Kitabı oku: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 51, January, 1862», sayfa 17

The General established head-quarters along-side the house where we first discovered the Rebel party. Our position is the most beautiful one we have yet found. To the west stretches an undulating prairie, separated from us by a valley, into which our camping-ground subsides with a mild declivity; to the north is a range of low hills, their round sides unbroken by shrub or tree; while to the south stretches an extensive tract of low land, densely covered with timber, and resplendent with the colors of autumn.

Before dark the whole of Asboth’s division came up and encamped on the slopes to the west and north: not less than seven thousand men are here. This evening the scene is beautiful. I sit in the door of my lodge, and as far as the eye can reach the prairie is dotted with tents, the dark forms of men and horses, the huge white-topped wagons,—and a thousand fires gleam through the faint moonlight. Our band is playing near the General’s quarters, its strains are echoed by a score of regimental bands, and their music is mingled with the numberless noises of camp, the hum of voices, the laughter from the groups around the fires, the clatter of hoofs as some rider hurries to the General, the distant challenges of the sentries, the neighing of horses, the hoarse bellowing of the mules, and the clinking of the cavalry anvils. This, at last, is the romance of war. How soon will our ears be saluted by sterner music?

Camp Hudson, October 15th. We moved at seven o’clock this morning. For the first four miles the road ran through woods intersected by small streams. The ground was as rough as it could well be, and the teams which had started before us were struggling through the mire and over the rocks. We dashed past them at a fast trot, and in half an hour came upon a high prairie. The prairies of Southern Missouri are not large and flat, like the monotonous levels of Central Illinois, but they are rolling, usually small, and broken by frequent narrow belts of timber. In the woods there are hills, rocky soil, and always one, often two streams, clear and rapid as a mountain-brook in New England.

The scenery to-day was particularly attractive, a constant succession of prairies surrounded by wooded hills. As we go south, the color of the forest becomes richer, and the atmosphere more mellow and hazy.

During the first two hours we passed several regiments of foot. The men were nearly all Germans, and I scanned the ranks carefully, longing to see an American countenance. I found none, but caught sight of one arch-devil-may-care Irish face. I doubt whether there is a company in the army without an Irishman in it, though the proportion of Irishmen in our ranks is not so great as at the East.

Early in the afternoon we rode up to a farm-house, at the gate of which a middle-aged woman was standing, crying bitterly. The General stopped, and the woman at once assailed him vehemently. She told him the soldiers had that day taken her husband and his team away with them. She said that there was no one left to take care of her old blind mother,—at which allusion, the blind mother tottered down the walk and took a position in the rear of the attacking party,—that they had two orphan girls, the children of a deceased sister, and the orphans had lost their second father. The assailants were here reinforced by the two orphan girls. She protested that her husband was loyal,—“Truly, Sir, he was a Union man and voted for the Union, and always told his neighbors Disunion would do nothing except bring trouble upon innocent people, as indeed it has,” said she, with a fresh flood of tears. The General was moved by her distress, and ordered Colonel E. to have the man, whose name is Rutherford, sent back at once.

A few rods farther on we came to another house, in front of which was another weeping woman afflicted in the same way. Several little flaxen-haired children surrounded her, and a white-bearded man, trembling with age, stood behind, leaning upon a staff. Her earnestness far surpassed that of Mrs. Rutherford. She wrung her hands, and could hardly speak for her tears. She seized the General’s hand and entreated him to return her husband, with an expression of distress which the hardest heart could not resist. The General comforted the poor woman with a few kind words, and promised to grant what she asked.

It is very difficult to refuse such requests, and yet, in point of fact, no great hardship or sacrifice is required of these men. They profess to be Union men, but they are not in arms for the Union, and a Federal general now asks of them that they shall help the army for a day with their teams. To those who come here from all parts of the nation to defend these homes this does not appear to be a harsh demand.

We arrived at camp about five o’clock. Our day’s march was twenty-two miles, and the wagons were far behind. A neighboring farm-house afforded the General and a few of his officers a dinner, but it was late in the evening before the tents were pitched.

Warsaw, October 17th. Yesterday we made our longest march, making twenty-five miles, and encamped three miles north of this place.

It is a problem, why riding in a column should be so much more wearisome than riding alone, but so it undeniably is. Men who would think little of a sixty-mile ride were quite broken down by to-day’s march.

