Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 55, May, 1862 by Various

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I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a row,
Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln is now,
With Taney to say 't wuz all legle an' fair,
An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to swear
Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into the ditch
By the fault o' the North in misplacin' the switch.
Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss 'em;
But the People they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em!
Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 'z you may say,
Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean away?
An' doosn't the right primy-fashy include
The bein' entitled to nut be subdued?
The fact is, we'd gone for the Union so strong,
When Union meant South ollus right an' North wrong,
Thet the people gut fooled into thinkin' it might
Worry on middlin' wal with the North in the right.
We might ha' ben now jest ez prosp'rous ez France,
Where politikle enterprise hez a fair chance,
An' the people is heppy an' proud et this hour,
Long ez they hev the votes, to let Nap hev the power;
But _our_ folks they went an' believed wut we'd told 'em,
An', the flag once insulted, no mortle could hold 'em.
'T wuz pervokin' jest when we wuz cert'in to win,--
An' I, for one, wunt trust the masses agin:
For a people thet knows much ain't fit to be free
In the self-cockin', back-action style o' J.D.

I can't believe now but wut half on't is lies;
For who'd thought the North wuz a-goin' to rise,
Or take the pervokin'est kin' of a stump,
'Thout't wuz sunthin' ez pressin' ez Gabr'el's las' trump?
Or who'd ha' supposed, arter _sech_ swell an' bluster
'Bout the lick-ary-ten-on-ye fighters they'd muster,
Raised by hand on briled lightnin', ez op'lent 'z you please
In a primitive furrest o' femmily-trees,
Who'd ha' thought thet them Southerners ever 'ud show
Starns with pedigrees to 'em like theirn to the foe,
Or, when the vamosin' come, ever to find
Nat'ral masters in front an' mean white folks behind?
By ginger, ef I'd ha' known half I know now,
When I wuz to Congress, I wouldn't, I swow,
Hev let 'em cair on so high-minded an' sarsy,
'Thout _some_ show o' wut you may call vicy-varsy.
To be sure, we wuz under a contrac' jes' then
To be dreffle forbearin' towards Southun men;
We hed to go sheers in preservin' the bellance:
An' ez they seemed to feel they wuz wastin' their tellents
'Thout some un to kick, 't warn't more 'n proper, you know,
Each should funnish his part; an' sence they found the toe,
An' we wuzn't cherubs--wal, we found the buffer,
For fear thet the Compromise System should suffer.

I wun't say the plan hed n't onpleasant featurs,--
For men are perverse an' onreasonin' creaturs,
An' forgit thet in this life 't ain't likely to heppen
Their own privit fancy should oltus be cappen,--
But it worked jest ez smooth ez the key of a safe,
An' the gret Union bearins played free from all chafe.
They warn't hard to suit, ef they hed their own way;
An' we (thet is, some on us) made the thing pay:
'T wuz a fair give-an'-take out of Uncle Sam's heap;
Ef they took wut warn't theirn, wut we give come ez cheap;
The elect gut the offices down to tidewaiter,
The people took skinnin' ez mild ez a tater,
Seemed to choose who they wanted tu, footed the bills,
An' felt kind o' 'z though they wuz havin' their wills,
Which kep' 'em ez harmless an' clerfle ez crickets,
While all we invested wuz names on the tickets:
Wal, ther' 's nothin' for folks fond o' lib'ral consumption,
Free o' charge, like democ'acy tempered with gumption!

Now warn't thet a system wuth pains in presarvin',
Where the people found jints an' their friens done the carvin',--
Where the many done all o' their thinkin' by proxy,
An' were proud on't ez long ez't wuz christened Democ'cy,--
Where the few let us sap all o' Freedom's foundations,
Ef you called it reformin' with prudence an' patience,
An' were willin' Jeff's snake-egg should hetch with the rest,
Ef you writ "Constitootional" over the nest?
But it's all out o' kilter, ('t wuz too good to last,)
An' all jes' by J.D.'s perceedin' too fast;
Ef he'd on'y hung on for a month or two more,
We'd ha' gut things fixed nicer 'n they hed ben before:
Afore he drawed off an' lef all in confusion,
We wuz safely intrenched in the ole Constitootion,
With an outlyin', heavy-gun, casemated fort
To rake all assailants,--I mean th' S.J. Court.
Now I never 'II acknowledge (nut ef you should skin me)
'T wuz wise to abandon sech works to the in'my,
An' let him fin' out thet wut scared him so long,
Our whole line of argyments, lookin' so strong,
All our Scriptur' an' law, every the'ry an' fac',
Wuz Quaker-guns daubed with Pro-slavery black.
Why, ef the Republicans ever should git
Andy Johnson or some one to lend 'em the wit
An' the spunk jes' to mount Constitootion an' Court
With Columbiad guns, your real ekle-rights sort,
Or drill out the spike from the ole Declaration
Thet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' creation,
We'd better take maysures for shettin' up shop,
An' put off our stock by a vendoo or swop.

