RE-GILDING THE GOLDEN EAGLE.
["The amount subscribed in England for the United States Loan was £120,000,000, or twenty times the sum reserved for London."—Daily Paper.]
"Why, I was a thinking, Sir," returned Mark Tapley, "that if I was a painter, and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?"
"Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose."
"No," said Mark. "That wouldn't do for me, Sir. I should want to draw it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging; like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like an Ostrich, for its putting its head in the sand, and thinking nobody sees it——"
"And like a Phœnix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!" said Martin.
Martin Chuzzlewit.
Brother Jonathan loquitur:—
He was prejudiced, that Mark, a Eurōpian, in the dark,
Concernin' of our Glorious Institutions.
He paint our Bird o' Freedom? Lots have tried, but we don't heed 'em;
And revolvin' years bring curus retributions.
We don't care a brass farden! Dickens had to beg our pardon,
And that Max O'Rell will eat his words one day, Sir!
The real Yankee Eagle is as strong-winged as a Sea-gull,
With a beak as sharp as any Sheffield razor.
Still, he's been a trifle pippy, and has looked a little chippy—
By the mighty Mississippi yes, Sir!—lately.
Kinder moulty as to feathers, as though blizzards and bad weathers
Of every blamed big sort had tried him greatly.
Good Jee-rusulum! No wonder! for great snakes and buttered thunder!
Our blasts have been fair busters for his pinions.
In the words of Mister Chollop, all creation he can wallop,—
But tornaders have been sweepin' his dominions!
As to that Mark Tapley's twaddle, why the Peacock ain't the model,
Nor the Bantam, nor the Ostrich, I'd be pickin'
For the finest fowl in Natur. Better dub him Alligator,
A Whangdoodle, or a Cincinnati Chicken!
Like the Phœnix he's immortal, and he soars to the Sun's portal,
But—the Phœnix has sick spells, like lesser poultry.
Wants fresh fixing up, I reckon, then the dawn once more he'll beckon,
And sprint—from Memnon's statue to Fort Moultrie.
Bull ain't an Eagle builder, but he makes a bully gilder,
And I reckon, guess, and calc'late I'll jest try him.
If I git from the old fellow a good coat of British Yellow—
A sort o' paint J. B. keeps always by him—
My Bird o' Freedom soaring, where the blizzards are a roaring,
And the cloud-bursts are out-pouring, will jest flicker
Real rollicking and regal, like a genu-ine Golden Eagle.—
Wal!—you've fixed him real smart, John! Let us liquor!