As soon as we reached camp, the General asked for volunteers from the staff to ride over to Warsaw: of course the whole staff volunteered. On the way we met General Sigel. This very able and enterprising officer is a pleasant, scholarly-looking gentleman, his studious air being increased by the spectacles he always wears. His figure is light, active, and graceful, and he is an excellent horseman. The country has few better heads than his. Always on the alert, he is full of resources, and no difficulties daunt him. Planter, Pope, and McKinstry are behind, waiting for tea and coffee, beans and flour, and army-wagons. Sigel gathered the ox-team and the farmers’ wagons and brought his division forward with no food for his men but fresh beef. His advance-guard is already across the Osage, and in a day or two his whole division will be over.

Guided by General Sigel, we rode down to the ford across the Osage. The river here is broad and rapid, and its banks are immense bare cliffs rising one hundred feet perpendicularly from the water’s edge. The ford is crooked, uncertain, and never practicable except for horsemen. The ferry is an old flat-boat drawn across by a rope, and the ascent up the farther bank is steep and rocky. It will not answer to leave in our rear this river, liable to be changed by a night’s rain into a fierce torrent, with no other means of crossing it than the rickety ferry. A bridge must at once be built, strong and firm, a safe road for the army in case of disaster. So decides the General. And as we look upon the swift-running river and its rocky shores, cold and gloomy in the twilight, every one agrees that the General is right. His decision has since been strongly supported, for to-day two soldiers of the Fremont Hussars were drowned in trying to cross the ford, and the water is now rising rapidly.

This morning we moved into Warsaw, and for the first time the staff is billeted in the Secession houses of the town; but the General clings to his tent. Our mess is quartered in the house of the county judge, who says his sympathies are with the South. But the poor man is so frightened, that we pity and protect him.

Bridge-building is now the sole purpose of the army. There is no saw-mill here, nor any lumber. The forest must be cut down and fashioned into a bridge, as well as the tools and the skill at command will permit. Details are already told off from the sharp-shooters, the cadets, and even the body-guard, and the banks of the river now resound with the quick blows of their axes.

Warsaw, October 21st. Four days we have been waiting for the building of the bridge. By night and by day the work goes on, and now the long black shape is striding slowly across the stream. In a few hours it will have gained the opposite bank, and then, Ho, for Springfield!

Our scouts have come in frequently the last few days. They tell us Price is at Stockton, and is pushing rapidly on towards the southwest. He has been grinding corn near Stockton, and has now food enough for another journey. His army numbers twenty thousand men, of whom five thousand have no arms. The rest carry everything, from double-barrelled shot-guns to the Springfield muskets taken from the Home-Guards. They load their shot-guns with a Minié-ball and two buck-shot, and those who have had experience say that at one hundred yards they are very effective weapons. There is little discipline in the Rebel army, and the only organization is by companies. The men are badly clothed, and without shoes, and often without food. The deserters say that those who remain are waiting only to get the new clothes which McCulloch is expected to bring from the South.

McCulloch, the redoubtable Ben, does not seem to be held in high esteem by the Rebel soldiers. They say he lacks judgment and self-command. But all speak well of Price. No one can doubt that he is a man of unusual energy and ability. McCulloch will increase Price’s force to about thirty-five thousand, which number we must expect to meet.

Hunter and McKinstry have not yet appeared, but Pope reported himself last night, and some of his men came in to-day.

Camp White, October 22d. The bridge is built, and the army is now crossing the Osage. In five days a firm road has been thrown across the river, over which our troops may pass in a day. The General and staff crossed by the ferry, and are now encamped two miles south of the Pomme-de-Terre.

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

Letter from the REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, A.M., inclosing the Epistle aforesaid.

Jaalam, 15th Nov., 1861.

