 
 " JAALAM, November 4, 1847. 
 " To the Editor of the Courier : 
 
 "RESPECTED SIR, Calling at the post office this 
 morning, our worthy and efficient postmaster offered 
 for my perusal a paragraph in the Boston Morning 
 Post of the 3d instant, wherein certain effusions of the 
 pastoral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. James 
 Russell Lowell. For aught I know or can affirm to 
 S
 
 66 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 the contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be a very deserving 
 person and a youth of parts (though I have seen verses 
 of his which I could never rightly understand) ; and if 
 he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be 
 free from any proclivity to appropriate to himself what 
 ever of credit (or discredit) may honestly belong to an 
 other. I am confident, that, in penning these few 
 lines, I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that 
 young gentleman, whose silence hitherto, when rumor 
 pointed to himward, has excited in my bosom mingled 
 emotions of sorrow and surprise. Well may my young 
 parishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet. 
 
 4 Sic vos non vobis,' &c. ; 
 
 though, in saying this, I would not convey the impres 
 sion that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue, the 
 tongue, I might add, of a Horace and a Tully. 
 
 1 ' Mr.. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say, 
 for any lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the 
 carnal plaudits of men, digito monstrari, &c. He does 
 not wait upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart 
 mean merces. But I should esteem myself as verily de 
 ficient in my duty (who am his friend and in some 
 unworthy sort his spiritual fidus Achates, &c.), if I did 
 not step forward to claim for him whatever measure of 
 applause might be assigned to him by the judicious. 
 
 " If this were a fitting occasion, I might venture 
 here a brief dissertation touching the manner and kind 
 of my young friend's poetry. But I dubitate whether 
 this abstrnser sort of speculation (though enlivened by 
 some apposite instances from Aristophanes) would 
 sufficiently interest your oppidan readers. As regards 
 their satirical tone, and their plainness of speech, I
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 67 
 
 will only say, that, in my pastoral experience, I have 
 found that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing better than 
 to be treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual 
 being, and that there is no apage Sathanas I so potent 
 as ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must 
 have a button of good-nature on the point of it. 
 
 " The productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized 
 in some quarters as unpatriotic ; but I can vouch that 
 he loves his native soil with that hearty, though dis 
 criminating, attachment which springs from an inti 
 mate social intercourse of many years' standing. In 
 the ploughing season, no one has a deeper share in the 
 well-being of the country than he. If Dean Swift were 
 right in saying that he who makes two blades of grass 
 grow where one grew before confers a greater benefit 
 on the state than he who taketh a city, Mr. B. might 
 exhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General 
 Scott himself. I think that some of those disinterested 
 lovers of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers 
 have never touched anything rougher than the dollars 
 of our common country, would hesitate to compare 
 palms with him. It would do your heart good, re 
 spected Sir, to see that young man mow. He cuts a 
 cleaner and wider swarth than any in his town. 
 
 " But it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very 
 clear that my young friend's shot has struck the lintel, 
 for the Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of 
 that paper is a strenuous advocate of the Mexican war, 
 and a colonel, as I am given to understand. I presume, 
 that, being necessarily absent in Mexico, he has left his 
 journal in some less judicious hands. At any rate the 
 Post has been too swift on this occasion. It could 
 hardly have cited a more incontrovertible line from
 
 68 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 any poem than that which it has selected for animad 
 version, namely, 
 
 ' We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.' 
 
 " If the Post maintains the converse of this propo 
 sition, it can hardly be considered as a safe guidepost 
 for the moral and religious portions of its party, how 
 ever many other excellent qualities of a post it may be 
 blessed with. There is a sign in London on which is 
 painted, ' The Green Man/ It would do very well as 
 a portrait of any individual who would support so un- 
 scriptural a thesis. As regards the language of the 
 line in question, I am bold to say that He who readeth 
 the hearts of men will not account any dialect unseemly 
 which conveys a sound and pious sentiment. I could 
 wish that such sentiments were more common, how 
 ever uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that 
 veritas a quocunque (why not, then, quomodocunque 9) 
 dicatur a spiritu sancto est. Digest also this of Bax 
 ter : < The plainest words are the most profitable 
 oratory in the weightiest matters." 
 
 ' ' When the paragraph in question was shown to Mr. 
 Biglow, the only part of it which seemed to give him 
 any dissatisfaction was that which classed him with the 
 "Whig party. He says, that, if resolutions are a nour 
 ishing kind of diet, that party must be in a very hearty 
 and flourishing condition ; for that they have quietly 
 eaten more good ones of their own baking than he could 
 have conceived to be possible without repletion. He 
 has been for some years past (I regret to say) an ardent 
 opponent of those sound doctrines of protective policy 
 which form so prominent a portion of the creed of that 
 party. I confess, that, in some discussions which I
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. (J9 
 
 have had with him ou this point in iny study, he has 
 displayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto 
 detected in his composition. He is also (horresco ref- 
 erens infected in no small measure with the peculiar 
 notions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies 
 I take every proper opportunity of combating, and of 
 which, I thank God, I have never read a single line. 
 
 " I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they appeared 
 in print, and there is certainly one thing in them which 
 I consider highly improper. I allude to the personal 
 references to myself by name. To confer notoriety on 
 an humble individual who is laboring quietly in his vo 
 cation, and who keeps his cloth as free as he can from 
 the dust of the political arena (though vce milii si non 
 evangelizavero), is no doubt an indecorum. The senti 
 ments which he attributes to me I will not deny to be 
 mine. They were embodied, though in a different 
 form, in a discourse preached upon the last day of 
 public fasting, and were acceptable to my entire people 
 (of whatever political views), except the postmaster, 
 who dissented ex officio. I observe that you sometimes 
 devote a portion of your paper to a religious summary. 
 I should be well pleased to furnish a copy of my dis 
 course for insertion in this department of your instruc 
 tive journal. By omitting the advertisements, it might 
 easily be got within the limits of a single number, and 
 I venture to insure you the sale of some scores of copies 
 in this town. I will cheerfully render myself respon 
 sible for ten. It might possibly be advantageous to 
 issue it as an extra. But perhaps you will not esteem 
 it an object, and I will not press it. My offer does not 
 spring from any weak desire of seeing my name in 
 print ; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by
 
 70 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 turning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University, 
 where it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics 
 with which those of my calling are distinguished. 
 
 " I would simply add, that I continue to fit ingenu 
 ous youth for college, and that I have two spacious and 
 airy sleeping apartments at this moment unoccupied. 
 Ingenuas didicisse, &c. Terms, which vary according 
 to the circumstances of the parents, may be known on 
 application to me by letter, post paid. In all cases the 
 lad will be expected to fetch his own towels. This 
 rule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no exceptions. 
 '' Respectfully, your obedient servant, 
 " HOMER WILBUR, A. M." 
 
 " P. S. Perhaps the last paragraph may look like 
 an attempt to obtain the insertion of my circular gratui 
 tously. If it should appear to you in that light, I de 
 sire that you would erase it, or charge for it at the 
 usual rates, and deduct the amount from the proceeds 
 in your hands from the sale of my discourse, when it 
 shall be printed. My circular is much longer and 
 more explicit, and will be forwarded without charge to 
 any who may desire it. It has been very neatly ex 
 ecuted 011 a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, 
 who attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable speci 
 men of the typographic art. I have one hung over my 
 mantelpiece in a neat frame, where it makes a beauti 
 ful and appropriate ornament, and balances the profile 
 of Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady born 
 without arms. 
 
 " H. W." 
 
 I have in the foregoing letter mentioned General 
 Scott in connection with the Presidency, because I
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 71 
 
 have been given to understand that he has blown to 
 pieces and otherwise caused to be destroyed more Mexi- 
 icans than any other commander. His claim would 
 therefore be deservedly considered the strongest. Until 
 accurate returns of the Mexicans killed, wounded, and 
 maimed be obtained, it will be difficult to settle these 
 nice points of precedence. Should it prove that any 
 other officer has been more meritorious and destructive 
 than General S., and has thereby rendered himself 
 more worthy of the confidence and support of the con 
 servative portion of our community, I shall cheerfully 
 insert his name, instead of that of General S., in a 
 future edition. It may be thought, likewise, that 
 General S. has invalidated his claims by too much at 
 tention to the decencies of apparel, and the habits 
 belonging to a gentleman. These abstruser points of 
 statesmanship are beyond my scope. I wonder not that 
 successful military achievement should attract the 
 admiration of the multitude. Eather do I rejoice 
 with wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is 
 losing its hold upon the popular mind. It is related 
 of Thomas Warton, the second of that honored name 
 who held the office of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, 
 when one wished to find him, being absconded, as was 
 his wont, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled 
 to traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of 
 which inspiring music would be sure to draw the 
 Doctor from his retirement into the street. We are 
 all more or less bitten with this martial insanity. 
 
 Nescio qud dulcedine cunctos ducit. I confess 
 
 to some infection of that itch myself. When I see a 
 Brigadier-General maintaining his insecure elevation 
 in the saddle under the severe fire of the training-field ,
 
 72 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 and when I remember that some military enthusiasts; 
 through haste, inexperience, or an over-desire to lend 
 reality to those fictitious combats, will sometimes dis 
 charge their ramrods, I cannot but admire, while I de 
 plore, the mistaken devotion of those heroic officers. 
 Semel insanivimus omnes. I was myself, during the 
 late war with Great Britain, chaplain of a regiment, 
 which was fortunately never called to active military 
 duty. I mention this circumstance with regret rather 
 than pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare, 
 I trust that I might have been strengthened to bear my 
 self after the manner of that reverend father in our 
 New England Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, Avho, as 
 we are told in Turell's life of him, when the vessel in 
 which he had taken passage for England was attacked 
 by a French privateer, " fought like a philosopher and 
 a Christian, .... and prayed all the while he charged 
 and fired." As this note is already long. I shall not 
 here enter upon a discussion of the question, whether 
 Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it suffi 
 ciently evident, that, during the first two centuries 
 of the Christian era. at least, the two professions 
 were esteemed incompatible. Consult Jortin on this 
 head. H. W.
 
 NO. nr. 
 
 REMARKS OF INCREASE D. o'PHACE, ESQUIRE, AT AX 
 EXTRUMPERY CAUCUS IX STATE STREET, REPORTED 
 By MR. H. BIGLOW. 
 
 [THE ingenious reader will at once understand that 
 no such speech as the following was ever totidem verbis 
 pronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded 
 wits, for the satisfying of which such an explanation 
 may be needful. For there are certain invisible lines, 
 which as Truth successively overpasses, she becomes 
 Untruth to one and another, of us, as a large river, 
 flowing from one kingdom into another, sometimes 
 takes a new name, albeit the waters undergo no change, 
 how small soever. There is, moreover, a truth of fic 
 tion more veracious than the truth of fact, as that of 
 the Poet, which represents to us things and events as 
 they ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as 
 they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky 
 glass of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes 
 the speech of Antonius, though originally spoken in no 
 wider a forum than the brain of Shakspeare, more 
 historically valuable than that other which Appian 
 has reported, by as much as the understanding of the 
 Englishman was more comprehensive than that of the 
 Alexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the present instance, 
 has only made use of a license assumed by all the his 
 torians of antiquity, who put into the mouths of various
 
 74 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 characters such words as seem to them most fitting to 
 the occasion and to the speaker. If it be objected 
 that no such oration could ever have been delivered, I 
 answer, that there are few assemblages for speech-mak 
 ing which do not better deserve the title of Parliamen- 
 tum Indoctorum than did the sixth Parliament of 
 Henry the Fourth, and that men still continue to have 
 as much faith in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel 
 had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a merry tale of 
 a certain ambassador of Queen Elizabeth, who, having 
 written two letters, one to her Majesty and the other 
 to his wife, directed them at cross-purposes, so that the 
 Queen was beducked and bedeared and requested to send 
 a change of hose, and the wife was beprincessed ana 
 otherwise unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared 
 for the wits of her ambassador, the other for those of 
 her husband. In like manner it may be presumed that 
 our speaker has misdirected some of his thoughts, and 
 given to the whole theatre what he would have wished 
 to confide only to a select auditory at the back of the 
 curtain. For it is seldom that we can get any frank 
 utterance from men, who address, for the most part, a 
 Buncombe either in this world or the next. As for 
 their audiences, it may be truly said of our people, 
 that they enjoy one political institution in common 
 with the ancient Athenians : I mean a certain profitless 
 kind of ostracism, wherewith, nevertheless, they seem 
 hitherto well enough content. For in Presidential 
 elections, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I ob 
 serve that the oysters fall to the lot of comparatively 
 few, the shells (such as the privileges of voting as they 
 are told to do by the ostrivori aforesaid, and of huzzaing 
 at public meetings) are very liberally distributed
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 75 
 
 among the people, as being their prescriptive and quite 
 sufficient portion. 
 
 The occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr. 
 Palfrey's refusal to vote for the Whig candidate for the 
 Speakership. H. W.] 
 
 No ? Hez he ? He hain't, though ? Wut ? Voted 
 
 agin him ? 
 Ef the bird of our country could ketch him, she'd 
 
 skin him ; 
 
 I seem 's though I see her, with wrath in each quill, 
 Lake a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill, 
 An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater, 
 To pounce like a writ on the back o' the traiter. 
 Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be het, 
 But a crisis like this must with vigor be met ; 
 Wen an Arnold the star-spangled banner bestains, 
 Holl Fourth o' Julys seem to bile in my veins. 
 
 Who ever 'd ha' thought sech a pisonous rig 
 Would be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig ? 
 " We knowed wut his principles wuz 'fore we sent 
 
 him"? 
 
 Wut wuz ther in them from this vote to pervent him ? 
 A marciful Providunce fashioned us holler 
 0' purpose thet we might our principles swaller ; 
 It can hold any quantity on 'em, the belly can, 
 An' bring 'em up ready fer use like the pelican, 
 Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger) 
 Puts her family into her pouch wen there 's danger. 
 Ain't principle precious ? then, who 's goin' to use it 
 Wen there 's resk o' some chap's gittin' up to abuse it ?
 
 76 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I can't tell the wy 011 : i, but uothiu' is so sure 
 Ez thet principle kind o' gits spiled by exposure ; * 
 A man thet lets all sorts o' folks git a sight on 't 
 Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on 't ; 
 Ef he can't keep it to himself when it 's wise to, 
 He ain't one it 's fit to trust nothin' so nice to. 
 
 Besides, ther 's a wonderful power in latitude 
 To shift a man's morril relations an' attitude ; 
 Some flossifers think thet a fakkilty 's granted 
 The minnit it's proved to be thoroughly wanted, 
 Thet a change o' demand makes a change o' condi 
 tion, 
 
 An* thet everythin' 's nothin' except by position ; 
 Ez, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin' 
 Wen p'litickle conshunces come into wearin', 
 Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to 
 
 fail, 
 
 Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail ; 
 So, wen one's chose to Congriss, ez soon ez he 's in it, 
 A collar grows right round his neck in a minnit, 
 An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict 
 In bein' himself, wen he gits to the Deestrict, 
 
 * The speaker is of a different mind from Tully, who, in his 
 recently discovered tractate De Rupublica, tells us, Nee vero 
 haberc vietutem satis est, quasi artem aliqam, nisi utare, and 
 from our Milton, who says, "I cannot praise a fugitive and 
 cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never 
 sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race 
 where that immortal garland is to he run for, not without 
 dust and heat." Areop. He had taken the words out of the 
 Roman's mouth, without knowing it, and might well exclaim 
 with Austin (if a saint's name may stand sponsor for a curse), 
 Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerint ! H. W.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 77 
 
 Fer a coat tliet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts, 
 Wen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets. 
 
 Kesolves, do you say, o' the Springfield Convention ? 
 
 Thet's percisely the pint I was goin' to mention ; 
 
 Eesolves air a thing we most gen'ally keep ill, 
 
 They 're a cheap kind o' dust fer the eyes o' the people ; 
 
 A parcel o' delligits jest git together 
 
 An' chat fer a spell o' the crops an' the weather, 
 
 Then, comin' to order, they squabble awile 
 
 An' let off the speeches they 're ferful '11 spile ; 
 
 Then Eesolve, That we wunt hev an inch o' slave 
 
 territory ; 
 
 Thet President Folk's holl perceedins air very tory ; 
 Thet the war 's a damned war, an' them thet enlist in it 
 Should hev a cravat with a dreffle tight twist in it ; 
 Thet the war is a war fer the spreadin' o' slavery ; 
 Thet our army desarves our best thanks fer their 
 
 bravery ; 
 
 Thet we 're the original friends o' the nation, 
 All the rest air a paltry an' base fabrication ; 
 Thet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, an' C, 
 An' ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, an' Gr. 
 
 In this way they go to the eend o' the chapter, 
 An' then they bust out in a kind of a raptur 
 About their own vartoo, an' folk's stone-blindness 
 To the men thet 'ould actilly do 'em a kindness, 
 The American eagle, the Pilgrims thet landed, 
 Till on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded. 
 Wal, the people they listen and say, " Thet 's the 
 
 ticket ; 
 Ez fer Mexico, 'tain't no great glory to lick it,
 
 78 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 But 't would be a darned shame to go pullin' o' triggers 
 
 To extend the aree of abusin' the niggers." 
 
 So they march in percessious, an' git up hooraws, 
 
 An' tramp thru the mud fer the good o' the cause, 
 
 An* think they 're a kind o' fulfillin' the prophecies, 
 
 Wen they 're on'y jest changin' the holders of offices: 
 
 Ware A sot afore, B is comf'tably seated, 
 
 One humbug 's victor'ous, an' t'other defeated. 
 
 Each honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes, 
 
 An' the people their annooal soft sodder an' taxes. 
 
 Now, to keep unimpaired all these glorious feeturs 
 
 Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' creeturs, 
 
 Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, 
 
 Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam, 
 
 And stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place, 
 
 To the manifest gain o' the holl human race, 
 
 An' to some indervidgewals on 't in par tickler, 
 
 Who love Public Opinion an' know how to tickle 
 
 her, 
 
 I say thet a party with great aims liks these 
 Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full o' bees. 
 
 I 'm willin' a man should go tollable strong 
 
 Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind o' wrong 
 
 Is oilers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied, 
 
 Because it 's a crime no one never committed ; 
 
 But he mus' n't be hard on partickler sins, 
 
 Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own shins ; 
 
 On'y look at the Demmercrats, see wut they 've done 
 
 Jest simply by stickin' together like f nn ; 
 
 They 've sucked us right into a mis'able war 
 
 Thet no one on airth ain't responsible for ;
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 79 
 
 They 've run us a huuderd cool millions in debt, 
 
 (An' fer Demmercrat Homers ther 's good plums left 
 
 jet); 
 
 They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one, 
 An' so coax all parties to build up their Zion ; 
 To the people they 're oilers ez slick ez molasses, 
 An' butter their bread on both sides with The Masses, 
 Half o' whom they 've persuaded, by way of a joke, 
 Thet Washinton's mantelpiece fell upon Polk. 
 
 Now all o' these blessins the Wigs might enjoy, 
 Ef they 'd gumption enongh the right means to imploy ; * 
 Fer the silver spoon born in Uermocracy's mouth 
 Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South ; 
 Their masters can cnss 'em an' kick 'em an' wale 'em, 
 An' they notice it less 'an the ass did to Balaam ; 
 In this way they screw into second-rate offices 
 Wich the slaveholder thinks 'ould substract too much 
 
 off his ease ; 
 
 The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles, 
 Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their files. 
 Wai, the "Wigs hev been tryin' to grab all this prey 
 
 frum 'em 
 An' to hook his nice spoon o' good fortin' away 
 
 frum 'em, 
 
 An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely ez not 
 In lickin' the Demmercrats all round the lot, 
 Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithful Wigs were their 
 
 knees on, 
 
 * That was a pithy saying of Persius, and fits our politicians 
 without a wrinkle, Magisterartis,ingeniiquelargitor venter, 
 H. W.
 
 80 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Some stuffy old codger would holler out, " Treason 1 
 You must keep a sharp eye on a dog thet hez bit you 
 
 once, 
 
 An' /ain't a goin' to cheat my constitoounts," 
 Wen every fool kuovvs thet a man represents 
 Not the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence, 
 Impartially ready to jump either side 
 An' make the fust use of a turn o' the tide, 
 The waiters on Providunce here in the city, 
 Who compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy. 
 Constitoounts air henny to help a man in, 
 But arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin. 
 Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle Sam's pus, 
 So they 've nothin' to du with 't fer better or wus ; 
 It 's the folks thet air kind o' brought up to depend 
 
 on't 
 Thet hev any consarn in 't, an' thet is the end on 't. 
 
 Now here wnz New England ahevin' the honor 
 
 Of a chance at the Speakership showered upon her ; 
 
 Do you say, " She don't want no more Speakers, but 
 
 fewer ; 
 
 She's hed plenty o' them, wut she wants is a doer" f 
 Fer the matter o' thet, it 's notorous in town 
 Thet her own representatives du her quite brown. 
 But thet 's nothin' to du with it ; wut right hed Pal 
 frey 
 
 To mix himself up with fanatical small fry ? 
 Warn't we gittin' on prime with our hot an' cold blowin', 
 Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep* it agoin* ? 
 We'd assumed with gret skill a commandin' position, 
 On this side or thet, no one could n't tell wich one,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. gl 
 
 So, wutever side wipped, we 'd a chance at the plunder 
 An' could sue fer infringin' our paytented thunder ; 
 We were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible, 
 Ef on all pints at issoo he 'd stay unintelligible. 
 Wai, sposin' we hed to gulp down our perfessions, 
 We were ready to come out next mornin' with fresh 
 
 ones ; 
 
 Besides, ef we did, 't was our business alone, 
 Fer could n't we du wut we would with our own ? 
 An' ef a man can, wen pervisions hev riz so, 
 Eat up his own words, it 's a marcy it is so. 
 
 Wy, these chaps frum the North, with back-bones to 
 
 'em, darn 'em, 
 'Ould be wuth more 'an Gennle Tom Thumb is to Bar- 
 
 num ; 
 
 Ther's enough thet to office on this very plan grow, 
 By exhibitin' how very small a man can grow ; 
 But an M. 0. frum here oilers hastens to state he 
 Belongs to the order called invertebraty, 
 Wence some gret filologists judge primy fashy 
 Thet M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy ; 
 An' these few exceptions air loosus naytury 
 Folks 'ould put down their quarters to stare at, like 
 
 fury. 
 
 It 's no use to open the door o' success, 
 Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or less ; 
 Wy, all o' them grand constitootional pillers 
 Our four fathers fetched with 'em over the billers, 
 Them pillers the people so soundly hev slept on, 
 Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they were swept on, 
 Wile oui Destiny higher an' higher kep' mounting 
 
 6
 
 82 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 (Though I guess folks '11 stare wen she hends her ac 
 count in,) 
 
 Ef members in this way go kickin' agin 'em, 
 They wunt hev so much ez a feather left in 'em. 
 
 An', ez fer this Palfrey,* we thought wen we 'd gut 
 
 him in, 
 
 He 'd go kindly in wutever harness we put him in ; 
 Supposin' we did know thet he wuz a peace man ? 
 Doos he think he can be Uncle Samwell's policeman, 
 An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a riot, 
 Lead him off to the lockup to snooze till he 's quiet ? 
 Wy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef 
 It leads to the fat promised land of a tayriff ; 
 We don't go an' fight it, nor ain't to be driv on, 
 Nor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut to live on ; 
 Ef it ain't jest the thing thet 's well pleasin' to God, 
 It makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad ; 
 The Eooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie 
 An' shakes both his heads wen he hears o* Monteery ; 
 In the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster, 
 An' reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry 
 
 Buster ; 
 
 An' old Philip Lewis thet come an' kep' school here 
 Fer the mere sake o' scorin' his ryalist ruler 
 On the tenderest part of our kings in future 
 Hides his crown underneath an old shut in his 
 
 bureau, 
 
 Breaks off in his brags to a suckle o' merry kings, 
 How he often hed hided young native Amerrikins, 
 
 * There is truth yet in this of Juvenal, 
 
 " D*t Yeniam corvis, vexat censura columbas."
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 83 
 
 An', turnin' quite faint in the midst of his fooleries, 
 Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front door o' the Tool- 
 
 eries. * 
 
 You say, " We 'd ha' scared 'em by growin' in peace, 
 A plaguy sight more then by bobberies like these " ? 
 Who is it dares say thet " our naytional eagle 
 Wunt much longer be classed with the birds thet air 
 
 regal, 
 
 Coz theirn be hooked beaks, an' she, arter this slaughter, 
 '11 bring back a bill ten times longer 'n she oug't to ? " 
 Wut 's your name ? Come, I see ye, you up-country 
 
 feller, 
 
 You 've put me out severil times with your beller ; 
 Out with it ! Wut ? Biglow ? I say nothin' furder, 
 Thet feller would like nothin' better 'n a murder ; 
 He 's a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut ruther worse is, 
 He puts all his ath'ism in dreffle bad verses ; 
 
 * Jortin is willing to allow of other miracles besides those 
 recorded in Holy Writ, and why not of other prophecies ? It 
 is granting too much to Satan to suppose him, as divers of the 
 learned have done, the inspirer of the ancient oracles. Wiser, 
 Iesteem.it, to give chance the credit of the successful ones. 
 What is said here of Louis Philippe was verified in some of its 
 minute particulars within a few months' time. Enough to 
 have made the fortune of Delphi or Hammon, and no thanks 
 to Beelzebub neither ! That of Seneca in Medea will suit 
 here : 
 
 " Rapida fortuna ac levis, 
 Prsecepsque regno eripuit, exsilio dedit." 
 
 Let us allow, even to richly deserved misfortune, our com 
 miseration, and be not over-hasty meanwhile in our censure 
 of the French people, left for the first time to govern them 
 selves, remembering that wise sentence of -lEschylus, 
 
 *Affas fie rpavvs o<ms av veov Kparf,. 
 
 H. W.
 
 84 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Socity ain't safe till sech monsters air out on it, 
 
 Eefer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it ; 
 
 Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes, 
 
 Agin sellin* wild lands 'cept to settlers with axes, 
 
 Agin holdin' o' slaves, though he knows it 's the corner 
 
 Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able scorner ! 
 
 In short, he would wholly upset with his ravages 
 
 All thet keeps us above the brute critters an' savages, 
 
 An' pitch into all kinds o' briles an' confusions 
 
 The holl of our civilized, free institutions ; 
 
 He writes fer thet rather unsafe print, the Courier, 
 
 An' likely ez not hez a squintin' to Foorier ; 
 
 I '11 be , thet is, I mean I '11 be blest, 
 
 Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a pest ; 
 I shan't talk with him, my religion 's too fervent. 
 Good mornin', my friends, I 'm your most humble 
 servant. 
 
 [Into the question, whether the ability to express our 
 selves in articulate language has been productive of 
 more good or evil, I shall not here enter at large. The 
 two faculties of speech and of speech-making are wholly 
 diverse in their natures. By the first we make our 
 selves intelligible, by the last unintelligible, to our 
 fellows. It has not seldom occurred to me (noting 
 how in our national legislature every thing runs to 
 talk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil be unpropi- 
 tious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming hand 
 some heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the 
 earliest mill erected for the manufacture of gabble. In 
 these days, what with Town Meetings, School Com 
 mittees, Boards (lumber) of one kind and another, 
 Congresses, Parliaments, Diets, Indian Councils, Pala-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 85 
 
 vers, and the like, there is scarce a village which has 
 not its factories of this description driven by (milk- 
 and-) water power. I cannot conceive the confusion of 
 tongues to have been the curse of Babel, since I esteem 
 my ignorance of other languages as a kind of Martello- 
 tower, in which I am safe from the furious bombard 
 ments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have ever 
 preferred the study of the dead languages, those primi 
 tive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks 
 I sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear, 
 though it rain figures (simulacra, semblances) of speech 
 forty days and nights together, as it not uncommonly 
 happens. Thus is my coat, as it were, without but 
 tons by which any but a vernacular wild bore can seize 
 me. Is it not possible that the Shakers may intend to 
 convey a quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their 
 outer garments with hooks and eyes ? 
 
 This reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no 
 Commentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an 
 excellent deacon of my congregation (being infected 
 with the Second Advent delusion) assured me that he 
 had received a first instalment of the gift of tongues 
 as a small earnest of larger possessions in the like kind 
 to follow. For, of a truth, I could not reconcile it with 
 my ideas of the Divine justice and mercy that the 
 single wall which protected people of other languages 
 from the incursions of this otherwise well-meaning prop 
 agandist should be broken down. 
 
 In reading Congressional debates, I have fancied, 
 that, after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in 
 the brain which result from such exercises, I detected 
 a slender residuum of valuable information. I made 
 the discovery that nothing takes longer in the saying
 
 86 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 
 
 than any thing else, for, as ex nihilo niliilfit, so from 
 one polypus nothing any number of similar ones may be 
 produced. I would recommend to the attention of 
 vivd voce debaters and controversialists the admirable 
 example of the monk Copres, who, in the fourth cen 
 tury, stood for half an hour in the midst of a great fire, 
 and thereby silenced a Manichagan antagonist who had 
 less of the salamander in him. As for those who quar 
 rel in print, I have no concern with them here, since 
 the eyelids are a Divinely-granted shield against all 
 such. Moreover, I have observed in many modern 
 books that the printed portion is becoming gradually 
 smaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they 
 are called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency of 
 literature continue, books will grow more valuable from 
 year to year, and the whole Serbonian bog yield to the 
 advances of firm arable land. 
 
 I have wondered, in the Kepreseutatives' Chamber 
 of our own Commonwealth, to mark how little impres 
 sion seemed to be produced by that emblematic fish 
 suspended over the heads of the members. Our wiser 
 ancestors, no doubt, hung it there as being the animal 
 which the Pythagoreans reverenced for its silence, and 
 which certainly in that particular does not so well merit 
 the epithet cold-Hooded, by which naturalists distin 
 guish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with ditch-water on 
 the brain, who take occasion to tap themselves in 
 Fanueil Halls, meeting-houses, and other places of 
 public resort. H. W.J
 
 No. V. 
 THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT. 
 
 SOT TO A NUSET KHYME. 
 
 THE incident which gave rise to the debate satirized 
 in the following verses was the unsuccessful attempt of 
 Drayton and Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and 
 women, fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had Tri 
 poli., instead of Washington, been the scene of this un 
 dertaking, the unhappy leaders in it would have been 
 as secure of the theoretic as they now are of the practi 
 cal part of martyrdom. I question whether the Dey of 
 Tripoli is blessed with a District Attorney so benighted 
 as ours at the seat of government. Very fitly is he 
 named Key, who would allow himself to be made the 
 instrument of locking the door of hope against sufferers 
 in such a cause. Not all the waters of the ocean can 
 cleanse the vile smutch of the jailer's fingers from off 
 that little Key. Aliened clavis, a brazen Key indeed ! 
 
 Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this 
 burlesque, seems to think that the light of the nine 
 teenth century is to be put out as soon as he tinkles his 
 little cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is touched, 
 he sets up his scare-crow of dissolving the Union. 
 This may do for the North, but I should conjecture 
 that something more than a pumpkin-lantern is re 
 quired to scare manifest and irretrievable Destiny out 
 
 8?
 
 88 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 of her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot let go the apron- 
 string of the Past. The Past is a good nurse, but we 
 must be weaned from her sooner or later, even though, 
 like Plotinns, we should run home from school to ask 
 the breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths. 
 It will not do for us to hide our faces in her lap, when 
 ever the strange Future holds out her arms and asks ns 
 to come to her. 
 
 But we are all alike. We have all heard it said, often 
 enough, that little boys must not play with fire ; and 
 yet, if the matches be taken away from us and put out 
 of reach upon the shelf, we must needs get into our 
 little corner, and scowl and stamp and threaten the 
 dire revenge of going to bed without our supper. The 
 world shall stop till we get our dangerous plaything 
 again. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than 
 enough household matters to mind, goes bustling hither 
 and thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her that this or 
 that kettle of hers is boiling over, and before bedtime 
 we are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down 
 our dignity along with it. 
 
 Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a 
 great statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put 
 lance in rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age 
 with the certainty of being next moment hurled neck 
 and heels into the dust amid universal laughter, he de 
 serves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our modern 
 chivalry. He should remember the old Scandinavian 
 mythus. Thor was the strongest of gods, but he could 
 not wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of 
 the great snake which knit the universe together ; and 
 when he smote the Earth, though with his terrible mal 
 let, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39 
 
 it seemed to Thor that he had only been wrestling with 
 an old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a 
 stupid giant on the head. 
 
 And in old times, doubtless, the giants were stupid, 
 and there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots 
 and Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great 
 blundering heads with enchanted swords. But things 
 have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, nowadays, 
 that have the science and the intelligence, while the 
 chivalrous Don Quixotes of Conservatism still cumb'er 
 themselves with the clumsy armor of a bygone, age. 
 On whirls the restless globe through unsounded time, 
 with its cities and its silences, its births and funerals, 
 half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure 
 to swing round into the happy morning at last. With 
 an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip 
 his pack-thread cable with' a crooked pin at the end of 
 it to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of 
 the Past. H. W.j 
 
 TO MR. BUCKEN AM. 
 
 MR. EDITER, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little 
 nussry sot out a year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit 
 cum inter my mine An so i took & Sot it to wut I call 
 a nussry rime. I hev made sum onnable Gentlemun 
 speak that dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense 
 the seeson is dreffle backerd up This way 
 
 ewers as ushul 
 
 HOSEA BIGLOW. 
 
 " HERE we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder ! 
 
 It 's a fact o' wich ther 's bushils o' proofs ; 
 Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, 
 
 Ef 't worn't thet it's oilers under our hoofs ?"
 
 90 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 
 " Human rights hain't no more 
 
 Eight to come on this floor, 
 No more 'n the man in the moon/' sez he. 
 
 " The North hain't no kind o' bisness with nothin', 
 
 An' you 've no idee how much bother it saves ; 
 We ain't none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', 
 We 're used to layin' the string on our slaves," 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 Sez Mister Foote, 
 " I should like to shoot 
 The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon ! " sez he. 
 
 " Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther 's no doubt 
 
 on, 
 
 It 's sutthin' thet 's wha' d' ye call it ? divine, 
 An' the slaves thet we oilers make the most out on 
 Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 " Fer all thet," sez Mangum, 
 " 'T would be better to hang 'em, 
 An* so git red on 'em soon," sez he. 
 
 " The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, 
 
 Thet 's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree ; 
 It puts all the cunninest on us in office, 
 An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 " Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, 
 " Ez thet some one's an ass, 
 It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 91 
 
 " Now don't go to say I 'm the friend of oppression, 
 
 But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, 
 Fer I oilers hev strove (at least thet 's my impression) 
 To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," 
 Sez John 0. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., 
 "The perfection o' bliss 
 Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he. 
 
 " Slavery 's a thing thet depends on complexion, 
 
 It 's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe ; 
 Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection !) 
 Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe ? " 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 Sez Mister Hannegan, 
 Afore he began agin, 
 " Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. 
 
 " Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be twitchin' your col 
 lar, 
 
 Your merit 's quite clear by the dut on your knees, 
 At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color ; 
 You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," 
 Sez John 0. Calhonn, sez he ; 
 Sez Mister Jarnagin, 
 " They wunt hev to larn agin, 
 They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. 
 
 " The slavery question ain't no ways bewilderin'. 
 
