* * * * *
"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 oilers under our hoofs?"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;
"Human rights haint no more
Right to come on this floor,
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?--divine,--
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 labour 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;--
"Thet 's ez plain," sez Cass,
"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 oppression,
But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,
Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet 's my impression)
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!)
Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe?"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
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' colour;
You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
Sez Mister Jarnagin,
"They wunt 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 freedom,
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' promiscoous Ned,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt,
"Ef we Southerners all quit,
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 is tumblin' to ruin,
An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
"Yes," sez Johnson, "in France
They 're beginnin' to dance
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;--
"O," 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 sarpints
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 shan'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.
[It was said of old time, that riches have wings; and, though this be
not applicable in a literal strictness to the wealth of our patriarchal
brethren of the South, yet it is clear that their possessions have legs,
and an unaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly direction.
I marvel that the grand jury of Washington did not find a true bill
against the North Star for aiding and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It
would have been quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by the
South on other questions connected with slavery. I think that no ship of
state was ever freighted with a more veritable Jonah than this same
domestic institution of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign so
bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three millions of human
beings crushed beyond help or hope by this one mighty argument,--_Our
fathers knew no better!_ Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of
Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall we try the
experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe place, that none may lay hands
on him to make jetsam of him? Let us, then, with equal forethought and
wisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in pious confidence,
the certain result. Perhaps our suspicious passenger is no Jonah after
all, being black. For it is well known that a superintending Providence
made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, to be devoured by
the Caucasian race.
In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the hungry moan of
the storm and the growl of the breakers, speak out! But, alas! we have
no right to interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in
danger of the justice; but if he steal my brother, I must be silent. Who
says this? Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous suetude of sixty
years, and grasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of him whose
right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. Justice, venerable with the
undethronable majesty of countless aeons, says,--SPEAK! The Past, wise
with the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her shattered fanes
and wolf-housing palaces, echoes,--SPEAK! Nature, through her thousand
trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her
cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubilant
encouragement, and cries,--SPEAK! From the soul's trembling abysses the
still, small voice not vaguely murmurs,--SPEAK! But, alas! the
Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., say,--BE DUMB!
It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connexion,
whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats and the sheep shall
be parted, the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., will
be expected to take their places on the left as our hircine vicars.
_Quia sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?_
There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and
poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is
barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only moderately
good. Woe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an
ideal!
Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage to
_rub and go_? Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the
nineteenth century say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and
others say shall _not_ cease. I would by no means deny the eminent
respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such a
wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for them.
_Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._