It is not from any idle wish to obtrude my humble person with undue prominence upon the publick view that I resume my pen upon the present occasion. Juniores ad labores. But having been a main instrument in rescuing the talent of my young parishioner from being buried in the ground, by giving it such warrant with the world as would be derived from a name already widely known by several printed discourses, (all of which I maybe permitted without immodesty to state have been deemed worthy of preservation in the Library of Harvard College by my esteemed friend Mr. Sibley,) it seemed becoming that I should not only testify to the genuineness of the following production, but call attention to it, the more as Mr. Biglow had so long been silent as to be in danger of absolute oblivion. I insinuate no claim to any share in the authourship (vix ea nostra voco) of the works already published by Mr. Biglow, but merely take to myself the credit of having fulfilled toward them the office of taster, (experto crede,) who, having first tried, could afterward bear witness,—an office always arduous, and sometimes even dangerous, as in the ease of those devoted persons who venture their lives in the deglutition of patent medicines (dolus latet in generalibus, there is deceit in the most of them) and thereafter are wonderfully preserved long enough to append their signatures to testimonials in the diurnal and hebdomadal prints. I say not this as covertly glancing at the authours of certain manuscripts which have been submitted to my literary judgment, (though an epick in twenty-four books on the “Taking of Jericho” might, save for the prudent forethought of Mrs. Wilbur in secreting the same just as I had arrived beneath the walls and was beginning a catalogue of the various horns and their blowers, too ambitiously emulous in longanimity of Homer’s list of ships, might, I say, have rendered frustrate any hope I could entertain vacare Musis for the small remainder of my days,) but only further to secure myself against any imputation of unseemly forthputting. I will barely subjoin, in this connection, that, whereas Job was left to desire, in the soreness of his heart, that his adversary had written a book, as perchance misanthropically wishing to indite a review thereof, yet was not Satan allowed so far to tempt him as to send Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar each with an unprinted work in his wallet to be submitted to his censure. But of this enough. Were I in need of other excuse, I might add that I write by the express desire of Mr. Biglow himself, whose entire winter leisure is occupied, as he assures me, in answering demands for autographs, a labour exacting enough in itself, and egregiously so to him, who, being no ready penman, cannot sign so much as his name without strange contortions of the face (his nose, even, being essential to complete success) and painfully suppressed Saint-Vitus-dance of every muscle in his body. This, with his having been put in the Commission of the Peace by our excellent Governour (O, si sic omnes!) immediately on his accession to office, keeps him continually employed. Haud inexpertus loquor, having for many years written myself J.P., and being not seldom applied to for specimens of my chirography, a request to which I have sometimes too weakly assented, believing as I do that nothing written of set purpose can properly be called an autograph, but only those unpremeditated sallies and lively runnings which betray the fireside Man instead of the hunted Notoriety doubling on his pursuers. But it is time that I should bethink me of Saint Austin’s prayer, Libera me a meipso, if I would arrive at the matter in hand.

Moreover, I had yet another reason for taking up the pen myself. I am informed that the “Atlantic Monthly” is mainly indebted for its success to the contributions and editorial supervision of Dr. Holmes, whose excellent “Annals of America” occupy an honoured place upon my shelves. The journal itself I have never seen; but if this be so, it should seem that the recommendation of a brother-clergyman (though par magis quam similis) would carry a greater weight. I suppose that you have a department for historical lucubrations, and should be glad, if deemed desirable, to forward for publication my “Collections for the Antiquities of Jaalam” and my (now happily complete) pedigree of the Wilbur family from fons et origo, the Wild-Boar of Ardennes. Withdrawn from the active duties of my profession by the settlement of a colleague-pastor, the Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, formerly of Brutus Four-Corners, I might find time for further contributions to general literature on similar topicks. I have made large advances toward a completer genealogy of Mrs. Wilbur’s family, the Pilcoxes, not, if I know myself, from any idle vanity, but with the sole desire of rendering myself useful in my day and generation. Nulla dies sine lineâ. I inclose a meteorological register, a list of the births, deaths, and marriages, and a few memorabilia, of longevity in Jaalam East Parish for the last half-century. Though spared to the unusual period of more than eighty years, I find no diminution of my faculties or abatement of my natural vigour, except a scarcely sensible decay of memory and a necessity of recurring to younger eyesight for the finer print in Cruden. It would gratify me to make some further provision for declining years from the emoluments of my literary labours. I had intended to effect an insurance on my life, but was deterred therefrom by a circular from one of the offices, in which the sudden deaths of so large a proportion of the insured was set forth as an inducement, that it seemed to me little less than a tempting of Providence. Neque in summâ inopiâ levis esse senectus potest, ne sapienti quidem.

Thus far concerning Mr. Biglow; and so much seemed needful (brevis esse laboro) by way of preliminary, after a silence of fourteen years. He greatly fears lest he may in this essay have fallen below himself, well knowing, that, if exercise be dangerous on a full stomach, no less so is writing on a full reputation. Beset as he has been on all sides, he could not refrain, and would only imprecate patience till he shall again have “got the hang” (as he calls it) of an accomplishment long disused. The letter of Mr. Sawin was received some time in last June, and others have followed which will in due season be submitted to the publick. How largely his statements are to be depended on, I more than merely dubitate. He was always distinguished for a tendency to exaggeration,—it might almost be qualified by a stronger term. Fortiter mentire, aliquid hæret, seemed to be his favourite rule of rhetorick. That he is actually where he says he is the post-mark would seem to confirm; that he was received with the publick demonstrations he describes would appear consonant with what we know of the habits of those regions; but further than this I venture not to decide. I have sometimes suspected a vein of humour in him which leads him to speak by contraries; but since, in the unrestrained intercourse of private life, I have never observed in him any striking powers of invention, I am the more willing to put a certain qualified faith in the incidents and the details of life and manners which give to his narratives some of the interest and entertainment which characterize a Century Sermon.

