gether; and when he smote the Earth, though with his terrible mallet, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while it seemed to Thor that he had only been wrestling with an old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a stupid giant on the head. And in old times, doubtless, the giants were stupid, and there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots and Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great blundering heads with enchanted swords. But things have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, nowadays, that have the science and the intelligence, while the chivalrous Don Quixotes of Conservatism still cumber themselves with the clumsy armor of a bygone age. On whirls the restless globe through un sounded time, with its cities and its silences, its births and funerals, half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure to swing round into the happy morning at last. With an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip his pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of it to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of the Past. -H. W.] TO MR. BUCKENAM MR. EDITER, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little nussry sot out a year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit cum inter my mine An so i took & Sot it to wut I call a nussry rime. I hev made sum onnable Gentlemun speak thut dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense the seeson is dreffle backerd up This way ewers as ushul HOSEA BIGLOW. "HERE we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef 't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; No more 'n the man in the moon," sez he. "The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he. "Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet 's-wha' d'ye call it? -di vine, An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, ""T would be better to hang 'em, An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he. "The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - "Ez thet some one 's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he. "Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppres sion, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impres sion) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he. "Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe ; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection !) Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. "Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color ; You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. "The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance; No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. "It'll break up the Union, this talk about free dom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. "Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's a tumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. "The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Then our priv❜leges tryin' to proon?" sez he. "It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sar pints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha' n't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he. |