 North an' South hev one int'rest, it 's plain to a glance ; 
 No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their chil* 
 
 drin, 
 
 But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good, 
 chance,"
 
 92 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 
 Sez Atherton here, 
 
 " This is gittin' severe, 
 I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. 
 
 " It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, 
 
 An* your jfact'ry gals (soon ez we split) '11 make head, 
 An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 
 '11 go to work raisin' promiscoous Ned," 
 Sez John C. Calhonn, sez he ; 
 
 "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, 
 " Ef we Southerners all quit, 
 Would go down like a busied balloon," sez he. 
 
 "Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky 's brewin* 
 
 In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, 
 All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin, 
 
 An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 
 " Yes," sez Johnson, " in France 
 They 're beginnin' to dance 
 Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. 
 
 " The South 's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, 
 
 Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest 
 Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery 
 
 Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 " 0," sez Westcott o' Florida, 
 "Wut treason is horrider 
 Then our priv'leges tryin' to proon ? " sez he. 
 
 " It '& 'coz they 're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints 
 Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled ;
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 93 
 
 We think its our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, 
 Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled/' 
 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
 " Ah/' sez Dixon H. Lewis, 
 " It perfectly true is 
 Thet slavery's airth 's grettest boon/' sez he. 
 
 [It was said of old time, that riches have wings ; and 
 though this be not applicable in a literal strictness to 
 the wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South, 
 yet it is clear that their possessions have legs, and an 
 unaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly 
 direction. I marvel that the grand jury of Washington 
 did not find a true bill against the North Star for aid 
 ing and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It would have 
 been quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by 
 the South on other questions connected with slavery. 
 I think that no ship of state was ever freighted with a 
 more veritable Jonah than this same domestic institu 
 tion of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign 
 so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three 
 millions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope 
 by this one mighty argument, Our fathers knew no 
 tetter ! Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of 
 Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall 
 we try the experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe 
 place, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam 
 of him ? Let us, then, with equal forethought and 
 wisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in 
 pious confidence, the certain result. Perhaps our sus 
 picious passenger is no Jonah after all, being black. 
 For it is well known that a superintending Providence
 
 94 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, 
 to be devoured by the Caucasian race. 
 
 In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer 
 the hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the 
 breakers, speak out ! But, alas ! we have no right to 
 interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall 
 be in danger of the justice ; but if he steal my brother 
 I must be silent. Who says this ? Our Constitution, 
 consecrated by the callous sn etude of sixty years, and 
 grasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of 
 him whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. 
 Justise, ^nerable with the undethronable majesty of 
 countlsss aeons, says, SPEAK ! The Past, wise with 
 the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her 
 shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes, 
 SPEAK ! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of 
 freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, 
 her cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, 
 blows jubilant encouragement, and cries, SPEAK ! 
 From the souFs trembling abysses the still, small voice 
 not vaguely murmurs, SPEAK ! But alas ! the Con 
 stitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C., 
 say, BE DUMB ! 
 
 It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in 
 this connection, whether, on that momentous occasion 
 when the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Con 
 stitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C., will 
 be expected to take their places on the left as our 
 hircine vicars. 
 
 Quid sum miser tune dicturus f 
 Quempatronum rogaturus f 
 
 There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer base-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 95 
 
 ness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst 
 leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough 
 and to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to 
 that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has be 
 come an ideal ! 
 
 Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if 
 it barely manage to rub and go 9 Here, now, is a piece 
 of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century 
 say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and 
 others say shall not cease. I would by no means deny 
 the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I 
 confess, that, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help 
 having my fears for them. 
 
 Discitejustitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos. 
 
 H. W.]
 
 No. VI. 
 THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CEEED. 
 
 [AT the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the 
 following satire with an extract from a sermon preached 
 during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2 : 
 " Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of 
 Israel." Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was 
 delivered, the editor of the " Jaalam Independent 
 Blunderbuss" has unaccountably absented himself from 
 our house of worship. 
 
 " I know of no so responsible position as that of the 
 public journalist. The editor of our day bears the 
 same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age 
 before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position 
 which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold 
 even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to 
 the extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed 
 as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls 
 the Next Life. As if next did not mean nearest, and 
 as if any life were nearer than that immediately present 
 one which boils and eddies all around him at the cau 
 cus, the ratification meeting, and the polls ! Who 
 taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as 
 for some future era of which the present forms no inte 
 gral part ? The furrow which Time is even now turn- 
 96
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 9? 
 
 ing runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he 
 plant, or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and 
 teach that we are going to have more of eternity than 
 we have now. This going of his is like that of the auc 
 tioneer, on which gone follows before we have made up 
 our minds to bid, in which manner, not three months 
 back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. 
 So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of 
 being a living force, has faded into an emblematic 
 figure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if 
 he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder 
 of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion 
 offers, he unkennels with a stdboy / " to bark and bite 
 as 't is their nature to/' whence that reproach of odium 
 theologicum has arisen. 
 
 "Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts 
 daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand 
 within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nod- 
 der, even, among them ! And from what a Bible can 
 he choose his text, a Bible which needs no translation, 
 and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the 
 laity, the open volume of the world, upon which, with 
 a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Pres 
 ent is even now writing the annals of God ! Methinks 
 the editor who should .understand his calling, and be 
 equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of itotfi^v 
 Aawv, which Homer bestows upon princes. He would 
 be the Moses of our nineteenth century, and whereas 
 the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain 
 stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the 
 hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the 
 new law here among factories and cities in this Wilder 
 ness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12), called Progress of 
 7
 
 98 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the 
 Canaan of a truer social order. 
 
 " Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within 
 even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses 
 rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up 
 the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he 
 may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mut 
 ton. 
 
 Immemor, O, fidei pecorumque oblite tuorum ! 
 
 For which reason I would derive the name editor not 
 so much from edo, to publish, as from edo, to eat, that 
 being the peculiar profession to which he esteems him 
 self called. He blows up the flames of political discord 
 for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily 
 boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of 
 these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and 
 of these, how many have even the dimmest perception 
 of their immense power, and the duties consequent there 
 on ? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great 
 principles of Tweedledum, and other nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel 
 according to Tweedledee." H. "W.J 
 
 I DU believe in Freedom's cause, 
 
 Ez fur away ez Paris is ; 
 1 love to see her stick her claws 
 
 In them infarnal Pharisees ; 
 It '& wal enough agin a king 
 
 To dror resolves an' triggers, 
 But libbaty 's a kind o' thing 
 
 Thet don't agree with niggers.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I du believe the people want 
 
 A tax on teas an' coffees, 
 Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt, 
 
 Purvidin' I 'm in office ; 
 Fer I hev loved my country sence 
 
 My eye-teeth filled their sockets, 
 An' Uncle Sam I reverence, 
 
 Partic'larly his pockets. 
 
 I du believe in any plan 
 
 0' levyin' the taxes, 
 Ez long ez, like a lumberman, 
 
 I git jest wut I axes : 
 I go free-trade thru thick an* thin, 
 
 Because it kind o' rouses 
 The folks to vote, an' keeps us in 
 
 Our quiet customhouses. 
 
 I du believe it 's wise an" good 
 
 To sen' out furrin missions, 
 Thet is, on sartin understood 
 
 An' orthydox conditions ; 
 I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., 
 
 Nine thousan'' more fer outfit, 
 An' me to recommend a man 
 
 The place 'ould jest about fit. 
 
 I du believe in special ways 
 
 0' prayin' an' convartin' ; 
 The bread comes back in many days, 
 
 An' buttered, tu, fer sartin ;
 
 100 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I mean in preyin' till one busts 
 On wut the party chooses, 
 
 An' in convartin' public trusts 
 To every privit uses. 
 
 I du believe hard coin the stuff 
 
 Fer 'lectioneers to spout on ; 
 The people's oilers soft enough 
 
 To make hard money out on ; 
 Dear Uncle Sam pervides f er his, 
 
 An' gives a good-sized junk to all, 
 I don't care fiow hard money is, 
 
 Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. 
 
 I du believe with all my soul 
 
 In the gret Press's freedom, 
 To pint the people to the goal 
 
 An' in the traces lead 'em ; 
 Palsied the arm thet forges yokes 
 
 At my fat contracts squintin', 
 An' withered be the nose thet pokes 
 
 Inter the gov'ment printin' ! 
 
 I du believe thet I should give 
 
 Wut's his'n unto Caesar, 
 Fer it 's by him I move an' live, 
 
 Frum him my bread an' cheese air ; 
 I du believe thet all o' me 
 
 Doth bear his souperscription, 
 Will, conscience, honor, honesty, 
 
 An' things o' thet description.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I du believe in prayer an' praise 
 
 To him thet hez the grantin' 
 O' jobs, in every thin' thet pays, 
 
 But most of all in CANTIN' ; 
 This doth my cup with marcies fill, 
 
 This lays all thought o' sin to rest, 
 I don't believe in princerple, 
 
 But, 0, I du in interest. 
 
 I du believe in bein* this 
 
 Or thet, ez it may happen 
 One way or t'other headiest is 
 
 To ketch the people nappin' ; 
 It ain't by princerples nor men 
 
 My preudunt course is steadied, 
 I scent wich pays the best, an' then 
 
 Go into it baldheaded. 
 
 I du believe thet holdin' slaves 
 
 Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt, 
 Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves 
 
 To hev a wal-broke precedunt ; 
 Fer any office, small or gret, 
 
 I could n't ax with no face, 
 Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, 
 
 Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. 
 
 I du believe wutever trash 
 
 '11 keep the people in blindness, 
 Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash 
 
 Eight inter brotherly kindness,
 
 102 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder V ball 
 Air good- will's strongest magnets, 
 
 Thet peace, to make it stick at all, 
 Must be druv in with bagnets. 
 
 In short, I firmly du believe 
 
 In Humbug generally, 
 Fer it 's a thing thet I perceive 
 
 To he v a solid vally ; 
 This heth my faithful shepherd ben, 
 
 In pasturs sweet heth led me, 
 An' this '11 keep the people green 
 
 To feed ez they hev fed me. 
 
 [I subjoin here another passage from my before- 
 mentioned discourse. 
 
 " Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, 
 is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the 
 critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in 
 Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a 
 strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose 
 stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce 
 of life are played in little. Behold the whole huge 
 earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown paper wrapper ! 
 
 " Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on 
 horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the In 
 dian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop 
 all the famous performers from the four quarters of the 
 globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny pup 
 pets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon 
 my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly 
 see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears 
 almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar micro-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 103 
 
 scope of the imagination must be brought to bear in 
 order to make out anything distinctly. That animal 
 cule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just 
 landed on the coast of England. That other, in the 
 gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte 
 Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no 
 interference from him in the present alarming juncture. 
 At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of some 
 thing in motion, is an immense mass meeting. Look 
 sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his man 
 dibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. 
 Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and 
 irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon 
 whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing 
 in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosop er, 
 expounding to a select audience their capacity for the 
 Infinite. That scarce discernible puffi t of smoke and 
 dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, 
 just arranging the lever with which he is to move the 
 world. And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a 
 skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning 
 teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off 
 the slippery stage into the dark Beyond. 
 
 "Yes, the little show box has its solemner sugges 
 tions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old 
 man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the cor 
 ner while he shifts the scenes. There, too', in the dim 
 background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes 
 he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls 
 by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, 
 or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from chris 
 tening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger 
 as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the
 
 104 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infini 
 ties (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of 
 dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we 
 see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the 
 showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, 
 that they are lying in wait for spectators also. 
 
 " Think of it : for three dollars a year I buy a season 
 ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would 
 write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, 
 and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene- 
 shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by 
 Death. 
 
 " Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am 
 tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then sud- 
 d nly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes 
 invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look ! 
 deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries 
 and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and 
 missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and 
 as sudden poverty ; I hold in my hand the ends of 
 myriad invisible electric conductors, along which trem 
 ble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and 
 despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So 
 that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate 
 me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, 
 another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown 
 and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. 
 For, through my newspaper here, do not families take 
 pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death 
 among them ? Are not here two who would have me 
 know of their marriage ? And, strangest of all, is not 
 this singular person anxious to have me informed that 
 he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Brnisgins ?
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 105 
 
 Bat to none of us does the Present (eren if for a mo 
 ment discerned as such) continue miraculous. We 
 glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion 
 and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow 
 this sheet, in which a vision was let down to me from 
 Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the 
 platter for a beggar's broken victuals." H. W.]
 
 No. VII. 
 A LETTEK 
 
 FEOM A CANDIDATE FOE THE PEESIDENCY IN ANSWEB 
 TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PECPOSED BY ME. HOSEA BIG- 
 LOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FEOM ME. BIGLOW TO S. H. 
 GAY, ESQ., EDITOE OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVEEY 
 STANDAED. 
 
 [CUEIOSITY may be said to be the quality which pre 
 eminently distinguishes and segregates man from the 
 lower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature 
 downward, we find this faculty of the mind (as it may 
 truly be called) diminished in the savage, and quite 
 extinct in the brute. The first object which civilized 
 man proposes to himself I take to be the finding out 
 whatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. NiMl 
 humanum a me alienum puto ; I am curious about even 
 John Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an 
 opposite pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of 
 communicating intelligence. 
 
 Men in general 'may be divided into the inquisitive 
 and the communicative. To the first class belong Peep 
 ing Toms, eavesdroppers, navel-contemplating Brah 
 mins, metaphysicians, travelers, Empedocleses, spies, 
 the various societies for promoting Khinothism, Colum- 
 buses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who 
 present themselves to the mind as so many marks of 
 
 106
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 107 
 
 interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sit 
 ting in studies and laboratories. The second class I 
 should again subdivide into four. In the first subdi 
 vision I would rank those who have an itch to tell us 
 about themselves, as keepers of diaries, insignificant 
 persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, auto- 
 biographers, poets. The second includes those who are 
 anxious to impart information concerning other people, 
 as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong 
 those who labor to give us intelligence about nothing at 
 all, as novelists, political orators, the large majority of 
 authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the 
 fourth come those who are communicative from motives 
 of public benevolence, as finders of mares'-nests and 
 bringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls with 
 out feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself 
 to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as 
 lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway 
 the whole barnyard shall know it by our cackle or our 
 cluck. Omnibus lioc vitium est. There are different 
 grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope 
 toward a backyard, another toward Uranus ; one will 
 tell you that he dined with Smith, another that he 
 supped wi fTi PI ,to. In one particular, all men may be 
 considered as belonging to the first grand division, inas 
 much as t^ey all seem equally desirous of discovering 
 the mote in their neighbor's eye. 
 
 To one or another of these species every human be 
 ing may safely be referred. I think it beyond a per- 
 adventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the 
 digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up 
 a letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him 
 might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had
 
 108 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that s 
 as there are certain persons who continually peep and 
 pry at the keyhole of that mysterious door through 
 which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there 
 are doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other 
 side of it, because they have no means of conveying 
 back to the world the scraps of news they have picked 
 up. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every 
 question, the great law of give and take runs through 
 all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an 
 eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a 
 standing advertisement of information wanted in regard 
 to A. B., or that the friends of C. D. can hear of him 
 by application to such a one. 
 
 It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and 
 answering that epistolary correspondence was first in 
 vented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are 
 now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, 
 there are those which are not letters at all, as letters 
 patent, letters dismissory, letters inclosing bills, letters 
 of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, 
 of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, 
 and Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome 
 includes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, 
 from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, 
 and letters generally, which are in no wise letters of 
 mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, 
 Cowper, "Walpole, Howel, Lamb, the first letters from 
 children (printed in staggering capitals) Letters from 
 New York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for 
 the sake of the writer or the thing written. I have 
 read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named 
 Pinto, containing some curious gossip, and which I hope
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 109 
 
 to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There 
 are, besides, letters addressed to posterity, as epitaphs, 
 for example, written for their own monuments, by mon- 
 archs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the 
 names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, 
 hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but 
 valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The 
 letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year 
 of grace 755 I would place in a class by itself, as also 
 the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate 
 more fully in a note at the end of the following poem. 
 At present, sat prata friberunt. Only, concerning the 
 shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to 
 which general figures, circular letters and round-robins 
 also conform themselves. H. W.] 
 
 DEER SIR its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters 
 to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in 
 Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town, i writ to 
 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called can 
 did 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this 
 here i vrich I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno 
 as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got 
 lied the saim, I sposed it wus best, times has gretly 
 changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat 
 wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance 
 fur the cheef madgustracy. H. B. 
 
 DEAR SIR, You wish to know my notions 
 On sartin pints thet rile the land ; 
 
 There 's nothin' thet my natur so shuns 
 Ez bein' mum or underhand ;
 
 110 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I 'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur 
 Thet blurts right out wut 's in his head, 
 
 An* ef I 've one pecooler feetur, 
 It is a nose thet wunt be led. 
 
 So, to begin at the beginning 
 
 An* come direcly to the pint, 
 I think the country's underpinnin' 
 
 Is some consid'ble out o' jint ; 
 I ain't agoin' to try your patience 
 
 By tellin' who done this or thet, 
 I don't make no insinooations, 
 
 I jest let on I smell a rat. 
 
 Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, 
 
 But, ef the public think I 'm wrong, 
 I wunt deny but wut I be so, 
 
 An', fact, it don't smell very strong ; 
 My mind 's tu fair to lose its balance 
 
 An' say wich party hez most sense ; 
 There may be folks o' greater talence 
 
 Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. 
 
 I 'm an eclectic ; ez to choosin' 
 
 'Twixt this an' thet, I 'm plaguy lawth ; 
 I leave a side thet looks like losin', 
 
 But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to both ; 
 I stan' upon the Constitution, 
 
 Ez preudunt statesmun say, who 've planned 
 A way to git the most profusion 
 
 0* chances ez to ware they '11 stand. 
 
 Ez fer the war, I go agin it, 
 I mean to say I kind o* du,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, 
 The best way wuz to fight it thru ; 
 
 Not but wut abstract war is horrid, 
 I sign to thet with all my heart, 
 
 But civlyzation doos git forrid 
 Sometimes upon a powder-cart. 
 
 About thet darned Proviso matter 
 
 I never hed a grain o' doubt, 
 Nor I ain't one my sense to scatter 
 
 So 's no one could n't pick it out ; 
 My love fer North an' South is equil, 
 
 So I '11 jest answer plump an' frank, 
 No matter wut may be the sequil, 
 
 Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. 
 
 Ez to the answeriu' o' questions, 
 
 I 'm an oif ox at bein' druv, 
 Though I ain't one thet ary test shuns 
 
 '11 give our folks a helpin' shove ; 
 Kind o' promiscoous I go it 
 
 Fer the holl country, an' the ground 
 I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, 
 
 Is pooty geii'ally all round. 
 
 I don't appruve o' givin' pledges ; 
 
 You 'd ough' to leave a feller free, 
 An' not go knockin' out the wedges 
 
 To ketch his fingers in the tree ; 
 Pledges air awfle breachy cattle 
 
 Thet preudent farmers don't turn out, 
 Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, 
 
 Wut is there fer 'm to grout about ?
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion 
 
 In my idees consarnin' them, 
 / think they air an Institution, 
 
 A sort of yes yes, jest so, ahem : 
 Do / own any ? Of my merit 
 
 On thet pint you yourself may jedge : 
 All is, I never drink no sperit, 
 
 Nor I hain't never signed no pledge. 
 
 Ez to my principles, I glory 
 
 In hevin' nothin' o' the sort. 
 I ain't a Wig, I ain't a Tory, 
 
 I'm jest a candidate, in short , 
 Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler, 
 
 But, ef the Public cares a fig 
 To hev me an'thin' in particler, 
 
 Wy, I 'm a kind o' peri-wig. 
 
 P. S. 
 
 Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin', 
 
 0' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer, 
 An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' 
 
 I '11 mention in your privit ear ; 
 Ef you git me inside the White House, 
 
 Your head with ile I '11 kin' o' 'nint 
 By gittin' you inside the Lighthouse 
 
 Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. 
 
 An* ez the North hez took to brustlin* 
 At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, 
 
 1 11 tell ye wut '11 save all tusslin' 
 
 An' give our side a harnsome boost,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 113 
 
 Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question 
 
 I 'm EIGHT, although to speak I 'm lawth ; 
 
 This gives you a safe pint to rest on, 
 An* leaves me frontin' South by North. 
 
 [And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two 
 kinds, namely, letters of acceptance, and letters defin 
 itive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an elec 
 tion, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. 
 Epistolary - composition becomes then an epidemic, 
 which seizes .one candidate after another, not seldom 
 cutting short the thread of political life. It has come 
 to such a pass that a party dreads less the attacks 
 of its opponents than a letter from its candidate. 
 Litera scripta manet, and it will go hard if something 
 bad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well 
 understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, 
 with the cordon sanitaire of a vigilance committee. 
 No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously de 
 prived of writing materials. The soot was scraped 
 carefully from the chimney-places ; outposts of expert 
 rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who 
 came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain 
 limited distance of North Bend ; and all domestic fowls 
 about the premises were reduced to the condition of 
 Plato's original man. By these precautions the Gen 
 eral was saved. Parva componere magnis, 1 remember, 
 that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, 
 upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having 
 my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express 
 them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about 
 that result which I deemed most desirable. My strata 
 gem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Cora- 
 8
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 plete Letter- Writer in the way of the candidate whom 
 I wished to d feat. He caught the infection, and ad 
 dressed a short note to his constituents, in which the 
 opposite party detected so many and so grave impro 
 prieties, (he had modelled it upon the letter of a young 
 lady accepting a proposal of marriage,) that he not only 
 lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabel- 
 lianism and I know not what, (the widow Endive as 
 sured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain 
 knowledge,) was forced to leave the town. Thus it is 
 that the letter killeth. 
 
 The object which candidates propose to themselves in 
 writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a 
 quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively 
 plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptog 
 raphies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a 
 wonderful amount and variety of significance. Omne 
 ignotum pro mirifico. How do we admire at the antique 
 world striving to crack those oracular nuts from Delphi, 
 Hammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so 
 much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged ; 
 that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was 
 mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have 
 written six thousand books on the single subject of 
 grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the 
 labors of his successors, and which seems still to pos 
 sess an attraction for authors in proportion as they 
 can make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for 
 theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, 
 whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two 
 hundred and three several interpretations, each lethif- 
 eral to all the rest. Non nostrum est tantas componere 
 lites, yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 115 
 
 and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached 
 on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon 
 Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, th 
 minds of my people. It is true that my views on 
 this important point were ardently controverted by 
 Mr. Shearjashub Holden, the then preceptor of our 
 academy, and in other particulars a very deserving and 
 sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat 
 limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his 
 heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been 
 lately removed by the. hand of Providence, I had the 
 satisfaction of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a 
 sermon preached upon the Lord's day immediately suc 
 ceeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an 
 unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made pro 
 vision in his last will (being celibate) for the publica 
 tion of a posthumous tractate in support of his own 
 dangerous opinions. 
 
 I know of nothing in our modern times which 
 approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter 
 of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, 
 the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as 
 had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, 
 and this same prohibition on the part of Pythagoras to 
 his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from 
 politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other 
 explication, quod videlicet sensus eo cibo obtundi existi- 
 maret, though supported pugnis et calcibus by many of 
 the learned, and not wanting the countenance of 
 Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New 
 England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here 
 the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains 
 in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, pro-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 verbial expressions, and knotty points generally, which 
 is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select 
 whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. 
 In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks 
 objected to the questioning of candidates. And very 
 properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to 
 discover what a person in that position is, or what he 
 will do, but whether he can be elected. Vos exemplaria 
 GrcBca nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
 
 But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particu 
 lar (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of 
 freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates 
 will answer, whether they are questioned or not, I 
 would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues 
 should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic 
 correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or con 
 fined to the language of signs, like the famous inter 
 view of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might 
 then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry 
 by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial 
 of Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their 
 respective constituencies. These answers would be 
 susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the 
 exigencies of the political campaign might seem to 
 demand, and the candidate could take his position on 
 either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if 
 letters must be written, profitable use might be made 
 of the Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform 
 script, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to 
 educe a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone 
 or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply 
 posterity, with a very vast and various body of authen 
 tic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordi-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 nary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any 
 style so compressed that superfluous words may not be 
 detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that 
 famous brevity of Caesar's by two-thirds, drawing his 
 pen through the supererogatory veni and vidi. Per-' 
 haps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found 
 in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and 
 less of qualification in candidates. Already have states 
 manship, experience, and the possession (nay, the pro 
 fession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, 
 and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability 
 to write will follow ? At present, there may be death 
 in pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may 
 suffice for a bow-string, and all the dreadful heresies of 
 Anti-slavery may lurk in a flourish. H. W.]
 
 NO. vm. 
 
 A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. 
 
 [Lsr the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin re 
 turning, a miles emeritus, to the bosom of his family. 
 Quantum mutatus! The good Father of us all had 
 doubtless intrusted to the keeping of this child of his 
 certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put 
 in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of 
 every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect 
 development of Humanity. He had given him a brain 
 and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two 
 strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can 
 mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. 
 And this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the 
 keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the ac 
 count of that stewardship ? The State, or Society, 
 (call her by what name you will, ) had taken no manner 
 of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the 
 street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, 
 with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, 
 vile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of 
 the barroom, an own child of the Almighty God ! I 
 remember him as he was brought to be christened, a 
 ruddy, rugged babe ; and now there he wallows, reeking, 
 seething, the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul, 
 a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. 
 Comes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and 
 118
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 119 
 
 parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss 
 those parched, cracked lips , the morning opens upon 
 him her eyes full of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns 
 down to him, and ther he lies fermenting. sleep ! 
 let me not profane thy holy name by calling that 
 stertorous unconsciousness a slumber ! By and by 
 comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say, 
 " My poor, forlorn foster-child ! Behold here a force 
 which I will make dig and plant and build for me ? " 
 Not so, but, "Here is a recruit ready-made to my 
 hand, a piece of destroying energy lying uprofitably 
 idle." So she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a 
 musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Guber 
 natorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer. 
 I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, 
 and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect 
 machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent 
 the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its 
 thews of steel. And while I was admiring the adapta 
 tion of means to end, the harmonious involutions of con 
 trivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a 
 grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey 
 and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals, 
 a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul 
 said within me, See there a piece of mechanism to which 
 that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort 
 of a child, a force which not merely suffices to set a 
 few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse 
 all through the infinite future, a contrivance, not 
 for turning out pins, or stitching buttonholes, but for 
 making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron 
 shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, 
 and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with
 
 120 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 a pin ; while the other, with its fire of God in it shall 
 be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefully 
 a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon- 
 ball. Unthrifty Mother State ! My heart burned 
 within me for pity and indignation, and I renewed this 
 covenant with my own soul, In aliis mansuetus ero, 
 at } in Uasphemiis contra Christum, non ita. H. W.j 
 
 I SPOSE you wonder ware I be ; I can't tell, f er the soul 
 
 o' me, 
 Exacly ware I be myself, meanin' by thet the holl o* 
 
 me. 
 Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad 
 
 ones neither, 
 (The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me 
 
 hither,) 
 Now one on 'em 's I dunno ware ; they thought I wuz 
 
 adyin', 
 An' sawed it off because they said 'twuz kin' o' mor- 
 
 tifyin' ; 
 
 I'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther, 
 Wy one should take to f eelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n 
 
 t'other, 
 Sence both wuz equilly to blame ; but things is ez they 
 
 be ; 
 
 It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's enough fer me : 
 There 's one good thing, though, to be said about my 
 
 wooden new one, 
 
 The liquor can't git into it ez 't used to in the true one ; 
 So it saves drink ; an' then, besides, a feller could n't 
 
 beg 
 A gretter blessin' then to hev one oilers sober peg ;
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 121 
 
 It 's true a chap 's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum, 
 But all the march I 'm up to now is jest to Kingdom. 
 Come. 
 
 I 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's easy to supply 
 Out o' the glory thet I 've gut, fer thet is all my eye ; 
 An' one'is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it, 
 To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it ; 
 Off'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' 
 
 kickius, 
 
 Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest picking ; 
 So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I '11 larn to go with 
 out it, 
 
 An' not allow myself to be no gret put out about it. 
 Now, le' me see, thet is n't all ; I used, 'fore leavin' 
 
 Jaalam, 
 To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems 
 
 to ail 'em : 
 "Ware 's my left hand ? 0, darn it, yes, I recollect wut 's 
 
 come on 't ; 
 I hain't no left arm but my'right, an' thet 's gut jest a 
 
 thumb on 't ; 
 
 It ain't so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't. 
 I 've had some ribs broke, six (I b'lieve), I hain't 
 
 kep' no account on 'em ; 
 Wen pensions git to be the talk, I '11 settle the amount 
 
 on 'em. 
 An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to 
 
 mind 
 
 One thet I could n't never break, the one I lef ' be 
 hind ; 
 Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your 
 
 invention
 
 122 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal 
 
 pension, 
 An' kin o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should 
 
 refuse to be 
 Consoled) I ain't so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used 
 
 to be ; 
 There 'a one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg 
 
 thet 's wooden 
 Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'. 
 
 I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez 
 
 thunder, 
 
 With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder ; 
 Wai, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a 
 
 sort o' 
 Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land nowin' with rum an* 
 
 water, 
 
 Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultiva 
 tion, 
 An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee 
 
 nation, 
 
 Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin', 
 Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns 
 
 wuz blazin', 
 Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you 
 
 could cram 'em, 
 
 An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em ; 
 Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' 
 
 silver 
 Thet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no 
 
 bill fer ; 
 Thet 's wut I thought afore I went, thet 's wut them 
 
 fellers told u
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 123 
 
 Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards 
 
 sold us ; 
 I thought thet gold, mines could be gut cheaper than 
 
 china asters, 
 
 An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors ; 
 But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a 
 
 grease-spot ; 
 I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh 
 
 a V spot ; 
 Although, most any wares we 've ben, you need n't break 
 
 no locks, 
 Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' 
 
 rocks. 
 I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral 
 
 feeturs 
 O' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle cree- 
 
 turs, 
 But I fergnt to name (new things to speak on so 
 
 abounded) 
 How one day you '11 most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next 
 
 git drownded. 
 The clymit seems to me just like a teapot made o' 
 
 pewter 
 Our Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could 
 
 du) to suit her ; 
 Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a 
 
 drop 'ould dreen out, 
 Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit 
 
 bust clean out, 
 The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' 
 
 kiver 
 'ould all come down kerswosh ! ez though the dam broke 
 
 in a river.
 
 124 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Jest so 't is here ; holl months there ain't a day o' rainy 
 
 Aveather, 
 
 An* jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads to 
 gether 
 Ez t' how they 'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary 
 
 deepot, 
 'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' 
 
 teapot. 
 The cous'qnence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed 
 
 to leave here, 
 One piece o' propaty along, an' thet 's the shakin' 
 
 fever ; 
 It 's reggilar employment, though, an' thet ain't thought 
 
 to harm one, 
 Nor 't ain't so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' 
 
 arm on ; 
 
 An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it does n't pay, 
 To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' 
 
 way. 
 'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin- 
 
 makin', 
 One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez 
 
 bakin', 
 One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the 
 
 mashes, 
 Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' 
 
 smashes. 
 But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's glory to be 
 
 hed, 
 Thet 's an investment, arter all, that may n't turn out 
 
 so bad ; 
 But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, I oilers found 
 
 the thanks
 
 THE B1GLOW PAPERS. 125 
 
 Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the 
 
 ranks ; 
 The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Gunnies next, 
 
 an' so on, 
 
 We never gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on ; 
 An' spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to con 
 trive its 
 Division so 's to give a piece to twenty thousand 
 
 privits ; 
 Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st 
 
 one, 
 You would n't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a 
 
 grave-stun ; 
 We git the licks, we 're jest the grist thet 's put into 
 
 War's hoppers ; 
 Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the 
 
 coppers. 
 
 It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't, 
 An' ain't contented with a hide without a bagnet hole 
 
 in't; 
 
 But glory is a kin' o' thing / shan't pursue no furder, 
 Goz thet 's the off'cers parquisite, yourn 's on'y jest 
 
 the murder. 
 
 Wai, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there 's one 
 Thing in the bills we ain't hed yit, an' thet 's the GLORI 
 OUS FUST ; 
 
 Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may presume we 
 All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy. 
 I '11 tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see how you would 
 
 like 'em ; 
 
 We never gut inside the hall : the nighest ever / come 
 Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it seemed a 
 
 cent'ry)
 
 126 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru 
 
 the entry, 
 
 An' hearin', ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, 
 A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' 
 
 glasses : 
 
 I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed inside ; 
 All I know, is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried, 
 An' not a hundred miles away frum ware this child wuz 
 
 posted, 
 
 A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted ; 
 The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me 
 Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee. 
 
 They say the quarrel 's settled now ; fer my part I 've 
 
 some doubt on 't, 
 'T '11 take more fish-skin than folks think to take the 
 
 rile clean out on 't ; 
 
 At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do no more fightin', 
 The on'y chance thet 's left to me is politics or writin' ; 
 Now, ez the people 's gut to hev a milingtary man, 
 An' I ain't nothin'else jest now, I 've hit upon a plan ; 
 The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T, 
 An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another 
 
 flea ; 
 
 So I fll set up ez can'idate fer any kin* o' office, 
 (I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' 
 
 soffies ; 
 Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work 's the time o' 
 
 day, 
 You know thet 's wut I never did, except the other 
 
 way;) 
 Ef it 's the Presidential cheer fer wich I 'd better run,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 127 
 
 Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my 
 one ? 
 
 There ain't no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it 's said, 
 
 So useful ez a wooden leg, except a wooden head ; 
 
 There's nothin' ain't so poppylar (wy, it 's a parf ect sin 
 
 To think wut Mexico hez paid f er Santy Anny's pin ;) 
 
 Then I hain't gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee- 
 high, 
 
 I never did hev any gret, ez you can testify ; 
 
 I'm decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war, 
 
 Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to 
 go for? 
 
 Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps 
 should beg 
 
 To know my views 3' state affairs, jest answer WOODEN 
 LEG ! 
 
 Ef they ain't settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' 
 doubt 
 
 An' ax fersutthin' deffynit, jest say ONE EYE PUT OUT ! 
 
 Thet kin' o' talk I guess you '11 find '11 answer to a 
 charm, 
 
 An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, hoi' up my miss- 
 in' arm ; 
 
 Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a 
 vartoou- look 
 
 An' tell 'em thet 's precisely wut I never gin nor took I 
 
 Then you can call me " Timbertoes," that's wut the 
 
 people likes ; 
 Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez 
 
 strikes ; 
 Some say the people 's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you 
 
 please,
 
 128 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees ; 
 
 " Old Timbertoes," you see, 's a creed it 's safe to be 
 
 quite bold on, 
 Ther 's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git 
 
 hold on ; 
 
 It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embody 
 Thet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy- 
 toddy ; 
 
 It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind 
 Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it 
 
 blind ; 
 Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you 
 
 need 'em, 
 Sech ez the ONE-EYED SLARTERER, the BLOODY BIRDO- 
 
 FREDUM : 
 Them 's wnt takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o* 
 
 the masses, 
 An* makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all 
 
 classes. 
 
 There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about ; in order to be 
 
 Presidunt, 
 
 It 's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt ; 
 The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller 
 Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or 
 
 yeller. 
 