It may be expected of me that I should say something to justify myself with the world for a seeming inconsistency with my well-known principles in allowing my youngest son to raise a company for the war, a fact known to all through the medium of the publick prints. I did reason with the young man, but expellas naturam furcâ, tamenusque recurrit. Having myself been a chaplain in 1812, I could the less wonder that a man of war had sprung from my loins. It was, indeed, grievous to send my Benjamin, the child of my old age; but after the discomfiture of Manassas, I with my own hands did buckle on his armour, trusting in the great Comforter for strength according to my need. For truly the memory of a brave son dead in his shroud were a greater staff of my declining years than a coward, though his days might be long in the land and he should get much goods. It is not till our earthen vessels are broken that we find and truly possess the treasure that was laid up in them. Migravi in animam meam, I have sought refuge in my own soul; nor would I be shamed by the heathen comedian with his Nequam illud verbum, bene vult, nisi bene facit. During our dark days, I read constantly in the inspired book of Job, which I believe to contain more food to maintain the fibre of the soul for right living and high thinking than all pagan literature together, though I would by no means vilipend the study of the classicks. There I read that Job said in his despair, even as the fool saith in his heart there is no God,—“The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure.” Job xii. 6. But I sought farther till I found this Scripture also, which I would have those perpend who have striven to turn our Israel aside to the worship of strange gods:—“If I did despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant when they contended with me, what then shall I do when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him?” Job xxxi. 13-14. On this text I preached a discourse on the last day of Fasting and Humiliation with general acceptance, though there were not wanting one or two Laodiceans who said that I should have waited till the President announced his policy. But let us hope and pray, remembering this of Saint Gregory, Vult Deus rogari, vult cogi, vult quâdam importunitate vinci.

We had our first fall of snow on Friday last. Frosts have been unusually backward this fall. A singular circumstance occurred in this town on the 20th October, in the family of Deacon Pelatiah Tinkham. On the previous evening, a few moments before family-prayers,

[The editors of the “Atlantic” find it necessary here to cut short the letter of their valued correspondent, which seemed calculated rather on the rates of longevity in Jaalam than for less favored localities. They have every encouragement to hope that he will write again.]

With esteem and respect,

Your obedient servant

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

 
It’s some consid’ble of a spell sence I hain’t writ no letters,
An’ ther’ ’s gret changes hez took place in all polit’cle metters:
Some canderdates air dead an’ gone, an’ some hez ben defeated,
Which ’mounts to pooty much the same; fer it’s ben proved repeated
A betch o’ bread thet hain’t riz once ain’t goin’ to rise agin,
An’ it’s jest money throwed away to put the emptins in:
But thet’s wut folks wun’t never larn; they dunno how to go,
Arter you want their room, no more ’n a bullet-headed beau;
Ther’ ’s ollers chaps a-hangin’ roun’ thet can’t see pea-time’s past,
Mis’ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an’ tails half-mast:
It ain’t disgraceful bein’ beat, when a holl nation doos it,
But Chance is like an amberill,—it don’t take twice to lose it.
 
 
I spose you’re kin’ o’ cur’ous, now, to know why I hain’t writ.
Wal, I’ve ben where a litt’ry taste don’t somehow seem to git
Th’ encouragement a feller’d think, thet’s used to public schools,
An’ where sech things ez paper ’n’ ink air clean agin the rules:
A kind o’ vicyvarsy house, built dreffle strong an’ stout,
So ’s ’t honest people can’t git in, ner t’ other sort git out,
An’ with the winders so contrived, you’d prob’ly like the view
Better a-lookin’ in than out, though it seems sing’lar, tu;
But then the landlord sets by ye, can’t bear ye out o’ sight,
And locks ye up ez reg’lar ez an outside door at night.
 
 
This world is awfle contrary: the rope may stretch your neck
Thet mebby kep’ another chap frum washin’ off a wreck;
An’ you will see the taters grow in one poor feller’s patch,
So small no self-respectin’ hen thet vallied time ’ould scratch,
So small the rot can’t find ’em out, an’ then agin, nex’ door,
Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they’re ’most too fat to snore.
But groutin’ ain’t no kin’ o’ use; an’ ef the fust throw fails,
Why, up an’ try agin, thet’s all,—the coppers ain’t all tails;
Though I hev seen ’em when I thought they hed n’t no more head
Than’d sarve a nussin’ Brigadier thet gits some ink to shed.
 