But they wun't never dare tu; you 'll see 'em in Edom
'Fore they ventur' to go where their doctrines 'ud lead 'em:
They 've ben takin' our princerples up ez we dropt 'em,
An' thought it wuz terrible 'cute to adopt 'em;
But they'll fin' out 'fore long thet their hope 's ben deceivin' 'em,
An' thet princerples ain't o' no good, ef you b'lieve in 'em;
It makes 'em tu stiff for a party to use,
Where they'd ough' to be easy 'z an ole pair o' shoes.
Ef _we_ say 'n our pletform thet all men are brothers,
We don't mean thet some folks ain't more so 'n some others;
An' it's wal understood thet we make a selection,
An' thet brotherhood kin' o' subsides arter 'lection.
The fust thing for sound politicians to larn is,
Thet Truth, to dror kindly in all sorts o' harness,
Mus' be kep' in the abstract,--for, 'come to apply it,
You're ept to hurt some folks's interists by it.
Wal, these 'ere Republicans (some on 'em) acs
Ez though gineral mexims 'ud suit speshle facs;
An' there's where we 'll nick 'em, there 's where they 'll be lost:
For applyin' your princerple's wut makes it cost,
An' folks don't want Fourth o' July t' interfere
With the business-consarns o' the rest o' the year,
No more 'n they want Sunday to pry an' to peek
Into wut they are doin' the rest o' the week.

A ginooine statesman should be on his guard,
Ef he _must_ hev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 'em tu hard;
For, ez sure ez he doos, he'll be blartin' 'em out
'Thout regardin' the natur' o' man more 'n a spout,
Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a flaw
In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw:
An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint
Thet we'd better nut air our perceedins in print,
Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm
Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, do us harm;
For when you've done all your real meanin' to smother,
The darned things'll up an' mean sunthin' or 'nother.
Jeff'son prob'ly meant wal with his "born free an' ekle,"
But it's turned out a real crooked stick in the sekle;
It's taken full eighty-odd year--don't you see?--
From the pop'lar belief to root out thet idee,
An', arter all, sprouts on 't keep on buddin' forth
In the nat'lly onprincipled mind o' the North.
No, never say nothin' without you're compelled tu,
An' then don't say nothin' thet you can be held tu,
Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' loose
For the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use.

You know I'm a feller thet keeps a skinned eye
On the leetle events thet go skurryin' by,
Coz it's of'ner by them than by gret ones you'll see
Wut the p'litickle weather is likely to be.
Now I don't think the South's more 'n begun to be licked,
But I _du_ think, ez Jeff says, the wind-bag's gut pricked;
It'll blow for a spell an' keep puffin' an' wheezin',
The tighter our army an' navy keep squeezin',--
For they can't help spread-eaglein' long 'z ther's a mouth
To blow Enfield's Speaker thru lef' at the South.
But it's high time for us to be settin' our faces
Towards reconstructin' the national basis,
With an eye to beginnin' agin on the jolly ticks
We used to chalk up 'hind the back-door o' politics;
An' the fus' thing's to save wut of Slav'ry ther's lef'
Arter this (I mus' call it) imprudence o' Jeff:
For a real good Abuse, with its roots fur an' wide,
Is the kin' o' thing _I_ like to hev on my side;
A Scriptur' name makes it ez sweet ez a rose,
An' it's tougher the older an' uglier it grows--
(I ain't speakin' now o' the righteousness of it,
But the p'litickle purchase it gives, an' the profit).

