COLUMBIA’S BANNER.
Bright banner of Columbia,
A fragment of the sky,
Torn down with all thy glitt’ring stars—
Angelic blazonry!
Stream onward, like the fiery cloud
That hung o’er Egypt’s sea,
Terror and darkness to the proud,
A light to guide the free.
Bright banner of Columbia!
Thou glory’st not in blood;
Yet, if the foe invade our land,
The foe shall be withstood;
A death-grasp shall his welcome be,
A bloody turf his pillow,
And on the battle-wave he’ll find
A tomb in every billow.
Dark banner of oppression,
Droop o’er thy millions slain!
All stained with floods of human gore,
Thou ne’er shalt wave again;
Save when the wail of misery,
The orphan’s plaintive cry,
And the widow’s moan amid thy folds,
Shall breathe in agony.
But thou, my country’s banner,
Unstained by guilt or crime,
Shalt wave o’er every tyrant-flag,
Until the end of time:
For Peace lies nestling in thy wings,
And each emblazoned star
Sheds down its sweetest influence
To heal the wounds of war.
Then wave thou on for ages,
O’er mountain, lake and sea,
For God has stamped upon thy folds
His word—Eternity.
Yet when the earth’s by thee forsaken,
No mortal shall weep o’er thee,
For the dread Archangel’s trump shall be
The requiem of thy glory.
Then, banner of my country,
Shalt thou be upward borne,
To gild again thy native skies,
From which thou once wert torn;
For thy earthly mission’s over,
To the dust oppression’s hurled;
Thou’st struck to none but a deathless power,
’Mid the wrecks of a falling world.
Avena.
STORY AND SENTIMENT,
OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION.
No. 3.
A NIGHT AT THE FARM HOUSE.[1]
[1] This tale is in the hand writing of my friend.
In one of my journeys through the western part of New Hampshire, I chanced to put up for the night at a small farm-house about five miles from the little village of W——, and meeting with a somewhat curious adventure there, I have resolved to record it. My host was a little, fat faced, bustling, bandy-legged fellow, running here and there, studious for my comforts, my humble servant, &.c. &c.; and succeeding with his wife, a long, lank, sidling, vinegar-looking creature, he made out to obtain for me the only spare room in his house. Into this I was ushered with due importance, and having taken a survey of the apartment, its nice new bed, newly dusted candle-stand, oak bottomed chairs, and a high huge wardrobe, which from its antiquated appearance I judged to have been an heir-loom in the family for three centuries at least, I tossed my saddle-bags into one corner, kicked off my heavy boots into the other, and slipping my released feet into a pair of soft squirrel-skin slippers, returned again to the kitchen. There I found my host and his wife cosily seated over a sparkling fire, and from the abrupt breaking off of their conversation and half guilty countenances, I concluded they had been talking over the character of their new comer. I was never difficult to please, especially when I had fallen in with any of the peasantry, so to speak, of dear New England, and admitted to the calm content which reigns around their fire sides—so planting myself upon a settle, perhaps a dye-tub, a thing indispensible to a New England farm-house, I entered into conversation with them.
I found my host a well bred, sensible fellow, somewhat free in the use of provincialisms, and not wanting in love to a good broad-faced joke; somewhat witty withal, and a memory in which he had stored many an odd story, some good and some bad, which stories he told (when solicited) with a tolerably good grace.
I pause here to record my observations on one of the peculiarities in the New England character—I mean its modesty. Foreigners, and residents of other parts of this widely extended territory may talk of Yankee impudence, but for the life of me, in all my wanderings, I could never find the genuine modesty of a native New Englander. They may cheat you—that is, some of them may, some of their outlawed, who with trunk and tin wagon travel into other States to prey on the unwary; but where turn you and find not some, who do and ever will disgrace the soil that nursed them? For New England I claim no entire exemption; perfection is not beneath the sun: but there is more of it here than elsewhere—and in proof of it I adduce, their superior sagacity, their nobler intelligence. Where intelligence is found, will you find least of the weaknesses of human nature.
But to return: having bid Bessy, a short, flaxen-haired, chubby-cheeked damsel, of about fourteen, the very image of her father, bring him a cup of cider; and poking our chairs close into the fire—so close that the wind which came down chimney, would now and then puff out the smoke and curl it up about mine host’s neck and shoulders, making him look for all the world like Vulcan peeping through the clouds of his own smithy—he began as follows.
