Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 45

=_Mary Clemmer Ames,[74] about 1837-._=

From "A Woman's Right."

=_315._= A RAILWAY DEPOT IN THE COUNTRY.

... Yet this depot was the centre of attraction for miles around. It was the grand hall of re-union for all the people of the scattered town, not second in importance even to the meeting-house. Here, twice a day, stopped the great Western and Eastern trains, the two fiery arteries through which flowed all the tumultuous life of the vast outer world that had ever come to this secluded hamlet. Its primitive inhabitants in their isolated farm-houses, under the hills and on the stony mountain-moors, could never have realized the existence of another world than the green, grand world of nature around them and above them, and would have been as oblivious of the great G.o.d "News" as the denizens of Greenland, if it had not been for the daily visits of this Cyclops with the burning eye. Now twice a day, the shriek of his diabolical whistle pierced the umbrageous woods and hilly gorges for miles away, and its cry to many a solitary household was the epoch of the day. Hearing it, John mounted his nag and scampered away to the station for the Boston journals of yesterday. Seth harnessed Peggy, and drove off in the buggy in all possible haste, to see if the mail had brought a letter from Amzi who was in New York, or from Nimrod who had gone to work in "Bosting,"

or if the train had brought Sally and her children from the city, who were expected home on a visit. Here, under pretext of waiting for the cars, congregated the drones and supernumeraries of the different neighborhoods, lounging on the steps, hacking the benches with their jack-knives for hours together, while they discussed politics, and talked over their own and their neighbors' affairs.

A walk to the station on a summer evening, was more to the boys and girls of this rural region, than a Broadway promenade to a metropolitan belle. Their day's task done, here they met in pairs, comparing finery and indulging in flirtations, with an impunity which would not have been tolerated by their elders at the Sunday recess in the meeting-house.

Then, besides, it was such an exciting sight to see the cars come in, to see the long rows of strange faces, and to catch glimpses of the new fashions at their open windows. Besides, at rare intervals, a real city lady would actually alight at the rustic station of Hilltop, followed by an avalanche of trunks, "larger than hen-houses," the girls would afterwards affirm to their astonished mothers, when it was discovered that the city-lady, in her languishing necessity for country-air, had really condescended to come in search of a remote country-cousin.

Besides the fine lady, sometimes small companies of dashing young gentlemen, with fishing-rods and retinues of long-eared dogs, or a long-haired artist with a portfolio under his arm, all lured by the mountains and woods and streams, to seek pleasure in far different ways, would alight at the station, and ask of some staring rustic where they could find the hotel.

[Footnote 74: An active writer, chiefly known as a newspaper correspondent from Washington; a native of Vermont, has published a novel of much descriptive vigor.]

CHAPTER IV

POETS.

=_Francis Hopkinson,[75] 1737-1791._=

From "The Battle of the Kegs.[76]"

=_316._=

Gallants, attend, and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty; Strange things I'll tell, which late befell In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood to gaze,-- The truth can't be denied, sir,-- He spied a score of kegs, or more, Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First rubbed his eyes, in great surprise, Then said some mischief's brewing.

Some fire cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half naked.

The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dread array, sir, With stomach stout, to see it out, And make a b.l.o.o.d.y day, sir.

The cannons roar from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began, I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle.

A hundred men, with each a pen, Or more,--upon my word, sir, It is most true,--would be too few Their valor to record, sir.

[Footnote 75: A prominent author of the revolutionary era.]

[Footnote 76: In the revolutionary war, while the British held Philadelphia, some floating torpedoes were one day sent down the river to destroy their vessels, and this novel mode of attack caused the alarm described by the poet.]

=_John Trumbull, 1750-1831._= (Manual, pp. 490, 512.)

From "McFingal."

=_317._=

Though this, not all his time was lost on, He fortified the town of Boston, Built breastworks that might lend a.s.sistance To keep the patriots at a distance; For, howsoe'er the rogues might scoff, He liked them best the farthest off; Works of important use to aid His courage when he felt afraid.

For Providence, disposed to tease us, Can use what instruments it pleases; To pay a tax, at Peter's wish, His chief cashier was once a fish.

An English bishop's cur of late Disclosed rebellions 'gainst the State; So frogs croaked Pharaoh to repentance, And lice delayed the fatal sentence: And Heaven can rain you at pleasure, By Gage, as soon as by a Caesar.

Yet did our hero in these days Pick up some laurel-wreaths of praise; And as the statuary of Seville Made his cracked saint an excellent devil.

So, though our war small triumph brings, We gained great fame in other things.

Did not our troops show great discerning, And skill, your various arts in learning?

Outwent they not each native noodle By far, in playing Yankee-doodle?

Which, as 'twas your New England tune, 'Twas marvellous they took so soon.

And ere the year was fully through, Did they not learn to foot it too, And such a dance as ne'er was known For twenty miles on end lead down?

Did they not lay their heads together, And gain your art to tar and feather, When Colonel Nesbitt, thro' the town, In triumph bore the country-clown?

Oh! what a glorious work to sing The veteran troops of Britain's king, Adventuring for th'heroic laurel With bag of feathers and tar-barrel!

To paint the cart where culprits ride, And Nesbitt marching at its side.

Great executioner and proud, Like hangman high, on Holborn road; And o'er the slow-drawn rumbling car, The waving ensigns of the war!

=_Philip Freneau, 1752-1832._= (Manual, pp. 486, 511.)

From "An Indian Burying-ground."

=_318._=

In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead, Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;-- The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul,-- Activity, that wants no rest.