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Corne, Peace! not like a mourner
bowed For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud,
With eyes thet tell o'triumph tasted ! Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt, An' step, thet proves ye Victory's
daughter ! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt
Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for
Come, while our country feels the lift
Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift
Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards ! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for,
when They kissed their cross with lips thet
quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men,
A nation saved, a race delivered !
in him but sort of slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur is wal enough an' a site better 'n most other kines I know on, but the other sort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord's makin’an' naterally more wonderfle an' sweet tastin' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. He used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile aihout sayin' nothin' in pertickler an' I misdoubt he did n't set so much by the sec’nd Ceres as wut he done by the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort of fallın' off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwester he wuz, but I tole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketch a good many times fust afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I see Jethro C. Swett from the meetin' house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' took up for dead but he's alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turnin' of it over I recclected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the frunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a spell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you 'd go in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz darters, though most allus found it the best plen to go in fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu.
I dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I guess they never du but tha must allus be a B’ginnin' to everythin' athout it is Etarnity so I 'll begin rite away an' anybody may put it afore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim no paytent.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH
IN MARCH MEETING.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC
JAALAM, April 5, 1866. MY DEAR SIR,
(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you 're some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the deffrence) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce this las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber allus called 'em, which is goin' to be the last an' stay the last onless sunthin' pertikler sh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ez pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence Mr. Wilbur's disease I hev n't hed no one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o' wine me up an' set the penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain't of the same brewin' nor I can't seem o git ahold of no kine of huming nater
Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself: thei's jest natur an' most gin’ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I've notist, to one of the cumpany, an' thet 's more than wut you can say of most speshes of talkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the orjunce by lettin' 'em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop thet they air about East, A one, an'no mistaik, skare 'em up ap' take 'em as puther,"
he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age, “You 're a good lad; but 't ain't thet
“ Ef you want to know," sez he, open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and you 'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, fresh air,” sez he, emphysizin', “athout no mixtur. Thet 's wut I call natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever i git a whiff on 't," sez he. I offen think o thet when I set down to write, bu. the winders air so ept to git stuck, an' breakin' a pane costs sunthin'. Yourn for the last time, Nut to be continooed,
they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins witch nobuddy need n't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an' never shell this one ag’in. Subjick staited; expanded ; delayted ; extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so's to avide all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks ; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder : kind o gin out. Subjick restaited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pump ag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick; stretches it; turns it ; folds it ; onfolds it ; folds it ag'in so's 't no one can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud to say nothin' in repleye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfide he's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into his head. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back’ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads
Sees his subjick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. Misstates it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries pump.
No fx. Finely concloods to conclood. Yeels the flore.
You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doos an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair is the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of 'em it 's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made for ; wut 's left 's jest pummis. Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, Hosee,
“in littery toor the only good thing is Natur. It's amazin' hard to come at," sez he, “but onct git it an' you ’ve gut everythin': Wut's the sweetest small on airth?"
“ Noomone hay," sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayın . “Nawthin' of the kine,"
“My leetle Huldy's breath," sez I ag'in. You 're a good lad," sez
I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I shoulj
plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or
Sennit, Nut while the twolegged gab-machine's
so plenty, 'Nablin' one man to du the talk o'
twenty ; I 'm one o''them thet finds it ruther
hard To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, An' maysure off, accordin' to demand, The piece-goods el’kence that I keep
on hand, The same ole pattern runnin' thru an'
thru, An' nothin' but the customer thet's
new. I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I've settled my idees, I find 'T warn't I sheered most in makin' up
my mind; 'T wuz this an' thet an't' other thing
thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor
shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in dis.