‘Late last March and on one of the coldest nights in my memory, my wife and me were startled by a loud knock at the door, about nine o’ the clock; and more so by the abrupt entrance of a stranger, who had been as it seems just ceremonious enough to knock, but not sufficiently so to wait until bidden a welcome. Marching directly up to the fire he doffed his cap, and then in a bland, gentle voice, and the language of a gentleman, prayed our pardons for his boldness, and craved our hospitality.
‘Now Biddy here is not the most hospitable in her feelings, but even she was softened by the coldness of the weather, and the soft accents of the stranger. So, bidding him welcome and placing before him such entertainment as we best could, he ate his meal and then sat himself down—right where you are, sir, at this moment—as if for conversation.
‘His age, I should think, was about forty five. In person he was strikingly handsome, yet care-worn; his hair was black—his eyes likewise, and a somewhat cynical curl about his small mouth made you hesitate to address him, thinking he was perhaps a person of strong prejudices. His skin was as fair as a girl’s; a fine set of teeth were displayed when he smiled; in short, his appearance was such that I should have taken him, perhaps, for a scholar; for, though his dress was rich it was careless, and there was a sort of method in what he said though the subjects were simple, as I am told is ever found in men of education. At first, he was very taciturn.
“You find it a cold air, sir,” said I, breaking the silence.
“Yes—yes, sir.”
“You’ve ridden far?”
“Yes—yes, sir.”
“You’re come from the south, eh?”
“Yes—yes, sir.”
“You’re not from York, I guess?”
“Yes—yes, sir.”
‘Well, thinks I, you may be a scholar for aught I know, but hang me! if I think there’s much variety in your talk.
‘I took him on another tack.
“You have, at least, sir, come where hearts are warm, and hospitality is proffered cheerfully.”
‘He started at this; a gentle flush tinged his cheek; and he seemed struck with an ingenuous consciousness of his want of courtesy. Turning to me he took my hand in his, and pressing it, replied—
“An honest heart, sir, is its own reward. Small boots it then, that I add my sense of your hospitality to that of your own consciousness. Yet such as I have, I give, and that is but small; for I am one, sir, who cares but for a few, and one who is as little cared for by others. Once I had a heart that—that—yes! that felt—in every pulsation felt the beauty that is in morals and in virtue. Nothing lived, but it gave me happiness; nothing died, but it gave me pain—That time is past.”
‘There was something so earnest, yet unstudied; so easy, yet solemn, and ‘heart-twinging,’ to use a phrase of Biddy’s, in this, that both she and me began to water about the eyes like two babies.
‘Returning the kind pressure of his hand, I said—
“But you are young, sir—too young to feel that life has no claims upon—”
“Too old—too old, sir,” interrupted he with emphasis, “too old for earth, and too wise to do any good in it. Some of the world, sir, live faster than others. Grief can crowd twenty years into ten, and care make the vigor of manhood, the tottering imbecility of four score. Believe it not—believe it not; they err, sir, who measure life by years. Events, events notch it right—these notch the chronicle of human life.”
“And yet, sir, ’tis man’s right to be always happy.”
“Aye! and ’tis the right of the singing bird to skim the blue ether, and pour its music in concert with the harmony of the stars—but how many things invade that right! The bird that sings sweetly of a morning, may be jammed into the wallet of the clown, by evening—its music hushed, and its mottled plumes dabbled with dirt and gore. Man’s prerogative to be happy! aye—but ’tis his necessity to be miserable.”
‘This, sir,’ said my host, ‘may give you some idea of his character. The evening passed off—though not very happily; for there was that about him which took hold of my feelings, and when I shook hands with him for the night there was an ache in my bosom, I could’nt well get rid of.
‘In the morning, he was up betimes—breakfasted—and rose to depart. Before he went however, he took from his bosom a paper; and handing it to me, bade me keep it till his return. ‘It is a short sketch of some of the events of my life,’ rejoined he, as he mounted his horse, ‘and though it benefit you not, it will perform at least one good office—make you remember me.’ He bowed, and rode away.
‘That paper I have now somewhere, and if you wish, sir, I will read it to you.’ My host rose, and going to a huge cat-hole, or cupboard in the corner of the room, he succeeded in finding it—not forgetting by the way, to tumble out sundry articles of house-wife memory, such as balls of yarn, woollen stockings, flannels, and night-caps, and strewing them over the floor. Seated again by the comfortable fire, he now put on a huge pair of brass spectacles, blew his nose thrice, and proceeded to decipher—