Things looks pooty squally, it must be allowed,
An' I don't see much signs of a bow in the cloud:
Ther' 's too many Decmocrats--leaders, wut's wuss--
Thet go for the Union 'thout carin' a cuss
Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on,
So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian bird on.
But ther' 's still some conservative signs to be found
Thet shows the gret heart o' the People is sound:
(Excuse me for usin' a stump-phrase agin,
But, once in the way on 't, they _will_ stick like sin:)
There's Phillips, for instance, hez jes' ketched a Tartar
In the Law-'n'-Order Party of ole Cincinnater;
An' the Compromise System ain't gone out o' reach,
Long 'z you keep the right limits on freedom o' speech;
'T warn't none too late, neither, to put on the gag,
For he's dangerous now he goes in for the flag:
Nut thet I altogether approve o' bad eggs,
They're mos' gin'lly argymunt on its las' legs,--
An' their logic is ept to be tu indiscriminate,
Nor don't ollus wait the right objecs to 'liminate;
But there is a variety on 'em, you 'll find,
Jest ez usefie an' more, besides bein' refined,--
I mean o' the sort thet are laid by the dictionary,
Sech ez sophisms an' cant thet'll kerry conviction ary
Way thet you want to the right class o' men,
An' are staler than all't ever come from a hen:
"Disunion" done wal till our resh Soutlun friends
Took the savor all out on't for national ends;
But I guess "Abolition" 'll work a spell yit,
When the war's done, an' so will "Forgive-an'-forgit."
Times mus' be pooty thoroughly out o' all jint,
Ef we can't make a good constitootional pint;
An' the good time 'll come to be grindin' our exes,
When the war goes to seed in the nettle o' texes:
Ef Jon'than don't squirm, with sech helps to assist him,
I give up my faith in the free-suffrage system;
Democ'cy wun't be nut a mite interestin',
Nor p'litikle capital much wuth investin';
An' my notion is, to keep dark an' lay low
Till we see the right minute to put in our blow.--

But I've talked longer now 'n I hed any idee,
An' ther's others you want to hear more 'n you du me;
So I'll set down an' give thet 'ere bottle a skrimmage,
For I've spoke till I'm dry ez a real graven image.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_Record of an Obscure Man. Tragedy of Errors_, Parts I. and II. Boston:
Ticknor and Fields. 1861, 1862.

Among the marked literary productions long to be associated with our
present struggle--among them, yet not of them--are the volumes whose
titles we have quoted. They differ from the recent electric messages of
Holmes, Whittier, and Mrs. Howe, in not being obvious results of vivid
events. "Bread and the Newspaper," "The Song of the Negro Boatmen," and
"Our Orders" will reproduce for another generation the fervid feelings
of to-day. But the pathetic warnings exquisitely breathed in the
writings before us will then come to their place as a deep and tender
prelude to the voices heard in this passing tragedy.

The "Record of an Obscure Man" is the modest introduction to a dramatic
poem of singular pathos and beauty. A New-Englander of culture and
sensibility, naturalized at the South, is supposed to communicate the
results of his study and observation of that outcast race which has been
the easy contempt of ignorance in both sections of the country. Our
instructor has not only a clear judgment Of the value of different
testimonies, and the scholarly instinct of arrangement and
classification, but also that divine gift of sympathy, which alone, in
this world given for our observation, can tell us what to observe.
The illustrations of the negro's character, and the answers to vulgar
depreciation of his tendencies and capacities, are given with the simple
directness of real comprehension. It is the privilege of one acquainted
in no common degree with languages and their history to expose that
dreary joke of the dialect of the oppressed, which superficial people
have so long found funny or contemptible. The simplicity and earnestness
which give dignity to any phraseology come from the humanity behind it.
We are well reminded that divergences from the common use of language,
never held to degrade the meaning in Milton or Shakespeare, need not
render thought despicable when the negro uses identical forms. If he
calls a leopard a "libbard," he only imitates the most sublime of
English poets; and the first word of his petition, "_Gib_ us this day
our daily bread," is pronounced as it rose from the lips of Luther.
The highest truths the faith of man may reach are symbolized more
definitely, and often more picturesquely, by the warm imagination of the
African than by the cultivated genius of the Caucasian. Also it is shown
how the laziness and ferocity with which the negro is sometimes charged
may be more than matched in the history of his assumed superior.
Yet, while acknowledging how well-considered is the matter of this
introductory volume, we regret what seems to be an imperfection in
the form in which it is presented. There is too much _story_, or too
little,--too little to command the assistance of fiction, too much to
prevent a feeling of disappointment that romance is attempted at
all. The concluding autobiography of the friend of Colvil is hardly
consistent with his character as previously suggested; it seems
unnecessary to the author's purpose, and is not drawn with the
minuteness or power which might justify its introduction. We notice this
circumstance as explaining why this Introduction may possibly fail of a
popularity more extended than that which its tenderness of thought and
style at once claimed from the best readers.