 Now I hain't no objections agin particklar climes, 
 Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes), 
 But, ez I hain't no capital, up there among ye, may be, 
 You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low- 
 priced baby, 
 
 An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged 
 to say
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 129 
 
 They hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every 
 
 day, 
 
 Say you're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusion 
 An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institoo- 
 
 tion ; 
 But, golly ! there's the currier's hoss upon the pavement 
 
 pawin' ! 
 
 I'll be more 'xplicit in my next. 
 Yourn, 
 
 BIEDOFREDUM SAWIN. 
 
 [We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating 
 how the balance-sheet stands between our returned 
 volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set 
 down on both sides of the account in fractional parts 
 of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the 
 following result : 
 
 Cr. B. SAWIN, Esq., in account with (BLANK) GLORY. Dr. 
 By loss of one leg, . . 20 To one 675th three cheers in 
 ' do. one arm, . 15 Faneuil Hall, ... 30 
 ' do. four fingers, . 5 " do. do. on 
 
 ' do. One eye, . 10 occasion of presentation of 
 'the breaking of six ribs, 6 sword to Colonel Wright, 25 
 'having served under " one suit of gray clothes 
 Colonel Gushing one (ingeniously unbecoming), 15 
 
 month, 44 " musical entertainments 
 
 (drum and fife six months), 5 
 " one- dinner after return, 1 
 " chance of pension, . 1 
 " privilege of drawing long 
 bow during rest of natural 
 life, 28 
 
 100 100 
 
 E. E.
 
 130 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 
 
 It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual 
 feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised 
 in Fanenil Hall and other places. His primary object 
 seems to have been the making of his fortune. Quce- 
 renda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos. He hoisted 
 sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribula 
 tion. Quid non mortalia pectora cogis auri sacra fames V 
 The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that 
 dreary interval of drought which intervenes between 
 quarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the 
 creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonder 
 fully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. 
 We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready 
 churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in 
 South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies 
 to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abun 
 dantly in Lynn and elsewhere ; and I have seen, in the 
 entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of 
 fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and 
 found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite 
 tasteless and innutritious. Of trees bearing men we 
 are not without examples ; as those in the park of Louis 
 the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, 
 that olive-tree, growing in the Athenian's back-garden 
 with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propa 
 gation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the 
 philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arbori 
 culture, was so zealous ? In the sylva of our own 
 Southern States, the females of my family have called 
 my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply ex 
 amples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in 
 the smaller branches of which has been implanted so 
 miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 131 
 
 Greek languages, and which may well, therefore, b 
 classed among the trees producing necessaries of life, 
 venerabile donum fatalis virgce. That money-trees ex 
 isted in the golden age there want not prevalent reasons 
 for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when 
 it asserts that money does not grow on every bush, imply 
 a fortiori that there were certain bushes which did 
 produce it ? Again, there is another ancient saw to 
 the effect that money is the root of all evil. From 
 which two adages it may be safe to infer that the afore 
 said species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then 
 absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, 
 vanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be 
 conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great 
 age, as in the garden of the Hesperides ; and, indeed, 
 what else could that tree in the Sixth JSneid have been, 
 with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured ad 
 mission to a territory, for the entering of which money 
 is a surer passport than to a certain other more profit 
 able (too) foreign kingdom ? Whether these specula 
 tions of mine have any force in them, or whether they 
 will not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent 
 to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to 
 the determination of an indulgent posterity. That 
 there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops 
 where money was sold, and that, too, on credit and at 
 a bargain, I take to be matter of demonstration. For 
 what but a dealer in this article was that ^Eolus who 
 supplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet in 
 bags ? What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said 
 to have kept the winds in his cap ? What, in more 
 recent times, those Lapland Nornas who traded in 
 favorable breezes ? All which will appear the more
 
 132 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 clearly when we consider, that, even to this day, rais 
 ing the wind is proverbial for raising money, and that 
 brokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a 
 later period. 
 
 And now for the improvement of this digression. I 
 find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure 
 of my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to 
 myself the before-stated natural-historical and archseo- 
 logical theories, as I was passing, hcec negotia pemtus 
 mecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of 
 our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by 
 these words upon a signboard, CHEAP CASH-STOKE. 
 Here was at once the confirmation of my speculations, 
 and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the 
 fragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first 
 tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. 
 Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, 
 as he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting- 
 office window, or speculated from the summit of that 
 mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cun 
 ning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy 
 (even during that first half-believing glance) expended 
 in various useful directions the funds to be obtained 
 by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of 
 discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower 
 of the Jaalam meeting-house, a gift appropriately, but 
 modestly, commemorated in the parish and town 
 records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. 
 Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the 
 University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be 
 considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias 
 with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and 
 whether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Span-
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 133 
 
 ish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough 
 that I found that signboard to be 110 other than a bait 
 to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought 
 a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of im 
 mense flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted 
 upon their prey even in the very scales), which pur 
 chase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at 
 home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too fre 
 quent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order 
 of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy 
 sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astraea-forsaken 
 nineteenth century. 
 
 Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title 
 Sawin, B., let us extend our investigations, and dis 
 cover if that instructive volume does not contain some 
 charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I 
 think we should be more economical of our resources, 
 did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever 
 Brother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into 
 his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess 
 that the late muck which the country has been running 
 has materially changed my views as to the best method 
 of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, 
 the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought 
 under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty house 
 keepers, we could see where and how fast the money 
 was going, we should be less likely to commit extrava 
 gances. At present, these things are managed in such 
 a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay 
 for ; the poor man is charged as much as the rich ; 
 and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, 
 the government is drawing off at the bung. If we 
 could know that a part of the money we expend for
 
 134: THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 tea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that 
 it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on oar 
 backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. 
 Daring the present fall, I have often pictured to my 
 self a government official entering my study and hand 
 ing me the following bill : 
 
 WASHINGTON, Sept. 30, 1848. 
 REV. HOMER WILBUR to TUncle Samuel, Dr. 
 
 To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership 
 account, sundry jobs, as below. 
 
 " killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mex 
 icans, $ 2.00 
 
 "slaughtering one woman carrying water to 
 
 wounded, ........ .10 
 
 " extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bom 
 bardment and one assault) whereby the Mex 
 icans were prevented from defiling themselves 
 with the idolatries of high mass, . . . 3.50 
 
 " throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant 
 bombshell into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz, 
 whereby several female Papists were slain at 
 the altar, .50 
 
 "his proportion of cash paid for conquered terri 
 tory, 1.75 
 
 "his proportion do for conquering terri 
 tory, 1.50 
 
 "manuring do. with new superior compost called 
 
 " American Citizen," .50 
 
 "extending the area of freedom and Protestantism, .01 
 
 "glory, 01 
 
 $9.87 
 Immediate payment is requested. 
 
 N. B. Thankful for former favors, U. 8. requests a con. 
 t i nuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 135 
 
 despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor 
 for the same kind and style of work. 
 
 [I can fancy the official answering my look of horror 
 with,, " Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir ; but 
 in these days slaughtering is slaughtering." Verily, I 
 would that every one understood that it was ; for it 
 goes about obtaining money under the false pretence of 
 being glory. For me, I have an imagination which 
 plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me 
 sometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from 
 his day's work, and forthwith my imagination puts a 
 cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon his 
 shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the 
 Presidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as 
 the place assigned to the " Eeverend Clergy " is just 
 behind that of " Officers of the Army and Navy " in 
 processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the din 
 ner-table over against one of these respectable persons. 
 He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings, 
 court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians 
 in America. Now what does my over-officious imagi 
 nation but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay 
 livery, and present him to me coatless, his trowsers 
 thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted 
 blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a 
 gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the 
 temporal mercies upon the board before me ? H. W.]
 
 No. IX. 
 A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. 
 
 [UPON" the following letter slender comment will be 
 needful. In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin 
 bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his 
 fomer loves ? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) 
 confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favor, 
 we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not 
 jilted) Cincinuatus, returning to his plough with a 
 goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand ; figuratively 
 returning, however, to a figurative plough, and from 
 no profound affection for that honored implement of 
 husbandry, (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never dis 
 played any decided predilection,) but in order to be 
 gracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial 
 labors. It would seem that the character of the an 
 cient Dictator had become part of the recognized stock 
 of our modern political comedy, though, as our term of 
 office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is 
 not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is suffi 
 ciently so, however, for purposes of scenic representa 
 tion. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) 
 forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This 
 rustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Jaalam, North 
 Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Baton Rouge, as 
 occasion demands. Before the door stands a something 
 136
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 137 
 
 with one handle (the other painted in proper perspec 
 tive), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the 
 plough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with 
 delirious joy, welcomed as a father by appropriate 
 groups of happy laborers, or from it the successful one 
 is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble 
 sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if 
 the scene be laid at Baton Eouge or Ashland, the 
 laborers are kept carefully in the background, and are 
 heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular 
 tone resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound 
 not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be 
 artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic 
 population of those localities. The precise connection 
 between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have 
 not been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But, 
 that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I 
 will mention one curious statistical fact, which I con 
 sider thoroughly established, namely, that no real 
 farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General 
 Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted 
 station. 
 
 It is probable that some other prospect has been 
 opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this 
 great sacrifice without some definite understanding in 
 regard to a seat in the cabinet or a foreign mission. 
 It may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not un 
 touched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our 
 townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. 
 And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary 
 to a 1 candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S. 
 seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. 
 The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers,
 
 138 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 reduced him so nearly to the condition of a vox et pra 
 ter ea nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss 
 of his head by which his chance could have been bet 
 tered. Bat since he has chosen to balk our suffrages, 
 we must content ourselves with what we can get, re 
 membering lactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui suffi- 
 cmnt.R. W. J 
 
 I SPOSE you recollect thet I explained my gennle views 
 In the last billet thet I writ, 'way down from Veery 
 
 Cruze, 
 
 Jest arter I M a kind o' ben spontanously sot up 
 To run unanimously fer the Presidential cup ; 
 0' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 't wuz ferflely dis- 
 
 tressin,' 
 
 But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin' 
 Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' 
 
 sorrered. 
 There did n't seem no ways to stop their briugin' on me 
 
 f orrerd : 
 Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help ad- 
 
 mittin' 
 The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 
 
 'ould fit in, 
 
 Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed, 
 Seem' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I 
 
 need ; 
 An', tell ye wut, them shoes '11 want a thund'rin' sight 
 
 o' patchin', 
 
 Ef this ere fashion is to last we 've gut into o' hatchin' 
 A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election, 
 Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, I don't make 
 
 no objection.
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 139 
 
 I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I saw 
 
 The masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father- 
 
 'n-law, 
 (They would ha' hed it Father, but I told 'em 't would 
 
 n't du, 
 
 Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu, 
 An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his 
 
 door, 
 Nor dars n't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year 
 
 afore,) 
 But 't ain't no matter ez to thet ; wen I wuz nomer- 
 
 nated, 
 
 'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated, 
 An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' 
 
 fresh, 
 I thought our ticket would ha* caird the country with a 
 
 resh. 
 
 Sence I 've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think 
 I seem to find 
 
 Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change 
 my mind ; 
 
 It's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a 
 phthisis, 
 
 Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis, 
 
 An' 't would n't noways du to hev the people's mind 
 distracted 
 
 By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted ; 
 
 'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four 
 months o' jaw, 
 
 Ef some illnstrous paytriot should back out an' with 
 draw j
 
 140 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 So, ez I ain't a crooked stick, jest like like ole (I 
 
 swow, 
 I dunno ez I know his name) I '11 go back to my 
 
 plough. 
 Now, 't ain't no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a 
 
 sitooation 
 To hint the course you think '11 be the savin' o* the 
 
 nation ; 
 To funk right out o* p'lit'cal strife ain't thought to be 
 
 the thing, 
 Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks 
 
 should sing ; 
 So I edvise the noomrous friends thet's in one boat 
 
 with me 
 To jest up killock, jam right down their helium hard 
 
 a lee, 
 Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun 
 
 tack, 
 Make f er the safest port they can, wich, I think, is Ole 
 
 Zack. 
 Next thing you'll want to know, I spose, wut argi- 
 
 munts I seem 
 
 To see that makes me think this ere '11 be the strong 
 est team ; 
 Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in barrooms an* 
 
 saloons 
 Agethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and 
 
 Coons, 
 An* 't ain't ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes 
 
 in 
 Fer Rough an* Ready, fair an* square, hnfs, taller, 
 
 horns, an* skin ; 
 I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee ; 
 I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg 
 Higher than him, a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg ; 
 But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I 'm 
 
 burnin', 
 
 Seem' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin' ; 
 Wy, into Beller's we notched the votes down on three 
 
 sticks, 
 
 'T wuz Birdof redum one, Cass aught, an' Taylor twenty- 
 six, 
 An', bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the 
 
 ground, 
 They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay 
 
 the drinks all round ; 
 Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my 
 
 foot 
 
 By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot : 
 It did n't make no diff'rence, though ; I wish I may be 
 
 oust, 
 Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't 
 
 trust ! 
 
 Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedges 
 Is thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with 
 
 pledges ; 
 He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there ain't no 
 
 knowin' 
 
 But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin'; 
 This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly 
 
 eases, 
 
 Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wnt he pleases : 
 I want free-trade ; you don't ; the Gin'ral is n't bound 
 
 to neither ;
 
 143 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I vote my way ; you, yonrn ; an' both air sooted to a 
 
 T there. 
 Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein* 
 
 ultry 
 (He's like a holsome hayinday, thet 's warm, but is n't 
 
 sultry) ; 
 He 's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o' scratch, ez 
 
 't ware, 
 Thet ain't exactly all a wig nor wholly your own 
 
 hair ; 
 I've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate 
 
 sort, 
 An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I 
 
 thought ; 
 They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge 
 
 an' cus ; 
 
 They 're like two pickpockets in league for Uncle Sam- 
 well's pus ; 
 Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in 
 
 between 'em, 
 Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez light- 
 
 nin' clean 'em ; 
 
 To nary one on em I 'd trust a secon'-handed rail 
 No furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail. 
 Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel' speech 
 
 o' his'n ; 
 " Taylor," sez he, " ain't nary ways the one thet I'd a 
 
 chizzen, 
 
 Nor he ain't fittin' f er the place, an' like ez not he ain't 
 No more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a 
 
 saint ; 
 But then," sez he, " obsarve my pint, he'g jest ez good 
 
 to vote f er
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Ez though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire 
 
 Choate fer ; 
 
 Ain't it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box 
 Fer one ez 't is fer t'other, fer the bulldog ez the fox ? " 
 It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou* 
 
 doors, 
 
 To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours ; 
 I 'gree with him, it ain't so dreffle' troublesome to 
 
 vote 
 Fer Taylor arter all, it 's jest to go an' change your 
 
 coat ; 
 Wen he 's once greased, you'll swaller him an' never 
 
 know on 't, source, 
 Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air G-in'raPs 
 
 spurs. 
 
 I've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock, 
 But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a 
 
 shock ; 
 Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they 
 
 found 
 Wich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep a edgin' 
 
 round ; 
 They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform 
 
 one by one 
 An' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz 
 
 done, 
 Till, fur 'z I know, there ain't an inch thet I could lay 
 
 my han' on, 
 
 But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan* on, 
 An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' 
 
 gone, 
 Lonesome ez staddles on a mash Tfithout no hayricks 
 
 on.
 
 144 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I spose it 's time now I shall give my thoughts upon the 
 
 plan, 
 Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole 
 
 Van. 
 
 I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I 'm clean dis 
 gusted, 
 
 He ain't the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted ; 
 He ain't half autislav'ry 'nough, nor I ain't sure, ez some 
 
 be, 
 
 He 'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby ; 
 An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me 
 
 sick 'z 
 
 A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. 
 An' then, another thing ; 1 guess, though mebby I am 
 
 wrong, 
 This Buff'lo plaster ain't agoin' to dror almighty 
 
 strong ; 
 Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough 
 
 '11 rise, 
 Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust 
 
 my eyes ; 
 'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo 
 
 party 's gut, 
 To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye 
 
 wut. 
 But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no 
 
 endurin' 
 To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van 
 
 Buren ; 
 An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap 
 
 should dare 
 To speak ez he doos ; wy, they say he used to cuss an* 
 
 swear !
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 14-5 
 
 I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the 
 
 stairs 
 A feller with long legs wnz throwed thet would n't say 
 
 his prayers. 
 
 This brings me to another pint : the leaders o' the party 
 Ain't jest sech men ez I can act along with free an 
 
 hearty ; 
 They ain't not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's mor- 
 
 rils 
 Don't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me 
 
 jest quarrils. 
 I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think 
 
 I see ? 
 
 A feller wuz aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me, 
 About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge, 
 An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Ternprunce 
 
 pledge ! 
 He 's one o' them thet goes about an' sez you hed n't 
 
 ough' to 
 Drink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an 
 
 Tauuton water. 
 There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, in settlin' how 
 
 to vote, oilers, 
 
 I take the side thet is n't took by them consarned tee 
 totallers. 
 
 Ez fer the niggers, I 've ben South, an' thet hez changed 
 
 my mind ; 
 A lazier, more ungrateful set you could n't nowers 
 
 find. 
 You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a. 
 
 nigger, 
 10
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rat* fig- 
 
 ger; 
 So, ez there 's nothin' in the world I 'm fonder of 'an 
 
 gunuin', 
 
 I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnin'. 
 I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I 
 
 come t' th' swamp, 
 
 'T worn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp ; 
 I come acrost a kin' o ' hut, an', playin' round the door, 
 Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more. 
 At fust I thought o' firing but think twice is safest 
 
 oilers ; 
 There ain't, thinks I, not one on 'em but 's wuth his 
 
 twenty dollars, 
 
 Or would be, ef I bed 'em back into a Christian land, 
 How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction- 
 stand ! 
 (Not but wut / hate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to 
 
 starn, 
 
 I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.) 
 Soon 'z they see me, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz 
 
 out ahoein' 
 A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there ain 't no 
 
 knowin' 
 He would n't ha' took a pop at me ; but I hed gut the 
 
 start, 
 An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he 'd 
 
 broke his heart ; 
 
 He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur, 
 The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite ! wus 'an a boy con- 
 
 strictur. 
 " You can't gum me, I tell ye now, an' so you need n't 
 
 try,
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail so jest shet up," sez I. 
 
 " Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I '11 jest let strip, 
 
 You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I 've gnt ye on 
 the hip ; 
 
 Besides, you darned ole fool, it ain't no gret of a dis 
 aster 
 
 To be benev'lently druv back to a contented master, 
 
 Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem 
 qnite aware of, 
 
 Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care 
 of; 
 
 Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he said 
 
 He 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead ; 
 
 Wite folks ain't sot by half ez much ; 'member I run 
 
 Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay; 
 Don' know him, likely ? Spose not ; wal, the mean ole 
 
 codger went 
 An' offered wut reward, think? Wal, it worn 't no lest 
 
 'n a cent." 
 
 Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an druv 'em on afore me, 
 The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore 
 
 me ; 
 We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so 
 
 hot 
 
 I thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spot 
 Jest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot ; 
 Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to 
 
 chafe, 
 
 An* laid it down jest by my side, supposin' all wuz safe ; 
 1 made my darkies all set down around me in a ring,
 
 148 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 An' sot an* kin* o* ciphered up how much the lot would 
 
 bring ; 
 But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart 
 
 an' mind, 
 (Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then,) Pomp he 
 
 snaked up behind, 
 
 An', creepin, grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink, 
 Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an 
 
 you could wink, 
 An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a 
 
 tree, 
 An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could 
 
 see, 
 
 An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun, 
 Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg an' fairly cut the run. 
 I vow I didn 't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur 
 Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur ; 
 However, ez there worn't no help, I finally give in 
 An, heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin. 
 Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come 
 
 an' grinned, 
 He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, " You 're 
 
 fairly pinned ; 
 
 Jest buckle on your leg agiu, an' git right up an' come, 
 'T wun 't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long 
 
 from hum." 
 At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't 
 
 budge. 
 "Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, " either be 
 
 shot or trudge." 
 So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me, 
 
 back 
 Along the very feet marks o' my happy mornin' track
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 149 
 
 An' kep' me prisoner 'bout six months, an* worked me, 
 
 tu, like sin, 
 
 Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in ; 
 He made me larn him readin', tu, (although the crittur 
 
 saw 
 
 How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law,) 
 So 'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut ; an' axed ef I 
 
 could pint 
 The North Star out ; "but there I put his nose some 
 
 out o' jint, 
 
 Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit, 
 Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it. 
 Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick, 
 Sez " Ef you know wut 's best for ye, be off, now, 
 
 double-quick ; 
 The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye 
 
 cheap, 
 You 're so darned lazy, I don't think you 're hardly 
 
 wuth your keep ; 
 Besides, the childrin 's growin' up, an* you ain't jest 
 
 the model 
 I 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an* so you 'd better 
 
 toddle!" 
 
 Now is there any thin' on airth '11 ever prove to me 
 Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free ? 
 D' you think they '11 suck me in to jine the Bnff'lo 
 
 chaps, an' them 
 
 Bank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem ? 
 Not by a jugf nil ! sooner 'n thet, I 'd go thru fire an* 
 
 water ; 
 Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus ain't 
 
 sotter ;
 
 150 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bone* 
 
 wuz cawin' 
 
 I guess we 're in a Christian land, 
 Yourn, 
 
 BIEDOFREDUM SAWIN. 
 
 [Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I 
 trust with some mutual satisfaction. I say patient, for I 
 ' love not that kind which skims dippingly over the sur 
 face of the page, as swallows over a pool before rain. 
 By such no pearls shall be gathered. But if no pearls 
 there be (as, indeed the world is not without example of 
 books wherefrom the longest- winded diver shall bring 
 up no more than his proper handful of mud), yet let us 
 hope that an oyster or two may reward adequate perse 
 verance. If neither pearls nor oysters, yet is patience 
 itself a gem worth diving deeply for. 
 
 It may seem to some that too much space has been 
 usurped by my own private lucubrations, and some may 
 be fain to bring against me that old jest of him who 
 preached all his hearers out of the meeting-house save 
 only the sexton, who, remaining for yet a little space, 
 from a sense of official duty, at last gave out also, and, 
 presenting the keys, humbly requested our preacher to 
 lock the doors, when he should have wholly relieved 
 himself of his testimony. I confess to a satisfaction in 
 the self act of preaching, nor do I esteem a discourse to 
 be wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or unintel 
 ligent auditory. I cannot easily believe that the Gos 
 pel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be 
 read in the Latin tongue to the Canadian savages, upon 
 his first meeting with them, fell altogether upon stony 
 ground. For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermoa
 
 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 151 
 
 appreciable by dullest intellects and most alien ears. 
 In this wise did Episcopius convert many to his opin 
 ions, who yet understood not the language in which he 
 discoursed. The chief thing is, that the messenger be 
 lieve that he has an authentic message to deliver. For 
 counterfeit messengers that mode of treatment which 
 Father John de Piano Carpini relates to have prevailed 
 among the Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps, 
 deserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim to 
 so much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led 
 me to go into banishment with those clergymen whom 
 Alphonso the Sixth of Portugal drave out of his king 
 dom for refusing to shorten their pulpit eloquence. It 
 is possible, that, having been invited into my brother 
 Biglow's desk, I may have been too little scrupulous in 
 using it for the venting of my own peculiar doctrines to 
 a congregation drawn together in the expectation and 
 with the desire of hearing him. 
 
 I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental 
 organization which impels me, like the railroad-engine 
 with its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance 
 in order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself 
 to one fishing from the rocks when the sea runs high, 
 who, misinterpreting the suction of the undertow for the 
 biting of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that 
 he has caught bottom, hauling in upon the end of his line 
 a trail of various algce, among which, nevertheless, the 
 naturalist may haply find somewhat to repay the dis 
 appointment of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously 
 endeavored to adapt myself to the impatient temper of 
 the age, daily degenerating more and more from the 
 high standard of our pristine New England. To the 
 catalogue of lost arts I would mournfully add also that
 
 152 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 
 
 of listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we have been 
 abridged into a race of pigmies. For, truly, in those 
 of the old discourses yet subsisting to us in print, the 
 endless spinal column of divisions and subdivisions can 
 be likened to nothing so exactly as to the vertebrae of the 
 saurians, whence the theorist may conjecture a race of 
 Anakim proportionate to the withstanding of these other 
 monsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because 
 there seem reasons for supposing that the race of those 
 whose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped 
 in clouds (which that name imports) will never become 
 extinct. The attempt to vanquish the innumerable 
 heads of one of those aforementioned discourses may 
 supply us with a plausible interpretation of the second 
 labor of Hercules, and his successful experiment with 
 fire affords us a useful precedent. 
 
 But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this 
 regard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence. 
 Looking out through my study window, I see Mr. Big- 
 low at a distance busy in gathering his Baldwins, of 
 which, to judge by the number of barrels lying about 
 under the trees, his crop is more abundant than my own, 
 by which sight I am admonished to turn to those 
 orchards of the mind wherein my labors may be more 
 prospered, and apply myself diligently to the prepara 
 tion of my next Sabbath's discourse. H. W.]
 
 A FABLE FOR CRITICS.
 
 READER ! walk up at once (it will soon be too late) and buy at 
 a perfectly ruinous rate 
 
 FABLE FOR CRITICS; 
 
 OR, BETTER, 
 
 (I like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, an 
 
 old fashioned title-page, 
 such as presents a tabular view of the -volume's contents.') 
 
 A GLANCE 
 
 AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES 
 (Mrs. Malaprop's word.) 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE TUB OF DIOGENES ; 
 A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY. 
 
 THAT IS, 
 
 A SERIES OF JOKES 
 
 H TKHon&erful 
 
 who accompanies himself with a rub-a-dub-dub, full of spirit and 
 grace, on the top of the tub. 
 
 BT POBTH IF 
 
 October, the 2\st day, in the year '48. 
 G. P. PUTNAM, BROADWAY.
 
 IT being the commonest mode of procedure, I premise 
 a few candid remarks 
 
 To THE EEADER : 
 
 This trifle, begun to please only myself and my own 
 private fancy, was laid on the shelf. But some friends, 
 who had seen it, induced me, by dint of saying they 
 liked it, to put it in print. That is, having come to 
 that very conclusion, I consulted them when it could 
 make no confusion. For, (though in the gentlest of 
 ways,) they had hinted it was scarce worth the while, I 
 should doubtless have printed it. 
 
 I began it, intending a Fable, a frail, slender thing, 
 rhyme-ywinged, with a sting in its tail. But, by add- 
 ings and alterings not previously planned, digressions 
 chance-hatched, like birds' eggs in the sand, and 
 dawdlings to suit every whimsy's demand, (always free 
 ing the bird which I held in my hand, for the two 
 perched, perhaps out of reach, in the tree,) it grew 
 by degrees to the size which you see. I was like the 
 old woman that carried the calf, and my neighbors, 
 like hers, no doubt, wonder and laugh, and when, my 
 strained arms with their grown burthen full, I call it 
 my Fable, they call it a bull. 
 
 Having scrawled at full gallop (as . far as that goes) 
 in a style that is neither good verse nor bad prose, and 
 being a person whom nobody knows, some people will 
 say I am rather more free with my readers than it is 
 
 157
 
 158 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 becoming to be, that I seem to expect them to wait on 
 my leisure in following wherever I wander at pleasure, 
 that, in short, I take more than a young author's law 
 ful ease, and laugh in a queer way so like Mephis- 
 topheles, that the public will doubt, as they grope 
 through my rhythm, if in truth I am making fun at 
 them or with them. 
 
 So the excellent Public is hereby assured that the 
 sale of my book is already secured. For there is not a 
 poet throughout the whole land, but will purchase a 
 copy or two out of hand, in the fond expectation of 
 being amused in it, by seeing his betters cut-up and 
 abused in it. Now, I find, by a pretty exact calcula 
 tion, there are something like ten thousand bards in 
 the nation, of that special variety whom the Review 
 and Magazine critics call lofty and true, and about 
 thirty thousand (this tribe is increasing) of the kinds 
 who are termed full of promise and pleasing. The 
 Public will see by a glance at this schedule, that they 
 cannot expect me to be over-sedulons about courting 
 them, since it seems I have got enough fuel made sure 
 of for boiling my pot. 
 
 As for such of our poets as find not their names men 
 tioned once in my pages, with praises or blames, let 
 them SEND IN THEIR CARDS, without further DELAY, 
 to my friend G. P. PUTNAM, Esquire, in Broadway, 
 where a LIST will be kept with the strictest regard to 
 the day and the hour of receiving the card. Then, 
 taking them up as I chance to have time, (that is, if 
 their names can be twisted in rhyme.) I will honestly 
 give each his PROPER POSITION, at the rate of ONE 
 AUTHOR to each NEW EDITION. Thus a PEEMIUM is 
 offered sufficiently HIGH (as the magazines say when
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 159 
 
 they tell their best lie) to induce bards to CLUB theit 
 resources and buy the balance of every edition, until 
 they have all of them fairly been run through the mill. 
 One word to such readers (judicious and wise) as read 
 books with something behind the mere eyes, of whom 
 in the country, perhaps, there are two, including my 
 self, gentle reader, and you. All the characters sketched 
 in this slight jeu d'esprit, though, it may be, they seem, 
 here and there, rather free, and drawn from a Mephis- 
 tophelian stand-point, are meant to be faithful, and that 
 is the grand point, and none but an owl would feel sore 
 at a rub from a jester who tells you, without any sub 
 terfuge, that he sits in Diogenes' tub.
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 PHCEBUS, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade, 
 Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made, 
 For the god being one day too warm in his wooing, 
 She took to the tree to escape his pursuing ; 
 Be the cause what it might, from his offers she 
 
 shrunk, 
 
 And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk ; 
 And, though 't was a step into which he had driven 
 
 her, 
 
 He somehow or other had never forgiven her ; 
 Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic, 
 Something bitter to chew when he 'd play the Byronic, 
 And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he 
 
 brought over, 
 By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought 
 
 of her. 
 
 " My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remark'd, 
 " When I last saw my love, she was fairly embark'd ; 
 Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it, 
 You 're not always sure of your game when you've 
 
 tree'd it. 
 Just conceive such a change taking place in one's 
 
 mistress ! 
 ii 161
 
 162 -A- FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 What romance would be left ? who can flatter or 
 kiss trees ? 
 
 And for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dia 
 logue 
 
 With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a 
 log, 
 
 Not to say that the thought would forever intrude 
 
 That you 've less chance to win her the more she is 
 wood ? 
 
 Ah ! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves, 
 
 To see those loved graces all taking their leaves ; 
 
 Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but 
 now, 
 
 As they left me forever, each making its bough ! 
 
 If her tongue had a tang sometimes more than was 
 right, 
 
 Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite." 
 
 Now, Daphne, before she was happily treeified, 
 Over all other flowers the lily had deified, 
 And when she expected the god on a visit, 
 ('T was before he had made his intentions explicit,) 
 Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care, 
 To look as if artlessly twined in her hair, 
 Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his ad 
 dresses, 
 Like the day breaking through the long night of her 
 
 tresses ; 
 
 So, whenever he wished to be quite irresistible, 
 Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whiat- 
 
 table, 
 (I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwiitable,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 163 
 
 Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Christa- 
 
 bel,)- 
 
 He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it, 
 As 1 shall at the , when they cut up my book in it. 
 
 Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I 've been spinning, 
 
 I 've got back at last to my story's beginning : 
 
 Sitting there as I say, in the shade of his mistress, 
 
 As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries, 
 
 Or as those puzzling specimens, which, in old histories, 
 
 We read of his verses the Oracles, namely, 
 
 (I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them 
 
 tamely, 
 
 For one might bet safely whatever he has to risk, 
 They were laid at his door by some ancient Miss 
 
 Asterisk, 
 
 And so dull that the men who retailed them out doors 
 Got the ill name of "augurs/' because they were 
 
 bores,) 
 
 First, he mused what the animal substance or herb is 
 Would induce a moustache, for you know he 's im- 
 
 berbis ; 
 
 Then he shuddered to think how his youthful posi 
 tion 
 
 Was assailed by the age of his son the physician ; 
 At some poems he glanced, had been sent to him 
 
 lately, 
 
 And the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly ; 
 " Mehercle ! I 'd make such proceedings felonious, 
 Have they all of them slept in the cave of Trophonius ? 
 Look well to your seat, 't is like taking an airing 
 On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing ; 
 It leads one, 't is true, through the primitive forest,
 
 164: A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Grand natural features but, then, one has no rest ; 
 You just catch a glimpse of some ravishing distance, 
 When a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence, 
 Why not use their ears, if they happen to have any ? " 
 Here the laurel-leaves murmured the name of poor 
 Daphne. 
 
 " 0, weep with me, Daphne/' he sighed, " for you 
 
 know it 's 
 
 A terrible thing to be pestered with poets ! " 
 But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, 
 She never will cry till she 's out of the wood ! 
 What would n't I give if I never had known of her ? 
 'T were a kind of relief had I something to groan over ; 
 If I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over, 
 J might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher, 
 And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of her. 
 One needs something tangible though to begin on 
 A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on ; 
 What boots all your grist ? it can never be ground 
 Till the breeze makes the arms of the windmill go 
 
 round, 
 
 (Or, if 't is a water-mill, alter the metaphor, 
 And say it won't stir, save the wheel be well wet afore, 
 Or lug in some stuff about water "so dreamily," 
 It is not a metaphor, though, 't is a simile ;) 
 A lily, perhaps, would set my mill agoing, 
 For just at this season, I think, they are blowing, 
 Here, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence 
 They 're in bloom by the score, 't is but climbing a 
 
 fence ; 
 
 There 's a poet hard by, who does nothing but fill his 
 Whole garden, from one end to t' other, with lilies j
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 165 
 
 A very good plan, were it not for satiety, 
 One longs for a weed here and there, for variety ; 
 Though a weed is no more than a flower in disguise, 
 Which is seen through at once, if love gives a man 
 eyes. 
 
 Now there happened to be among Phcehus's follow 
 ers, 
 
 A gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers 
 Who bolt every book that comes out of the press, 
 Without the least question of larger or less, 
 Whose stomachs are strong at the expense of their 
 
 head, 
 
 For reading new books is like eating new bread, 
 One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he 
 Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy. 
 On a previous stage of existence, our Hero 
 Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero ; 
 He had been, 't is a fact you may safely rely on, 
 Of a very old stock a most eminent scion, 
 A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on, 
 Who stretch the new boots Earth '& unwilling to try 
 
 on, 
 Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their eye 
 
 on, 
 
 Whose hair 's in the mortar of every new Zion, 
 Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one, 
 Who think slavery a crime that we must not say fie 
 
 on, 
 
 Who hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with the lion, 
 (Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one,) 
 Who contrive to make every good fortune a wry one, 
 And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on,
 
 166 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Whose pedigree traced to earth's earliest years, 
 Is longer than any thing else but their ears ; 
 In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key, 
 He unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey. 
 Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters, 
 Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters ; 
 Far happier than many a literary hack, 
 He bore only paper-mill rags on his back ; 
 (For it makes a vast difference which side the mill 
 One expends on the paper his labor and skill ;) 
 So, when his soul waited a new transmigration, 
 And Destiny balanced 'twixt this and that station, 
 Not having much time to expend upon bothers, 
 Remembering he 'd had some connections with authors, 
 And considering his four legs had grown paralytic, 
 She set him on too, and he came forth a critic. 
 
 Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took 
 In any amusement but tearing a book ; 
 For him there was no intermediate stage, 
 From babyhood up to strait-laced middle age ; 
 There were years when he did n't wear coat-tails 
 
 behind, 
 
 But a boy he could never be rightly defined ; 
 Like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a 
 
 span, 
 
 From the womb he came gravely, a little old man ; 
 While other boys' trousers demanded the toil 
 Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, 
 Red, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy, 
 He sat in a corner and read Viri Romse. 
 He never was known to unbend or to revel once 
 In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil once ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 167 
 
 He was just one of those who excite the benevolence 
 Of old prigs who sound the soul's depths with a 
 
 ledger, 
 And are on the look out for some young men to 
 
 " edger- 
 
 -cate," as they call it, who won't be too costly, 
 And who '11 afterward take to the ministry mostly ; 
 Who always wear spectacles, always look bilious, 
 Always keep on good terms with each materfamilias 
 Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear 
 Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year ; 
 Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions, 
 Either preach through their noses, or go upon missions. 
 
 In this way our hero got safely to College, 
 Where he bolted alike both his commons and knowl 
 edge ; 
 
 A reading-machine, always wound up and going, 
 He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing, 
 Appeared in a gown, and a vest of black satin, . 
 To spout such a Gothic oration in Latin, 
 That Tully could never have made out a word in it, 
 (Though himself was the model the author preferred 
 
 in it,) 
 
 And grasping the parchment which gave him in fee, 
 All the mystic and so-forths contained in A. B., 
 He was launched (life is always compared to a sea,) 
 With just enough learning, and skill for the using it, 
 To prove he'd a brain, by forever confusing it. 
 So worthy Saint Benedict, piously burning 
 With the holiest zeal against secular learning, 
 Nesciensque scienter, as writers express it, 
 Indoctusque sapienter d Romd recessit.
 
 168 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 'T would be endless to tell you the things that he 
 
 knew, 
 
 All separate facts, undeniably true, 
 But with him or each other they 'd nothing to do ; 
 No power of combining, arranging, discerning, 
 Digested the masses he learned into learning ; 
 There was one thing in life he had practical knowledge 
 
 for, 
 (And, this you will think, he need scarce go to college 
 
 for,) 
 
 Not a deed would he do, not a word would he utter, 
 Till he'd weighed its relations to plain bread and 
 
 butter. 
 
 When he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits ' 
 In compiling the journals' historical bits, 
 Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, 
 Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers, 
 And cold spells, the c l^est for many past winters, 
 Then, rising by industry, knack, and address, 
 Got notices up for an unbiassed press, 
 With a mind so well poised, it seemed equally made for 
 Applause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for ; 
 From this point his progress was rapid and sure, 
 To the post of a regular heavy reviewer. 
 
 And here I must say, he wrote excellent articles 
 On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles, 
 They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for, 
 And nobody read that which nobody cared for ; 
 If any old book reached a fiftieth edition, 
 He could fill forty pages with safe erudition ; 
 He could gauge the old books by the old set of rules, 
 And his very old nothings pleased very old fools ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 169 
 
 But give him a new book, fresh out of the heart, 
 And you put him at sea without compass or chart, 
 His blunders aspired to the rank of an art ; 
 For his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew 
 
 in him, 
 
 Exhausting the sap of the native and true in him, 
 So that when a man came with a soul that was new in 
 
 him, 
 
 Carving new forms of truth out of Nature's old granite, 
 New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet, 
 Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must 
 
 create 
 
 In the soul of their critic the measure and weight, 
 Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace, 
 To compute their own judge, and assign him his place, 
 Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it, 
 And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it, 
 Without the least malice, his record would be 
 Profoundly aesthetic as that of a flea, 
 Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our 
 
 sakes, 
 
 Kecollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, 
 Or, borne by an Arab guide, ventured to render a 
 General view of the ruins at Denderah. 
 
 As I said, he was never precisely unkind, 
 The defect in his brain was mere absence of mind ; 
 If he boasted, J t was simply that he was self-made, 
 A position which I, for one, never gainsaid, 
 My respect for my Maker supposing a skill 
 In his works which our hero would answer but ill ; 
 And I trust that the mould which he used may be 
 cracked, or he,
 
 170 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Made bold by success, may make broad his phylactery, 
 And <set up a kind of a man-manufactory, 
 An event which I shudder to think about, seeing 
 That Man is a moral, accountable being. 
 
 He meant well enough, but was still in the way, 
 As a dunce always is, let him be where he may ; 
 Indeed, they appear to come into existence 
 To impede other folks with their awkward assistance ; 
 If you set up a dunce on the very North pole, 
 All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul, 
 He 'd manage to get betwixt somebody's shins, 
 And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins, 
 To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice, 
 All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice ; 
 Or, if he found nobody else there to pother, 
 Why, one of his legs would just trip up the other, 
 For there's nothing we read of in torture's inventions, 
 Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions. 
 
 A terrible fellow to meet in society, 
 Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea ; 
 There he 'd sit at the table and stir in his sugar, 
 Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a 
 
 cougar ; 
 
 Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights, 
 Of your time he 's as fond as an Arab of dates ; 
 You '11 be telling, perhaps, in your comical way, 
 Of something you've seen in the course of the day ; 
 And, just as you 're tapering out the conclusion, 
 You venture an ill-fated classic allusion, 
 The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack ! 
 The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 1ft 
 
 You had left out a comma, your Greek 'a put in joint, 
 And pointed at cost of your story's whole point. 
 In the course of the evening, you venture on certain 
 Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain ; 
 You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, 
 " And that, oh most charming of women, 's the sun 
 flower, 
 
 Which turns " here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, 
 From outside the curtain, says, " that 's all an error." 
 As for him, he's no matter, he never grew tender, 
 Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender, 
 Shaping somebody's sweet features out of cigar smoke, 
 (Though he 'd willingly grant yon that such doings are 
 
 smoke ;) 
 
 All women he damns with mutdbile semper, 
 And if ever he felt something like love's distemper, 
 'T was toward a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican, 
 And assisted her father in making a lexicon ; 
 Though I recollect hearing him get quite ferocious 
 About one Mary Clausum, the mistress of Grotius, 
 Or something of that sort, but, no more to bore ye. 
 With character-painting, I '11 turn to my story. 
 
 Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient'sometimes 
 To get his court clear of the makers of rhymes, 
 The genus, I think it is called, irritobile, 
 Every one of whom thinks himself treated most ihab- 
 
 bily, 
 
 And nurses a what is it ? immedicobiU, 
 Which keeps him at boiling-point, hot for a quarrtl, 
 As bitter as wormwood, and sourer than sorrel, 
 If any poor devil but looks at a laurel ; 
 Apollo, I say, being sick of their rioting,
 
 172 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 (Though he sometimes acknowledged their verse had a 
 
 quieting 
 
 Effect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a 
 Eetreat to the shrine of a tranquil siesta,) 
 Kept our Hero at hand, who, by means of a bray, 
 "Which he gave to the life, drove the rabble away ; 
 And if that would n't do, he was sure to succeed, 
 If he took his review out and offered to read ; 
 Or, failing in plans of this milder description, 
 He would ask for their aid to get up a subscription, 
 Considering that authorship was n't a rich craft, 
 To print the " American drama of Witchcraft." 
 " Stay, I '11 read you a scene," but he hardly began, 
 Ere Apollo shrieked " Help ! " and the authors all ran : 
 And once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit, 
 And the desperate case asked a remedy desperate, 
 He drew from his pocket a foolscap epistle, 
 As calmly as if 't were a nine-barrelled pistol, 
 And threatened them all with the judgment to come, 
 Of " A wandering Star's first impressions of Rome." 
 " Stop ! stop ! " with their hands o'er their ears 
 
 screamed the Muses, 
 
 " He may go off and murder himself, if he chooses, 
 'T was a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying, 
 'T is mere massacre now that the enemy 's flying ; 
 If he 's forced to 't again, and we happen to be there, 
 Give us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong 
 
 ether." 
 
 I called this a " Fable for Critics ;" you think it 's 
 More like a display of my rhythmical trinkets ; 
 My plot, like an icicle, 's slender and slippery, 
 Every moment more slender, and likely to slip awry,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 And the reader unwilling in loco desipere, 
 
 Is free to jump over as much of my frippery 
 
 As he fancies, and, if he 's a provident skipper, he 
 
 May have an Odyssean sway of the gales, 
 
 And get safe into port, ere his patience all fails ; 
 
 Moreover, although 't is a slender return 
 
 For your toil arid expense, yet my paper will burn, 
 
 And, if you have manfully struggled thus far with 
 
 me, 
 You may e'en twist me up, and just light your cigar 
 
 with me : 
 
 If too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces, 
 And my membra disjecta consign to the breezes, 
 A fate like great Katzau's, whom one of those bores, 
 Who beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze, 
 Describes, (the first verse somehow ends with victoire,) 
 As dispersant partout et ses membres et sa gloire ; 
 Or, if I were over-desirons of earniiig 
 A repute among noodles for classical learning, 
 I could pick you a score of allusions, I wis, 
 As new as the jests of Didaskalos tis ; 
 Better still, I could make out a good solid list 
 From recondite authors who do not exist, 
 But that would be naughty : at least, I could twist 
 Something out of Absyrtus, or turn your inquiries 
 After Milton's prose metaphor, drawn from Osiris ; 
 But, as Cicero says he won't say this or that, 
 (A fetch, I must say, most transparent and flat,) 
 After saying whate'er he could possibly think of, 
 I simply will state that I pause on the brink of 
 A mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate confusion, 
 Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion, 
 So, when you were thinking yourselves to be pitied,
 
 174 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Just conceive how much harder your teeth you 'd have 
 
 gritted, 
 An 't were not for the dulness I 've kindly omitted. 
 
 I 'd apologize here for my many digressions, 
 Were it not that I 'm certain to trip into fresh ones, 
 ('T is so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once ;) 
 Just reflect, if you please, how 't is said by Horatius, 
 That Maeonides nods now and then, and, my gracious ! 
 It certainly does look a little bit ominous 
 When he gets under way with ton d'apameibomenos. 
 (Here a something occurs which I'll just clap a rhyme to, 
 And say it myself, ere a Zoilus has time to, 
 Any author a nap like Van Winkle's may take, 
 If he only contrive to keep readers awake, 
 But he '11 very soon find himself laid on the shelf, 
 If they fall a nodding when he nods himself.) 
 
 Once for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I 
 When Phoebus expressed his desire for a lily, 
 Our hero, whose homoeopathic sagacity 
 With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity, 
 Set off for the garden as fast as the wind, 
 (Or, to take a comparison more to my mind, 
 As a sound politician leaves conscience behind,) 
 And leaped the low fence, as a party hack jumps 
 O'er his principles, when something else turns up 
 trumps. 
 
 He was gone a long time, and Apollo meanwhile, 
 Went over some sonnets of his with a file, 
 For of all compositions, he thought that the sonnet 
 Best repaid all the toil you expended upon it ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 175 
 
 It should reach with one impulse the end of its course, 
 
 And for one final blow collect all of its force ; 
 
 Not a verse should be salient, but each one should 
 
 tend 
 
 With a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the end ; 
 So, condensing the strength here, there smoothing a 
 wry kink, 
 
 He was killing the time, when up walked Mr. ; 
 
 At a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses', 
 Went dodging about, muttering " murderers ! asses ! " 
 From out of his pocket a paper he 'd take, 
 With the proud look of martyrdom tied to its stake, 
 And, reading a squib at himself, he 'd say, "Here I 
 
 see 
 
 'Gainst American letters a bloody conspiracy, 
 They are all by my personal enemies written ; 
 I must post an anonymous letter to Britain, 
 And show that this gall is the merest suggestion 
 Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright question, 
 For, on this side the water, 't is prudent to pull 
 O'er the eyes of the public their national wool, 
 By accusing of slavish respect to John Bull, 
 All American authors Avho have more or less 
 Of that anti- American humbug success,' 
 While in private we 're always embracing the knees 
 Of some twopenny editor over the seas, 
 And licking his critical shoes, for you know 't is 
 The whole aim of our lives to get one English ' no 
 tice ' ; 
 
 My American puffs I would willingly burn all, 
 (They 're all from one source, monthly, weekly, dinr- 
 
 nal) 
 To get but a kick from a transmarine journal ! "
 
 176 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 So, culling the gibes of each critical scorner 
 As if they were plums, and himself were Jack Homer, 
 He came cautiously on, peeping round every corner. 
 And into each hole where a weasel might pass in, 
 Expecting the knife of some critic assassin, 
 Who stabs to the heart with a caricature, 
 Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure, 
 Yet done with a dagger-o-type, whose vile portraits 
 Disperse all one's good, and condense all one's poor 
 traits. 
 
 Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching, 
 And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broach 
 ing, 
 
 " Good day, Mr. , I 'm happy to meet 
 
 With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, 
 
 Who through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman 
 
 carries, 
 
 What news from that suburb of London and Paris 
 Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize 
 The credit of being the New World's metropolis ? " 
 
 ' ( Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack 
 On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack, 
 Who thinks every national author a poor one, 
 That is n't a copy of something that 's foreign, 
 And assaults the American Dick 
 
 " Nay, 't is clear 
 
 That your Damon there 's fond of a flea in his ear, 
 And, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick 
 He would buy some himself, just to hear the old click ; 
 Why, I honestly think, if some fool in Japan
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Should turn up his nose at the 'Poems on Man/ 
 Your friend there by some inward instinct would know 
 
 it, 
 
 Would get it translated, reprinted, and show it ; 
 As a man might take off a high stock to exhibit 
 The autograph round his own neck of the gibbet, 
 Nor would let it rest so, but fire column after column, 
 Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn, 
 By way of displaying his critical crosses, 
 And tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis, 
 His broadsides resulting (and this there's no doubt of,) 
 In successively sinking the craft they 're fired out of. 
 Now nobody knows when an author is hit, 
 If he don't have a public hysterical fit ; 
 Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether, 
 And nobody 'd think of his critics or him either ; 
 If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, 
 Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him, 
 All the critics on earth cannot crush with their ban, 
 One word that 's in tune with the nature of man." 
 
 " Well, perhaps so ; meanwhile I have brought you a 
 
 book, 
 
 Into which if you '11 just have the goodness to look, 
 You may feel so delighted, whe.n yon have got through 
 
 it, 
 
 As to think it not unworth your while to review it, 
 And I think I can promise your thoughts, if you do, 
 A place in the next Democratic Keview." 
 
 " The most thankless of gods you must surely have 
 
 tho't me, 
 For this is the forty-fourth copy you 've brought me, 
 
 12
 
 178 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 I have given them away, or at least I have tried, 
 
 But I 've forty-two left, standing all side by side, 
 
 (The man who accepted that one copy, died,) 
 
 From one end of a shelf to the other they reach, 
 
 ' With the author's respects ' neatly written in each. 
 
 The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, 
 
 When he hears of that order the British Museum 
 
 Has sent for one set of what books were first printed 
 
 In America, little or big, for 'i is hinted 
 
 That this is the first truly tangible hope he 
 
 Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. 
 
 I' ve thought very often 't would be a good thing 
 
 In all public' collections of books, if a wing 
 
 Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry 
 
 lands, 
 
 Marked Literature suited to desolate islands, 
 And filled with such books as could never be read 
 Save by readers of proofs, forced to do it for 
 
 bread, 
 
 Such books as one's wrecked on in small country- 
 taverns, 
 
 Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns, 
 Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented, 
 As the climax of woe, would to Job have presented, 
 Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so 
 Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe ; 
 And since the philanthropists just now are banging 
 And gibbeting all who 're in favor of hanging, 
 (Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar 
 Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter, 
 And that vital religion would dull and grow callous, 
 Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the 
 gallowa,)
 
 FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 179 
 
 And folks are beginning to think it looks odd, 
 To choke & poor scamp for the glory of God ; 
 And that He who esteems the Virginia reel 
 A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, 
 And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery 
 Than crushing His African children with slavery, 
 Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion 
 Are mounted for hell on the Devil's own pillion, 
 Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, 
 Approaches the heart through the door of the 
 
 toes, 
 That He, I was saying, whose judgments are 
 
 stored 
 
 For such as take steps in despite of his word, 
 Should look with delight on the agonized prancing 
 Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his 
 
 dancing, 
 While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the 
 
 Psalter 
 
 About offering to God on his favorite halter, 
 And, when the legs droop from their twitching diver 
 gence, 
 
 Sells the clothes to the Jew, and the corpse to the sur 
 geons ; 
 
 Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you 
 
 all 
 
 To a criminal code both humane and effectual ; 
 I propose to shut up every doer of wrong 
 With these desperate books, for such terms, short 
 
 or long, 
 
 As by statute in such cases made and provided, 
 Shall be by your wise legislators decided
 
 180 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Thus : Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and 
 
 cooler, 
 
 At hard labor for life on the works of Miss ; 
 
 Petty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their 
 
 fears, 
 
 Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years, 
 That American Punch, like the English, no doubt 
 Just the sugar and lemons and spirit left out. 
 
 " But stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on 
 The flocks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds 
 
 on, 
 A loud cackling swarm, in whose feathers warm- 
 
 drest, 
 He goes for as perfect a swan, as the rest. 
 
 "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, 
 
 every one, 
 
 Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, 
 Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord 
 
 knows, 
 
 Is some of it pr No, 't is not even prose ; 
 
 I' m speaking of metres ; some poems have welled 
 From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been 
 
 excelled ; 
 
 They're not epics, but that does n't matter a pin, 
 In creating, the only hard thing 's to begin ; 
 A grass-blade 's no easier to make than an oak, 
 If you 've once found the way, you've achieved the 
 
 grand stroke ; 
 
 In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, 
 But thrown in a heap with a crush and a clatter ; 
 Now it is not one thing nor another alone
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 181 
 
 Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, 
 The something pervading, uniting the whole, 
 The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, 
 So that just in removing this trifle or that, you 
 Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue ; 
 Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, 
 But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a 
 tree. 
 
 " But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the 
 
 way, 
 
 I believe we left waiting,) his is, we may say, 
 A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range 
 Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange ; 
 He seems, to my thinking, (although I' m afraid 
 The comparison must, long ere this, have been 
 
 made,) 
 A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold 
 
 mist 
 
 And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl co-exist ; 
 All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he 's got 
 To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what ; 
 For though he builds glorious temples, 't is odd 
 He leaves never a doorway to get in a god. 
 'T is refreshing to old-fashioned people like me, 
 To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, 
 In whose mind all creation is duly respected 
 As parts of himself just a little projected ; 
 And who 's willing to worship the stars and the sun, 
 A convert to nothing but Emerson. 
 So perfect a balance there is in his head, 
 That he talks of things sometimes as if they were 
 
 dead ;
 
 182 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort, 
 
 He looks at as merely ideas ; in short, 
 
 As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, 
 
 Of such vast extent that our earth 's a mere dab in it ; 
 
 Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, 
 
 Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure 
 
 lecturer ; 
 
 Yon are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, 
 Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, 
 With the quiet precision of science he '11 sort 'em, 
 But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mor 
 tem. 
 
 " There are persons, mole-blind to the soul's make 
 and style, 
 
 Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and Carlyle ; 
 
 To compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer, 
 
 Carlyle 's the more burly, but E. is the rarer ; 
 
 He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, truelier, 
 
 If C. 's as original, E. 's more peculiar ; 
 
 That he 's more of a man you might say of the one, 
 
 Of the other he 's more of an Emerson ; 
 
 C. 's the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb, 
 
 E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim ; 
 
 The one's two-thirds Norseman, the other half Greek, 
 
 Where the one 's most abounding, the other 's to seek ; 
 
 C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass, 
 
 E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass ; 
 
 C. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues, 
 
 And rims common-sense things with mystical hues, 
 
 E. sits in a mystery calm and intense, 
 
 And looks coolly around him with sharp common- 
 sense ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 C. shows you how every-day matters unite 
 
 With the dim transdiurnal recesses of night, 
 
 While E., in a plain, preternatural way, 
 
 Makes mysteries matters of mere every day ; 
 
 C. draws all his characters quite a la Fuseli, 
 
 He don't sketch their bundles of muscles and thews 
 
 illy, 
 
 But he paints with a brush so untamed and profuse, 
 They seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews ; 
 E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe, 
 And a colorless outline, but full, round, and clear ; 
 To the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords 
 The design of a white marble statue in words. 
 C. labors to get at the centre, and then 
 Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men ; 
 E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted, 
 And, given himself, has whatever is wanted. 
 
 " He has imitators in scores, who omit 
 No part of the man but his wisdom and wit, 
 Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his brain, 
 And when he has skimmed it once, skim it again ; 
 If at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is 
 Because their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities, 
 As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute, 
 While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected within it. 
 
 " There comes , for instance ; to see him '& rare 
 
 sport, 
 
 Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short ; 
 How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in tha 
 
 face, 
 To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pac !
 
 184: A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, 
 
 His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. 
 
 Fie, for shame, brother bard ; with good fruit of your 
 
 own 
 
 Can't yon let neighbor Emerson's orchards alone ? 
 Besides, 't is no use, you '11 not find e'en a core, 
 
 has picked up all the windfalls before. 
 
 They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch 
 
 'em, 
 
 His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch 'em ; 
 When they send him a dishfull, and ask him to try 'em, 
 He never suspects how the sly rogues came by 'em ; 
 He wonders why 't is there are none such his trees on. 
 And thinks 'em the best he has tasted this season. 
 
 " Yonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott stalks in a dream, 
 And fancies himself in thy groves, Academe, 
 With the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o'er him, 
 And never a fact to perplex him or bore him, 
 With a snug room at Plato's, when night comes, to 
 
 walk to, 
 
 And people from morning till midnight to talk to, 
 And from midnight till morning, nor snore in their 
 
 listening ; 
 
 So he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening, 
 For his highest conceit of a happiest state is 
 Where they 'd live upon acorns, and hear him talk 
 
 gratis ; 
 
 And indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better 
 Each sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter ; 
 He seems piling words, but there 's royal dust hid 
 In the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid. 
 While he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 185 
 
 If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper ; 
 Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morning till night, 
 And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write ; 
 In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, 
 He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen. 
 
 " Close behind him is Brownson, his mouth very full 
 With attempting to gulp a Gregorian bull ; 
 Who contrives, spite of that, to pour out as he goes 
 A stream of transparent and forcible prose ; 
 He shifts quite about, then proceeds to expound 
 That 't is merely the earth, not himself, that turns 
 
 round, 
 
 And wishes it clearly impressed on your mind, 
 That the weather-cock rules and not follows the wind ; 
 Proving first, then as deftly confuting each side, 
 With no doctrine pleased that 's not somewhere denied, 
 He lays the denier away on the shelf, 
 And then down beside him lies gravely himself. 
 He 's the Salt River boatman, who always stands will 
 ing 
 
 To convey friend or foe without charging a shilling, 
 And so fond of a trip that, when leisure 's to spare, 
 He '11 row himself up, if he can't get a fare. 
 The worst of it is, that his logic 's so strong, 
 That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong ; 
 If there is only one, why, he '11 split it in two, 
 And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. 
 That white 's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep 
 
 fellow 
 
 To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow. 
 He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve, 
 When it reaches your lips there 's naught left to believe
 
 186 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 But a few silly- (syllo-, I mean,) -gisms that squat 'em 
 Like tadpoles, o'er joyed with the mud at the bottom. 
 
 " There is Willis, so natty and jaunty and gay, 
 Who says his best things in so foppish a way, 
 With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em, 
 That one hardly knows whether to thank him for say 
 ing 'em ; 
 
 Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose, 
 Just conceive of a muse with a ring in her nose ! 
 His prose had a natural grace of its own, 
 And enough of it, too, if he 'd let it alone ; 
 But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, 
 And is forced to forgive where he might have admired : 
 Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced, 
 It runs like a stream with a musical waste, 
 And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep ; 
 'T is not deep as a river, but who 'd have it deep ? 
 In a country where scarcely a village is found 
 That has not its author sublime and profound, 
 For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty, 
 And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. 
 His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error, 
 And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror. 
 'T is a narrowish strip, but it is not an artifice, 
 'T is the true out-of-doors with its genuine hearty phiz ; 
 It is Nature herself, and there 's something in that, 
 Since most brains reflect but the crown of a hat. 
 No volume I know to read under a tree, 
 More truly delicious than his A 1'Abri, 
 With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book, 
 Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook ; 
 With June coming softly your shoulder to look orer,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book aver, 
 And Nature to criticise still as you read, 
 The page that bears that is a rare one indeed. 
 
 " He's so innate a cockney, that had he been born 
 Where plain bare-skin 's the only full-dress that is 
 
 worn, 
 
 He 'd have given his own such an air that you M say 
 'T had been made by a tailor to lounge in Broadway. 
 His nature 's a glass of champagne with the foam on % 
 As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont ; 
 So his best things are done in the flush of the moment, 
 If he wait, all is spoiled ; he may stir it and shake it, 
 But the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it ; 
 He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness, 
 If he would not sometimes leave the r out of spright- 
 
 fulness ; 
 
 And he ought to let Scripture alone 't is self-slaughter, 
 For nobody likes inspiration and water. 
 He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, 
 Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the bar 
 maid, 
 
 His wit running up as Canary ran down, 
 The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town. 
 
 " Here comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a man 
 Whom the Church undertook to put under her ban, 
 (The Church of Socinus, I mean) his opinions 
 Being So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked the Socinians ; 
 They believed faith I'm puzzled I think I may call 
 Their belief a believing in nothing at all, 
 Or something of that sort ; I know they all went 
 For a general union of total dissent :
 
 188 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 He went a step farther ; without cough or hem, 
 He frankly avowed he believed not in them ; 
 And, before he could be jumbled up or prevented, 
 From their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented. 
 There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right 
 Of privately judging means simply that light 
 Has been granted to me, for deciding on you, 
 And, in happier times, before Atheism grew, 
 The deed contained clauses for cooking you, too. 
 Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot 
 With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and 
 
 Knut; 
 
 And we all entertain a sincere private notion, 
 That our Thus far ! will have a great weight with the 
 
 ocean. 
 
 *T was so with our liberal Christians : they bore 
 With sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore ; 
 They brandished their worn theological birches, 
 Bade natural progress keep out of the Churches, 
 And expected the lines they had drawn to prevail 
 With the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale ; 
 They had formerly dammed the Pontifical See, 
 And the same thing, they thought, would do nicely 
 
 for P. ; 
 But he turned up his nose at their murmuring and 
 
 shamming, 
 
 And cared (shall I say ?) not a d for their dam 
 ming ; 
 So they first read him out of their Church, and next 
 
 minute 
 
 Turned round and declared he had never been in it. 
 But the ban was too small or the man was too big, 
 For he recks not their bells, books, and candles a fig ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 (He don't look like a man who would stay treated 
 
 shabbily, 
 
 Sophroniscus' son's head o'er the features of Rab 
 elais ;) 
 
 He bangs and bethwacks them, their backs he salutes 
 With the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the roots ; 
 His sermons with satire are plenteously verjuiced, 
 And he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zer- 
 
 duscht 
 
 Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan, 
 Gush, Pitt (not the bottomless, that he 's no faith in), 
 Pan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur 
 
 Tonson, 
 
 Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson, 
 Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis, 
 Musaeus, Muretus, /* Scorpionis, 
 Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac Mac ah ! Machiavelli, 
 Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli, 
 Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O, 
 (Whom the great Sully speaks of,) TO nav, the great 
 
 toe 
 
 Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass 
 For that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass, 
 (You may add for yourselves, for I find it a bore, 
 All the names you have ever, or not, heard before, 
 And when you 've done that why, invent a few more.) 
 His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, 
 If in that day's discourse they ' 11 be Bibled or Koraned, 
 For he 's seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,) 
 That all men (not orthodox) may be inspired ; 
 Yet, though wisdom profane with his creed he may 
 
 weave in, 
 He makes it quite clear what he does n't believe in,
 
 190 A FABLE FOB THE CRITICS. 
 
 While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Corns 
 la a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, 
 Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb 
 Would be left, if we did n't keep carefully mum, 
 And, to make a clean breast, that 't is perfectly plain 
 That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane ; 
 Now P/s creed than this may be lighter or darker, 
 But in one thing, 't is clear, he has faith, namely 
 
 Parker ; 
 
 And this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher, 
 There 's a back-ground of god to each hard-working 
 
 feature, 
 
 Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced 
 In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest : 
 There he stands, looking more like a ploughman than 
 
 priest, 
 
 If not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least, 
 His gestures all downright and same, if you will, 
 As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill, 
 But his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke, 
 Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak, 
 You forget the man wholly, you 're thankful to meet 
 With a preacher who smacks of the field and the street, 
 And to hear, you 're not over-particular whence, 
 Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Latimer's eense. 
 
 " There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as digni 
 fied, 
 
 As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, 
 Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' nights 
 With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern 
 Lights.
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 191 
 
 He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your 
 
 nation, 
 (There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceola- 
 
 tion,) 
 
 Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, 
 But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, 
 He 's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on : 
 Unqualified merits, I '11 grant, if you choose, he has 
 
 'em, 
 
 But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm ; 
 If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, 
 Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. 
 
 "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter 
 
 2V0s, we don't want extra freezing in winter ; 
 
 Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, 
 
 When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. 
 
 But, deduct all yon can, there's enough that's right 
 good in him, 
 
 He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him ; 
 
 And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er 
 it is, 
 
 Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest chari 
 ties, 
 
 To you mortals that delve in this trade- rid den planet ? 
 
 No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and 
 granite. 
 
 If you 're one who in loco (add/oco here) desipis, 
 
 You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece ; 
 
 But you 'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice, 
 
 And would break the last seal of its inwardest foun 
 tain, 
 
 If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain.
 
 192 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, 
 Some scholar who 's hourly expecting his learning, 
 Calls B. the American Wordsworth ; but Wordsworth 
 Is worth near as much as your whole tuneful herd's 
 
 worth. 
 
 No, don't be absurd, he 'a an excellent Bryant ; 
 But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client, 
 By attempting to stretch him up into a giant : 
 If you choose to compare him, I think there are two 
 
 per- 
 
 -sons fit for a parallel Thomson and Cowper ; ' 
 I don't mean exactly, there's something of each, 
 There 's T.'s love of nature, C/s penchant to preach ; 
 Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice of craziness 
 Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn for laziness, 
 And it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet, 
 Whose internal police nips the buds of all riot, 
 A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on 
 The heart which strives vainly to burst off a button, 
 A brain which, without being slow or mechanic, 
 Does more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic ; 
 He 's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten, 
 And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has 
 
 written. 
 
 " But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your 
 
 ears, 
 
 Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers : 
 If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say 
 
 1 To demonstrate quickly and easily how per 
 versely absurd 't is to sound this name Cowper, 
 As people in general call him named super, 
 I just add that he rhymes it himself with horse-trooper,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 193 
 
 1'here is nothing in that which is grand, in its way ; 
 
 He is almost the one of your poets that knows 
 
 How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Ke- 
 
 pose ; 
 
 If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar 
 His thought's modest fulness by going too far ; 
 J T would be well if your authors should all make a 
 
 trial 
 
 Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial, 
 And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff, 
 Which teaches that all has less value than half. 
 
 " There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement 
 
 heart 
 
 Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, 
 And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect 
 Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect ; 
 There was ne'er a man born who had more of the 
 
 swing 
 
 Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing ; 
 And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know 
 
 it,) 
 From the very same cause that has made him a 
 
 poet, 
 
 A fervor of mind which knows no separation 
 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, 
 As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not know 
 ing 
 
 If 't were I or mere wind through her tripod was blow 
 ing ; 
 
 Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction 
 And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflec 
 tion, 
 '3
 
 194 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 While, borne with the rush of the meter along, 
 The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, 
 Content with the whirl and delirium of song ; 
 Then his grammar 's not always correct, nor his rhymes, 
 And he 's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, 
 Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white- 
 heats 
 When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer 
 
 beats, 
 
 And can ne'er be repeated again any more 
 Than they could have been carefully plotted before : 
 Like old what 's-his-name there at the battle of Hast 
 ings, 
 
 (Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bast 
 ings,) 
 
 Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights 
 For reform and whatever they call human rights, 
 Both singing and striking in front of the war 
 And hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor ; 
 Anne liaec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks, 
 Vestisfilii tui, 0, leather-clad Fox ? 
 Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, 
 Preaching brotherly love and ther. driving it in 
 To the brain of the tough old Goliath of sin, 
 With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring 
 Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling ? 
 
 " All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard 
 Who was true to The Voice when such service waa 
 
 hard, 
 
 Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave 
 When to look but a protest in silence was brave ; 
 All honor and praise to the women and men
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 195 
 
 Who spoke ont for the dumb and the down-trodden 
 
 then ! 
 
 I need not to name them, already for each 
 I see History preparing the statue and niche ; 
 They were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard 
 
 words 
 
 Who have beaten your pruning hooks up into swords, 
 Whose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain 
 By the reaping of men and of women than grain ? 
 Why should you stand aghast at their fierce wordy war, 
 
 if 
 
 You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff ? 
 Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day 
 
 long 
 
 Don't prove that the use of hard language is wrong ; 
 While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such 
 
 men 
 
 As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen, 
 While on Fourth-of -Julys beardless orators fright one 
 With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 
 You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers 
 Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of 
 
 others ; 
 
 No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true 
 Who, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few, 
 Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved, 
 But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved ! 
 
 " Here comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along, 
 Involved in a paulo-post-future of song, 
 Who '11 be going to write what '11 never be written 
 Till the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives him the 
 mitten,
 
 196 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Who is so well aware of how things should be done, 
 That his own works displease him before they'rt 
 
 begun, 
 
 Who so well all that makes up good poetry knows, 
 That the best of his poems is written in prose ; 
 All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting, 
 He was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating, 
 In a very grave question his soul was immersed, 
 Which foot in the stirrup he ought to put first ; 
 And, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on, 
 He, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton, 
 Whose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there, 
 You '11 allow only genius could hit upon either. 
 That he once was the Idle Man none will deplore, 
 But I fear he will never be any thing more ; 
 The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him, 
 The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o'er 
 
 him, 
 
 He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart, 
 He. has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart, 
 Yet he spends his whole life, like the man in the 
 
 fable, 
 In learning to swim on his library-table. 
 
 " There swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in 
 
 Maine 
 
 The sinews and chords of his pugilist brain, 
 Who might have been poet, but that, in its stead, 
 
 he 
 
 Preferred to believe that he was so already ; 
 Too hasty to wait till Art's ripe fruit should drop, 
 He must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop ; 
 Who took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 197 
 
 It required him to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it ; 
 A man who 's made less than he might have, because 
 He always has thought himself more than he was, 
 Who, with very good natural gifts as a bard, 
 Broke the strings of his lyre out by striking too hard, 
 And cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice, 
 Because song drew less instant attention than noise. 
 Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, 
 That he goes the farthest who goes far enough, 
 And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. 
 No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood ; 
 His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good ; 
 'T is the modest man ripens, 't is he that achieves, 
 Just what 's needed of sunshine and shade he receives ; 
 Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their 
 
 leaves ; 
 Neal wants balance ; he throws his mind always too 
 
 far, 
 
 And whisks out flocks of comets, but never a star ; 
 He has so much muscle, and loves so to show it, 
 That he strips himself naked to prove he 's a poet, 
 And, to show he could leap Art's wide ditch, if he 
 
 tried, 
 
 Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge t' other side. 
 He has strength, but there 's nothing about him in 
 
 keeping ; 
 
 One gets surelier onward by walking than leaping ; 
 He has used his own sinews himself to distress, 
 And had done vastly more had he done vastly less ; 
 In letters, too soon is as bad as too late, 
 Could he only have waited he might have been great, 
 But he plumped into Helicon up to the waist, 
 And muddied the stream ere he took his first taste.
 