cussion, All th' ole flint locks seems altered to
percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hin'
But they made (raw or biler ones) ten
Thet I m percussion changin' back to
flint; Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Queen's-arm hez this per
tickler merit, It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o'
margin To kin' o' make its will afore discharg
in': I can't make out but jest one ginnle
rule, No man need go an' make himself a
fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet
can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. Ez I wuz say'n', I hain't no chance to
speak So 's 't all the country dreads me onct a
week, But I've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Tnet sets to home an’thinks wut might
be said, The sense thet grows an’ werrits under
neath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, An' git so el’kent, sometimes, to my
gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his
head !) 'Mongst other stories of ole times he
hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his
spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige
heads, (Ef 't war n't Demossenes, I guess 't
wuz Sisro,) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this
row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould
sez the Parson, "to hit right,
you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't, when all's
come an' past, The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et Th' ain't ben a meetin' sence the worl'
I've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence
then About ez good for talkin' to ez men; They'll take edvice, like other folks, to
keep, (To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu
cheap,) They listen wal, don’ kick
you scold 'em, An' ef they've tongues, hev sense
enough to hold 'em ; Though th' ain't no denger we shall
lose the breed, I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed, An when my sappiness gits spry in
spring, So’s ’t my tongue itches to run on full
swing, I fin' 'em ready-planted in March
meetin', Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their
grčetin', An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum
the fence, Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f ex
year I made the follerin' observa. Extrump’ry, like most other tri'ls o'
patience, An', no reporters bein' sent express To work their abstrac's up into a mess Ez like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut
pictur' Thei chokes the life out like a boy
constrictor, I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all
jeal’sies 'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some
(N. B. Reporters gin'lly git a hint To make dull orjunces seem 'live in
print, An', ez l'hev t’ report myself, I vum, I'll put th' applauses where they'd
ough' to come !) MY FELLER KEBBIGE-HEADS, who look
so green, I vow to gracious thet ef I cuirid dreca
They run your soul thru an' you never
feel, But crawl about an' seem to think
you 're livin', Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's
forgivin', Till you come bunt ag'in a real live fect, An'
go to pieces when you'd ough' to
ect ! Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we're crossAn' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow, 'Ould stan' expectin' help from King
dom Come, While t' other side druv their cold iron
The world of all its hearers but jest you, 'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin'
to, An' you, my ven’able ol' frien's, thet
show Upon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March
Show, Ez ef mild Time had christened every
sense For wisdom's church o' second inno
cence, Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing, But jest a kin' o' slippin’-back o'
spring, (Sev'ril noses blowel.) We've gathered here, ez ushle, to de
cide Which is the Lord's an' which is Sa
tan's side, Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen Is ’long o' which on 'em you choose for
Cappen. (Cries o' "Thet 's so !") Aprul's come back; the swellin' buds
of oak Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish
smoke; The brooks are loose an', singing to be
seen, (Like gals,) make all the hollers soft
an' green; The birds are here, for all the season 's
late; They take the sun's height an' don'
never wait; Soon 'z he officially declares it's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north
'ard wing, An' th’ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year; But thet white dove Carliny scared
away, Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day; Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an'
build last year An' coo by every housedoor, is n't
here, No, nor wun't never be, for all our jaw, Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war! O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they
could see The begnet-pint there is to an idee !
(Sensation.) Ten times the danger in 'em th’ is in
My frien's, you never gethered from my
mouth, No, nut one word ag'in the South ez
South, Nor th’ain't a livin' man, white, brown,
nor black, Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em
back; But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust To write up on his door, “No goods on trust”;
(Cries of “Thet 's the ticket !") Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex'
fall. Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev
Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid'able an acre ; Give wut they need, an' we shell git
'fore long A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle,
strong; Make 'em Amerikin, an' they 'll begin To love their country ez they loved
their sin; Let 'em stay Southun, an' you
Ready to fester ez it done afore.
vision, But the one moleblin' thing is Indecis
ion, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor
state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do
'T was commonsense afore the war wuz
thru; Thet loaded all our guns an' made 'em
speak So's't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost
the creek ; “They ’re drivin' o'their spiles down
now," sez she, “To the hard grennit o' God's fust
idee; Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't
fear The tallest airthquakes we can git up Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge, An' say 't will only set their teeth on
edge, But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I
ever see, Are 'bout ez mad 'z they wal know how
to be ; It's better than the Rebs themselves
expected 'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down
henpected ; Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make
things fast, For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet
'll last; Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks
say, How could we punish it a milder way Than sayin' to 'em, “ Brethren, lookee
here, We'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer
an' sheer, An sence both come o' pooty strong
backed daddies, You take the Darkies, ez we've took
the Paddies ; Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the
hand, An' they 're the bones an' sinners o'
the land." I ain't o' them thet fancy there's a loss Every inves'ment thet don't start from
Bos'on ; But I know this: our money 's safest
trusted In sunthin', come wut will, thet can't
be busted, An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee, To make a man a Man an' let him be.
Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad
to 't, But I do' want to block their only road
to 't By lettin''em believe thet they can git Mor 'n wut they lost, out of our little
wit : I tell ye wut, I 'm 'fraid we'll drif' to
leeward 'Thout we can put more stiffenin' into
Seward ; He seems to think Columby 'd better
ect Like a scared widder with a boy stiff
necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come
in to supper; She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez
Tupper, Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Tell he'll eccept her 'pologies in form: The neighbors tell her he's a cross
grained cuss Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to
sez Ma Seward, “he 's ez good
'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an'
; “He sarsed my Pa," sez one ; “He
stoned my son,' Another edds. “0, wal, 't wuz jest
his fun." “He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell
dead." “'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed." “ Wal, all we ask 's to hev it under
stood You 'll take his gun away from him for
good; We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his
play, Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way. You kill your fatted calves to no good
eend, 'Thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev
("Ainen!” frum Deac'n Greenleaf.! The Pres'dunt he thinks thet the slick
est plan 'Ould be i' allow thet he's our on'y
man, An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war Jes' for his private glory an' eclor;