But when you try to obey the laws and support the constitution,
It reminds me of a Campbellite preacher
We had here years ago.
And he debated with the Methodist preacher
As to whether immersion or sprinkling
Was the way to salvation.
And the Campbellite preacher said:
“The holy scripture says:
‘And Jesus when he was baptised
Went up straightway out of the water.’
And how could he come up out of the water
If he wasn’t in?” asked the Campbellite preacher,
Pointing a long finger at the Methodist preacher.
“And how could he be in without being immersed?”
Well, the Campbellite preacher won the debate.
But the next day Billy Bell,
An infidel we had here,
Met the Campbellite preacher and said:
“I suppose it wouldn’t be possible for a man
To stand in water up to his knees
And have water sprinkled on his head, would it?”
And the Campbellite preacher said:
“Get thee behind me Satan,” and went on.
Well Linkern was kind of an infidel,
And The Little Giant got caught in his own orthodoxy,
And his ability for debate led him into
The complete persuading of himself.
And by arguin’ for the law
He made Linkern appear
As bein’ against the law.
But just think, for a minute, young man:
Here is The Little Giant the greatest figure in all the land
And the wheel of fortune turns
And he stands by Linkern’s side and holds
His hat while Linkern takes the oath
As president!
Then the war comes and his leadership
Has left him, and millions who followed him
Turn from him, and then Death comes,
And sits by him and says: Your time’s up!
So I say when they put up that monument
And carved those words upon it
They had just as well have carved the words,
“He took poison.”
Which reminds me:
There was a family over at Dutchland
Named Nitchie.
And my boy writes me from college
That there is a writer named Nitchie
Who says—well I can’t tell you just now.
But if you’ll look at things close
You’ll see that Linkern was against the legal law,
And Douglas against the moral law so-called,
And neither cared for the other’s law—
And that was the real debate!
Linkern rode over laws to save the Union,
And Douglas said he cared more for white supremacy
Than anything else.
Which being true, who can tell
Who won the debates?
Is it better to have the Union,
Or better to have a master race?
I’ll go over to the post-office now
And see if there’s a letter from my boy.
VII
AUTOCHTHON
In a rude country some four thousand miles
From Charles’ and Alfred’s birthplace you were born,
In the same year. But Charles and you were born
On the same day, and Alfred six months later.
Thus start you in a sense the race together....
Charles goes to Edinburgh, afterwards
His father picks him for the ministry,
And sends him off to Cambridge where he spends
His time on beetles and geology,
Neglects theology. Alfred is here
Fondling a Virgil and a Horace.
But you—these years you give to reading Æsop,
The Bible, lives of Washington and Franklin,
And Kirkham’s grammar.
In 1830 Alfred prints a book
Containing “Mariana,” certain other
Delicate, wind-blown bells of airy music.
And in this year you move from Indiana
And settle near Decatur, Illinois,
Hard by the river Sangamon where fever
And ague burned and shook the poor
Swamp saffron creatures of that desolate land.
While Alfred walks the flowering lanes of England,
And reads Theocritus to the song of larks
You clear the forests, plow the stumpy land,
Fight off the torments of mosquitoes, flies
And study Kirkham’s grammar.
In 1831 Charles takes a trip
Around the world, sees South America,
And studies living things in Galapagos,
Tahiti, Keeling Island and Tasmania.
In 1831 you take a trip
Upon a flat-boat down to New Orleans
Through hardships scarcely less than Joliet
And Marquette knew in 1673,
Return on foot to Orfutt’s store at Salem.
By this time Jacques Rousseau was canonized;
Jefferson dead but seven years or so;
Brook Farm was budding, Garrison had started
His Liberator, Fourier still alive;
And Emerson was preening his slim wings
For flights into broad spaces—there was stir
Enough to sweep the Shelleyan heads,—in truth
Shelley was scarcely passed a decade then.
Old Godwin still was writing, wars for freedom
Swept through the Grecian Isles, America
Had “isms” in abundance, but not one
Took hold of you.
In 1832 Alfred has drawn
Out of old Mallory and Grecian myths
The “Lady of Shalott” and fair “Œnone,”
And put them into verse.
This is the year you fight the Black Hawk war,
And issue an address to Sangamon’s people.
You are but twenty-three, yet this address
Would not shame Charles or Alfred; it’s restrained,
And sanely balanced, without extra words,
Or youth’s conceits, or imitative figures, dreams
Or “isms” of the day. No, here you hope
That enterprise, morality, sobriety
May be more general, and speak a word
For popular education, so that all
May have a “moderate education” as you say.
You make a plea for railroads and canals,
And ask the suffrages of the people, saying
You have known disappointment far too much
To be chagrined at failure, if you lose.
They take you at your word and send another
To represent them in the Legislature.
Then you decide to learn the blacksmith’s trade.
But Fate comes by and plucks you by the sleeve,
And changes history, doubtless.