 198 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 " There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and 
 
 rare 
 
 That you hardly at first see the strength that is there ; 
 A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, 
 So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, 
 Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet ; 
 'T is as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, 
 With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood, 
 Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, 
 With a single anemone trembly and rathe ; 
 His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek, 
 That a suitable parallel sets one to seek, 
 He 's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck ; 
 When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted 
 For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, 
 So, to fill out her model, a little she spared 
 From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared, 
 And she could not have hit a more excellent plan 
 For making him fully and perfectly man. 
 The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, 
 That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight ; 
 Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, 
 She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, 
 And found, when she 'd put the last touch to his soul, 
 That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. 
 
 " Here 's Cooper, who ? s written six volumes to show 
 He 's as good as a lord : well, let 's grant that he 's so , 
 If a person prefer that description of praise, 
 Why, a coronet 's certainty cheaper than bays ; 
 But he need take no pains to convince us he' & not 
 (As his enemies say) the American Scott. 
 Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 199 
 
 That one of his novels of which he 's most proud, 
 And I 'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting 
 Their box, they 'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. 
 He has drawn you one character, though, that is new, 
 One wildflower he 's plucked that is wet with the dew 
 Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to 
 
 mince, 
 
 He has done naught but copy it ill ever since ; 
 His Indians, with proper respect be it said, 
 Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, 
 And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, 
 Eigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, 
 (Though, once in a Coffin, a good chance was found 
 To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) 
 All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks, 
 The dernier chemise of a man in a fix, 
 (As a captain besieged, when his garrison ''s small, 
 Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o 'er the wall ;) 
 And the women he draws from one model don't vary, 
 All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. 
 When a character 's wanted, he goes to the task 
 As a cooper would do in composing a cask ; 
 He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, 
 Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, 
 And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he 
 Has made at the most something wooden and empty. 
 
 " Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities, 
 If I thought you 'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease ; 
 The men who have given to one character life 
 And objective existence, are not very rife, 
 You may number them all, both prose-writers and 
 singers,
 
 200 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, 
 And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker 
 Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. 
 
 " There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that 
 
 is 
 
 That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis ; 
 Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, 
 He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. 
 Now he may overcharge his American pictures, 
 But you '11 grant there 's a good deal of truth in his 
 
 strictures ; 
 
 And I honor the man who is willing to sink 
 Half his present repute for the freedom to think, 
 And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or 
 
 weak, 
 
 Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak, 
 Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in 
 
 store, 
 Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. 
 
 " There are truths you Americans need to be told, 
 And it never '11 refute them to swagger and scold ; 
 John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler 
 At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar ; 
 But to scorn such i-dollar-try 's what very few do, 
 And John goes to that church as often as you do. 
 No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, 
 'T is enough to go quietly on and outgrow him ; 
 Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number One 
 Displacing himself in the mind of his son, 
 And detests the same faults in himself he 'd neglected 
 When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 201 
 
 To love one another you 're too likely by half, 
 If he is a bull, you 're a pretty stout calf, 
 And tear your own pasture for naught but to show 
 What a nice pair of horns you 're beginning to grow. 
 
 " There are one or two things I should just like to 
 
 hint, 
 
 For you don't often get the truth told you in print ; 
 The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) 
 Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders ; 
 Though you ought to be free as the winds and the 
 
 waves, 
 
 You 've the gait and the manners of runaway slaves ; 
 Tho' you brag of your New World, you don't half 
 
 believe in it, 
 
 And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it ; 
 Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl, 
 With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl, 
 With eyes bold as Here's, and hair floating free, 
 And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, 
 Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing, 
 Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing, 
 Who can drive home the cows with a song through the 
 
 Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass, 
 Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe 
 
 waist, 
 
 And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste ; 
 She loses her fresh country charm when she takes 
 Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. 
 
 " You steal Englishmen's books and think English 
 men's thought, 
 With their salt on her tail your wild eagle is caught ;
 
 202 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 5four literature suits its each whisper and motion 
 
 To what will be thought of it over the ocean ; 
 
 The cast clothes of Europe your statesmanship tries 
 
 And mumbles again the old blarneys and lies ; 
 
 Forget Europe wholly, your veins throb with blood 
 
 To which the dull current in hers is but mud ; 
 
 Let her sneer, let her say your experiment fails, 
 
 In her voice there 's a tremble e'en now while she rails 
 
 And your shore will soon be in the nature of things 
 
 Covered thick with gilt driftwood of runaway kings, 
 
 Where alone, as it were in a Longfellow's Waif, 
 
 Her fugitive pieces will find themselves safe. 
 
 0, my friends, thank your God, if you have one, that he 
 
 'Tvvixt the Old World and you set the gulf of a sea ; 
 
 Be strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines, 
 
 By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs, 
 
 Be true to yourselves and this new nineteenth age, 
 
 As a statue by Powers, or a picture by Page, 
 
 Plough, dig, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, make all 
 
 things new, 
 
 To your own New- World instincts contrive to be true, 
 Keep your ears open wide to the Future's first call, 
 Be whatever you will, but yourselves first of all, 
 Stand fronting the dawn on Toil's heaven-scaling peaks, 
 And become my new race of more practical Greeks. 
 Hem ! your likeness at present, I shudder to tell o' 't, 
 Is that you have your slaves, and the Greek had his 
 
 helot." 
 
 Here a gentleman present, who had in his attic 
 More pepper than brains, shrieked " The man '* a 
 
 fanatic, 
 I'm a, capital tailor with warm tar and feathers,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 203 
 
 And will make him a suit that '11 serve in all weathers ; 
 But we '11 argue the point first, I'm willing to 
 
 reason 't, 
 
 Palaver before condemnation 's but decent, 
 So, through my humble person, Humanity begs 
 Of the friends of true freedom a loan of bad eggs." 
 But Apollo let one such a look of his show forth 
 As when ijis vuxrt loua>s, and so forth, 
 And the gentleman somehow slunk out of the way, 
 But, as he was going, gained courage to say, 
 '' At slavery in the abstract my whole soul rebels, 
 I am as strongly opposed to 't as any one else." 
 "Ay, no doubt, but whenever I've happened to meet 
 With a wrong or a crime, it is always concrete," 
 Answered Phoebus severely ; then turning to us, 
 " The mistakes of such fellows as just made the fuss 
 Is only in taking a great busy nation 
 For a part of their pitiful cotton-plantation. 
 But there comes Miranda, Zeus ! where shall I flee to ? 
 She has such a penchant for bothering me too ! 
 She always keeps asking if I don't observe a 
 Particular likeness 'twixt her and Minerva : 
 She tells me my efforts in verse are quite clever ; 
 She 's been travelling now, and will be worse than ever ; 
 One would think, though, a sharp-sighted noter she'd 
 
 be 
 
 Of all that 's worth mentioning over the sea, 
 For a woman must surely see well, if she try, 
 The whole of whose being 's a capital I : 
 She will take an old notion and make it her own 
 By saying it o'er in her Sybilline tone, 
 Or persuade you 't is something tremendously deep, 
 By repeating it so as to put you to sleep j
 
 204 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 And she well may defy any mortal to see through it, 
 When once she has mixed up her infinite me through 
 
 'it. 
 
 There is one thing she owns in her own single right, 
 It is native and genuine namely, her spite : 
 Though, when acting as censor, she privately blows 
 A censor of vanity 'neath her own nose. " 
 
 Here Miranda came up, and said, " Phoebus ! you 
 
 know 
 
 That the infinite Soul has its infinite woe, 
 As I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl, 
 Since the day I was born, with the Infinite Soul ; 
 I myself introduced, I myself, I alone, 
 To my Laud's better life authors solely my own, 
 Who the sad heart of earth on their shoulders have 
 
 taken, 
 
 Whose works sound a depth by Life's quiet unshaken, 
 Such as Shakspeare, for instance, the Bible, and 
 
 Bacon, 
 
 Not to mention my own works ; Time's nadir is fleet, 
 And, as for myself, I 'm quite out of conceit, "- 
 
 " Quite out of conceit ! I 'm enchanted to hear it." 
 Cried Apollo aside, " Who 'd have thought she was 
 
 near it ? 
 
 To be sure one is apt to exhaust those commodities 
 He uses too fast, yet in this case as odd it is 
 As if Neptune should say to his turbots and whitings, 
 ' I 'm as much out of salt as Miranda's own writings,' 
 (Which, as she in her own happy manner has said, 
 Sound a depth, for 't is one of the functions of lead.) 
 She often has asked me if I could not find
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 205 
 
 A place somewhere near me that suited her mind ; 
 I know but a single one vacant, which she, 
 With her rare talent that way, would fit to a T. 
 And it would not imply any pause of cessation 
 In the work she esteems her peculiar vocation, 
 She may enter on duty to-day, if she chooses, 
 And remain Tiring-woman for life to the Muses/' 
 
 (Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving 
 Up into a corner, in spite of their striving, 
 A small flock of terrified victims, and there, 
 With an I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Universe air 
 And a tone which, at least to my fancy, appears 
 Not so much to be entering as boxing your ears, 
 Is unfolding a tale (of herself, I surmise, 
 For 't is dotted as thick as a peacock's with Fs.) 
 Apropos of Miranda, I '11 rest on my oars 
 And drift through a trifling digression on bores, 
 For, though not wearing ear-rings in more majorum, 
 Our ears are kept bored just as if we still wore 'em. 
 There was one feudal custom worth keeping, at least, 
 Boasted bores made a part of each well-ordered feast, 
 And of all quiet pleasures the very ne plus 
 Was in hunting wild bores as the tame ones hunt us. 
 ArchaBologians, I know, who have personal fears 
 Of this wise application of hounds and of spears, 
 Have tried to make out, with a zeal more than 
 
 wonted, 
 
 'T was a kind of wild swine that our ancestors hunted ; 
 But I '11 never believe that the age which has strewn 
 Europe o'er with cathedrals, and otherwise shown 
 That it knew what was what, could by chance not 
 have known.
 
 206 FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 (Spending, too, its chief time with its buff on, no 
 
 doubt,) 
 
 Which beast 't would improve the world most to thin out, 
 I divide bores myself, in the manner of rifles, 
 Into two great divisions, regardless of trifles ; 
 There 's your smooth-bore and screw-bore, who do not 
 
 much vary 
 
 In the weight of cold lead they respectively carry. 
 The smooth-bore is one in whose essence the mind 
 Not a corner nor cranny to cling by can find ; 
 You feel as in nightmares sometimes, when you slip 
 Down a steep slated roof where there's nothing to grip, 
 You slide and you slide, the blank horror increases, 
 You had rather by far be at once smashed to pieces, 
 You fancy a whirlpool below white and frothing, 
 And finally drop off and light upon nothing. 
 The screw-bore has twists in him, faiub predilections 
 For going just wrong in the tritest directions ; 
 When he '& wrong he is flat, when he 's right he can't 
 
 show it, 
 
 He '11 tell you what Snooks said about the new poet, 1 
 Or how Fogrum was outraged by Tennyson's Princess ; 
 He has spent all his spare time and intellect since his 
 Birth in pernsing, on each art and science, 
 Just the books in which no one puts any reliance, 
 And though nemo, we 're told, horis omnibus sapit, 
 The rule will not fit him, however you shape it, 
 For he has a perennial foison of sappiness ; 
 He has just enough force to spoil half your day's hap 
 piness, 
 
 * If you call Snooks an owl, he will show by his looks 
 That he ' morally certain you 're jealous of Snooks.)
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 307 
 
 And to make him a sort of mosquito to be with, 
 But just not enough to dispute or agree with. 
 
 These sketches I made (not to be too explicit) 
 From two honest fellows who made me a visit, 
 And broke, like the tale of the Bear and the Fiddle, 
 My reflections on Halleck short off by the middle ; 
 I shall not now go into the subject more deeply, 
 For I notice that some of my readers look sleeply, 
 I will barely remark that, Amongst civilized nations, 
 There 's none that displays more exemplary patience 
 Under all sorts of boring, at all sorts of hours, 
 From all sorts of desperate persons, than ours. 
 Not to speak of our papers, our state legislatures, 
 And other such trials for sensitive natures, 
 Just look for a moment at Congress, appalled, 
 My fancy shrinks back from the phantom it called ; 
 Why, there 's scarcely a member unworthy to frown 
 'Neath what Fourier nicknames the Boreal crown ; 
 Only think what that infinite bore-pow'r could do 
 If applied with a utilitarian view ; 
 Suppose, for example, we shipped it with care 
 To Sahara's great desert and let it bore there, 
 If they held one short session and did nothing else, 
 They 'd fill the whole waste with Artesian wells. 
 But 't is time now with pen phonographic to follow 
 Through some more of his sketches our laughing 
 Apollo : 
 
 " There comes Harry Franco, and, as he draws near, 
 You find that 's a smile which you took for a sneer ; 
 One half of him contradicts t' other, his wont 
 Is to say very sharp things and do very blunt ;
 
 208 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 His inaimer 's as hard as his feelings are tender, 
 And a sortie he '11 make when he means to surrender ; 
 He 's in joke half the time when he seems to be 
 
 sternest, 
 
 When he seems to be joking, be sure he 's in earnest ; 
 He has common sense in a way that 's uncommon, 
 Hates humbug and cant, loves his friends like a 
 
 woman, 
 
 Builds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak, 
 Loves a prejudice better than aught but a joke, 
 Is half upright Quaker, half downright Gome-outer, 
 Loves freedom too well to go stark mad about her, 
 Quite artless himself is a lover of Art, 
 Shuts you out of his secrets and into his heart, 
 And though not a poet, yet all must admire 
 In his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar. 
 
 " There comes Poe with his raven, like Barnaby 
 
 Rudge, 
 
 Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, 
 Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, 
 In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, 
 Who has written some things quite the best of their 
 
 kind 
 But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the 
 
 mind, 
 
 Who but hey-day ! What 's this ? Messieurs Mat 
 thews and Poe, 
 
 You must n't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, 
 Does it make a man worse that his character 's such 
 As to make his friends love him (as you think) too 
 
 much ? 
 Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 200 
 
 More willing than he that his fellows should thrive ; 
 
 While you are abusing him thus, even now 
 
 He would help either one of you out of a slough ; 
 
 You may say that he 's smooth and all that till you 're 
 
 hoarse, 
 
 But remember that elegance also is force ; 
 After polishing granite as much as you will, 
 The heart keeps its tough old persistency still ; 
 Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, 
 Why, he '11 live till men weary of Collins and Gray ; 
 I 'm not over-fond of Greek metres in English, 
 To me rhyme 's a gain, so it be not too jinglish, 
 And your modern hexameter verses are no more 
 Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer ; 
 As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is, 
 So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes ; 
 I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o' 't is 
 That I 've heard the old blind man recite his own 
 
 rhapsodies, 
 
 And my ear with that music impregnate may be, 
 Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea, 
 Or as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven 
 To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven ; 
 But, set that aside, and 't is truth that I speak, 
 Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, 
 I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change 
 
 a line 
 
 In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. 
 That 's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart 
 Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, 
 'T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and 
 
 strife 
 
 As quiet and chaste as the author's own life. 
 4
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 " There comes Philothea, her face all aglow, 
 She has just been dividing some poor creature's woe, 
 And can't tell which pleases her most, to relieve 
 His want, or his story to hear and believe ; 
 No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails, 
 For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales ; 
 She knows well that silence is sorrow's best food, 
 And that talking draws off from the heart its black 
 
 blood, 
 
 So she '11 listen with patience and let you unfold 
 Your bundle of rags as 't were pure cloth of gold, 
 Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she's touched it, 
 And, (to borrow a phrase from the nursery,) muched it, 
 She has such a musical taste, she will go 
 Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow ; 
 She will swallow a wonder by mere might and main 
 And thinks it geometry's fault if she's fain 
 To consider things flat, inasmuch as they're plain ; 
 Facts with her are accomplished, as Frenchmen would 
 
 say, 
 
 They will prove all she wishes them to either way, 
 And, as fact lies on this side or that, we must try, 
 If we're seeking the truth, to find where it don't lie ; 
 I was telling her once of a marvellous aloe 
 That for thousands of years had looked spindling and 
 
 sallow, 
 
 And, though nursed by the fruitfullest powers of mud, 
 Had never vouchsafed e'en so much as a bud, 
 Till its owner remarked as a sailor, you know, 
 Often will in a calm, that it never would blow, 
 For he wished to exhibit the plant, and designed 
 That its blowing should help him in raising the wind ; 
 At last it was told him that if he should water
 
 A. FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Its roots with the Wood of his unmarried daughter, 
 
 (Who was born, as her mother, a Calvinist said, 
 
 With a Baxter's effectual call on her head,) 
 
 It would blow as the obstinate breeze did when by a 
 
 Like decree of her father died Iphigenia ; 
 
 At first he declared he himself would be blowed 
 
 Ere his conscience with such a foul crime he would load 
 
 But the thought, coming oft, grew less dark than 
 
 before, 
 
 And he mused, as each creditor knocked at his door, 
 If this were but done they would dun me no more ; 
 I told Philothea his struggles and doubts, 
 And how he considered the ins and the outs 
 Of the visions he had, and the dreadful dyspepsy, 
 How he went to the seer that lives at Po'keepsie, 
 How the seer advised him to sleep on it first 
 And to read his big volume in case of the worst, 
 And further advised he should pay him five dollars 
 For writing |3wm, |Shtm, on his wristbands and collars ; 
 Three years and ten days these dark words he had studied 
 When the daughter was missed,and the aloe had budded ; 
 I told how he watched it grow large and more large, 
 And wondered how much for the show he should charge, 
 She had listened with utter indifference to this, till 
 I told how it bloomed, and discharging its pistil 
 With an aim the Eumeuides dictated, shot 
 The botanical filicide dead on the spot ; 
 It had blown;, but he reaped not his horrible gains, 
 For it blew with such force as to blow out his brains, 
 And the crime was blown also, because on the wad. 
 Which was paper, was writ ' Visitation of God/ 
 As well as a thrilling account of the deed 
 Which the coroner kindly allowed me to read.
 
 212 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 " Well, my friend took this story up just, to be sure, 
 Ai one might a poor foundling that 's laid at one's door 
 She combed it and washed it and clothed it and fed it, 
 And as if 't were her own child most tenderly bred it, 
 Laid the scene (of the legend, I mean,) faraway a- 
 -mong the green vales underneath Himalaya. 
 And by artist-like touches, laid on here and there, 
 Made the whole thing so touching, I frankly declare 
 I have read it all thrice, and, perhaps I am weak, 
 But I found every time there were tears on my cheek. 
 
 " The pole, science tells us, the magnet controls, 
 But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, 
 And folks with a mission that nobody knows, 
 Throng thickly about her as bees round a rose ; 
 She can fill up the carets in such, make their scope 
 Converge to some focus of rational hope, 
 And, with sympathies fresh as the morning, their 
 
 gall 
 
 Can transmute into honey, but this is not all ; 
 Not only for those she has solace, oh, say, 
 Vice's desperate nursling adrift in Broadway, 
 Who clingest, with all that is left of thee human, 
 To the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman, 
 Hast thou not found one shore where those tired droop 
 ing feet 
 Could reach firm mother-earth, one full heart on whose 
 
 beat 
 
 The soothed head in silence reposing could hear 
 The chimes of far childhood throb thick on the ear ? 
 Ah, there 's many a beam from the fountain of day 
 That to reach us unclouded, mast pass, on its way, 
 Through the soul of a woman, and hers is wide op
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 213 
 
 To the influence of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope ; 
 
 Yes, a great soul is hers, one that dares to go in 
 
 To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin, 
 
 And to bring into each, or to find there, some line 
 
 Of the never completely out-trampled divine ; 
 
 If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and 
 
 then, 
 
 'T is but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen, 
 As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain 
 Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain ! 
 What a wealth would it bring to the narrow and sour 
 Could they be as a Child but for one little hour ! 
 
 " What ! Irving ? thrice welcome, warm heart and 
 
 fine brain, 
 
 You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 
 And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there 
 Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair ; 
 Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, 
 I sha'n't run directly against my own preaching, 
 And, having just laughed at their Kaphaels and 
 
 Dantes, 
 
 Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes ; 
 But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, 
 To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, 
 Throw in all of Addison, mimes the chill, 
 With the whole of that partnership's stock and good 
 
 will, 
 
 Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, 
 The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, 
 Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain, 
 That only the finest and clearest remain, 
 Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives
 
 214: A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green 
 leaves, 
 
 And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserv 
 ing 
 
 A name either English or Yankee, just Irving. 
 
 "There goes, but stet nominis umbra, his name 
 Yon '11 be glad enough, some day or other, to claim, 
 And will all crowd about him and swear that you knew 
 
 him 
 If some English hack-critic should chance to review 
 
 him ; 
 
 The old porcos ante ne projiciatis 
 MARGARITAS, for him you have verified gratis ; 
 What matters his name ? Why, it may be Sylvester, 
 Judd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or Nestor, 
 For aught / know or care ; J t is enough that I look 
 On the author of ' Margaret/ the first Yankee book 
 With the soul of Down East in 't, and things farther 
 
 East, 
 
 As far as the threshold of morning, at least, 
 Where awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true, 
 Of the day that comes slowly to make all things new. 
 'T has a smack of pine woods, of bare field and bleak 
 
 hill 
 
 Such as only the breed of the Mayflower could till. 
 The Puritan 's shown in it, tough to the core, 
 Such as prayed, smiting Agag on red Mars ton moor ; 
 With an unwilling humor, half-choked by the drouth 
 In brown hollows about the inhospitable mouth ; 
 With a soul full of poetry, though it has qualms 
 About finding a happiness out of the Psalms ; 
 Full of tenderness, too, though it shrinks in the dark,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 215 
 
 Hamadryad-like, under the coarse, shaggy bark ; 
 That sees visions, knows wrestlings of God with the 
 
 Will, 
 And has its own Sinais and thnnderings still/' 
 
 Here, " Forgive me, Apollo/' I cried, " while I 
 
 pour 
 My heart out to my birth-place : 0, loved more and 
 
 more 
 
 Dear Baystate, from whose rocky bosom thy sons 
 Should suck milk, strong-will-giving, brave such as 
 
 runs 
 
 In the veins of old Graylock, who is it that dares 
 Call thee pedler, a soul wrapt in bank-books and shares ? 
 It is false ! She's a Poet ! I see, as I write, 
 Along the far railroad the steam -snake glide white, 
 The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear, 
 The swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear, 
 Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw screams, 
 Blocks swing up to their place, beetles drive home the 
 
 beams : 
 
 It is songs such as these that she croons to the din 
 Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in, 
 While from earth's farthest corner there comes not a 
 
 breeze 
 
 But wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning bees : 
 What though those horn hands have as yet found small 
 
 time 
 
 For painting and sculpture and music and rhyme ? 
 These will come in due order, the need that pressed 
 
 sorest 
 
 Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest, 
 To bridle and harness the rivers, the steam,
 
 216 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her 
 
 team, 
 
 To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make 
 Him delve surlily for her on river and lako ; 
 When this New World was parted, she strove not to 
 
 shirk 
 
 Her lot in the heirdom, the tongh, silent Work, 
 The hero-share ever, from Herakles down 
 To Odin, the Earth's iron sceptre and crown ; 
 Yes, thou dear, noble Mother ! if ever men's praise 
 Could be claimed for creating heroical lays, 
 Thou hast won it ; if ever the laurel divine 
 Crowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is thine ! 
 Thy songs are right epic, they tell how this rude 
 Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed and subdued ; 
 Thou hast written them plain on the face of the 
 
 planet 
 
 In brave, deathless letters of iron and granite ; 
 Thou hast printed them deep for all time ; they are 
 
 set 
 
 From the same runic type-fount and alphabet 
 With thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy 
 
 Bay,- 
 
 They are staves from the burly old Mayflower lay. 
 If the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease, 
 Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to these, 
 Or, if they deny these are Letters and Art, 
 Toil on with the same old invincible heart ; 
 Thou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and grand 
 Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand, 
 And creating, through labors undaunted and long, 
 The true theme for all Sculpture and Painting and 
 
 Song !
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 217 
 
 " But my good mother Baystate wants no praise of 
 
 mine, 
 
 She learned from her mother a precept divine 
 About something that butters no parsnips, her forte 
 In another direction lies, work is her sport, 
 (Though she '11 curtsey and set her cap straight, that 
 
 she will, 
 
 If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's hill.) 
 The dear, notable goodwife ! by this time of night, 
 Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning bright, 
 And she sits in a chair (of home plan and make) rock 
 ing, 
 
 Musing much, all the while, as she darns on a stock 
 ing. 
 
 Whether turkeys will come pretty high next Thanks 
 giving, 
 Whether flour 11 be so dear, for as sure as she 's 
 
 living, 
 
 She will use rye-and-injun then, whether the pig 
 By this time ain't got pretty tolerable big, 
 And whether to sell it outright will be best. 
 Or to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the 
 
 rest, 
 
 At this minute, she'd swop all my verses, ah, cruel ! 
 For the last patent stove that is saving of fuel ; 
 So I'll just let Apollo go on, for his phiz 
 Shows I've kept him awaiting too long as it is." 
 
 " If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is 
 
 through 
 
 With his burst of emotion, our theme we '11 pursue/' 
 Said Apollo : some smiled, and, indeed, I must own 
 There was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone ;
 
 218 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 " There '& Holmes, who is matchless among you for 
 
 wit ; 
 
 A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit 
 The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; 
 In long poems J t is painful sometimes and invites 
 A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, 
 Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully 
 As if you got more than you 'd title to rightfully, 
 And if it were hoping its wild father Lightning 
 Would flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning. 
 He has perfect sway of what 7 call a sham metre. 
 But many admire it, the English hexameter, 
 And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, - 
 With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, 
 Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise 
 As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. 
 You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon ; 
 Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, 
 Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes, 
 He could ne'er react the best point and vigor of 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric 
 Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric 
 In so kindly a measure, that nobody knows 
 What to do but e'en join in the laugh, friends and foes. 
 
 " There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to climb 
 With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, 
 He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, 
 But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, 
 The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preach 
 ing ;
 
 A FABLE FOE THE CRITICS. 219 
 
 His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, 
 But he 'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, 
 And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem, 
 At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. 
 
 " There goes Halleck whose Fanny 's a psendo Don 
 
 Juan, 
 
 With the wickedness out that gave salt to the true one, 
 He 's a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order, 
 And once made a pun on the words soft Eecorder ; 
 More than this, he 's a very great poet, I 'm told, 
 And has had his works published in crimson and gold, 
 With something they call ' Illustrations/ to wit, 
 Like those with which Chapman obscured Holy Writ, 1 
 Which are said to illustrate, bec'ause, as I view it, 
 Like lucus a non, they precisely don't do it ; 
 Let a man who can write what himself understands 
 Keep clear, if he can, of designing men's hands, 
 Who bury the sense, if there 's any worth having, 
 And then very honestly call it engraving. 
 But, to quit badinage, which there is n't much wit in, 
 No doubt Halleck 's better than all he has written ; 
 In his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently find, 
 If not of a great, of a fortunate mind, 
 Which contrives to be true to its natural loves 
 In a world of back-offices, ledgers and stoves. 
 When his heart breaks away from the brokers and banks, 
 And kneels in its own private shrine to give thanks, 
 There 's a genial manliness in him that earns 
 Our sincerest respect, (read, for instance, his " Burns ") 
 And we can't but regret (seek excuse where we may) 
 That so much of a man has been peddled away. 
 
 ^Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must, admit.)
 
 220 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 " But what 's that ? a mass-meeting ? No, thera 
 
 come in lots 
 
 The American Disraelis, Bulvvers, and Scotts, 
 And in short the American everything-elses, 
 Each charging the others with envies and jealousies ; 
 By the way, 't is a fact that displays what profusions 
 Of all kinds of greatness bless free institutions, 
 That while the Old World has produced barely eight 
 Of such poets as all men agree to call great, 
 And of other great characters hardly a score, 
 (One might safely say less than that rather than more.) 
 With you every year a whole crop is begotten, 
 They 're as much of a staple as corn, or as cotton ; 
 Why, there's scarcely a huddle of log-huts and shanties 
 That has not brought forth its own Miltons and Dantes ; 
 I myself know ten Byrons, one Coleridge, three Shelleys, 
 Two Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) one Apelles, 
 Leonardos and Rubenses plenty as lichens, 
 One (but that one is plenty) American Dickens, 
 A whole flock of Lambs, any number of Tennysons, 
 In short, if a man has the luck to have any sons, 
 He may feel pretty certain that one out of twain 
 Will be some very great person over again. 
 There is one inconvenience in all this which lies 
 In the fact that by contrast we estimate size, 1 
 And, when there are none except Titans, great stature 
 Is only a simple proceeding of nature. 
 What puff the strained sails of your praise shall yo 
 
 furl at, if 
 
 1 That is in most cases we do, but not all, 
 Past a doubt, there are men who are innately small, 
 Such as Blank, who, without being 'minished a tittle, 
 Might stand for a type of the Absolute Little.
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 221 
 
 The calmest degree that yon know is superlative ? 
 At Rome, all whom Charon took into his wherry must, 
 As a matter of course, be well issimused. and errimused., 
 A Greek, too, could feel, while in that famous boat he 
 
 tost, 
 That his friends would take care lie was temped and 
 
 And formerly we, as through grave-yards we past, 
 Thought the world went from bad to worse fearfully 
 
 fast; 
 Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the 
 
 pains, 
 
 And note what an average grave-yard contains ; 
 There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, 
 There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, 
 Horizontally there lie upright politicians, 
 Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless phy 
 
 sicians, 
 
 There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, 
 There book-binders, done up in boards, are fast 
 
 bound, 
 
 There card-players wait till the last trump be played, 
 There all the choice spirits get finally laid, 
 There the babe that 's unborn is supplied with a 
 
 berth, 
 
 There men without legs get their six feet of earth, 
 There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, 
 There seekers of office are sure of a place, 
 There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, 
 There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, 
 There brokers at length become silent as stocks, 
 There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, 
 And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on,
 
 222 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on ; 
 
 To come to the point, I may safely assert you 
 
 Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue ; ' 
 
 Each has six truest patriots : four discoverers of 
 
 ether, 
 Who never had thought on 't nor mentioned it 
 
 either : 
 
 Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme : 
 Two hundred and forty first men of their time : 
 One person whose portrait just gave the least hint 
 Its original had a most horrible squint : 
 One critic, most (what do they call it ?) reflective, 
 Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective : 
 Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred 
 Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head, 
 And their daughters for faugh ! thirty mothers of 
 
 Gracchi : 
 
 Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye : 
 Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a 
 
 jailor : 
 
 Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor : 
 Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot us his 
 Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses, 
 Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,* 
 Mount serenely their country's funereal pile : 
 Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers 
 'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars, 
 Who shake their dread fists o'er the sea and all 
 
 that, 
 
 1 (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, 
 
 That the goodness of earth is more dead than alire.) 
 
 2 Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, th 
 
 while.
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 223 
 
 As long as a copper drops into the hat : 
 Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark 
 From Vaterland's battles just won in the Park, 
 Who the happy profession of martyrdom take 
 Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak : 
 Sixty-two second Washingtons : two or three Jacksons : 
 And so many everythings else that it racks one's 
 Poor memory too much to continue the list, 
 Especially now they no longer exist ; 
 I would merely observe that you 've taken to giving 
 The puffs that belong to the dead to the living, 
 And that somehow your trump-of -contemporary-doom's 
 
 tones 
 Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones." 
 
 Here the critic came in and a thistle presented * 
 From a frown to a smile the god's features relented, 
 As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride, 
 To the god's asking look, nothing daunted, replied, 
 "You 're surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long, 
 But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong ; 
 I hunted the garden from one end to t' other, 
 And got no reward but vexation and bother, 
 Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither, 
 This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither." 
 
 " Did he think I had given him a book to review ? 
 I ought to have known what the fellow would do," 
 Muttered Phoebus aside, "for a thistle will pass 
 Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass ; 
 He has chosen in just the same way as he 'd choose 
 
 1 Turn back now to page goodness only knows what, 
 Ana taKt> a 'fresh hold on the thread of nay plot.
 
 224 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 His specimens out of the books he reviews ; 
 And now, as this offers an excellent text, 
 I '11 give 'em some brief hints on criticism next." 
 So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd, 
 And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud, 
 
 " My friends, in the happier days of the muse, 
 We were luckily free from such things as reviews ; 
 Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer 
 The heart of the poet to that of his hearer ; 
 Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they 
 Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay ; 
 Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul 
 Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole ; 
 Then for him there was nothing too great or too small, 
 For one natural deity sanctified all ; 
 Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods 
 Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods 
 O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods ; 
 He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, 
 His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods ; 
 'T was for them that he measured the thought and the 
 
 line, 
 
 And shaped for their vision the perfect design, 
 With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, 
 As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue ; 
 Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart, 
 The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, 
 In the free individual moulded, was Art ; 
 Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with de 
 sire 
 
 For something, as yet unattained, fuller, higher, 
 As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening,
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 And her whole upward soul in her countenance glisten 
 ing, 
 
 Eurydice stood like a beacon unfired, 
 Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward 
 
 inspired 
 
 And waited with answering kindle to mark 
 The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark ; 
 Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve ' 
 The need that men feel to create and believe, 
 And as, in all beauty, who listens with love, 
 Hears these words oft repeated ' beyond and above,' 
 So these seemed to be but the visible sign 
 Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine ; 
 They were ladders the Artist erected to climb 
 O'er the narrow horizon of space and of time, 
 And we see there the footsteps by which men had 
 
 gained 
 
 To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, 
 As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod 
 The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. 
 
 " But now, on the poet's dis-privacied moods 
 With do this and do that the pert critic intrudes ; 
 While he thinks he 's been barely fulfilling his duty 
 To interpret 'twixt men and their own sense of beauty, 
 And has striven, while others sought honor or pelf, 
 To make his kind happy as he was himself, 
 He finds he 's been guilty of horrid offences 
 In all kinds of moods, numbers, genders, and tenses ; 
 He 's been ob and subjective, what Kettle calls Pot. 
 Precisely, at all events, what he ought not, 
 You have done this, says one judge ; done that, aj 
 another ;
 
 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 
 
 You should have done this, grumbles one ; that, sayi 
 
 t* other ; 
 
 Never mind -what he touches, one shrieks out Taboo! 
 And while he i?. wondering what he shall do, 
 Since each suggests opposite topics for song, 
 They all shout together you're right ! or you're wrong ! 
 
 " Nature fits all her children with something to do, 
 He 'vho would write and can't write, can surely review, 
 Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his 
 Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies ; 
 Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens, 
 Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines ; 
 Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through, 
 There 's nothing on earth he 's not competent to ; 
 He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles, 
 He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles, 
 It matters not whether he blame or commend, 
 If he 's bad as a foe, he 's far worse as a friend ; 
 Let an author but write what's above his poor scope, 
 And he '11 go to work gravely and twist up a rope, 
 And, inviting the world to see punishment done, 
 Hang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun ; 
 'T is delightful to see, when a man comes along 
 Who has any thing in him peculiar and strong, 
 Every cockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop-) gun- 
 deck at him 
 And make as he passes its ludicrous Peck at him," 
 
 Here Miranda came up and began, " As to that/' 
 Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and hat, 
 And seeing the place getting rapidly cleared, 
 I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared.
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. 
 