 
When I writ last, I’d ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp,
Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you’d took an’ dreened his swamp:
But I ain’t o’ the meechin’ kind, thet sets an’ thinks fer weeks
The bottom’s out o’ th’ univarse coz their own gillpot leaks.
I hed to cross bayous an’ criks, (wal, it did beat all natur’,)
Upon a kin’ o’ corderoy, fust log, then alligator:
Luck’ly the critters warn’t sharp-sot; I guess’t wuz overruled
They’d done their mornin’s marketin’ an’ gut their hunger cooled;
Fer missionaries to the Creeks an’ runaway’s air viewed
By them an’ folks ez sent express to be their reg’lar food:
Wutever ’t wuz, they laid an’ snoozed ez peacefully ez sinners,
Meek ez disgestin’ deacons be at ordination dinners;
Ef any on ’em turned an’ snapped, I let ’em kin’ o’ taste
My live-oak leg, an’ so, ye see, ther’ warn’t no gret o’ waste,
Fer they found out in quicker time than ef they’d ben to college
’T warn’t heartier food than though ’t wuz made out o’ the tree o’ knowledge.
 
 
But I tell you my other leg hed larned wut pizon-nettle meant,
An’ var’ous other usefle things, afore I reached a settlement,
An’ all o’ me thet wuz n’t sore an’ sendin’ prickles thru me
Wuz jest the leg I parted with in lickin’ Montezumy:
A usefle limb it ’s ben to me, an’ more of a support
Than wut the other hez ben,—coz I dror my pension for ’t.
 
 
Wal, I gut in at last where folks wuz civerlized an’ white,
Ez I diskivered to my cost afore ’t wuz hardly night;
Fer ’z I wuz settin’ in the bar a-takin’ sunthin’ hot,
An’ feelin’ like a man agin, all over in one spot,
A feller thet sot opposite, arter a squint at me,
Lep up an’ drawed his peacemaker, an’, “Dash it, Sir,” suz he,
“I’m doubledashed if you ain’t him thet stole my yaller chettle,
(You’re all the stranger thet’s around,) so now you’ve gut to settle;
It ain’t no use to argerfy ner try to cut up frisky,
I know ye ez I know the smell o’ ole chain-lightnin’ whiskey;
We’re lor-abidin’ folks down here, we’ll fix ye so ’s ’t a bar
Wouldn’ tech ye with a ten-foot pole; (Jedge, you jest warm the tar;)
You’ll think you’d better ha’ gut among a tribe o’ Mongrel Tartars,
’Fore we’ve done showin’ how we raise our Southun prize tar-martyrs;
A moultin’ fallen cherubim, ef he should see ye, ’d snicker,
Thinkin’ he hedn’t nary chance. Come, genlemun, le’ ’s liquor;
An’, Gin’ral, when you ‘ve mixed the drinks an’ chalked ’em up, tote roun’
An’ see ef ther’ ’s a feather-bed (thet’s borryable) in town.
We’ll try ye fair, Ole Grafted-Leg, an’ ef the tar wun’t stick,
Th’ ain’t not a juror here but wut’ll ’quit ye double-quick.”
To cut it short, I wun’t say sweet, they gi’ me a good dip,
(They ain’t perfessin’ Bahptists here,) then give the bed a rip,—
The jury ’d sot, an’ quicker ’n a flash they hetched me out, a livin’
Extemp’ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Feejee Thanksgivin’.
 
 
Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it’s nat’ral to suppose,
When poppylar enthusiasm hed furnished me sech clo’es;
(Ner ’t ain’t without edvantiges, this kin’ o’ suit, ye see,
It’s water-proof, an’ water’s wut I like kep’ out o’ me;)
But nut content with thet, they took a kerridge from the fence
An’ rid me roun’ to see the place, entirely free ‘f expense,
With forty-’leven new kines o’ sarse without no charge acquainted me,
Gi’ me three cheers, an’ vowed thet I wuz all their fahncy painted me;
They treated me to all their eggs; (they keep ’em, I should think,
Fer sech ovations, pooty long, for they wuz mos’ distinc’;)
They starred me thick ’z the Milky-Way with indiscrim’nit cherity,
For wut we call reception eggs air sunthin’ of a rerity;
Green ones is plentifle anough, skurce wuth a nigger’s getherin’,
But your dead-ripe ones ranges high fer treatin’ Nothun bretherin:
A spotteder, ringstreakeder child the’ warn’t in Uncle Sam’s
Holl farm,—a cross of stripèd pig an’ one o’ Jacob’s lambs;
’T wuz Dannil in the lions’ den, new an’ enlarged edition,
An’ everythin’ fust-rate o’ ’ts kind, the’ warn’t no impersition.
People’s impulsiver down here than wut our folks to home be,
An’ kin’ o’ go it ’ith a resh in raisin’ Hail Columby:
Thet’s so: an’ they swarmed out like bees, for your real Southun men’s
Time isn’t o’ much more account than an ole settin’ hen’s;
(They jest work semioccashnally, or else don’t work at all,
An’ so their time an’ ’tention both air et saci’ty’s call.)
Talk about hospitality! wut Nothun town d’ ye know
Would take a totle stranger up an’ treat him gratis so?
You’d better b’lieve ther’ ’s nothin’ like this spendin’ days an’ nights
Along ’ith a dependent race fer civerlizin’ whites.
 
