Abraham Lincoln And The London Punch Part 6

When to filial feeling apparently callous, Not a plume ruffled (as _we_ should say, not a hair rent), In a _pot-pourri_ made of sweet-spice, myrrh, and aloes, He flagrantly, burnt, after burying, his parent.

But POMPONIUS MELA has managed to gather Of this curious story a modified version, In which the bird burns up itself, not its father, And soars to new life from its fiery immersion.

This bird has oft figured in emblems and prophecies-- And though SNYDERS ne'er painted its picture, nor WEENIX Its portraits on plates of a well-known fire-office is, Which, after this bird's name, is christened the Ph[oe]nix.

Henceforth a new Ph[oe]nix, from o'er the Atlantic, Our old fire-office friend from his bra.s.s-plate displaces; With a plumage of greenbacks, all ruffled, and antic In OLD ABE'S rueful phiz and OLD ABE'S shambling graces.

As the bird of Arabia wrought resurrection By a flame all whose virtues grew out of what fed it, So the Federal Ph[oe]nix has earned re-election By a holocaust huge of rights, commerce, and credit.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BEECHER'S AMERICAN SOOTHING SYRUP."

"If I have said anything against England, I'll stick to it.

* * * When I look not to the sentiments of popular a.s.semblies, but to such significant acts as the detention of those Rams at Liverpool (_cheers_); when I look to such weighty words as those spoken by EARL RUSSELL at Glasgow, and by the Attorney General at Richmond * * * I feel that the two nations are still one in the cause of civilisation, of religion, and I trust we shall continue to be one in international policy, and one in every enterprise."--_Rev. Ward Beecher at Exeter Hall._]

On December 10th, _Punch_ published this brutal burlesque antic.i.p.ation of that n.o.ble speech made by President Lincoln at his second Inauguration, which has now taken its due rank among the great masterpieces of forensic English:

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S INAUGURAL SPEECH

_(By Ultramarine Telegraph)_

Well, we've done it, gentlemen. Bully for us. Cowhided the Copperheads considerable. _Non n.o.bis_, of course, but still I reckon we have had a hand in the glory, some. That reminds me of the Old World story about the Hand of Glory, which I take to have been the limb of a gentleman who had been justified on the gallows, and which the witches turned into a patent moderator lamp, as would lead a burglar safe into any domicile which he might wish to plunder. We ain't burglars, quite t'other, but I fancy that if ULY GRANT could get hold of that kind and description of thing to help him into Richmond, he'd not be so un-Christian proud as to refuse the hand of a malefactor. (_Right, right!_) Well, right or left hand, that's no odds, gentlemen. (_Laughter._) Now I am sovereign of the sovereign people of this great and united republic for four years next ensuing the date hereof, as I used to say when I was a lawyer. (_You are! Bully for you!_) Yes, gentlemen, but you must do something more than bully for me, you must fight for me, if you please, and whether you please or not. As the old joke says, there's no compulsion, only you must. Must is for the King, they say in the rotten Old world. Well, I'm King, and you shall be Viceroys over me. But I tell you again, and in fact I repeat it, that there's man's work to do to beat these rebels.

They _may_ run away, no doubt. As the Irishman says, pigs may fly, but they're darned onlikely birds to do it. They must be well whipped, gentlemen, and I must trouble you for the whipcord. (_You shall have it!_) Rebellion is a wicked thing, gentlemen, an awful wicked thing, and the mere nomenclating thereof would make my hair stand on end, if it could be more standonender than it is. (_Laughter._) Truly awful, that is when it is performed against mild, free, const.i.tutional sway like that of the White House, but of course right and glorious when perpetrated against ferocious, cruel, bloodthirsty old tyrants like GEORGE THE THIRD. We must punish these rebels for their own good, and to teach them the blessings of this mighty and transcendental Union. (_We will, we will!_) All very tall talking, gentlemen, but talking won't take Richmond. If it would, and there had been six Richmonds in the field, we should long since have took them all. If Richmond would fall like Jericho, by every man blowing of his own trumpet, we've bra.s.s enough in our band for that little feat in acoustics. But when a cow sticks, as GRANT does, in the mud, how then? (_Great laughter._) Incontestably, gentlemen, this great and mighty nation must give her a shove on. Shove for Richmond, gentlemen. (_That's the talk!_) Now about these eternal blacks, you expect me to say something touching them, though I suppose we're none of us too fond of touching them, for reasons in that case made and provided, as I used to say. Well, listen. We've got them on our hands, that's a fact, and it reminds me of a n.i.g.g.e.r story. Two of these blacks met, and one had a fine new hat. "Where you got dat hat, SAMBO?" says t'other. "Out ob a shop, n.i.g.g.e.r," says SAMBO.

"'Spex so," says t'other, "and what might be the price ob dat hat?"

"Can't say, zactly, n.i.g.g.e.r, the shopkeeper didn't happen to be on the premises." (_Laughter._) Well, we've got the n.i.g.g.e.rs, and I can't exactly say--or at least I don't think you'd like to hear--what might be the price of those articles. But we must utilise our hats, gentlemen. We must make them dig and fight, that's a fact.