 OVER his keys the musing organist, 
 
 Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
 First lets his fingers wander as they list, 
 
 And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay ; 
 Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 
 
 Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
 First gnessed by faint auroral flushes sent 
 
 Along the wavering vista of his dream. 
 
 Not only around our infancy 
 Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ; 
 Daily, with souls that cringe and blot, 
 We Sinais climb and know it not ; 
 
 Over our manhood bend the skies ; 
 
 Against our fallen and traitor lives 
 The great winds utter prophecies ; 
 
 "With our faint hearts the mountain strives; 
 Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 
 
 Waits with its benedicite ; 
 And to our age's drowsy blood 
 
 Still shouts the inspiring sea. 
 Garth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 
 
 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
 
 22?
 
 228 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives ug, 
 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
 At the Devil's booth are all things sold., 
 Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 
 
 For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
 Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking ; 
 
 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
 'T is only God may be had for the asking ; 
 There is no price set on the lavish summer ; 
 And June may be had by the poorest comer. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might, 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, grasping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings j
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 229 
 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 
 
 Now is the high-tide of the year, 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, 
 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
 We are happy now because God so wills it ; 
 No matter how barren the past may have been, 
 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
 That skies are clear and grass is growing ; . ' 
 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
 That dandelions are blossoming near, 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
 That the river is bluer than the sky, 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
 For other couriers we should not lack ; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
 
 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
 Everything is happy now, 
 
 Everything is upward striving ; 
 'T is easy now for the heart to be true 
 As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 
 
 'T is the natural way of living :
 
 230 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 
 
 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
 And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
 The soul partakes the season's youth, 
 
 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
 Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
 
 Like bnrnt-out craters healed with snow. 
 "What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
 Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 " MY golden spurs now bring to me, 
 
 And bring to me my richest mail, 
 For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
 
 In search of the Holy Grail ; 
 Shall never a bed for me be spread, 
 Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
 Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
 Here on the rushes will I sleep, 
 And perchance there may come a vision true 
 Ere day create the world anew." 
 
 Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, 
 
 Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
 And into his soul the vision flew. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The crows flapped over by twos and three*, 
 In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their kni, 
 The little birds sang as if it were 
 The one day of summer in all the year,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 331 
 
 And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 
 
 The castle alone in the landscape lay 
 
 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ; 
 
 T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
 
 And never its gates might opened be, 
 
 Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
 
 Summer besieged it on every side, 
 
 But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 
 
 She could not scale the chilly wall, 
 
 Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
 
 Stretched left and right, 
 
 Over the hills and out of sight ; 
 
 Green and broad was every tent, 
 
 And out of each a murmur went 
 Till the breeze fell off at night. 
 
 m. 
 
 The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
 And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
 Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
 In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
 It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
 Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
 
 In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
 And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 
 
 Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, 
 And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
 Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
 To geek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 
 
 IT. 
 
 It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 
 And morning in the young knight's heart ;
 
 232 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Only the castle moodily 
 
 Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 
 
 And gloomed by itself apart ; 
 The season brimmed all other things up 
 Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 
 
 v. 
 
 As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, 
 
 He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
 Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 
 
 And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 
 The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, 
 
 The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, 
 And midway its leap his heart stood still 
 
 Like a frozen waterfall ; 
 For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
 Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 
 And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, 
 So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 
 " Better to me the poor man's crust. 
 Better the blessing of the poor, 
 Though I turn me empty from his door ; 
 That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
 He gives nothing but worthless gold 
 
 Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
 But he who gives but a slender mite, 
 And gives to that which is out of sight, 
 
 That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
 Which runs through all and doth all unite,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 233 
 
 The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 
 
 The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
 
 For a god goes with it and makes it store 
 
 To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. 
 
 Down* swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 
 From the snow five thousand summers old ; 
 
 On open wold and hill-top bleak 
 It had gathered all the cold, 
 
 And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek 
 
 It carried a shiver everywhere 
 
 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 
 
 The little brook heard it and built a roof 
 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; 
 
 All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
 
 He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
 
 Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
 
 As the lashes of light that trim the stars : 
 
 He sculptured every summer delight 
 
 In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 
 
 Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
 
 Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 
 
 Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
 
 Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 
 
 Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
 
 But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 
 
 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
 
 With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 
 
 Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 
 
 For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 
 
 He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
 
 And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 
 
 And made a star of every one : 
 
 No mortal builder's most rare device 
 
 Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 
 
 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay 
 
 In his depths serene through the summer day, 
 
 Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 
 
 Lest the happy model should be lost, 
 Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
 
 By the elfin builders of the frost. 
 
 "Within the hall are song and laughter, 
 
 The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 
 With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
 Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
 The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
 
 And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
 Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 
 
 Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
 And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
 
 Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
 Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 
 
 Like herds of startled deer. 
 
 But the wind without was eager and sharp, 
 Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
 And rattles and wrings 
 The icy strings, 
 Singing, in dreary monotone, 
 A Christmas carol of its own, 
 Whose burden still, as he might guess,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 235 
 
 Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
 Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
 Build out its piers of ruddy light 
 Against the drift of the cold. 
 
 FABT BOOK. 
 I. 
 
 THERE was never a leaf on a bush or tree, 
 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
 The river was dumb and could not speak, 
 
 For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spnn : 
 A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
 
 From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 
 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
 As if her veins were sapless and old, 
 And she rose up decrepitly 
 For a last dim look at earth and sea. 
 
 n. 
 
 Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 
 
 For another heir in his earldom sate ; 
 
 An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
 
 He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
 
 No more on his surcoat was blazoned the crosi, 
 
 But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
 
 The badge of the suffering and the poor.
 
 236 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
 
 Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
 
 For it was jusb at the Christmas time ; 
 
 So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
 
 And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
 
 In the light and warmth of long ago ; 
 
 He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
 
 O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 
 
 Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 
 
 He can count the camels in the sun, 
 
 As over the red-hot sands they pass 
 
 To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 
 
 The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 
 
 And with its own self like an infant played, 
 
 And waved its signal of palms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " 
 
 The happy camels may reach the spring, 
 
 But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing, 
 
 The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 
 
 That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
 
 And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
 
 In the desolate horror of his disease. 
 
 T. 
 
 And Sir Launfal said, " I behold in the 
 
 An image of Him who died on the tree ; 
 
 Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, 
 
 Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, 
 
 And to thy life were not denied
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
 Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
 Bihold, through him, I give to thee ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
 
 And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
 Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
 
 He had flung an alms to leprosie. 
 When he caged his young life up in gilded mail 
 And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
 The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
 He parted in twain his single crust, 
 He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
 And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 
 
 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, 
 Yet with fine wh eaten bread was the leper fed, 
 
 And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 
 
 VII. 
 
 As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
 
 A light shone round about the place ; 
 
 The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
 
 But stood before him glorified, 
 
 Shining and tall and fair and straight 
 
 As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, 
 
 Himself the Gate whereby men can 
 
 Enter the temple of God in Man. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, 
 And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brins,
 
 368 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
 
 With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 
 
 And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 
 
 " Lo it is I, be not afraid ! 
 
 In many climes, without avail, 
 
 Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Behold, it is here, this cup which thou 
 
 Didst fill at the streamlet for me hut now ; 
 
 This crust is my hody broken for thee, 
 
 This water His blood that died on the tree ; 
 
 The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
 
 In whatso we share with another's need ; 
 
 Not what we give, but what we share, 
 
 For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
 
 Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, 
 
 Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 
 
 rr. 
 
 Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : 
 " The Grail in my castle here is found ! 
 Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
 Let it be the spiders banquet-hall ; 
 He must be fenced with stronger mail 
 Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 
 
 X. 
 
 The castle gate stands open now, 
 And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
 
 As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 
 No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
 
 The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
 
 When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
 
 She entered with him in disguise,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
 
 There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
 
 She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; 
 
 The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
 
 Has hall and bower at his command ; 
 
 And there 'B no poor man in the North Countree 
 
 But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 
 
 NOTE. According to the mythology of the Romancers, th 
 San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus par 
 took of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought 
 into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, 
 an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the 
 keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon 
 those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and 
 deed ; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, 
 the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite 
 enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of 
 it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be 
 read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. 
 Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the 
 most exquisite of his poems. 
 
 The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of 
 the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I 
 have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the mirac 
 ulous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other 
 persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period 
 of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign.
 
 APPLEDORE. 
 
 How looks Appledore in a storm ? 
 
 I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, 
 Butting against the maddened Atlantic, 
 
 When surge after surge would heap enorme, 
 Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow, 
 That lifted and lifted and then let go 
 
 A great white avalanche of thunder, 
 A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 
 
 Monadnock might have trembled under ; 
 
 And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below 
 To where they are warmed with the central fire, 
 
 You could feel its granite fibres racked, 
 
 As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill 
 Right at the breast of the swooping hill, 
 
 And to rise again, snorting a cataract 
 
 Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, 
 
 While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, 
 
 And the next vast breaker curled its edge, 
 Gathering itself for a mighty leap. 
 
 North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers, 
 You would never dream of in smooth weather, 
 
 That toss and gore the sea for acres, 
 
 Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together ; 
 
 Look northward where Duck Island lies, 
 
 And over its crown you will see arise, 
 
 Against a background of slaty skis, 
 240
 
 APPLEDORE. 
 
 A row of pillars still and white 
 
 That glimmer and then are out of sight, 
 As if the moon should suddenly kiss, 
 
 While you crossed the dusty desert by night, 
 The long colonnades of Persepolis, 
 And then as sudden a darkness should follow 
 To gulp the whole scene at a single swallow, 
 The city's ghost, the drear brown waste, 
 And the string of camels, clumsy-paced : 
 Look southward for White Island light, 
 
 The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide ; 
 There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 
 Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, 
 
 And surging bewilderment wild and wide, 
 Where the breakers struggle left and right, 
 
 Then a mile or more of rushing sea, 
 And then the light-house slim and lone ; 
 And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown 
 Full and fair on White Island head, 
 
 A great mist-jotun you will see 
 
 Lifting himself up silently 
 High and huge o'er the light-house top, 
 With hands of wavering spray outspread, 
 
 Groping after the little tower, 
 
 That seems to shrink, and shorten and cower, 
 Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, 
 
 And silently and fruitlessly 
 
 He sinks again into the sea. 
 
 You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, 
 
 Awaken once more to the rush and roar 
 And on the rock-point tighten your hand, 
 
 A you turn and see a valley deep, 
 16
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 That was not there a moment before, 
 Suck rattling down between you and a hap 
 
 Of toppling billow, whose instant fall 
 
 Must sink the whole island once for all 
 Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas 
 
 Feeling their way to you more and more ; 
 If they once should clutch you high as the knees 
 They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, 
 Beyond all reach of hope or help ; 
 
 And iuch in a storm is Appledore. 
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 Tht offered wealth with unrewarded eje.
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 243 
 
 Thou art ray tropics and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 
 Are in the heart and heed not space or time : 
 Not in mid June the golden- cuirassed bee 
 Feels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment 
 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 
 His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows in the grass, 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap, and of a sky above 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; 
 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 Who from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 With news from Heaven, which he could bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 
 
 Thou art the type of those meek charities 
 Which make up half the nobleness of life, 
 
 Those cheap delights the wise 
 Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife - }
 
 244 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 Words of frank cheer, glances of friendly eyes, 
 Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may give 
 
 The morsel that may keep alive 
 A starving heart, and teach it to behold 
 Some glimpse of God where all before was cold. 
 
 Thy winged seeds, whereof the winds take care, 
 Are like the words of poet and of sage 
 
 Which through the free heaven fare, 
 And, now unheeded, in another age 
 Take root, and to the gladdened future bear 
 That witness which the present would not heed, 
 
 Bringing forth many a thought and deed, 
 And, planted safely in the eternal sky, 
 Bloom into stars which earth is guided by. 
 
 Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full 
 Than all thy common brethren of the ground, 
 
 Wherein, were we not dull, 
 Some words of highest wisdom might be found ; 
 Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull 
 Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can make 
 
 A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache, 
 And ope Heaven's portals, which are near us still, 
 Yea, nearer ever than the gates of 111. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art I 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
 
 Did we but pay the love we owe,
 
 DARA. 245 
 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 But let me read thy lesson right or no, 
 
 Of one good gift from thee my heart is sure ; 
 
 Old I shall never grow 
 
 While thou each year dost come to keep me pure 
 With legends ~f - ny childhood ; ah, we owe 
 Well more than h If life's holiness to these 
 
 Nature's first lowly influences, 
 
 At thought of which the heart's glad doors burst ope, 
 In dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope. 
 
 DARA. 
 
 WHEN" Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand 
 Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land 
 
 Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
 That snuff decaying empire from afar, 
 Tlnn, with a nature balanced as a star, 
 
 Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. 
 
 He, who had governed fleecy subjects well, 
 Made his own vn age, by the self -same spell, 
 
 Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold, 
 Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, 
 Under his sway, to neighbor villages 
 
 Order returned, and faith and justice old. 
 
 Now, when it fortuned that a king more wise 
 Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,
 
 246 DARA. 
 
 He sought on every side men brave and just, 
 And having heard the mountain-shepherd's praise, 
 How he rendered the mould of elder days, 
 
 To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 
 
 So Dara shepherded a province wide, 
 
 Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 
 
 Than in his crook before ; but Envy finds 
 More soil in cities than on mountains bare, 
 And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare 
 
 Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. 
 
 Soon it was whispered at the royal ear 
 
 That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, 
 
 Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up, 
 Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, 
 Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest, 
 
 Went to the filling of his private cup. 
 
 For proof, they said that wheresoe'er he went 
 A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, 
 
 Went guarded, and no other eye had seen 
 What was therein, save only Dara's own, 
 Yet, when 't was opened all his tent was known 
 
 To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. 
 
 The king set forth for Dara's province straight, 
 Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate 
 
 The viceroy met him with a stately train ; 
 And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 
 A camel with the chest was seen to stand, 
 
 The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. 
 
 " Open me now," he cried, "yon treasure-chest !" 
 'T was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest
 
 TO J. F. H. 247 
 
 Was found within ; some blushed and hung the head, 
 Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof 
 He stood, and " 0, my lord, behold the proof 
 
 That I was worthy of my trust ! " he said. 
 
 " For ruling men, lo ! all the charm I had ; 
 My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad, 
 
 Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, 
 Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, 
 And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, 
 
 Which bend men from the truth, and make them 
 reel. 
 
 " To govern wisely I had shown small skill 
 Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; 
 
 That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way ! " 
 Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright 
 And thrilled the trembling lids ; before 't was night 
 
 Two added provinces blessed Dara's sway. 
 
 TO J. F. H. 
 
 NINE years have slipped like hour-glass sand 
 
 From life's fast-emptying globe away, 
 Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, 
 And lingered on the impoverished land, 
 Watching the steamer down the bay. 
 
 I held the keepsake which you gave, 
 
 Until the dim smoke-pennon curled 
 O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
 And closed the distance like a grave, 
 Leaving me to the ovter world ;
 
 24:8 TO J. F. H. 
 
 The old worn world of hurry and heat, 
 
 The young, fresh world of thought and scope ; 
 While you, where silent surges fleet 
 Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, 
 Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. 
 
 Come back our ancient walks to tread, 
 
 Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, 
 Amid the Muses' factories red, 
 Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped 
 The nights to proctor-hunted ends. 
 
 Our old familiars are not laid, 
 
 Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, 
 They beckon, not to be gainsaid, 
 Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, 
 
 Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks ; 
 
 Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, 
 From glow to gloom the hillside shifts 
 
 Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, 
 
 Its plumps of orchard-trees arow, 
 
 Its snowy white-weed's summer drifts. 
 
 Or let us to Nantasket, there 
 
 To wander idly as we list, 
 Whether, on rocky hillocks bare, 
 Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear 
 
 The trailing fringes of gray mist. 
 
 Or whether, under skies clear-blown, 
 The heightening surfs with foamy din, 
 
 Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown 
 
 Against old Neptune's yellow zone, 
 Curl slow, and plunge forever in.
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 For years thrice three, wise Horace said, 
 
 A poem rare let silence bind ; 
 And love may ripen in the shade, 
 Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 
 In crypts and arches of the mind. 
 
 That right Falernian friendship old 
 
 Will we, to grace our feast, call up, 
 And freely pour the juice of gold, 
 That keeps life's pulses warm and bold, 
 Till Death shall break the empty cup. 
 
 PKOMETHEUS. 
 
 ONE after one the stars have risen and set, 
 Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain : 
 The Bear that prowled all night about the fold 
 Of the North-Star, hath shrunk into his den, 
 Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, 
 Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient ; 
 And now bright Lucifer grows less and less, 
 Into the heaven's blue quiet deep withdrawn. 
 Sunless and starless all, the desert sky 
 Arches above me, empty as this heart 
 For ages hath been empty of all joy 
 Except to brood upon its silent hope, 
 As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. 
 All night have I heard voices : deeper yet 
 The deep, low breathing of the silence grew, 
 While all about, muffled in awe, there stood 
 Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart ; 
 But, when I turned to front them, far along 
 Only a shudder through the midnight ran.
 
 250 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 And the dense stillness walled me closer round ; 
 
 But still I heard them wander up and down 
 
 That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings 
 
 Did mingle with them, whether of those hags 
 
 Let slip upon me once from Hades deep, 
 
 Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 
 
 I could but guess ; and then toward me came 
 
 A shape as of a woman : very pale 
 
 It was, and calm ; its cold eyes did not more, 
 
 And mine moved not, but only stared on them. 
 
 Their moveless awe went through my brain like ice ; 
 
 A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, 
 
 And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog 
 
 Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt : 
 
 And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, 
 
 A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips 
 
 Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought 
 
 Some doom was close upon me, and I looked 
 
 And saw the red moon through the heavy mist, 
 
 Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling, 
 
 Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead 
 
 And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged 
 
 Into the rising surges of the pines, 
 
 Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins 
 
 Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, 
 
 Sent up a murmur in the morning-wind, 
 
 Sad as the wail that from the populous earth 
 
 All day and night to high Olympus soars, 
 
 Fit incense to thy wicked throne, Jove. 
 
 Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn 
 
 From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. 
 
 And are these tears ? Nay, do not triumph, Jove I
 
 PROMETHEUS. 251 
 
 They are wrung from me but by the agonies 
 
 Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall 
 
 From clouds in travail of the lightning, when 
 
 The great wave of the storm, high-curled and black, 
 
 Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. ' 
 
 "Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type 
 
 Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force ? 
 
 True Power was never born of brutish Strength, 
 
 Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs 
 
 Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, 
 
 That scare the darkness for a space, so strong 
 
 As the prevailing patience of meek Light, 
 
 Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, 
 
 Wins it to be a portion of herself ? 
 
 Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast 
 
 The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, 
 
 That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear 
 
 Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile ? 
 
 Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold 
 
 What kind of doom it is whose omen flits 
 
 Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves 
 
 The fearful shadow of the kite. What need 
 
 To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save ? 
 
 Evil its errand hath, as well as Good ; 
 
 When thine is finished, thou art known no more : 
 
 There is a higher purity than thou, 
 
 And higher purity is greater strength ; 
 
 Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart 
 
 Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. 
 
 Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled 
 
 With thought of that drear silence and deep night 
 
 Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine .: 
 
 Let man but will, and thou art god no more ;
 
 252 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 More capable of ruin than the gold 
 
 And ivory that image thee on earth. 
 
 He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood 
 
 Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned, 
 
 Is weaker than a simple human thought. 
 
 My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, 
 
 That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, 
 
 Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole : 
 
 For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow 
 
 In my wise heart the end and doom of all. 
 
 Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown 
 
 By years of solitude that holds apart 
 
 The past and future, giving the soul room 
 
 To search into itself and long commune 
 
 With this eternal silence more a god 
 
 In my long-suffering and strength to meet 
 
 With equal front the direst shafts of fate, 
 
 Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, 
 
 Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. 
 
 Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down 
 
 The light to man which thou in selfish fear 
 
 Had'st to thyself usurped his by sole right, 
 
 For Man hath right to all save Tyranny 
 
 And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. 
 
 Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, 
 
 Begotten by the slaves they trample on, 
 
 Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, 
 
 And see that Tyranny is always weakness, 
 
 Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, 
 
 Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain 
 
 Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. 
 
 Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Eight
 
 PROMETHEtTS. 253 
 
 To the firm centre lays its moveless base. 
 
 The tyrant trembles if the air but stirs 
 
 The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, 
 
 And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, 
 
 With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale, 
 
 Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, 
 
 Hushes, and bends them to its own strong will. 
 
 So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth 
 
 And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove. 
 
 And, would'st thou know of my supreme revenge, 
 
 Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, 
 
 Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, 
 
 Listen ! and tell me if this bitter peak, 
 
 This never-glutted vulture, and these chains 
 
 Shrink not before it, for it shall befit 
 
 A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. 
 
 Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand 
 
 On a precipitous crag that overhangs 
 
 The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, 
 
 As in a glass, the features dim and huge 
 
 Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, 
 
 Of what have been. Death never fronts the wise, 
 
 Not fearfully, but with clear promises 
 
 Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, 
 
 Their outlook widens, and they see beyond 
 
 The horizon of the Present and the Past, 
 
 Even to the very source and end of things. 
 
 Such am I now : immortal woe hath made 
 
 My heart a seer, and my soul a judge 
 
 Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. 
 
 The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, 
 
 By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure 
 
 Of such as I am, this is my revenge,
 
 254 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch 
 
 Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. 
 
 The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills, 
 
 Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee 
 
 The songs of maidens pressing with white feet 
 
 The vintage on thine altars poured no more 
 
 The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath 
 
 Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press 
 
 Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unscared 
 
 By thoughts of thy brute lusts the hive-like hum 
 
 Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil 
 
 Heaps for itself the rich earth made its own 
 
 By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns 
 
 To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts 
 
 Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea, 
 
 Even the spirit of free love and peace, 
 
 Duty's sure recompense through life and death 
 
 These are such harvests as all master-spirits 
 
 Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less 
 
 Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs ; 
 
 These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal 
 
 They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge : 
 
 For their best part of life on earth is when, 
 
 Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, 
 
 Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become 
 
 Part of the necessary air men breathe ; 
 
 When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, 
 
 They shed down light before us on life's sea, 
 
 That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. 
 
 Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er 
 
 Their holy sepulchres, the chainless sea 
 
 In tempest or wild calm repeats their thoughts, 
 
 The lightning and the thunder, all free things,
 
 PROMETHEUS. 256 
 
 Have legends of them for the ears of men. 
 All other glories are as falling stars, 
 But universal Nature watches theirs ; 
 Such strength is won by love of human kind. 
 
 Not that I feel that hunger after fame, 
 
 Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with ; 
 
 But that the memory of noble deeds 
 
 Cries shame upon the idle and the vile, 
 
 And keeps the heart of Man forever up 
 
 To the heroic level of old time. 
 
 To be forgot at first is little pain 
 
 To a heart conscious of such high intent 
 
 As must be deathless on the lips of men; 
 
 But, having been a name, to sink and be 
 
 A something which the world can do without, 
 
 Which, having been or not, would never change 
 
 The lightest pulse of fate this is indeed 
 
 A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, 
 
 And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. 
 
 Oblivion is lonelier than this peak 
 
 Behold thy destiny ! Thou think'st it much 
 
 That I should brave thee, miserable god ! 
 
 But I have braved a mightier than thou, 
 
 Even the temptings of this soaring heart 
 
 Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou, 
 
 A god among my brethren weak and blind, 
 
 Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing, 
 
 To be down-trodden into darkness soon ; 
 
 But now I am above thee, for thou art 
 
 The bungling workmanship of fear, the block 
 
 That scares the swart Barbarian ; but I 
 
 Am what myself have made, a nature wise
 
 256 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 With finding in itself the types of all, 
 With watching from the dim verge of the time 
 What things to be are visible in the gleams 
 Thrown forward on them from the luminous past 
 Wise with the history of its own frail heart, 
 With reverence and sorrow, and with love 
 Broad as the world for freedom and for man. 
 
 Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, 
 
 By whom and for whose glory ye shall cease : 
 
 And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard 
 
 From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I 
 
 Shall be a power and a memory, 
 
 A name to scare all tyrants with, a light 
 
 Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice 
 
 Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight 
 
 By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, 
 
 Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake 
 
 Huge echoes that from age to age live on 
 
 In kindred spirits, giving them a sense 
 
 Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung. 
 
 And many a glazing eye shall smile to see 
 
 The memory of my triumph (for to meet 
 
 Wrong with endurance, and to overcome 
 
 The present with a heart that looks beyond, 
 
 Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch 
 
 Upon the sacred banner of the right. 
 
 Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, 
 
 And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, 
 
 Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; 
 
 But Good, once put in action or in thought, 
 
 Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down 
 
 The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god,
 
 PROMETHEUS. 257 
 
 Shalt fade and be forgotten ; but this soul, 
 Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, 
 In every heaving shall partake, that grows 
 From heart to heart among the sons of men 
 As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs 
 Far through the JEgean from roused isle to isle 
 Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines, 
 And mighty rents in many a cavernous error 
 That darkens the free light to man : This heart 
 Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth 
 Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws 
 Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall 
 In all the throbbing exultations share 
 That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all 
 The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits 
 Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds 
 That veil the future, showing them the end 
 Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, 
 Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. 
 This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel, 
 Makes my faith thunder-proof, and thy dread bolts 
 Fall on rne like the silent flakes of snow 
 On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus : 
 But, thought far more blissful, they can rend 
 This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star ! 
 
 Unleash thy crouching thunders now, Jove ! 
 Free this high heart which, a poor captive long, 
 Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still, 
 In its invincible manhood, overtops 
 Thy puny godship as this mountain doth 
 The pines that moss its roots. even now, 
 While from my peak of suffering I look down, 
 17
 
 258 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Beholding with a far- spread gush of hope 
 
 The sunrise of that Beauty in whose face, 
 
 Shone all around with love, no man shall look 
 
 But straightway like a god he is uplift 
 
 Unto the throne long empty for his sake, 
 
 And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams 
 
 By his free inward nature, which nor thou, 
 
 Nor any anarch after thee, can bind 
 
 From working its great doom now, now set free 
 
 This essence, not to die, but to become 
 
 Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt 
 
 The palaces of tyrants, to scare off, 
 
 With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings 
 
 And hideous sense of utter loneliness, 
 
 All hope of safety, all desire of peace, 
 
 All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death 
 
 Part of that spirit which doth ever brood 
 
 In patient calm on the unpilfered nest 
 
 Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow 
 
 fledged 
 
 To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, 
 Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make 
 Of some o'erbloated wrong that spirit which 
 Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, 
 Like acorns among grain, to grow and be 
 A roof for freedom in all coming time. 
 
 But no, this cannot be ; for ages yet, 
 
 In solitude unbroken, shall I hear 
 
 The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, 
 
 And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, 
 
 On either side storming the giant walls 
 
 Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam,
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow) 
 
 That draw back baffled but to hurl again, 
 
 Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil, 
 
 Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst, 
 
 My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, 
 
 Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad, 
 
 In vain emprise. The moon will come and go 
 
 With her monotonous vicissitude ; 
 
 Once beautiful, when I was free to walk 
 
 Among my fellows and to interchange 
 
 The influence benign of loving eyes, 
 
 But now by aged use grown wearisome ; 
 
 False thought ! most false ! for how could I endure 
 
 These crawling centuries of lonely woe 
 
 Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, 
 
 Loneliest, save me, of all created things, 
 
 Mild-eyed Astarte 1 , my best comforter, 
 
 With thy pale smile of sad benignity ? 
 
 Year after year will pass away and seem 
 
 To me, in mine eternal agony, 
 
 But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds, 
 
 Which I have watched so often darkening o'er 
 
 The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first, 
 
 But, with still swiftness, lessening on and on 
 
 Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where 
 
 The gray horizon fades into the sky, 
 
 Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet 
 
 Must I lie here upon my altar huge, 
 
 A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be, 
 
 As it hath been, his portion ; endless doom, 
 
 While the immortal with the mortal linked 
 
 Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams 
 
 With upward yearn unceasing. Better so :
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, 
 
 And empire over self, and all the deep 
 
 Strong charities that make men seem like gods ; 
 
 And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts 
 
 Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. 
 
 Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, 
 
 Having two faces, as some images 
 
 Are carved, of foolish gods ; one face is ill, 
 
 But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, 
 
 As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. 
 
 Therefore, great heart, bear up ! thou art but type 
 
 Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain 
 
 Would win men back to strength and peace through 
 
 love : 
 
 Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart 
 Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong 
 With vulture beak ; yet the high soul is left, 
 And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love, 
 And patience which at last shall overcome. 
 CAMBRIDGE, MASS., June, 1843. 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 THOU look'd'st on me all yesternight, 
 Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright 
 As when we murmured our trothplight 
 Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline ! 
 Thy hair was braided on thy head 
 As on the day we two were wed, 
 Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead 
 But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline !
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 The deathwatch tickt behind the wall, 
 The blackness rustled like a pall, 
 The moaning wind did rise and fall 
 Among the bleak pines, Rosaline ! 
 My heart beat thickly in mine ears : 
 The lids may shut out fleshly fears, 
 But still the spirit sees and hears, 
 Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline ! 
 
 A wildness rushing suddenly, 
 
 A knowing some ill shape is nigh, 
 
 A wish for death, a fear to die 
 
 Is not this vengeance, Rosaline ! 
 
 A loneliness that is not lone, 
 
 A love quite withered up and gone, 
 
 A strong soul trampled from its throne 
 
 What would'st thou further, Rosaline ! 
 
 'T is lone such moonless nights as these, 
 Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, 
 And the leaves shiver in the trees, 
 And then thou comest, Rosaline ! 
 I seem to hear the mourners go, 
 With long black garments trailing slow, 
 And plumes a-uodding to and fro, 
 As once I heard them, Rosaline ! 
 
 Thy shroud it is of snowy white, 
 And, in the middle of the night, 
 Thou standest moveless and upright, 
 Gazing upon me, Rosaline ! 
 There is no sorrow in thine eyes, 
 But evermore that meek surprise
 
 262 ROSALINE. 
 
 Oh, God ! her gentle spirit tries 
 To deem me guiltless, Eosaline ! 
 
 Above thy grave the Robin sings, 
 
 And swarms of bright and happy things 
 
 Flit all about with sunlit wings 
 
 But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! 
 
 The violets on the hillock toss, 
 
 The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 For nature feels not any loss 
 
 But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! 
 
 Ah ! why wert thou so lowly bred ? 
 Why was my pride galled on to wed 
 Her who brought lands and gold instead 
 Of thy heart's treasure, Rosaline ! 
 Why did I fear to let thee stay 
 To look on me and pass away 
 Forgivingly, as in its May, 
 A broken flower, Rosaline ! 
 
 I thought not, when my dagger strook, 
 
 Of thy blue eyes ; I could not brook 
 
 The past all pleading in one look 
 
 Of utter sorrow, Rosaline ! 
 
 I did not know when thou wert dead : 
 
 A blackbird whistling overhead 
 
 Thrilled through my brain ; I would have fled 
 
 But dared not leave thee, Rosaline ! 
 
 A low, low moan, a light twig stirred 
 By the upspringing of a bird, 
 A drip of blood were all I heard 
 Then deathly stillness, Rosaline !
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 The sun rolled down, and very soon, 
 Like a great fire, the awful moon 
 Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon 
 Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline ! 
 
 The stars came out ; and, one by one, 
 Each angel from his silver throne 
 Looked down and saw what I had done : 
 I dared not hide me, Rosaline ! 
 I crouched ; I feared thy corpse would cry 
 Against me to God's quiet sky, 
 I thought I saw the blue lips try 
 To utter something, Rosaline ! 
 
 I waited with a maddened grin 
 
 To hear that voice all icy thin 
 
 Slide forth and tell my deadly sin 
 
 To hell and heaven, Rosaline ! 
 
 But no voice came, and then it seemed 
 
 That if the very corpse had screamed 
 
 The sound like sunshine glad had streamed 
 
 Through that dark stillness, Rosaline ! 
 
 Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, 
 And faces loved in infancy 
 Came and looked on me mournfully, 
 Till my heart melted, Rosaline ! 
 I saw my mother's dying bed, 
 I heard her bless me, and I shed 
 Cool tears but lo ! the ghastly dead 
 Stared me to madness, Rosaline 1 
 
 And then amid the silent night 
 I screamed with horrible delight.
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 And in my brain an awful light 
 
 Did seem to crackle, Rosaline ! 
 
 It is my curse ! sweet mem'ries fall 
 
 From me like snow and only all 
 
 Of that one night, like cold worms crawl 
 
 My doomed heart over, Rosaline ! 
 
 Thine eyes are shut : they nevermore 
 Will leap thy gentle words before 
 To tell the secret o'er and o'er 
 Thou could 'st not smother, Rosaline ! 
 Thine eyes are shut : they will not shine 
 With happy tears, or, through the vine 
 That hid thy casement, beam on mine 
 Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline ! 
 
 Thy voice I nevermore shall hear, 
 Which in old times did seem so dear, 
 That, ere it trembled in mine ear, 
 My quick heart heard it, Rosaline ! 
 Would I might die ! I were as well, 
 Ay, better, at my home in hell, 
 To set for aye a burning spell 
 'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline ! 
 
 Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eye, 
 Wherein such blessed memories, 
 Such pitying forgiveness lies, 
 Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ! 
 Woe 's me ! I know that love so high 
 As thine, true soul, could never die, 
 And with mean clay in churchyard lie- 
 Would God it were so, Rosaline !
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN 
 SONNET. 
 
 IF some small savor creep into my rhyme 
 
 Of the old poets, if some words 1 use, 
 
 Neglected long, which have the lusty thews 
 
 Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time, 
 
 Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime 
 
 Have given our tongue its starry eminence, 
 
 It is not pride, God knows, but reverence 
 
 Which hath grown in me since my childhood's prime ; 
 
 Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung 
 
 With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have 
 
 No right to muse their holy graves among, 
 
 If I can be a custom-fettered slave, 
 
 And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave 
 
 To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. 
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CUKTAIN. 
 
 WE see but half the causes of our deeds, 
 Seeking them wholly in the outer life, 
 And heedless of the encircling spirit-world 
 Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us 
 All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. 
 From one stage of our being to the next 
 We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, 
 The momentary work of unseen hands, 
 Which crumbles down behind us ; looking back, 
 We see the other shore, the gulf between, 
 And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, 
 Content ourselves to call the builder Chance. 
 We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, 
 Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all
 
 266 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, 
 And waiting but one ray of sunlight more 
 To blossom fully. 
 
 But whence came that ray ? 
 We call our sorrows destiny, but ought 
 Rather to name our high successes so. 
 Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, 
 And have predestined sway : all other things, 
 Except by leave of us, could never be. 
 For Destiny is but the breath of God 
 Still moving in us, the last fragment left 
 Of our unfallen nature, waking oft 
 Within our thought to beckon us beyond 
 The narrow circle of the seen and known, 
 And always tending to a noble end, 
 As all things must that overrule the soul, 
 And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. 
 The fate of England and of freedom once 
 Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man ; 
 One step of his, and the great dial-hand 
 That marks the destined progress of the world 
 In the eternal round from wisdom on 
 To higher wisdom, had been made to pause 
 A hundred years. That step he did not take 
 He knew not why, nor we, but only God 
 And lived to make his simple oaken chair 
 More terrible and grandly beautiful, 
 More full of majesty, than any throne, 
 Before or after, of a British king. 
 
 Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, 
 Looking to where a little craft lay moored,
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, 
 
 Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. 
 
 Grave men they were, and battliugs of fierce thought 
 
 Had scared away all softness from their brows, 
 
 And ploughed rough furrows there before their time. 
 
 Care, not of self, but of the common weal, 
 
 Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead 
 
 A look of patient power and iron will, 
 
 And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint 
 
 Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. 
 
 The younger had an aspect of command 
 
 Not such as trickles down, a slender stream, 
 
 In the shrunk channel of a great descent 
 
 But such as lies entowered in heart and head, 
 
 And an arm prompt to do the Chests of both. 
 
 His was a brow where gold were out of place, 
 
 And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown 
 
 (Though he despised such), were it only made 
 
 Of iron, or some serviceable stuff 
 
 That would have matched his sinewy brown face. 
 
 The elder, although such he hardly seemed 
 
 (Care makes so little of some five short years), 
 
 Bore a clear, honest face, where scholarship 
 
 Had mildened somewhat of its rougher strength, 
 
 To sober courage, such as best befits 
 
 The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, 
 
 Yet left it so as one could plainly guess 
 
 The pent volcano smouldering underneath. 
 
 He spoke : the other, hearing, kept his gaze 
 
 Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky. 
 
 " CROMWELL, we are fallen on evil times I 
 There was a day when England had wide room
 
 268 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 For honest men as well as foolish kings ; 
 
 But now the uneasy stomach of the time 
 
 Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us 
 
 Seek out that savage clime where men as yet 
 
 Are free : there sleeps the vessel on the tide, 
 
 Her languid sails but drooping for the wind : 
 
 All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord 
 
 Will watch as kindly o'er the Exodus 
 
 Of us his servants now, as in old time. 
 
 We have no cloud or fire, and haply we 
 
 May not pass dryshod through the ocean-stream ; 
 
 But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." 
 
 So spake he, and meantime the other stood 
 
 With wide, gray eyes still reading the blank air, 
 
 As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw 
 
 Some mystic sentence written by a hand 
 
 Such as of old did scare the Assyrian king, 
 
 Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. 
 
 "HAMPDEN, a moment since, my purpose was 
 To fly with thee for I will call it flight, 
 Nor flatter it with any smoother name 
 But something in me bids me not to go ; 
 And I am one, thou knowest, who, unscared 
 By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed 
 And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul 
 Whispers of warning to the inner ear. 
 Why should we fly ? Nay, why not rather stay 
 And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls, 
 Not as of old the walls of Thebes were built 
 By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, 
 With the more potent music of our swords ? 
 Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 269 
 
 Claim more God's care than all of England here ? 
 
 No : when He moves His arm, it is to aid 
 
 Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, 
 
 As some are ever when the destiny 
 
 Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. 
 
 Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves. 
 
 And where there is most sorrow and most want, 
 
 Where the high heart of man is trodden down 
 
 The most, 't is not because He hides His face 
 
 From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate. 
 
 Not so : there most is He, for there is He 
 
 Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad 
 
 Are not so near His heart as they who dare 
 
 Frankly to face her where she faces them, 
 
 On their own threshold, where their souls are strong 
 
 To grapple with and throw her, as I once, 
 
 Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king, 
 
 Who now has grown so dotard as to deem 
 
 That he can wrestle with an angry realm, 
 
 And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights. 
 
 No, Hampden ; they have half-way conquered Fate 
 
 Who go half-way to meet her as will I. 
 
 Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; 
 
 So speaks that inward voice which never yet 
 
 Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on 
 
 To noble deeds for country and mankind. 
 
 " What should we do in that small colony 
 
 Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose 
 
 Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair 
 
 Than the great chance of setting England free ? 
 
 Not there amid the stormy wilderness 
 
 Should we learn wisdom ; or, if learned, what room
 
 9YO A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 To put it into act else worse than naught ? 
 
 We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour 
 
 Upon this huge and ever vexed sea 
 
 Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck 
 
 Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, 
 
 Than in a cycle of New England sloth, 
 
 Broke only by some petty Indian war, 
 
 Or quarrel for a letter, more or less, 
 
 In some hard word, which, spelt in either way, 
 
 Not their most learned clerks can understand. 
 
 New times demand new measures and new men ; 
 
 The world advances, and in time outgrows 
 
 The laws that in our father's day were best ; 
 
 And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme 
 
 Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, 
 
 Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. 
 
 We cannot bring Utopia at once ; 
 
 But better almost be at work in sin 
 
 Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. 
 
 No man is born into the world whose work 
 
 Is not born with him ; there is always work, 
 
 And tools to work withal, for those who will ; 
 
 And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 
 
 The busy world shoves angrily aside 
 
 The man who stands with arms a-kimbo set, 
 
 Until occasion tells him what to do ; 
 
 And he who waits to have his task marked out, 
 
 Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. 
 
 Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds. 
 
 Eeason and Government, like two broad seas, 
 
 Yearn for each other with outstretched armi 
 
 Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, 
 
 And roll their white surf higher every day.
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 The field lies wide before us, where to reap 
 
 The easy harvest of a deathless name, 
 
 Though with no better sickles than our swords. 
 
 My soul is not a palace of the past, 
 
 Where outworn creeds, like Eorae's gray senate 
 
 quake, 
 
 Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse, 
 That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. 
 The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; 
 Then let it come : I have no dread of what 
 Is called for by the instinct of mankind. 
 Nor think I that God's world would fall apart 
 Because we tear a parchment more or less. 
 Truth is eternal, but her effluence, 
 With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; 
 Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect 
 The promise of the future, not the past. 
 I do not fear to follow out the truth, 
 Albeit along the precipice's edge. 
 Let us speak plain : there is more force in names 
 Than most men dream of ; and a lie may keep 
 Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk 
 Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 
 Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain 
 That only freedom comes by grace of God, 
 And all that comes not by his grace must fall : 
 For men in earnest have no time to waste 
 In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. 
 
 " I will have one more grapple with the man 
 Charles Stuart : whom the boy o'ercame, 
 The man stands not in awe of. I perchanof 
 Am one raised up by the Almighty arm
 
 272 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 To wituess some great truth to all the world. 
 
 Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, 
 
 And mould the world unto the scheme of God, 
 
 Have a foreconsciousness of their high doom, 
 
 As men are known to shiver at the heart, 
 
 When the cold shadow of some coming ill 
 
 Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares : 
 
 Hath Good less power of prophecy than 111 ? 
 
 How else could men whom God hath called to 
 
 sway 
 
 Earth's rudder, and to steer the barque of Truth, 
 Beating against the wind toward her port, 
 Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances, 
 The petty martyrdoms wherewith Sin strives 
 To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, 
 The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, 
 Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, 
 Where it doth lie in state within the Church, 
 Striving to cover up the mighty ocean 
 With a man's palm, and making even the truth 
 Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed, 
 To make the hope of man seem further off ? 
 My God ! when I read o'er the bitter lives 
 Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great 
 To beat beneath the cramped mode of the clay, 
 And see them mocked at by the world they love. 
 Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths 
 Of that reform which their hard toil will make 
 The common birthright of the age to come 
 When I see this, spite of my faith in God, 
 I marvel how their hearts bear up so long ; 
 Nor could they, but for this same prophecy, 
 This inward feeling of the glorious end.
 
 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 " Deem me not fond ; but in my warmer youth, 
 
 Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, 
 
 I had great dreams of mighty things to come ; 
 
 Of conquest ; whether by the sword or pen, 
 
 I knew not ; but some conquest I would have, 
 
 Or else swift death : now, wiser grown in years, 
 
 1 find youth's dreams are but the flutterings 
 
 Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar 
 
 In after time to win a starry throne ; 
 
 And therefore cherish them, for they were lots 
 
 Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 
 
 Nor will I draw them, since a man's right hand, 
 
 A right hand guided by an earnest soul, 
 
 With a true instinct, takes the golden prize 
 
 From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck, 
 
 Is the prerogative of valiant souls, 
 
 The fealty life pays its rightful kings. 
 
 The helm is shaking now, and I will stay 
 
 To pluck my lot forth ; it were sin to flee 1 " 
 
 So they two turned together ; one to die 
 Fighting for freedom on the bloody field ; 
 The other, far more happy, to become 
 A name earth wears forever next her heart ; 
 One of the few that have a right to rank 
 With the true Makers ; for his spirit wrought 
 Order from Chaos ; proved that right divine 
 Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth ; 
 And far within old Darkness' hostile lines 
 Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light, 
 Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, 
 That not the least among his many claims 
 To deathless honor he was MILTON'S friend 
 18
 
 SONG. 
 
 A. man not second among those who lived 
 To show us that the poet's lyre demands 
 An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 VIOLET ! sweet violet ! 
 Thine eyes are full of tears ; 
 Are they wet 
 Even yet 
 
 With the thought of other years, 
 Or with gladness are they full. 
 For the night so beautiful, 
 And longing for those far-off spheres ? 
 
 Loved one of my youth thou wast, 
 Of my merry youth, 
 And I see, 
 Tearfully, 
 
 All the fair and sunny past, 
 All its openness and truth, 
 Ever fresh and green in thee 
 As the moss is in the sea. 
 
 Thy little heart, that hath with love 
 Grown colored like the sky above, 
 On which thou lookest ever, 
 Can it know 
 All the woe 
 
 Of hope for what returneth never, 
 All the sorrow and the longing 
 To these hearts of ours belonging I 
 Out on it I no foolish pining
 
 THE MOON. 275 
 
 For the sky 
 
 Dims thine eye, 
 
 Or for the stars so calmly shining , 
 Like thee let this soul of mine 
 Take hue from that wherefor I long, 
 Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, 
 Not satisfied with hoping but divine. 
 
 Violet ! dear Violet ! 
 
 Thy blue eyes are only wet 
 With joy and love of him who sent thee, 
 And, for the fulfilling sense 
 Of that glad obedience 
 Which made thee all which Nature meant the! 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 MY soul was like the sea 
 Before the moon was made ; 
 Moaning in vague immensity, 
 Of its own strength afraid, 
 TJnrestful and unstaid. 
 
 Through every rift it foamed in vain 
 
 About its earthly prison, 
 Seeking some unknown thing in pain, 
 And sinking restless back again, 
 
 For yet no moon had risen : 
 Its only voice a vast dumb moan 
 Of utterless anguish speaking, 
 It lay unhopefully alone 
 And lived but in an aimless seeking.
 
 THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 So was my soul : but when 't was full 
 
 Of unrest to overloading, 
 A voice of something beautiful 
 
 Whispered a dim foreboding, 
 And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, 
 It had not more of joy than woe : 
 And, as the sea doth oft lie still, 
 
 Making his waters meet, 
 As if by an unconscious will, 
 
 For the moon's silver feet, 
 Like some serene, nwinking eye 
 That wa ; .ts a certain destiny, 
 So lay my soul within mine eyes 
 When thou its sovereign moon didst rise. 
 
 And now, however its waves above 
 
 May toss and seem uneaseful, 
 One strong, eternal law of love 
 
 With guidance sure and peaceful, 
 As calm and natural as breath 
 Moves its great deeps through Life and Death. 
 
 THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 WHERE is the true man's fatherland ? 
 
 Is it where he by chance is born ? 
 
 Doth not the free- winged spirit scorn 
 In such pent borders to be spanned ? 
 
 Oh yes ! his fatherland must be 
 
 As the blue heavens wide and free ! 
 
 Is it alone where freedom is, 
 
 Where God is God and man is man ?
 
 A PARABLE. 277 
 
 Doth he not claim a broader span 
 For the soul's love of home than this ? 
 Oh yes ! his fatherland must be 
 
 tJ 
 
 As the blue heavens wide and free ! 
 
 Where'er a human heart doth wear 
 
 Joy's myrtle wreath, or sorrow's gyves, 
 
 Where'er a human spirit strives 
 After a life more pure and fair, 
 
 There is the true man's birthplace grand I 
 
 His is a world-wide fatherland ! 
 
 Where'er a single slave doth pine, 
 
 Where'er one man may help another 
 Thank God for such a birthright, brother ! 
 
 That spot of earth is thine and mine ; 
 
 There is the true man's birthplace grand ! 
 His is a world-wide fatherland ! 
 
 A PARABLE. 
 
 WORN and footsore was the Prophet 
 When he reached the holy hill ; 
 
 " God has left the earth," he murmured, 
 " Here his presence lingers still. 
 
 *' God of all the olden prophets, 
 Wilt thou talk with me no more ? 
 
 Have I not as truly loved thee 
 As thy chosen ones of yore ? 
 
 " Hear me, guider of my fathers, 
 Lo, an humble heart is mine ; 
 
 By thy mercy I beseech thee, 
 Grant thy servant but a sign 1 "
 
 278 A -PARABLE. 
 
 Bowing then his head, he listened 
 For an answer to his prayer ; 
 
 No loud burst of thunder followed, 
 Not a murmur stirred the air : 
 
 But the tuft of moss before him 
 
 Opened while he waited yet, 
 And from out the rock's hard bosom 
 
 Sprang a tender violet. 
 
 " God ! I thank thee," said the Prophet, 
 " Hard of heart and blind was I, 
 
 Looking to the holy mountain 
 For the gift of prophecy. 
 
 " Still thou speakest with thy children 
 
 Freely as in Eld sublime, 
 Humbleness and love and patience 
 
 Give dominion over Time. 
 
 " Had I trusted in my nature, 
 And had faith in lowly things, 
 
 Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, 
 And set free my spirit's wings. 
 
 " But I looked for signs and wonders 
 That o'er men should give me sway ; 
 
 Thirsting to be more than mortal, 
 I was even less than clay. 
 
 " Ere I entered on my journey, 
 
 As I girt my loins to start, 
 Ran to me my little daughter, 
 
 The beloved of my heart ;
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 
 
 " In her hand she held a flower, 
 
 Like to this as like may be, 
 Which beside my very threshold 
 
 She had plucked and brought to me." 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 
 
 DEATH never came so nigh to me before, 
 
 Nor showed me his mild face : Oft I had mused 
 
 Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, 
 
 Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest, 
 
 And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, 
 
 Of faults forgotten, and an inner place 
 
 Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends ; 
 
 But these were idle fancies satisfied 
 
 With the mere husk of this great Mystery, 
 
 And dwelling in the outward shows of things. 
 
 Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, 
 
 Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth 
 
 Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom, 
 
 With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content : 
 
 'T is sorrow builds the shining ladder up 
 
 Whose golden rounds are our calamities, 
 
 Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God 
 
 The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. 
 
 True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold, 
 When he is sent to summon those we love, 
 But all God's angels come to us disguised ; 
 Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, 
 One after other lift their frowning maska, 
 And we behold the seraph's face beneath, 
 All radiant with the glory and the calm
 
 280 
 
 Of having looked upon the smile of God. 
 
 With every anguish of our earthly past 
 
 The spirit's sight grows clearer ; this was meant 
 
 When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. 
 
 Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent 
 
 To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. 
 
 He flings not ope the ivory gate of Eest 
 
 Only the fallen spirit knocks at that 
 
 But to benigner regions beckons us, 
 
 To destinies of more rewarded toil. 
 
 In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, 
 
 It grates on us to hear the flood of life 
 
 Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. 
 
 The bee hums on ; around the blossomed vine 
 
 Whirs the light hurnm ing-bird ; the cricket chirps; 
 
 The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear ; 
 
 Hard by, the cock shouts lustily ; from farm to farm, 
 
 His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, 
 
 Answer, till far away the joyance dies ; 
 
 We never knew before how God had filled 
 
 The summer air with happy living sounds ; 
 
 All round us seems an overplus of life, 
 
 And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. 
 
 It is most strange, when the great Miracle 
 
 Hath for our sakes been done ; when we have had 
 
 Our inwardest experience of God, 
 
 When with his presence still the room expands, 
 
 And is awed after him, that naught is changed, 
 
 That Nature's face looks unacknowledging, 
 
 And the mad world still dances heedless on 
 
 After its butterflies, and gives no sigh. 
 
 7 T is hard at first to see it all aright j
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FKIEND'S CHILD. 281 
 
 In vain Faitli blows her trump to summon back 
 Her scattered troop ; yet, through the clouded glass 
 Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look 
 Undazzled on the kindness of God's face ; 
 Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. 
 
 How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy 
 
 child's ! 
 
 He bends above thy cradle now, or holds 
 His warning finger out to be thy guide ; 
 Thou art the nursling now ; he watches thee 
 Slow learning, one by one, the secret things 
 Which are to him used sights of every day ; 
 He smiles to see thy wondering glances con 
 The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, 
 To thee miraculous ; and he will teach 
 Thy knees their due observances of prayer. 
 
 Children are God's apostles, day by day, 
 
 Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace ; 
 
 NOT hath thy babe his mission left undone. 
 
 To me, at least, his going hence hath given 
 
 Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, 
 
 And opened a new fountain in my heart 
 
 For thee, my friend, and all : and oh, if Death 
 
 More near approaches, meditates, and clasps 
 
 Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, 
 
 God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see 
 
 That 't is thine angel who, with loving haste, 
 
 Unto the service of the inner shrine 
 
 Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss I 
 
 CAMBRIDGE, MASS., Sept. 3, 1844.
 
 A. L. Burt's Catalogue of Books for 
 Young People by Popular Writers, 52- 
 58 Duane Street, New York > ^ MZ 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Joe's Luck: A Boy's Adventures in California. By 
 
 HORATIO ALGER, JR. 13mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 The story Is chock full of stirring Incidents, while the amusing situ 
 ations are furnished by Joshua Bickford, from Pumpkin Hollow, and the 
 fellow who modestly styles himself the "Rip- tall Roarer, from Pike Co., 
 Missouri." Mr. Alger never writes a poor book, and "Joe's Luck" is cer 
 tainly one of his best. 
 
 Tom the Bootblack; or, The Eoad to Success. By 
 
 HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the Bootblack. He was not at all 
 ashamed of kis humble calling, though always on the lookout to better 
 himself. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up his heritage. Mr. 
 Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. The 
 plan failed, and Gilbert Grey, once Tom the bootblack, came Into a com 
 fortable fortune. This Is one of Mr. Alger's best stories. 
 
 Dan the Newsboy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Dan Mordaunt and his mother live In a poor tenement, and the lad la 
 pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of New 
 York. A little heiress of six years Is confided to the care of the Mor- 
 daunts. The child is kidnapped and Dan tracks the child to the house 
 where she is hidden, and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little 
 heiress is so delighted with Dan's courage and many good qualities 
 that she adopts him as her heir. 
 
 Tony the Hero: A Brave Boy's Adventure with a 
 
 Tramp. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, Is under the control of 
 Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal. After much abuse Tony runs away 
 and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. Tony Is heir to a 
 large estate. Rudolph for a consideration hunts up Tony and throws 
 him down a deep well. Of course Tony escapes from the fate provided 
 for him, and by a brave act, a rich friend secures his rights and Tony 
 is prosperous. A very entertaining book. 
 
 The Errand Boy; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. 
 
 By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth Illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 The career of "The Errand Boy" embraces the city adventures of a 
 mart country lad. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper 
 named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way for the hero's 
 subsequent troubles. A retired merchant In New York secures him the 
 Bitnation of errand boy, and thereafter stands as his friend. 
 
 Tom Temple's Career. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tom Temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. He leaves Plympton village 
 to seek work In New York, whence he undertakes an Important mission 
 to California. Some of his adventures In the far west are so startling that 
 the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been 
 reached. The tale Is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUST. 62-58 Duane Street. New York.
 
 2 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOB YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By HOEATIO ALGEE, JR. 
 
 32ino, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for 
 himself and his foster-sister Grace. Coins to New York he obtains a 
 situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a 
 wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy to the lad, and thereafter 
 helps the lad to gain success and fortune. 
 
 Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By HOEATIO ALGEE, JR. 
 
 12mo. cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his 
 mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger in Johu 
 Simpson's factory. Tom is discharged from the factory and starts over 
 land for California. He meets with many adventures. The story is told 
 In a way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many 
 homes. 
 
 The Train Boy. By HOEATIO ALGEE, JE. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported hia mother 
 and sister by selling books and papers on the Chicago and Milwaukee 
 Railroad. He detects a young man in the act of picking the pocket of a 
 young lady. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paiil 
 is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude 
 takes him into his employ. Paul succeeds with tact and judgment and 
 is well started on the road to business prominence. 
 
 Mark Mason's Victory. The Trials and Triumphs of 
 
 a Telegraph Boy. By HOHATIO ALGER, JB. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 Mark Mason, the telegraph boy, was a 6tcrdy, honest lad, who pluckilj 
 won his way to success by his honest manly efforts under many diffi 
 culties. This story will please the very large class of boys who regard 
 Mr. Alger as a favorite author. 
 
 A Debt of Honor. The Story of Gerald Lane's Success 
 
 in the Far West. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, pries 
 
 #1.00. 
 
 The story of Gerald Lane and the account of the many trials and dis 
 appointments which he passed through bofoi he attained success, will 
 Interest all boys who have read tlie previous stories of this delightful 
 author. 
 
 Ben Bruce. Scenes in the Life of a Bowery Newsboy. 
 
 By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Ben Bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. The story of his efforts, 
 and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his final success, are 
 most interesting to all readers. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's 
 most fascinating style. 
 
 The Castaways; or, On the Florida Eeefs. By JAMES 
 
 OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This tale smacks of the salt sea. From the moment that the Sen 
 Queen leaves lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her bocalmed off 
 the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind 
 through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to 
 the leeward. The adventures of Ben Clark, the hero of the storv and 
 Jake the cook, cannot fall to charm the reader. As a writer for young 
 people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. HURT, 62-68 Duane Street, New York,
 
 A. L. BURIES BOOKS FOR YOUlSG PEOPLE. 3 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Wrecked on Spider Island; or, How Ned Rogers Found 
 
 the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Ned llogers, a "down-east" plucky lad ships as cabin boy to earn 
 a livelihood. Ned Is marooned on Spider Island, and while there dis 
 covers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a considerable amount 
 it treasure. The capture of the treasure and the Incidents of the 
 voyage serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most 
 captious boy could desire. 
 
 The Search for the Silver City : A Tale of Adventure in 
 
 Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 81.00. 
 
 Two lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam 
 yacht Day Dream for a cruise to the tropics. The yacht is destroyed 
 by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They 
 hear of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians, 
 and with the help of a faithful Indian ally carry off a number of the 
 golden Images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor at last 
 their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. The story Is so 
 full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with 
 the novelty and realism of the narrative. 
 
 A Runaway Brig; or, An Accidental Cruise. By 
 
 JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide shimmer 
 ing sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with 
 Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back, Bob 
 Brace, on the brig Bonita. The boys discover a mysterious document 
 which enables them to find a buried treasure. They are stranded on 
 an island and at last are rescued with the treasure. The boys are sure 
 to be fascinated with this entertaining story. 
 
 The Treasure Finders: A Bo/s Adventures in 
 
 Nicaragua. By JAMBS OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's 
 Indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The 
 boys eagerly explore the temples of an extinct race and discover three 
 golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest 
 difficulty. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. We 
 doubt if there ever was written a more entertaining story than "The 
 Treasure Finders." 
 
 Jack, the Hunchback. A Story of the Coast of Maine. 
 
 By JAMES OTIS. Price $1.00. 
 
 This is the story of a little hunchback who lived on Cape Elizabeth, 
 on the coast of Maine. His trials and successes are most interesting. 
 From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us 
 along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses 
 its force. 
 
 With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three 
 
 Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, illustrated, price '$1.50. 
 
 Three Philadelphia lads assist the American spies and make regular 
 and frequent visits to Valley Forge in the Winter while the British 
 occupied the city. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life 
 skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are 
 given shown that the work has not been hastily done, or without con 
 siderable study. The story Is wholesome and patriotic In tone, as are 
 all of Mr. Otis' works. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUKT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 4 A. L. Burr's BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two 
 
 Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES Ons. 12mo, ornamental 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. 
 
 Two lads from Portmtuth, N. H., attempt to enlist In the Colonial 
 Army, and are given employment as spies. There Is no lack of exciting 
 Incidents which the youthful reader craves, but It is healthful excite 
 ment brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, 
 and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffrays and 
 Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain 
 in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text 
 books has been forgotten. 
 
 At the Siege of Havana. Being the Experiences of 
 
 Three Boys Serving under Israel Putnam in 1762. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, 
 
 ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. 
 
 "At the Siege of Havana" deals with that portion of the island's 
 history when the English king captured the capital, thanks to the 
 assistance given by the troops from New England, led in part by Col. 
 Israel Putnam. 
 
 The principal characters are Darius Lunt, the lad who, represented as 
 telling the story, and his comrades, Robert Clement and Nicholas 
 Vallet. Colonel Putnam also figures to considerable extent, necessarily. 
 In the tale, and the whole forms one of the most readable stories founded on 
 historical facts. 
 
 The Defense of Fort Henry. A Story of Wheeling 
 
 Creek iu 1777. By JAMES Ons. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.50. 
 
 Nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic or 
 thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and women 
 who founded the settlement of Wheeling in the Colony of Virginia. Tin- 
 recital of what Elizabeth Zanc did is in itself as heroic a story as onn 
 be Imagined. The wondrous bravery displayed by Major McCnlloch 
 and his gallant comrades, the sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice 
 of blood and life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers. 
 
 The Capture of the Laughing Mary. A Story of Throe 
 
 New York Boys in 1776. By JAMES Ons. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.50. 
 
 "During the British occupancy of New York, at the outbreak of the 
 Revolution, a Yankee lad hears of the plot to take General Washington's 
 person, and calls in two companions to assist the patriot cause. They 
 do some astonishing things, and. Incidentally, lay the way for an 
 American navy later, by the exploit which gives its name to the 
 work. Mr. Otis' books are too well known to require any particular 
 commendation to the young." Evening Post. 
 
 With Warren at Bunker Hill. A Story of the Siege of 
 
 Boston. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo. ornametnal cloth, olivine edges, illoc 
 
 trated, price $1.50. 
 
 "This is a tale of the siege of Boston, which opens on the day after 
 the doings at Lexington and Concord, with a description of home life 
 In Boston, introduces the reader to the British camp at Charlestown, 
 shows Gen. Warren at home, describes what a boy thought of the 
 battle of Bunker Hill, and closes with the raising of the siege. The 
 three heroes, George Wentworth., Ben Scarlett and an old ropemaker. 
 Incur the enmity of a young Tory, who causes them many adventures 
 the boys will like to read." Detroit Free Presg, 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUILT, 58-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 5 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 With the Swamp Fox. The Story of General Marion's 
 
 Spies. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ 1.00. 
 
 This story deals with General Francis Marlon's heroic struggle In the 
 Carolinas. General Marlon's arrival to take command of these brave 
 men and rough riders Is pictured as a boy might have seen It. and 
 although the story is devoted to what the lads did, the Swamp Fox 
 Is ever present in the mind of the reader. 
 
 On the Kentucky Frontier. A Story of the Fighting 
 
 Pioneers of the West. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 In the history of our country there Is no more thrilling story than 
 
 that of the wrk done on the Mississippi river by a handful of frontiers- 
 
 - men. Mr. Otis takes the reader on that famous expedition from the 
 
 arrival of Major Clarke's force at Corn Island, until Kaskaskia was 
 
 captured. He relates that part of Simon Kenton's life history which 
 
 is not usually touched upon either by the historian or the story teller. 
 
 This is one of the most entertaining books for young people which has 
 
 been published. 
 
 Sarah Dillard's Hide. A Story of South Carolina in 
 
 in 1780. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This book deals with the Carolinas in 1780, giving a wealth of detail of 
 the Mountain Men who struggled so valiantly against the king's troops. 
 Major Ferguson is the prominent British officer of the story, which is 
 told as though coming from a youth who experienced these adventures. 
 In this way the famous ride of Sarah Dillard Is brought out as an 
 incident of the plot." Boston Journal. 
 
 A Tory Plot. A Story of the Attempt to Kill General 
 
 Washington. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 " 'A Tory Plot' is the story of two lads who overhear something 
 of the plot originated during the Revolution by Gov. Tryon to capture 
 or murder Washington. They communicate their knowledge to Gen. 
 Putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role of detectives 
 In the matter. They do so, and meet with many adventures and hair 
 breadth escapes. The boys are, of course, mythical, but they serve to en 
 able the author to put into very attractive shape much valuable knowledge 
 concerning one phase of the Revolution." Pittsburgh Times. 
 
 A Traitor's Escape. A Story of the Attempt to Seize 
 
 Benedict Arnold. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This Is a tale with stirring scenes depicted In each chapter, bringing 
 clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the early settlers in this 
 country. In an historical work dealing with this country's past, no 
 plot can hold the attention closer than this one, which describes the 
 attempt and partial success of Benedict Arnold's escape to New York, 
 where he remained as the guest of Sir Henry Clinton. All those who 
 actually figured in the arrest of the traitor, as well as Gen. Washing 
 ton, are included as characters." Albany Union. 
 
 A Cruise with Paul Jones. A Story of Naval Warfare 
 
 in 1776. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story takes up that portion of Paul Jones' adventuroms life 
 When he was hovering off the British coast, watching for an oppor 
 tunity to strike the enemy a blow. It deals more particularly with 
 his descent upon Whitehaven,. the seizure of Lady Selkirk's plate, and 
 the famous battle with the Drake. The boy who figures in the tale 
 Is one who was taken from a derelict by Paul Jones shortly after this 
 particular cruise was begun." Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price By the 
 publisher. A. L. BUE.T, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 6 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 BOOKS FOR BOYST~ ~7~ 
 
 Corporal Lige's Recruit. A Story of Crown Point and 
 
 Ticonderoga. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. 
 
 "In 'Corporal Lige's Kecrult,' Mr. Otis tells the amusing story of an 
 old soldier, proud of his record, who had served the king in '58. and who 
 takes the lad, Isaac Rice, as his 'personal recruit.' The lad acquits 
 himself superbly. Col. Ethan Allen 'in the name of God and the con 
 tinental congress,' infuses much martial spirit into the narrative, which 
 will arouse the keenest Interest as It proceeds. Crown Point, Ticon 
 deroga, Benedict Arnold and numerous other famous historical names 
 appear in this dramatic tale." Boston Globe. 
 
 Morgan, the Jersey Spy. A Story of the Siege of York- 
 
 town in 1781. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "The two lads who are utilized by the author to emphasize the details 
 of the work done during that memorable time were real boys who livi'd 
 on the banks of the York river, and who aided the Jersey sp3 r in his 
 dangerous occupation. In the guise of fishermen the lads visit York- 
 town, are suspected of being spies, and put under arrest. Morgan risks 
 his life to save them. The final escape, the thrilling encounter with a 
 squad of red coats, when they are exposed equally to the bullets of 
 friends and foes, told in a masterly fashion, makes of this volume one 
 of the most entertaining books of the year." Inter-Ocean. 
 
 The Young Scout: The Story of a West Point Lieu 
 
 tenant. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12uio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 The crafty Apache chief Gerouimo but a few years ago was the 
 most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has woven, 
 In a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of Geronimo's last raid. 
 The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. 
 Ambitious to distinguish himself the young man takes many a desperate 
 chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly 
 escapes with his life. In our opinion Mr. Ellis Is the best writer of 
 Indian stories now before the public. 
 
 Adrift in the Wilds: The Adventures of Two Ship 
 
 wrecked Boys. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12nio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence are en route for San Fran 
 cisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boys 
 reach the shore with several of the passengers. Young Brandon be 
 comes separated from his party and Is captured by hostile Indians, 
 but is afterwards rescued. This is a very entertaining narrative of 
 Southern California. 
 
 A Young Hero; or, Fighting to Win. By EDWARD S. 
 
 , 
 
 ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 Lost in the Rockies. A Story of Adventure in the 
 
 Rocky Mountains. By EDWARD S. Ei.r.rs. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 Incident succeeds Incident, and adventure Is piled upon adventure, 
 and at the end the reader, be he boy or mini, will have experienced 
 breathless enjoyment In this romantic story describing many adventures In 
 the Rockies and among the Indians. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postwifd on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUST, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 7 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 A Jaunt Through Java: The Story of a Journey to 
 
 the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 The Interest of this story Is found hi the thrilling adventures of 
 two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip acrosss the island 
 of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the 
 Royal Bengal tiger, the rhinoceros, and other fierce beasts are to be 
 met with, it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a 
 lively experience. There is not a dull page in the book. 
 
 The Boy Patriot. A Story of Jack, the Young Friend 
 
 of Washington. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, illus 
 trated, price $1.50. 
 
 "There are adventures of all kinds for the hero and his friends, whose 
 pluck and ingenuity in extricating themselves from awkward fixes are 
 always equal to the occasion. It is an excellent story full of honest, 
 manly, patriotic efforts on the part of the hero. A very vivid description 
 of the battle of Trenton is also found in this story." Journal of 
 Education. 
 
 A Yankee Lad's Pluck. How Bert Larkin Saved his 
 
 Father's Eanch in Porto Rico. By WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Bert Larkin, the hero of the story, early excites our admiration, 
 and is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst 
 the story of his numerous adventures is very graphically told. This 
 will, we think, prove one of the most popular boys' books this season." 
 Gazette. 
 
 A Brave Defense. A Story of the Massacre at Fort 
 
 Qriswold in 1781. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 Perhaps no more gallant fight against fearful odds took place during 
 the Revolutionary War than that at Port Griswold, Groton Heights, Conn., 
 in 1781. The boys are real boys who were actually on the muster rolls, 
 either at Fort Trumbull on the New London side, or of Fort Griswold on 
 the Groton side of the Thames. The youthful reader who follows Halsey 
 Sanford and Levl Dart and Tom Malleson, and their equally brave com 
 rades, through their thrilling adventures will be learning something more 
 than historical facts; they will be imbibing lessons of fidelity, of bravery, 
 of heroism, and of manliness, which must prove serviceable in the arena 
 of life. 
 
 The Young Minuteman. A Story of the Capture of 
 
 General Prescott in 1777. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 This story is based upon actual events which occurred during the British 
 occupation of the waters of Narragansett Bay. Darius Wale and William 
 Northrop belong to, "the coast patrol." The story is a strong one, dealing 
 only with actual events. There is, however, no lack of thrilling adventure, 
 and every lad who is fortunate enough to obtain the book will find not 
 only that his historical knowledge is increased, but that his own patriotism 
 and love of country are deepened. 
 
 For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, clotb, olivina 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty's graphic prose picture of the hopeless Jewish resistance 
 to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of 
 the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty's cleverest efforts." Graphic. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 62-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 ft 
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Roy Gilbert's Search: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By 
 
 WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Eoy Gilbert. He arranges 
 with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam 
 launch. The three boys visit many points of interest on the lakes. 
 Afterwards the lads rescue an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sink 
 ing yacht. Later on the boys narrowly escape with their lives. The 
 hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed 
 with Interest. 
 
 The Slate Picker: The Story of a Boy's Life in the 
 
 Coal Mines. By HARRY PRKNTICB. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This is a story of a boy's life In the coal mines of Pennsylvania. 
 Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy 
 he advanced step by step until be found himself called upon to fill the 
 position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. This is a 
 book of extreme interest to every boy reader. 
 
 The Boy Cruisers; or, Paddling in Florida. By ST. 
 