 
But this wuz all prelim’nary; it’s so Gran’ Jurors here
Fin’ a true bill, a hendier way than ourn, an’ nut so dear;
So arter this they sentenced me, to make all tight ’n’ snug,
Afore a reg’lar court o’ law, to ten years in the Jug.
I didn’ make no gret defence: you don’t feel much like speakin’,
When, ef you let your clamshells gape, a quart o’ tar will leak in:
I hev hearn tell o’ wingèd words, but pint o’ fact it tethers
The spoutin’ gift to hev your words tu thick sot on with feathers,
An’ Choate ner Webster wouldn’t ha’ made an A 1 kin’ o’ speech,
Astride a Southun chestnut horse sharper ’n a baby’s screech.
 
 
Two year ago they ketched the thief, ’n’ seein’ I wuz innercent,
They jest oncorked an’ le’ me run, an’ in my stid the sinner sent
To see how he liked pork ’n’ pone flavored with wa’nut saplin’,
An’ nary social priv’ledge but a one-hoss, starn-wheel chaplin.
When I come out, the folks behaved mos’ gen’manly an’ harnsome;
They ’lowed it wouldn’t be more ’n right, ef I should cuss ’n’ darn some:
The Cunnle he apolergized; suz he, “I’ll du wut ’s right,
I’ll give ye settisfection now by shootin’ ye at sight,
An’ give the nigger, (when he’s caught,) to pay him fer his trickin’
In gittin’ the wrong man took up, a most H fired lickin’,—
It’s jest the way with all on ’em, the inconsistent critters,
They’re ’most enough to make a man blaspheme his mornin’ bitters;
I’ll be your frien’ thru thick an’ thin an’ in all kines o’ weathers,
An’ all you’ll hev to pay fer ’s jest the waste o’ tar an’ feathers:
A lady owned the bed, ye see, a widder, tu, Miss Shennon;
It wuz her mite; we would ha’ took another, ef ther ’d ben one:
We don’t make no charge for the ride an’ all the other fixins.
Le’ ’s liquor; Gin’ral, you can chalk our friend for all the mixins.”
A meetin’ then wuz called, where they “RESOLVED, Thet we respec’
B.S. Esquire for quallerties o’ heart an’ intellec’
Peculiar to Columby’s sile, an’ not to no one else’s,
Thet makes Európean tyrans scringe in all their gilded pel’ces,
An’ doos gret honor to our race an’ Southun institootions”:
(I give ye jest the substance o’ the leadin’ resolootions:)
“RESOLVED, Thet we revere in him a soger ’thout a flor,
A martyr to the princerples o’ libbaty an’ lor:
RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot ’longside o’ us,
For vartoo, larnin’, chivverlry, ain’t noways wuth a cuss.”
They gut up a subscription, tu, but no gret come o’ that;
I ’xpect in cairin’ of it roun’ they took a leaky hat;
Though Southun genelmun ain’t slow at puttin’ down their name,
(When they can write,) fer in the eend it comes to jest the same,
Because, ye see, ’t ’s the fashion here to sign an’ not to think
A critter’d be so sordid ez to ax ’em for the chink:
I didn’t call but jest on one, an’ he drawed toothpick on me,
An’ reckoned he warn’t goin’ to stan’ no sech dog-gauned econ’my;
So nothin’ more wuz realized, ’ceptin’ the good-will shown,
Than ef ’t had ben from fust to last a reg’lar Cotton Loan.
It’s a good way, though, come to think, coz ye enjy the sense
O’ lendin’ lib’rally to the Lord, an’ nary red o’ ’xpense:
Sence then I’ve gut my name up for a gin’rous-hearted man
By jes’ subscribin’ right an’ left on this high-minded plan;
I’ve gin away my thousans so to every Southun sort
O’ missions, colleges, an’ sech, ner ain’t no poorer for ’t.
 