The "Tragedy of Errors" presents, with the vivid idealization of
art, some of the results of American Slavery. Travellers, novelists,
ethnologists have spoken with various ability of the laborers of the
South; and now the poet breaks through the hard monotony of their
external lives, and lends the plasticity of a cultivated mind to take
impress of feeling to which the gift of utterance is denied. And it is
often only through the imagination of another that the human bosom can
be delivered "of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart." For
it is a very common error to estimate mental activity by a command
of the arts of expression; whereas, at its best estate, speech is an
imperfect sign of perception, and one which without special cultivation
must be wholly inadequate. Thus it will be seen that an employment of
the dialect and limited vocabulary of the negro would be obviously
unsuitable to the purpose of the poem; and these have been wisely
discarded. In doing this, however, the common license of dramatists
is not exceeded; and the critical censure we have read about "the
extravagant idealization of the negro" merely amounts to saying that the
writer has been bold enough to stem the current of traditional opinion,
and find a poetic view of humanity at the present time and in its most
despised portion. The end of dramatic writing is not to reproduce
Nature, but to idealize it; a literal copying of the same, as everybody
knows, is the merit of the photographer, not of the artist. Again, it
should be remembered that the highly wrought characters among the slaves
are whites, or whites slightly tinged with African blood. With the
commonest allowance for the exigencies of poetic presentation, we find
no individual character unnatural or improbable; though the particular
grouping of these characters is necessarily improbable. For grace of
position and arrangement every dramatist must claim. If the poet will
but take observations from real persons, however widely scattered,
discretion may be exercised in the conjunction of those persons, and
in the sequence of incidents by which they are affected. An aesthetic
invention may be as _natural_ as a mechanical one, although the
materials for each are collected from a wide surface, and placed in new
relations. Thus much we say as expressing dissent from objections which
have been hastily made to this poem.

Of the plot of the "Tragedy of Errors" we have only space to say that
the writer has cut a channel for very delicate verses through the heart
of a Southern plantation. Here, at length, seems to be one of those
thoroughly national subjects for which critics have long been clamorous.
The deepest passion is expressed without touching the tawdry properties
of the "intense" school of poetry. The language passes from the ease of
perfect simplicity to the conciseness of power, while the relation of
emotion to character is admirably preserved. The moral--which, let us
observe in passing, is decently covered with artistic beauty--relates,
not to the most obvious, but to the most dangerous mischiefs of Slavery.
Indeed, the story is only saved from being too painful by a fine
appreciation of the medicinal quality of all wretchedness that the
writer everywhere displays. In the First Part, the nice intelligence
shown in the rough contrast between Hermann and Stanley, and in the
finished contrast between Alice and Helen, will claim the reader's
attention. The sketches of American life and tendencies, both Northern
and Southern, are given with discrimination and truth. The dying scene,
which closes the First Part, seems to us nobly wrought. The "death-bed
hymn" of the slaves sounds a pathetic wail over an abortive life
shivering on the brink of the Unknown. In the Second Part we find less
of the color and music of a poem, and more of the rapid movement of a
drama. The doom of Slavery upon the master now comes into full relief.
The characters of Herbert and his father are favorable specimens of
well-meaning, even honorable, Southern gentlemen,--only not endowed
with such exceptional moral heroism as to offer the pride of life to be
crushed before hideous laws. The connection between lyric and tragic
power is shown in the "Tragedy of Errors." The songs and chants of the
slaves mingle with the higher dialogue like the chorus of the Greek
stage; they mediate with gentle authority between the worlds of natural
feeling and barbarous usage. Let us also say that the _sentiment_
throughout this drama is sound and sweet; for it is that mature
sentiment, born again of discipline, which is the pledge of fidelity to
the highest business of life.

