THE CENTENNIAL IN 1876.—THE FRENCH AGAIN IN 1878. 283 "The peculiar and valuable qualities of our products will be adopted and reproduced in all parts of Europe, improving the mechanical and industrial arts; and it is reasonable to expect, and gratifying to believe, that the benefits will be reciprocal; that our products will in time acquire those tasteful and pleasing qualities which command more admiration and find a quicker and better market than the barely useful." Since these words were written, thirteen years have passed; and other World's Fairs have been held: one at Vienna in 1873, one in Philadelphia in 1876, and a third in Paris in 1878; and all that Mr. Beckwith wrote of France and America in 1867 has been confirmed and increased in both countries. The magnificence of 1867 has been surpassed by that of 1876 and 1878; and, to complete the picture, the American Republic has grown more powerful than ever, while that of France has become the model free government of the European continent. XL. GERMAN, IRISH, AND YANKEE PATOIS IN POETRY CONTRASTED WITH AMERICAN MELODY. In the first volume of these "Anecdotes," pp. 203-4, I refer to Clinton Lloyd, Chief Clerk of the House of Representatives of the United States, in connection with his peculiar recitations of Charles G. Leland's famous travestie "Hans Breitmann,' and of James Russell Lowell's equally peculiar and remarkable "Hosea Biglow." Mr. Lloyd is now living at his old home in Williamsport, and more than ever ready to delight his friends with these amusing and instructive delineations. Within that period a new literature, a new art, has become fashionable, differing somewhat from the popular negro minstrelsy, and partaking of a more sacred character. The band of vocalists from Tennessee who appeared in Washington and Philadelphia within the last four years, under the patronage of General Fisk, and have since exhibited in Europe before the nobility, followed by imitators of more or less excellence, excited a wonderful enthusiasm by their plantation and religious songs, and were, indeed, in their way, most interesting artistes. The celebrated piano-player Blind Tom, though in all respects a musical prodigy, was hardly more attractive than these sable singers; and I can easily realize how the British Premier, Mr. Gladstone, and London society generally, were delighted by their original and thrilling performances. Mr. Lloyd's recitations, however, were of a higher order, precisely as the authors he quoted were scholars and thinkers. It is the misfortune of such writings as those of Mr. Leland and Mr. Lowell that, while they secure a large circle of readers, they are apt to pass out of memory, simply because there are few such interpreters of their strange dialect as Mr. Lloyd, and I have thought it might serve a good purpose to revive some of the passages. If only my readers could hear these quaint and striking satires as they are given by Mr. Lloyd, with his thorough knowledge of the German and Yankee idiom, they would doubly enjoy them. His capital imitations of the Dutchman and the Yankee are gifts of their kind which I have never seen so well done off the stage. Never shall I forget the evening I heard my good friend Lloyd, in the presence of General Grant and a large company of intelligent ladies and gentlemen, at the White House, reciting these productions: HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY. "Hans Breitmann gife a barty, Dey had biano-blayin. I felled in lofe mid a Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane. She hat haar ash prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in two. "Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I vent dere, you'll be pound; I valzet mit Madilda Yane, Und vent spinnen round und roundDe pootiest fraulein in de house, She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound. "Hans Breitmann gife a barty, Und venefer dey knocks de spicket in, I dinks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year. "Hans Breitmann gife a barty, Dere all vas souse und brouse ; "Hans Breitmann gife a barty; I poot mine mout to a parrel of beer Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. "Hans Breitmann gife a barty- All goned afay mit de lager-beer— FROM HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING. "Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge, An' say 'twill only set their teeth on edge, 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, 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 on To make a man a Man an' let him be." MILES O'REILLY ON THE DOWNFALL OF RICHMOND. "Bad luck to the man who is sober to-night; He's a could-hearted boddagh or sacret secesher, And who takes in the fame of his counthry no pleasure. Och, murther! will none of yees hould me, my dears, Wid your own pretty fisht, Mr. Prisident Lincoln, Where our bully boy Grant does his atin' and thinkin'. Even Shtanton to-night we'll confiss he was right When he played the ould scratch wid our have-ye-his-carkiss; And to gallant Phil Sherry we'll drink wid delight, On whose bright plume of fame not a spot o' the dark is. Let the churches be opened, the althars illumed, And the mad bells ring out from aich turret and staple; Let the chancel wid flowers be adorned and perfumed, While the soggarths, God bless them! give thanks for the people; For the city is ours that we've sought from the start, And our boys through its streets Hail Columby are yellin'; No banner so glorious can wake into motion. Thim gold-speculators, whose pie is now humble; And what more could we ax, for the rints, too, will tumble? Ivery orphan the war's made a home we'll decray it; Then come, me own Eileen; come, Nora and Kate; We'll give thanks in the chapel, and do it in shtate ; And we'll pray for the sowls of poor Murtagh and Larry. Woe's me! in the black shwamps before it they sleep, But the good God to-night, whose thrue faith they have cherished, His angels shall send o'er the red fields asweep, In each could ear to breathe, Not in vain have ye perished. |