 
I warn’t so bad off, arter all; I needn’t hardly mention
That Guv’ment owed me quite a pile for my arrears o’ pension,—
I mean the poor, weak thing we hed: we run a new one now,
Thet strings a feller with a claim up tu the nighest bough,
An’ prectises the rights o’ man, purtects down-trodden debtors,
Ner wun’t hev creditors about a-scrougin’ o’ their betters:
Jeff’s gut the last idees ther’ is, poscrip’, fourteenth edition,
He knows it takes some enterprise to run an oppersition;
Ourn’s the fust thru-by-daylight train, with all ou’doors for deepot,
Yourn goes so slow you’d think ’t wuz drawed by a last cent’ry teapot;—
Wal, I gut all on ’t paid in gold afore our State seceded,
An’ done wal, for Confed’rit bonds warn’t jest the cheese I needed:
Nut but wut they’re ez good ez gold, but then it’s hard a-breakin’ on ’em,
An’ ignorant folks is ollers sot an’ wun’t git used to takin’ on ’em;
They’re wuth ez much ez wut they wuz afore ole Mem’nger signed ’em,
An’ go off middlin’ wal for drinks, when ther’ ’s a knife behind ’em:
We du miss silver, jest fer thet an’ ridin’ in a bus,
Now we’ve shook off the despots thet wuz suckin’ at our pus;
An’ it’s because the South’s so rich; ’t wuz nat’ral to expec’
Supplies o’ change wuz jest the things we shouldn’t recollec’;
We’d ough’ to ha’ thought aforehan’, though, o’ thet good rule o’ Crockett’s,
For ’t ’s tiresome cairin’ cotton-bales an’ niggers in your pockets,
Ner ’t ain’t quite hendy to pass off one o’ your six-foot Guineas
An’ git your halves an’ quarters back in gals an’ pickaninnies:
Wal, ’t ain’t quite all a feller ’d ax, but then ther’ ’s this to say,
It’s on’y jest among ourselves thet we expec’ to pay;
Our system would ha’ caird us thru in any Bible cent’ry,
’Fore this onscripted plan come up o’ books by double entry;
We go the patriarkle here out o’ all sight an’ hearin’,
For Jacob warn’t a circumstance to Jeff at financierin’;
He never ’d thought o’ borryin’ from Esau like all nater
An’ then cornfiscatin’ all debts to sech a small pertater;
There’s p’litickle econ’my, now, combined ’ith morril beauty
Thet saycrifices privit eends (your in’my’s, tu) to dooty!
Wy, Jeff’d ha’ gin him five an’ won his eye-teeth ’fore he knowed it,
An’, slid o’ wastin’ pottage, he’d ha’ eat it up an’ owed it.
 
 
But I wuz goin’ on to say how I come here to dwall;—
’Nough said, thet, arter lookin’ roun’, I liked the place so wal,
Where niggers doos a double good, with us atop to stiddy ’em,
By bein’ proofs o’ prophecy an’ cirkleatin’ medium,
Where a man’s sunthin’ coz he’s white, an’ whiskey’s cheap ez fleas,
An’ the financial pollercy jest sooted my idees,
Thet I friz down right where I wuz, merried the Widder Shennon,
(Her thirds wuz part in cotton-land, part in the curse o’ Canaan,)
An’ here I be ez lively ez a chipmunk on a wall,
With nothin’ to feel riled about much later ’n Eddam’s fall.
 
 
Ez fur ez human foresight goes, we made an even trade:
She gut an overseer, an’ I a fem’ly ready-made,
(The youngest on ’em’s ’most growed up,) rugged an’ spry ez weazles,
So’s ’t ther’ ’s no resk o’ doctors’ bills fer hoopin’-cough an’ measles.
Our farm’s at Turkey-Buzzard Roost, Little Big Boosy River,
Wal located in all respex,—fer ’t ain’t the chills ’n’ fever
Thet makes my writin’ seem to squirm; a Southuner’d allow I’d
Some call to shake, for I’ve jest hed to meller a new cowhide.
 