Before concluding, we take the liberty to remove a mask, not
impenetrable to the careful reader, by saying that the writer is a
woman. And let us be thankful that a woman so representative of the best
culture and instinct of New England cannot wholly conceal herself by the
modesty of a pseudonyme. In no way has the Northern spirit roused to
oppose the usurpations of Slavery more truly vindicated its high quality
than by giving development to that feminine element which has mingled
with our national life an influence of genuine power. And to-day there
are few men justly claiming the much-abused title of thinkers who do
not perceive that the opportunity of our regenerated republic cannot be
fully realized, until we cease to press into factitious conformity
the faculties, tastes, and--let us not shrink from the odious
word--_missions_ of women. The merely literary privilege accorded a
generation or two ago is in itself of slight value. Since the success of
"Evelina," women have been freely permitted to jingle pretty verses for
family newspapers, and to _novelize_ morbid sentiments of the feebler
sort. And we see one legitimate result in that flightiness of the
feminine mind which, in a lower stratum of current literature, displays
inaccurate opinions, feeble prejudices, and finally blossoms into pert
vulgarity. But instances of perverted license increase our obligation to
Mrs. Child, Mrs. Stowe and to others whose eloquence is only in deeds.
Of such as these, and of her whom we may now associate with them, it is
not impossible some unborn historian may write, that in certain great
perils of American liberty, when the best men could only offer rhetoric,
women came forward with demonstration. Yet, after all, our deepest
indebtedness to the present series of volumes seems to be this: they
bear gentle testimony to what the wise ever believed, that the delicacy
of spirit we love to characterize by the dear word "womanly" is not
inconsistent with varied and exact information, independent opinion, and
the insights of genius.

Finally, we venture to mention, what has been in the minds of many
New-England readers, that these books are indissolubly associated with a
young life offered in the nation's great necessity. At the time when the
first of the series was made public, a shudder ran through our homes, as
a regiment, rich in historic names, stood face to face with death. Among
the fallen was the only son of her whose writings have been given us.
Let us think without bitterness of the sacrifice of one influenced and
formed by the rare nature we find in these poems. What better result of
culture than to dissipate intellectual mists and uncertainties, and to
fix the grasp firmly upon some great practical good? There is nothing
wasted in one who lived long enough to show that the refinement acquired
and inherited was of the noble kind which could prefer the roughest
action for humanity to elegant allurements of gratified taste. The best
gift of scholarship is the power it gives a man to descend with all the
force of his acquired position, and come into effective union with the
world of facts. For it is the crucial test of brave qualities that they
are truer and more practical for being filtered through libraries. In
reading the "Theages" of Plato we feel a certain respect for the young
seeker of wisdom whose only wish is to associate with Socrates; and
there is a certain admiration for the father, Demodocus, who joyfully
resigns his son, if the teacher will admit him to his friendship and
impart all that he can. But it is a higher result of a higher order of
society, when a young man with aptitude to follow science and assimilate
knowledge sees in the most perilous service of civilization a rarer
illumination of mind and heart. In the great scheme of things, where all
grades of human worthiness are shown for the benefit of man, this costly
instruction shall not fail of fruit. And so the deepest moral that comes
to us from the "Tragedy of Errors" seems a prophetic memorial of the
soldier for constitutional liberty with whom it will be long connected.
The wealth of life--so we read the final meaning of these verses--is in
its discipline; and the graceful dreams of the poet, and the quickened
intellect of the scholar, are but humble instruments for the helping of
mankind.

_A Discourse on the Life, Character, and Policy of Count Cavour_.
Delivered in the Hall of the New York Historical Society, February 20,
1862. By VINCENZO BOTTA, Ph.D., Professor of Italian Literature in the
New York University, late Member of the Parliament, and Professor of
Philosophy in the Colleges of Sardinia. New York: G.P. Putnam. 8vo. pp.
108.

This is a most admirable tribute to one of the greatest men of our age,
by a writer singularly well qualified in all respects to do justice
to his rich and comprehensive theme. Professor Botta is a native of
Northern Italy, in the first place, and thus by inheritance and natural
transmission is heir to a great deal of knowledge as to the important
movements of which Cavour was the mainspring, which a foreigner could
acquire only by diligent study and inquiry. In the next place, he has
not been exclusively a secluded student, but he has taken part in the
great political drama which he commemorates, and has been brought into
personal relations with the illustrious man whose worth he here sets
forth with such ample knowledge, such generous devotion, such patriotic
fervor. And lastly, he is a man of distinguished literary ability,
wielding the language of his adopted country with an ease and grace
which hardly leave a suspicion that he was not writing his vernacular
tongue. A namesake of his--whether a relation or not, we are not
informed--has written "in very choice Italian" a history of the American
Revolution; and the work before us, relating in such excellent English
the leading events of a glorious Italian revolution, is a partial
payment of the debt of gratitude contracted by the publication of that
classical production.

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