There's no shame in digging, I suppose. Adam digged, and he is a gentleman of older line than any of the bloated and slavish aristocracies of Europe. And as for fighting, they must feel honoured at doing that for the glorious old flag that has braved for eighty-nine years and a-half, be the same little more or less, the battle and the breeze. (_Cheers._) Yes, and when the rebellion's put down, we'll see what's to be done with them. Perhaps if the naughty boys down South get uncommon contrite hearts, we may make them a little present of the blacks, not as slaves, of course, but as legal apprentices with undefined salaries determinable on misconduct. (_Cheers._) Meantime, gentlemen, I won't deny that the n.i.g.g.e.rs are useful in the way of moral support. They give this here war a holy character, and we can call it a crusade for freedom. A man may call his house an island if he likes, as has been said by one of those fiendish British writers who abuse our hospitality by not cracking us up. (_War with England!_) Well, all in good time, gentlemen. Let our generals learn their business first. I don't blame them, mind you, that they haven't learned it yet, for when a man has kept a whiskey-store, or a bar, or an oyster-cellar, or an old-clothes' shop for years, he can't be expected, merely because he puts on a uniform, to become a Hannibal or a Napoleon, or even a Marlborough or a Wellington. Likewise, they must learn to keep reasonable sober. Friends at a distance will please accept this intimation. (_Roars of Laughter._) When that's done, and the rebels are whipped, and we are in want of more fighting, we'll see whether Richmond in England, where the QUEEN'S palace of Windsor Castle is situate lying and being, is a harder nut to crack than Richmond nearer us. (_Cheers._) Gentlemen, one thing more. Did you ever hear the story of the farmer who had been insulted by an exciseman? "He wur so rude,"

said the farmer, "that I wur obliged to remonstrate with him." "And to what effect did you remonstrate?" asked a friend. "Well I don't know about effect, but I bent the poker so that I was obliged to get a hammer to straighten it." Gentlemen, we must straighten this glorious Union, and the hammer is taxes. (_Laughter._) You may laugh, but you must pay.

I don't mean to be hard upon this mighty nation, and our friend MR.

COBDEN (_cheers_) has already indirectly informed the besotted ma.s.ses of British slaves that we intend to repudiate our greenbacks, except to the amount they may be worth in the market when redeemed. But the poker wants a deal of hammering, nevertheless, and you must pay up. You'll hear more about this from a friend of mine in the Government, so I only give you the hint, as the man said when he kicked his uncle down-stairs.

(_Laughter._) I believe that's about all I had to say, and this almighty Union will be conserved to shine through the countless ages an ineffable beacon and symbol of blessed and everlasting light and glory if you will only mind the proverb of Sancho Panza, which says, "Pray to G.o.d devoutly, and hammer on stoutly." (_Laughter, cheers, and cries of "Bully for you!"_)

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HOLDING A CANDLE TO THE *****" (MUCH THE SAME THING.])

On April 15, 1865, came a cartoon, a really superb one, which is sometimes reckoned Tenniel's masterpiece, ent.i.tled "Habet!" It represents the combatants as gladiators before the enthroned and imperial negroes ("Ave Caesar!").

[Ill.u.s.tration: NEUTRALITY.

MRS. NORTH. "HOW ABOUT THE _ALABAMA_ YOU WICKED OLD MAN?"

MRS. SOUTH. "WHERE'S MY RAMS? TAKE BACK YOUR PRECIOUS CONSULS--THERE!!!"]

But in sentiment at least a n.o.bler was to come, the affecting picture of Britannia's tribute and _Punch's_ amende, called simply "Abraham Lincoln, foully a.s.sa.s.sinated April 14, 1865."

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOMETHING FOR PADDY.

O'CONNELL'S STATUE (LOQ). "IT'S A _REPALER_ YE CALL YOURSELF, YE SPALPEEN, AND YOU'RE GOIN' TO DIE FOR THE _UNION_."]

The accompanying verses, by Tom Taylor, not, as has sometimes been a.s.serted, by Shirley Brooks, were a complete recantation for former misunderstanding and wrongdoing. They will bear quoting again:--

[Ill.u.s.tration: VERY PROBABLE.

LORD PUNCH. "THAT WAS JEFF DAVIS, PAM! DON'T YOU RECOGNISE HIM?"

LORD PAM. "HM! WELL, NOT EXACTLY--MAY HAVE TO DO SO SOME OF THESE DAYS."]

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

_Foully a.s.sa.s.sinated April, 14, 1865_

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace Broad for the self-complacent British sneer His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease; His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please.

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity or people's pain.

Beside this corps, that beats for winding sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen-- To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble yet how hopeful he could be; How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work--such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand-- As one who knows where there's a task to do Man's honest will must heaven's good grace command:

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That G.o.d makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle on the side That he felt clear was liberty's and right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights--

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron back, that turns the lumberer's axe; The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear-- Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years'

Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood: Till, as he came on light from darkling days And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest-- And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high, Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the a.s.sa.s.sin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.