No. III. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. [A FEW remarks on the following verses will not be out of place. The satire in them was not meant to have any personal, but only a general, application. Of the gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw the letter itself. The position of the satirist is oftentimes one which he would not have chosen, had the election been left to himself. In attacking bad principles, he is obliged to select some individual who has made himself their exponent, and in whom they are impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, through ambiguity, be dissipated tenues in auras. For what says Senecå? Longum iter per præcepta, breve et efficace per exempla. A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men can read at sight, namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons. It is one of the cunningest fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly to our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbour or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, the while he patches up a truce with our conscience. *Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his arm, — aliquid sufflaminandus erat. I have never thought good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform with aqua fortis, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up. Est ars etiam maledicendi, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions."-H. W.] GUVENER B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ;- Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him, o' course, Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you? ) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, He 's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself:· So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ; Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ; But John P. Robinson he Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. Wal, it's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! |