'
'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'
Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru;
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally
Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally.
'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'
Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru;
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally
Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally.
James Russell Lowell
'--
'Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, 240
An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,'
Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.
But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin',
You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'. '--
'Gran'ther,' sez I, 'a vane warn't never known
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints.
It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: 250
It knows the wind's opinions to a T,
An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be. '
'I never thought a scion of our stock
Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock;
When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver,
No airthly wind,' sez he, 'could make me waver! '
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,
Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard. )--
'Jes so it wuz with me,' sez I, 'I swow.
When _I_ wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,-- 260
Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find
It's a sight harder to make up my mind,--
Nor I don't often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question's ollus plain enough,--
It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;
'Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,--
The pinch comes in decidin' wut to _du;_ 270
Ef you _read_ History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,--
But come to _make_ it, ez we must to-day,
Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way;
It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,--
They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers;
But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then
Your facts and figgers change to ign'ant men
Actin' ez ugly--'--'Smite 'em hip an' thigh! '
Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280
Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!
Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword! '--
'Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it's ben A. D. ;
You think thet's ellerkence,--I call it shoddy,
A thing,' sez I, 'wun't cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence,
_You_ took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned,
An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now wut I want's to hev all _we_ gain stick, 291
An' not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain't to punish only, but to keep,
An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep.
'
'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'
Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru;
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally
Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally.
Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split,
Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: 300
Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe'--
'Our Charles,' sez I, 'hez gut eight million necks.
The hardest question ain't the black man's right,
The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;
One's chained in body an' can be sot free,
But t'other's chained in soul to an idee:
It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;
Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must du it. '
'Hosee,' sez he, 'I think you're goin' to fail:
The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; 310
This 'ere rebellion's nothing but the rettle,--
You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle:
It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,
An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,--
An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin'
Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'! '--
'God's truth! ' sez I,--'an' ef _I_ held the club,
An' knowed jes' where to strike,--but there's the rub! '--
'Strike soon,' sez he, 'or you'll be deadly ailin',--
Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; 320
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe
He'll settle things they run away an' leave! '
He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke,
An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.
No. VII
LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW
PRELIMINARY NOTE
[It is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of
the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A. M. , which took place suddenly,
by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our
venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never
enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his
eighty-fourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset
Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated
with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological
studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D. D.
'Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, 240
An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,'
Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.
But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin',
You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'. '--
'Gran'ther,' sez I, 'a vane warn't never known
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints.
It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: 250
It knows the wind's opinions to a T,
An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be. '
'I never thought a scion of our stock
Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock;
When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver,
No airthly wind,' sez he, 'could make me waver! '
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,
Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard. )--
'Jes so it wuz with me,' sez I, 'I swow.
When _I_ wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,-- 260
Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find
It's a sight harder to make up my mind,--
Nor I don't often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question's ollus plain enough,--
It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;
'Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,--
The pinch comes in decidin' wut to _du;_ 270
Ef you _read_ History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,--
But come to _make_ it, ez we must to-day,
Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way;
It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,--
They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers;
But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then
Your facts and figgers change to ign'ant men
Actin' ez ugly--'--'Smite 'em hip an' thigh! '
Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280
Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!
Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword! '--
'Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it's ben A. D. ;
You think thet's ellerkence,--I call it shoddy,
A thing,' sez I, 'wun't cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence,
_You_ took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned,
An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now wut I want's to hev all _we_ gain stick, 291
An' not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain't to punish only, but to keep,
An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep.
'
'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'
Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru;
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally
Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally.
Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split,
Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: 300
Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe'--
'Our Charles,' sez I, 'hez gut eight million necks.
The hardest question ain't the black man's right,
The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;
One's chained in body an' can be sot free,
But t'other's chained in soul to an idee:
It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;
Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must du it. '
'Hosee,' sez he, 'I think you're goin' to fail:
The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; 310
This 'ere rebellion's nothing but the rettle,--
You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle:
It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,
An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,--
An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin'
Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'! '--
'God's truth! ' sez I,--'an' ef _I_ held the club,
An' knowed jes' where to strike,--but there's the rub! '--
'Strike soon,' sez he, 'or you'll be deadly ailin',--
Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; 320
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe
He'll settle things they run away an' leave! '
He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke,
An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.
No. VII
LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW
PRELIMINARY NOTE
[It is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of
the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A. M. , which took place suddenly,
by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our
venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never
enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his
eighty-fourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset
Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated
with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological
studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D. D.