 
Miss S. is all ’f a lady; th’ ain’t no better on Big Boosy,
Ner one with more accomplishmunts ’twixt here an’ Tuscaloosy;
She’s an F.F., the tallest kind, an’ prouder ’n the Gran’ Turk,
An’ never hed a relative thet done a stroke o’ work;
Hern ain’t a scrimpin’ fem’ly sech ez you git up Down East,
Th’ ain’t a growed member on ’t but owes his thousuns et the least:
She is some old; but then agin ther’ ’s drawbacks in my sheer;
Wut’s left o’ me ain’t more ’n enough to make a Brigadier:
The wust is, she hez tantrums; she is like Seth Moody’s gun
(Him thet wuz nicknamed frum his limp Ole Dot an’ Kerry One);
He’d left her loaded up a spell, an’ hed to git her clear,
So he onhitched,—Jeerusalem! the middle o’ last year
Wuz right nex’ door compared to where she kicked the critter tu
(Though jest where he brought up wuz wut no human never knew);
His brother Asaph picked her up an’ tied her to a tree,
An’ then she kicked an hour ’n’ a half afore she’d let it be:
Wal, Miss S. doos hev cuttins-up an’ pourins-out o’ vials,
But then she hez her widder’s thirds, an’ all on us hez trials.
My objec’, though, in writin’ now warn’t to allude to sech,
But to another suckemstance more dellykit to tech,—
I want thet you should grad’lly break my merriage to Jerushy,
An’ ther’ ’s a heap of argymunts thet’s emple to indooce ye:
Fust place, State’s Prison,—wal, it’s true it warn’t fer crime, o’ course,
But then it’s jest the same fer her in gittin’ a disvorce;
Nex’ place, my State’s secedin’ out hez leg’lly lef’ me free
To merry any one I please, pervidin’ it’s a she;
Fin’lly, I never wun’t come back, she needn’t hev no fear on ’t,
But then it ’s wal to fix things right fer fear Miss S. should hear on ’t;
Lastly, I’ve gut religion South, an’ Rushy she’s a pagan
Thet sets by th’ graven imiges o’ the gret Nothun Dagon;
(Now I hain’t seen one in six munts, for, sence our Treasury Loan,
Though yaller boys is thick anough, eagles hez kind o’ flown;)
An’ ef J. wants a stronger pint than them thet I hev stated,
Wy, she’s an aliun in’my now, an’ I’ve ben cornfiscated,—
For sence we’ve entered on th’ estate o’ the late nayshnul eagle,
She hain’t no kin’ o’ right but jest wut I allow ez legle:
Wut doos Secedin’ mean, ef’t ain’t thet nat’rul rights hez riz, ’n’
Thet wut is mine’s my own, but wut’s another man’s ain’t his’n?
 
 
Bersides, I couldn’t do no else; Miss S. suz she to me,
“You’ve sheered my bed,” [Thet’s when I paid my interdiction fee
To Southun rites,] “an’ kep’ your sheer,” [Wal, I allow it sticked
So’s ’t I wuz most six weeks in jail afore I gut me picked,]
“Ner never paid no demmiges; but thet wun’t do no harm,
Pervidin’ thet you’ll ondertake to oversee the farm;
(My eldes’ boy is so took up, wut with the Ringtail Rangers
An’ settin’ in the Jestice-Court for welcomin’ o’ strangers”;)
[He sot on me;] “an’ so, ef you’ll jest ondertake the care
Upon a mod’rit sellery, we’ll up an’ call it square;
But ef you can’t conclude,” suz she, an’ give a kin’ o’ grin,
“Wy, the Gran’ Jury, I expect, ‘ll hev to set agin.”
Thet’s the way metters stood at fust; now wut wuz I to du,
But jest to make the best on’t an’ off coat an’ buckle tu?
Ther’ ain’t a livin’ man thet finds an income necessarier
Than me,—bimeby I’ll tell ye how I fin’lly come to merry her.
 
 
She hed another motive, tu: I mention of it here
T’ encourage lads thet’s growin’ up to study ’n’ persevere,
An’ show ’em how much better ’t pays to mind their winter-schoolin’
Than to go off on benders ’n’ sech, an’ waste their time in foolin’;
Ef ’t warn’t for studyin’, evening, I never ’d ha’ ben here
An orn’ment o’ saciety, in my approprut spear:
She wanted somebody, ye see, o’ taste an’ cultivation,
To talk along o’ preachers when they stopt to the plantation;
For folks in Dixie th’t read an’ write, onless it is by jarks,
Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th’ oridgenal patriarchs;
To fit a feller f’ wut they call the soshle higherarchy,
All thet you’ve gut to know is jest beyund an evrage darky;
Schoolin’ ’s wut they can’t seem to stan’, they’re tu consarned high-pressure,
An’ knowin’ t’ much might spile a boy for bein’ a Secesher.
We hain’t no settled preachin’ here, ner ministeril taxes;
The min’ster’s only settlement ’s the carpet-bag he packs his
Razor an’ soap-brush intu, with his hymbook an’ his Bible,—
But they du preach, I swan to man, it’s puf’kly indescrib’le!
They go it like an Ericsson’s ten-hoss-power coleric ingine,
An’ make Ole Split-Foot winch an’ squirm, for all he’s used to singein’;
Hawkins’s whetstone ain’t a pinch o’ primin’ to the innards
To hearin’ on ’em put free grace t’ a lot o’ tough old sin-hards!
 
 
But I must eend this letter now: ’fore long I’ll send a fresh un;
I’ve lots o’ things to write about, perticklerly Seceshun:
I’m called off now to mission-work, to let a leetle law in
To Cynthy’s hide: an’ so, till death,
 

Yourn,

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.