 GEORGE RATHBOENE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00 
 Andrew George and Rowland Carter start on a canoe trip along the 
 Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure 
 Is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run Into 
 a gale In the Gulf. After that they have a lively time with alli 
 gators and Andrew gets into trouble with a band of Seminole Indians. 
 Mr. Rathborne knows just how to interest the boys, and lads who are 
 In search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. 
 
 Captured by Zulus: A Story of Trapping in Africa. 
 
 By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob 
 Harvi-y, In the wilds of South Africa. By stratagem the Zulus capture 
 Dick and Bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. The 
 lads escape death by dig Ing their way out of the prison hut by night. 
 They are pursued, but the Zulus finally give up pursuit. Mr. Prentice 
 tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native 
 stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining rending. 
 
 Tom the Ready; or, Up from the Lowest. By KAN- 
 
 DOLPH HILL. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1 00. 
 
 This Is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambi 
 tious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder to wealth and the 
 governorship of his native State. Tom Seacomb begins life with a pur 
 pose, and eventually overcomes those who oppose him. How he manages 
 to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill In a masterfrl way that thrills 
 the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. 
 
 Captain Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adven 
 turous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 price $1.00. 
 
 There Is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea 
 of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portu 
 guese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes. There 
 were many famous sea rovers, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kldd. 
 Paul Jones Garry Inherits a document which locates a considerable 
 treasure burled by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book is an 
 ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and hl 
 efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the mot 
 absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. ^^^ 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tbt 
 publisher, A. L. BUKT, 62-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 9 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 The Boy Explorers: The Adventures of Two Boys in 
 
 Alaska. By HARRY PRENTICK. I2mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Two boys, Raymond and Spencer Manning, travel to Alaska to Join 
 their father In search of their uncle. On their arrival at Sitka the boys 
 With an Indian guide set off across the mountains. The trip is fraught 
 with periU that test the lads' courage to the utmost. All through their 
 exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by 
 pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most in 
 teresting tales ever written. 
 
 The Island Treasure; or, Harry Parrel's Fortune. 
 
 By FRANK H. CONVERSE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Harry Darrel, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is 
 bent on going to sea. A runaway horse changes his prospects. Harry 
 saves Dr. Gregg from drowning and afterward becomes sailing-master 
 of a sloop yacht. Mr. Converse's stories possess a charm of their owu 
 which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that 
 smack of salt water. 
 
 Guy Harris: The Kunaway. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the Great 
 Lakes. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough 
 side of life in a sailor's boarding house. He ships on a vessel and for 
 five months leads a hard life. The book will interest boys generally 
 on account of its graphic style. This is one of Castlemon's most attract 
 ive stories. 
 
 Julian Mortimer: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home 
 
 and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, In the days 
 when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the 
 land of gold. There is an attack upon the wagon train by a large party 
 of Indians. Our hero is a "ad of uncommon nerve and pluck. Befriended 
 by a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most 
 happy results. 
 
 By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Else of the Dutch 
 
 Republic. By G. A. HENTY.. With illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN. 
 
 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price SI. 00. 
 
 "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the 
 book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite 
 of themselves." St. James's Gazette. 
 
 fit. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poi 
 tiers. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, 
 cloth, olivine edgf-s, price $1.00. 
 
 "A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible style 
 the author has endeavored to show that determination and enthusiasm 
 can accomplish marvellous results; and that courage is generally accom 
 panied by magnanimity and gentleness." Fall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of 
 
 California. By G. A. HENTY. Wiih illustrations by H. M. PAQET. 12moi 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price gl.OO. 
 
 "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle Instruction with entertainment; and 
 the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the West 
 minster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled." Chris 
 tian Leader. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L, BUST, 68-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Budd Boyd's Triumph; or, The Boy Firm of Fox Island, 
 
 By WILUAM P, CHIPMAN. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price {1.00, 
 The scene of this story Is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, 
 and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. The two 
 boys, Budd Boyd and Judd Floyd, being ambitious and clear sighted, 
 form a partnership to catch and sell fish. Budd's pluck and good sense 
 carry him through many troubles. In following the career of the boy 
 firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson- 
 that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. 
 
 Lost in the Canyon: Sam Willett's Adventures on the 
 
 Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price ft 
 This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the 
 fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before 
 be shall have reached his majority. The story of his father's peril and 
 of Sam's desperate trip down the great canyon on a raft, and how the 
 party finally escape from their perils is described in a graphic style 
 that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of bis art. 
 
 Captured by Apes : The Wonderful Adventures of a 
 
 Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, sets sail for 
 Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel 
 is wrecked oft the coast of Borneo, and young Garland is cast ashore 
 on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. 
 Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. 
 Mr. Prentice is a writer of undoubted skill. 
 
 Tinder Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "There is not a dull chapter, nor, indeed, a dull page in the book; but 
 the author has so carefully worked up his subject that the exciting 
 deeds of his heroes are never incongruous nor absurd." Observer. 
 
 By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By 
 
 G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 The author has woven, In a tale of thrilling interest, all the details 
 of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. 
 
 "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By 
 Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read." Athenseum. 
 
 With Lee in Virginia : A Story of the American Civil 
 
 War. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. ISmo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. 
 Jhe picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic Inci 
 dents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the 
 story. ' ' Standard. 
 
 By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands 
 
 (1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring 
 Incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the 
 scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness. " 
 Boston Gazette. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt -ot price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUST, 68-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. t. BTTRT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 11 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 By Eight of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by W. S. STAGEY. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.50. 
 
 "The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the 
 magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightfully ranked among the most 
 romantic and daring exploits in history. 'By Right of Conquest' is the 
 neaiest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty 
 has yet published. " Academy. 
 
 For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 ofivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excite 
 ment of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a 
 territory and its inhabitants which must for a long time possess a supremo 
 Interest for Englishmen, as being the key to our Indian, Empire." 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in 
 
 Spain. By Q. A. HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 32mo 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work to 
 enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, 
 as indispensable to the making of a gentleman. Boys will read 'The 
 Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are qulto 
 sure." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 The Cat of Bubastes:A Story of Ancient Egypt. By 
 
 G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00, 
 
 "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat 
 
 to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, Is very skillfully 
 
 constructed and full of exciting adventures. It Is admirably Illustrated." 
 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Cul- 
 
 loden. By G. A, HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROVNB. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentln Durward.' The 
 lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, makes up aa 
 good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freohness of 
 treatment and variety of Incident Mr, Henty has surpassed himself." 
 Spectator. 
 
 With Clive in India; or, The Beginnings of an Empire. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12uio, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital impor 
 tance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of 
 Itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted 
 with the volume." Scotsman. 
 
 In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a West- 
 
 minster Boy. By G. A. HENTY, With illustrations by J. SCHCNBERO, 
 
 12mo, cloth, olivino edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Harry Sand with, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat 
 Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity 
 and peril they depict. The story is one of Mr. Henty 'a best." Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of pries by th* 
 publisher, A. L. HURT. 62-68 Duane Street, New York,
 
 A. L. SORT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus 
 
 and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by JOHN 
 
 SCHONBERG. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A praiseworthy attempt to interest British youth in the great deeds 
 of the Scotch Brigade in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus. Mackey, Hep 
 burn, and Munro live again In Mr. Henty's pages, as those deserve to 
 live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern 
 British army." Atheneum. 
 
 The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King 
 
 Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANILAND. 12mo 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 In this story the author gives an account of the fierce straggle bfr 
 tween Saxon and Dane for supremacy In England, and presents a vivia 
 picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the 
 ravages of the sea-wolves. Th< story Is treated in a manner most at 
 tractive to the boyish reader." Athenaeum. 
 
 The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of 
 
 Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANILAND. 13mo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays 
 the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose 
 current varies in direction, but never loses its force." Saturday Review. 
 
 In Freedom's Canse: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 13mo, cloth: 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "It Is written In the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most 
 remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great Interest, which a boy. once 
 he has begun it, will not willingly put one side." The Schoolmaster. 
 
 With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Con 
 tinent By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. I2mo 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A model of what a boys' story-book should be. Mr. Henty has a 
 great power of Infusing into the dead facts of history new life, and as 
 no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in historic details, his 
 books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement." School Guard 
 ian* 
 
 True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of 
 
 Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 
 
 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Does Justice to the pluck and determination of the British sollders 
 during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son 
 of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the 
 hostile red-skins in that very Huron country which has been endeared 
 to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Cblngachgook." The Times, 
 
 A Final Beckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Aus 
 tralia. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 "All boys will read this story with eager and unflagging Interest. Th 
 
 episodes are in Mr. Henty's very best vein graphic, exciting, realistic; 
 
 and, as in all Mr. Henty's books, the tendency is to the formation of ac 
 
 honorable, manly, and even heroic character." Birmingham Post. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tl.-- 
 publisher, A. L. BUST, 62-68 Dvuuw Street, New York.
 
 A. L. KURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 13 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Four 
 teenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 
 12mo, cloth, olivino edges, price $1.00. 
 "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never 
 
 produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious." 
 
 Saturday Heview. 
 
 Facing Death; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A 
 
 Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON 
 
 BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "The tale Is well written and well Illustrated, and there Is much 
 reality In the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster 
 is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who IE 
 worth bis salt, this is the book we would recommend." Standard. 
 
 Maori and Settler: A Story ox the New Zealand War. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With Illustrations by ALFRED PKARSK. 12mo, clotht 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless 
 moments in whicb the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they 
 succeed In establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New 
 Zealand valleys. It is brimful of adventure, of humorous and Interesting 
 conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life." Schoolmaster. 
 
 One of the 28th: A Tale of Waterloo. By G. A. 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations by W. H. OVERKND. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Written with Homeric vigor and heroic inspiration. It Is graphic, 
 picturesque, and dramatically effective . a . shows us Mr. Henty at 
 his best and brightest. The adventures will hold a boy enthralled as he 
 rushes through them with breathless interest 'from cover to cover.' " 
 Observer. 
 
 Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limer 
 ick. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNB. ISmo, 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1 .00. 
 "The narrative Is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with 
 
 life as If what is being described were really passing before the eye." 
 
 Belfast News-Letter. 
 
 Through the Fray: A Story of the Lnddite Eiots. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET. ISmo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth 
 and courage. This Is one of the best of the many good books Mr. 
 Henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his 'Facing Death.' " 
 Standard. 
 
 The Young Midshipman: A Story of the Bombard 
 ment of Alexandria. With illustrations. I2mo, cloth, olivine edges' 
 price $1.00. 
 
 A coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the Interest of 
 a shipowner, who places him as an apprentice on board one of his ships. 
 In company with two of his fellow-apprentices he is left behind, at 
 Alexandria, In the bands of the revolted Egyptian troops, and Is present 
 through the bombardment and the scenes of riot and bloodshed which 
 accompanied H. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tbn 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-53 Duano Street, New York.
 
 14 A. L. SUET'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPL1. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 In Times of Peril. A Tale of India. By G. A, 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 The hero of the story early excites our admiration, and is altogether 
 a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst the etory of the 
 campaign is very graphically told." St. James's Gazette. 
 
 The Cornet of Horse: A Tale of Marlborough's Wars. 
 
 By Q. A. HENTT. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 
 
 "Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction 
 together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
 just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle known as tht 
 Crimean War." Athenaeum. 
 
 The Young Franc-Trrems: Their Adventures in the 
 
 Franco-Prussian War. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A capital book for boya. It is bright and readable, and full of good 
 sense and manliness. It teaches pluck and patience in adversity, and 
 shows that right living leads to success." Observer. 
 
 The Young Colonists: A Story of Life and War in 
 
 South Africa. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "No boy needs to have any story of Henty's recommended to him, and 
 parents who do *.ot know and buy them for their boys should be ashamed 
 of themselves. Those to whom he is yet unknown could not make a 
 better beginning than with this book. 
 
 The Young Buglers. A Tale of the Peninsular War. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 
 
 "Mr. Henty is a giant among boys* writers, and his books are suffi 
 ciently popular to be sure of a welcome anywhere. In stirring interest, 
 this is quite up to the level of Mr. Henty's former historical tales." 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Sturdy and Strong; or, How George Andrews Made his 
 
 Way. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo. cloth, olivine edgea 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of tr-th, clothing of 
 modesty, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally, from poverty to afflu 
 ence. George Andrews is an example of character with nothing to cavil 
 t, and stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life." The 
 Rmpire. 
 
 Among Malay Pirates. A Story of Adventure and 
 
 Peril. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "Incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon adventure, 
 and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced 
 breathless enjoyment in a romantic story that must have taught him 
 much at its close." Army and Navj Gazette. 
 
 Jack Archer. A Tale of the Crimea. BY G. A r 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling t-lc, he weaves fact and fiction 
 together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
 Jmst and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle." Athenaeum. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tb 
 publisher. A, L, WET, 62-68 Du*n Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 15 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Eriends, Though Divided. A Tale of the Civil War. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 
 
 "It has a good plot; it abounds in action; the scenes are equally spirited 
 and realistic, and we can only say we have read it with much pleasure 
 from first to last." Times. 
 
 Out on the Pampas; or, The Young Settlers. B.y 
 
 G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A really noble story, which adult readers will find to the full as satis 
 fylng as the boys. Lucky boys! to have such a caterer as Mr. G. A< 
 Heuty." Black and White. 
 
 The Boy Knight: A Tale of the Crusades. By G. A 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Of stirring episode there Is no lack. The book, with its careful aecU' 
 racy and its descriptions of all the chief battles, will give many a school 
 boy his first roal understanding of a very Important period of history." 
 St. James's Gazette. 
 
 The Wreck of the Golden Fleece. The Story of a North 
 
 Sea Fisher Boy. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 A description of life on the wild North Sea. the hero being a parson's 
 don who is appreciated on board a Lowestoft fishing lugger. The kid has 
 .o suffer many buffets from his shipmates, while the storms and dangers 
 'vnich he braved on board the "North Star" are set forth with minute 
 ^.lowledge and intense power. The wreck of the "Golden Fleece" forms 
 the climax to a thrilling series of desperate mischances. 
 
 Olaf the Glorious. A Story of the Viking Age. By 
 
 ROBERT LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1 .00. 
 
 This story of Olaf the Glorious, King of Norway, opens with the incident 
 of his being found by his uncle living as a bond-slave In Esthonia; theo 
 ~ome his adventures as a Viking and his raids upon the coasts of Scot 
 land and England, his victorious battle against the English at Maldon In 
 Essei, his being bought off by Ethelred the Unready, and his conversion 
 cO Christianity. He then returns to Pagan Norway, is accepted as king- 
 end converts his people to the Christian faith. 
 
 To Greenland and the Pole. A story of Adventure in 
 
 the Arctic Regions. By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1 
 ''ne ttafailing fascination of Arctic venturing Is presented in this SMT? 
 wltii new vividness. It deals with skilo'bning in the north of Scotland, 
 deer-hunting in Noriray, sealing in the Arctic Seas, bear-stalking on the 
 Ice-Goes, the hardships r>f a journey across Greenland, and a successful 
 voyage to the bacK o* the NorO Pole. This is. indeed, a real sea-yarn 
 by a real sailor, and the tone ia as bright and wholesome as the adventure 
 are numerous. 
 
 Yussuf the Guide. A Story of Adventure in Asia 
 
 Minor. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This story deals with the stirring incidents 1C the career of a lad who has 
 been almost given over by the doctors, but whc rapidly recovers health 
 and strength in a Journey through Asia Minor. The advcntutes are many, 
 and culminate in the travellers being snowed up for the winter In the 
 mountains, from which they escape while their captors are waiting for 
 the ransom that does not come. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th 
 publisher, A, L, BVB.T, 68-68 Duane Streat. New York.
 
 16 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Urettir the Outlaw. A Story of Iceland. By S. BAB- 
 ING-GOULD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This is the boys' book of the year. That is. of course, as much as 
 to say that it will do for men grown as well as juniors. It is told in 
 Simple, straightforward English, as all stories should be, and it has a 
 freshness and freedom which make it irresistible." National Observer. 
 
 Two Thousand Years Ago. The Adventures of a 
 
 Korean Boy. By A. J. CHURCH. Ifmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Prof. Church has In this story sought to revivify that most interesting 
 period, the last days of the Roman Republic. The book is extremely en 
 tertaining as well as useful: there is a wonderful freshness in the RomaE 
 Scenes and characters." Times. 
 
 Mat the Naturalist. A Boy's Adventure in the East- 
 
 ern Seas. By GEORGK MAKVILLE FKNN. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1, 
 Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of the 
 Eastern seas, and their adventures are told in a truthful and vastly in 
 teresting fashion. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their black comrade, 
 and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humor. 
 
 The Log of the Flying Fish. A Story of Peril and 
 
 Adventure. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 "This story is full of even more vividly recounted adventures than those 
 WhiclJ charmed so many boy readers in 'Pirate Island' and 'Congo Rovers.' 
 . . . There is a thrilling adventure on the precipices of Mount Everest, 
 when the ship floats off and providentially returns by force of 'gravita 
 tion.' " Academy. 
 
 The Congo Rovers. A Story of the Slave Squadron. 
 
 By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The scene of this tale is laid on the west coast of Africa, and in the 
 lower reaches of the Congo; the characteristic scenery of the great river 
 being delineated with wonderful accuracy. Mr. Collingwood carries us off 
 for another cruise at sea, in 'The Congo Covers,' and boys will need no 
 pressing to join the daring crew, which seeks adventures and meets with 
 any number of them." The Times, 
 
 Boris the Bear Hunter. A Tale of Peter the Great and 
 
 His Times. By FRKD WISHAW. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "This is a capital story. The characters are marked and lifelike, and if 
 IB full of incident and adventure." Standard. 
 
 Ilichael Strogoff ; or, The Courier of the Czar. By 
 
 JULES VERNE. I2mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The story is full of originality and vigor. The characters are lifelike,, 
 there is plenty of stirring incident, the interest is sustained throughout, 
 and every boy will enjoy following the fortunes of the hero." Journal of 
 Education. . 
 
 Mother Carey's Chicken. Her Voyage to the Unknown 
 
 Isle. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price fl.OO. 
 
 "Undoubtedly one of the best Mr. Fenn has written. The incidents are 
 of thrilling interest, while the characters are drawn with a care and com 
 pleteness rarely found in a boy's book." Literary World. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher. A. L. BTOT, 52-68 Duana Street. TIew York.
 
 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 17 
 
 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at Fifteen. By JULES 
 
 VERNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Jules Verne himself never constructed a more marvellous tale. It con 
 tains the strongly marked features that are always conspicuous In his 
 stories a racy humor, the manly vigor of his sentiment, and wholesome 
 moral lessons." Christian Leader. 
 
 Erling the Bold. A Tale of the Norse Sea Kings. 
 
 By R. M. BALLANTYNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "This volume makes a really fascinating book, worthy of its telling 
 title. There Is, we venture to say, not a dull chapter in the book, not 
 a page which will not bear a second reading*" Guardian. 
 
 Masterman Ready; or, The Wreck of the Pacific. By 
 
 CAPTAIN MARRYAT. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "As racy a tale of life at sea and adventure as we have met with for 
 some time. . . . Altogether the sort of book that boys will revel In." 
 
 Athencsum. 
 
 The Green Mountain Boys. A Tale of the Early Set 
 tlement of Vermont. By D. P. THOMPSON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible style the 
 author has endeavored to show that determination and patriotic enthu 
 siasm can accomplish marvellous results. This story gives a graphic ac 
 count of the early settlers of Vermont, and their patriotic efforts in de 
 fending their homes from the Invasions of enemies. 
 
 Every Inch a Sailor. By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A story which Is quite as good in its way as 'Treasure Island,' and Is 
 full of adventure of a stirring yet most natural kind. Although it is 
 primarily a boys' book, It is a real godsend to the elderly reader." 
 Evening Times. 
 
 The Golden Galleon. A Narrative of Adventure on 
 
 Her Majesty's Ship the Revenge. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story should add considerably to Mr. Lelehton's high reputation. 
 Excellent in every respect, It contains every variety of incident. The plot 
 Is very cleverly devised, and the types of the North Sea sailors are 
 capital." The Times. 
 
 The Gorilla Hunters. A Tale of the Wilds of Africa. 
 
 By R. M. BALLANTYISE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "We conscientiously belive that boys will find It capital reading. It is 
 full of incident and mystery, and the mystery is kept up to the last 
 moment. It is full of stirring adventure, daring and many escapes; and 
 It has a historical interest." Times. 
 
 Gascoyne the Sandalwood Trader. By K. M. BAL- 
 
 LANTYNB. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the best stories of seafaring life and adventure which have 
 appeared this season. Entertaining in the highest degree from beginning 
 to end, and full of adventure which Is all the livelier for Its close con 
 nection with history." Spectator. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 62-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
 18 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOB YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Two Years Before the Mast. A Personal Narrative of 
 
 Life at Sea. By R. H. DANA, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the very best books for boys that we have seen for a long time: 
 its author stands far in advance of any other writer for boys as a teller 
 of stories of the sea." The Standard. 
 
 The Young Rajah. A Story of Indian Life. By W. 
 
 H. G. KINGSTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story will place the author at one* in the front rank. It is full 
 of life and adventure, and the interest is sustained without a break from 
 flrst to last." Standard. 
 
 How Jack Mackenzie Won His Epaulettes. A Story 
 
 of the Crimean War. By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. 
 
 price gl.OO. 
 
 "This must rank among the few undeniably good boys' books. He 
 will be a very dull boy indeed who lays it down without wishing that 
 It had gone on for at least 100 pages more." Mail. 
 
 The King's Pardon. A Story of Land and Sea. By 
 
 ROBERT OVKRTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 81.00. 
 
 "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to last. 
 This is, both in its intention and the way the story is told, one of the 
 best books of its kind which has come before us this year." Saturday 
 He view. 
 
 Under the Lone Star. A Story of the Eevolution in 
 
 Nicaragua. By HERBERT HATNES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "We have not of late come across a historical fiction, whether intended 
 for boys or for men, which deserves to be so heartily and unreservedly 
 praised as regards plot, incidents, and spirit as this book. It is its au 
 thor's masterpiece as yet." Spectator. 
 
 Geoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY 
 
 THORN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairna 
 at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable char 
 acters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the 
 trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers." 
 Church Times. 
 
 Jack: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY- 
 
 BOEVEY. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to 
 the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with 
 his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised 
 presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes 
 through wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant 
 book." Literary World. 
 
 Black Beauty. The Autobiography of a Horse. By 
 
 ANNA SEWELL. l2mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 This is the life story of a horse; how he was ill treated and well 
 cared for. The experiences of Black Beauty, Ginger, and Merrylegs are 
 extremely interesting. Wherever children are, whether boys or girls, there 
 this Autobiography should be. It inculcates habits of kindness to all mem 
 bers of the animal creation. The literary merit of the book is excellent. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tie 
 publisher, A. L. BUBT, 62-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 19 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Mopsa the Fairy. By JEAN INGELOW. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Mrs. Ingelow Is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers 
 for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive 
 right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius 
 to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with 
 the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; 
 but genius Mrs. Ingelow has, and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and 
 joyous, but as delicate as a picture of childhood." Eclectic. 
 
 Carrots: Just a Little Boy. By MBS. MOLESWOETH. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good 
 fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delight 
 ful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of. 
 A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. 
 Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's 
 illustrations. ' ' Punch. 
 
 Larry's Luck. By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mis 
 sion." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "It is believed that this story, by this favorably known author of 
 'Miss Toosey's Mission,' will be found both highly interesting and instruc 
 tive to the young. Whether the readers are nine years old, or twice as 
 old, they must enjoy this pretty volume." The Examiner. 
 
 A Child's Christmas: A Sketch of Boy Life. By MRS. 
 
 MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This is another of those delightful juvenile stories of which this author 
 has written so many. It is a fascinating little book, with a charming 
 plot, a sweet, pure atmosphere, and teaches a wholesome moral in the 
 most winning manner." Gazette. 
 
 Chunk, Fusky and Snout. A Story of Wild Pigs for 
 
 Little People. By GERALD YOUNG. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The story is an extremely interesting one, full of incident, told in a 
 quiet, healthful way, and with a great deal of pleasantly Interfused 
 Information about wild pigs and their ways. It is sure to interest both 
 boys and girls." Christian Union. 
 
 Daddy's Boy. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A charming story of child life. Little Sir Rowland Is one of the 
 most fascinating of the misunderstood child heroes of the day. The quaint 
 doings and imaginings of this gentle, lovable, but highly original child are 
 Introduced by Mrs. Meade, with all her accustomed pathos." Guardian. 
 
 Adventures of Prince Prigio. BY ANDREW LANG. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This book has so much charm of style and good writing that It will be 
 eagerly read by many other than the young folk for whom It Is Intended." 
 Black and White. 
 
 A Flock of Four. A Story for Boys and Girls. By 
 
 ISMAT THORN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated^ price 75 cents. 
 
 "As a gift book for boys it is among the best new books of the kind. 
 The story is interesting and natural, from first to last." Gazette. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 20 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 A Flat Iron for a Farthing. The Story of an Only 
 
 Son. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A Tery good book It is, full of adventure, graphically told. The style 
 
 is Just what it should be; simple but not bold, full of pleasant humor, 
 
 and with some pretty touches of feeling. Like all Mrs. Ewing's tales, 
 
 it Is sound, sensible, and wholesome." Times, 
 
 The Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children. By 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLKT. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "We do not think these heroic stories have ever been more attractively 
 told. . . There is a deep under-current of religious feeling traceable 
 throughout its pages which is sure to influence young readers power 
 fully. One of the children's books that will surely become a classic." 
 London Review. 
 
 Jackanapes. BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This is one of Mrs. Ewing's charming little stories for young children. 
 The narrative ... is full of interest for its real grace and delicacy, 
 and the exquisiteness and purity of the English in which it is written." 
 Boston Advertiser. 
 
 Princess and Curdie. By GEORGE MACDONALD. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good 
 fortune to meet with for some time. The Princess and Curdie are delight 
 ful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of." 
 Examiner. 
 
 Peter the Pilgrim. The Story of a Boy and His Pet 
 
 Rabbit. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Little Peter, with his soft heart, clever head, and brave spirit is no 
 morbid presentment of the angelic child 'too good to live," and who is 
 certainly a nuisance on earth, but a charming creature, if not a por 
 trait, whom it is a privilege to meet even in fiction." The Academy. 
 
 We and the World. A Story for Boys. By JULIANA 
 
 HORATIA EWINQ. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "The author has evidently studied the ways and tastes of children and 
 got at the secret of amusing them; and has succeeded in what is not 
 so easy a task as it may seem in producing a really good children's 
 book." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 little Ivan's Hero. A Story of Child Life. By 
 
 HELEN MILMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "We should imagine those queer folk indeed who could not read this 
 story with eager interest and pleasure, be they boys or girls, young or 
 old. We highly commend the style in which the book is written, and the 
 spirit which pervades it." World. 
 
 Dick, Marjorie and Fidge. The Wonderful Adventures 
 
 of Three Little People. By G. E. FARROW. 12mo, cloth, illust'd, price 75c. 
 
 "... To the young, for whom it is especially intended, this is a 
 
 most Interesting book of adventures, well told, and a pleasant book to 
 
 take up when their wish Is to while away a woary half-hour. We have 
 
 seen no prettier gift-book for a long time." Athenaeum. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BURX, 68-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BUBT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 21 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 A Wonder Book: For Boys and Girls. Comprising 
 
 Stories of Classical Fables. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 12iuo, cloth, 
 illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by every child 
 into whose hands it is placed." Gazette. 
 
 My Dog Plato: His Adventures and Impressions. By 
 
 H. M. CORNWALL LEOH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "A capital story, and one we heartily commend to boy readers, both 
 gentle and simple." Guardian. 
 
 Squib and His Friends. A Story for Children. By 
 
 ELLEN EVERETT GREEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "This book will please by Its simplicity, its tenderness, and Its healthy 
 Interesting motive. It is admirably written." Scotsman. 
 
 Tom's Opinion. The Story of a Boys' School. By 
 
 the author of " Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75c. 
 "A beautiful little story. ... It will be read with delight by 
 every boy into whose hands it is placed." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Robin's Ride. A Story for Children. By ELLINOR 
 
 D. ADAMS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "It Is a first-rate boys' book. It is a capital story; the characters arc 
 well drawn, and the incidents are perfectly natural." Times. 
 
 Peter and Tom. A Story for Boys. By BELLE S. 
 
 CRAGIN. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 Peter and Tom were unlikely heroes, particularly In the direction of 
 heroism, but the proper chord was touched in each of their lives, and 
 through many trials and adventures they developed Christian principles and 
 successful business traits. 
 
 I\Turse Heatherdale's Story. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 " 'Nurse Heatherdale's Story' is all about a small boy, who was good 
 enough, yet was always getting into some trouble through complication! 
 In which he was not to blame. He is an orphan, though he is cared for in 
 a way by relations, who are not so very rich, yet are looked on as well 
 ilxed. After many youthful trials and disappointments he falls Into a 
 big stroke of good Inek, which lifts him and goes to make other* happy." 
 Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 The Last of the Huggermnggers. A Giant Story. By 
 
 CHRISTOPHER P. CRAUCH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Fresh and charming in style, with fun that Is never forced, pathos 
 that is always genuine, and with a distinctly wholesome purpose. This Is 
 certain to be a favorite with boys." Literary World. 
 
 The Hunting of the Snark. By LEWIS CARROLL, 
 
 author of "Alice in Wonderland." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Whether as regarding author or Illustrator, this book is a Jewel 
 rarely to be found nowadays. Not a whit inferior to its predecessor in 
 ;:rnnd extravagance of imagination, and delicious allegorical nonsense." 
 Quarterly Review. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 68-58 Duane Street, New York,
 
 22 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. By LEWIS CABROLL. 
 
 12mo, cloth, 42 illustrations, price 75 cents. 
 
 "From first to last, almost without exception, this story Is delightfully 
 droll, humorous and Illustrated in harmony with the story." K'ew York 
 Express. 
 
 Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found 
 
 There. By LEWIS CARROLL. ISoio, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. 
 "A delight alike to the young people and their elders, extremely funny 
 both in text and illustrations." Boston Express. 
 
 Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe. By CHAELOTTE M. 
 
 YONGE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike for pleas 
 ant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, and the subtlety with 
 which lessons moral and otherwise are conveyed to children, and perhaps 
 to their seniors as well." The Spectator. 
 
 Joan's Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere. 
 
 BY ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are, it must be admitted that 
 they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. Alto 
 gether this is an excellent story for girls." Saturday Review. 
 
 Count Up the Sunny Days : A Story for Girls and Boys. 
 
 By C. A. JONES. 12ino, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "An unusually good children's story." Glasgow Herald. 
 
 The Heir of Redclyffe. By CHAELOTTE M. YONGE. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A narrative full of interest from first to last. It Is told clearly and in 
 a straightforward manner, and arrests the attention of the reader at once, 
 so that one feels afresh the unspeakable pathos of the story to the end." 
 London Graphic. 
 
 The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. By CHARLOTTE M. 
 
 YONOE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not in 
 genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities for a high and 
 noble purpose. We know of few modern writers whose works may be BO 
 safely commended as hers." Cleveland Times. 
 
 Jan of the Windmill. A Story of the Plains. By MRS. 
 
 J. H. EWINO. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Never has Mrs. Ewlng published a more charming volume, and that 
 is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last the book over 
 flows with the strange knowledge of child-nature which so rarely sur 
 vives childhood: and moreover, with inexhaustible quiet humor, which 
 is never anything but innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never 
 clumsy. ' ' Academy. 
 
 A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 Illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of this popular author's best. The characters are well imagined 
 and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and the interest does 
 not flag until the end too quickly comes." Providence Journal. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BXTBT, 62-69 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 23 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By JULIANA 
 
 HORATIA EWINQ. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "There is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness ot 'Six to 
 Sixteen.' The book is one which would enrich any girl's book shelf." 
 St. James' Gazette. 
 
 The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MEADK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. T. 
 Meade in this country will be delighted with the 'Palace Beautiful' for 
 more reasons than one. It Is a charming book for girls." New York 
 Recorder. 
 
 A World of Girls: The Story of a School. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to read. It 
 will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This book should be OB 
 every girl's book shelf." Boston Home Journal. 
 
 The Lady of the Forest : A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story is written in the author's well-known, fresh and easy style. 
 All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this well-written story. It 
 is told with the author's customary grace and spirit." Boston Times. 
 
 At the Back of the North Wind. By GEORGE MAC- 
 DONALD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of Mr. Mac- 
 
 donald's earlier work. . . It is a sweet, earnest, and wholesome fairy 
 
 story, and the quaint native humor is delightful. A most delightful Tol- 
 
 ume for poung readers." Philadelphia Times. 
 
 The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. 
 
 By CHARLES KINGSLEY. 18mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms, consist in 
 his description of the experiences of a youth with life under water in the 
 luxuriant wealth of which he revels with all the ardor of a poetical na 
 ture." New York Tribune. 
 
 Our Bessie. By KOSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illus- 
 
 strated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of vigorous 
 action, and strong in character-painting. Elder girls will be charmed with 
 it, and adults may read its pages with profit." The Teachers' Aid. 
 
 Wild Kitty. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Kitty is a true heroine warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all 
 good women nowadays are, largely touched with the enthusiasm of human 
 ity. One of the most attractive gift books of the season." The Academy. 
 
 A Young Mutineer. A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MEADK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of Mrs. Meade's charming books for girls, narrated in that simple 
 and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the flrst among 
 writers for young people." The Spectator. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tbe 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-68 Duane Strest, Hew York.
 
 24 A. L. BtJRT S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Sue and I. By MRS. O'REILLY. 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price 75 cents. 
 "A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as tun." 
 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 The Princess and the Goblin. A Fairy Story. By 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply interested in 
 it that when bedtime comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will 
 weary its parents with importunities for just a few minutes more to see 
 how everything ends." Saturday Review. 
 
 Pythia's Pupils: A Story of a School. By EVA 
 
 HARTNER. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story of the doings of several bright school girls is sure to interest 
 girl readers. Among many good stories for girls this is undoubtedly one 
 of the very best." Teachers' Aid. 
 
 A Story of a Short Life. By JULIANA HOEATIA EWING. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it is not only bright 
 and interesting, but also pure and healthy in tone and teaching." 
 Courier. 
 
 The Sleepy King. A Fairy Tale. By AUBREY HOP- 
 WOOD AND SEYMOUR HICKS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be admitted that 
 
 they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. 
 
 Altogether this is an excellent story for girls." Saturday Review. 
 
 Two Little Waifs. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story of 'Two Little Waifs' will charm 
 all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the ad 
 ventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and is just wonder 
 ful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart." New York Tribune. 
 
 Adventures in Toyland. By EDITH KING HALL. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are 
 always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of 
 the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable aa we might expect." 
 Boston Courier. 
 
 Adventures in Wallypug Land. By Gr. E. FARROW. 
 
 18mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys and girls 
 of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier combination of 
 author and artist than this volume presents could be found to famish 
 healthy amusement to the young folks. The book is an artistic one in 
 every sense." Toronto Mail, 
 
 Fussbudget's Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By 
 
 ANNA F. BURNHAM. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mrs. Burnhain has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With 
 a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and 
 trong, characters. ' ' Congxegationalist. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 62-68 Duane Street, New York.
 
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