It was urged, months ago, against The Continental by a radical Abolition organ, that while favoring Emancipation, we were quite willing 'to colonize the negro out of the way.' And if it could promote the real welfare of both black and white, why should he not be colonized, even 'out of the way'? 'But it is impossible,' say the Conservatives; to which we reply that this is an age of great conceptions and great deeds, and it would be strange indeed if we, with steamboats, could not effect as much as was done of old by the most primitive races of both hemispheres. The Incas of Peru had no difficulty in moving hundreds of thousands of a conquered race to fresh fields and pastures new—why should we find it impossible? Let the same enthusiasm which has been displayed on the bare subject of freeing the black, be devoted to freeing and placing him at the same time in a climate congenial to his nature, and we should soon witness a solution of our great national difficulty.
We are indebted to a genial Western correspondent for
TOM JOHNSON'S BEAR.
A STORY WITH A MORAL.
To Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, this poem is dedicated with the 'distinguished consideration' of
The Author.
Tom Johnson he lived on the Western border,
Where he went to escape from 'law and order,'
For Tom was a terrible fellow, was he,
He drunk, and he swore, and he fou't[B] like the
Old Harry—and Tom he had a wife:
Fit partner she was of his backwoods life.
Tom lived on the border for divers years,
Where he fou't the red-skins, and he fou't the bears
And there wasn't a thing that could bite or scratch
For which Tom Johnson wasn't a match,
Excepting his wife, and she was the better
Half by all odds—he'd often get her
In a tight place, and give her a strapping.
But somehow or other 'twould always happen,
In every tussle and every bout,
In every 'scrimmage' and every rout,
She'd come out ahead of the cross-grained old wizzard,
And by hook or crook manage to 'give him a blizzard.'
Sometimes from a brawl of which Tom was the hero,
Returning at midnight, the weather at zero,
His wife snug in bed, and the door safely barred,
Long time would elapse ere his shouts could be heard;
And sometimes she'd catch him dead drunk or asleep,
When he'd find himself suddenly 'all of a heap,'
And open his eyes on his bellicose bride,
Hot mush in his mouth and his under-pins tied.
So she managed to keep just inside of the law,
While he ever would find himself 'hors du combat.'
As Johnson was one day exploring the wood,
To replenish the meat-tub—then empty—with food,
While a tree-top near by he was leisurely viewin''
He spied the short ears and sharp eyes of old Bruin,
Peering out 'mid the branches—a sight worth a dollar
When the rifle is charged and the stomach is hollow;
So he drew a bead on him, and sent him a missile,
Which Brain perceived, by an ominous whistle,
Was very near taking him plump in the eye,
But he dodged just in time, and the bullet went by.
Now bears are pugnacious—as much so as wives,
And whenever assaulted will fight for their lives;
So seeing that Tom's ammunition was spent,
He determined at once on a hasty descent;
For knowing that he or Tom Johnson would eat,
The question arose which should furnish the meat;
For although the bullet had wrought some confusion,
A moment's reflection produced the conclusion,
That he at the foot of the tree with the gun,
Minus powder and bullet, must needs be the one;
So he slid down the tree, with much scratching and clawing,
Designing to give poor Tom's carcass a gnawing.
But Thomas, intent upon saving his life,
And calling to mind a sharp trick of his wife,
As Bruin came down, his legs clasping the tree,
Caught a paw in each hand and held tight as could be:
He put on a grip unto Bruin quite new,
Like a vice when the blacksmith is turning the screw.
But now what to do there arose a great doubt,
For Bruin and Johnson had both just found out
What neither had thought of until 'twas too late,
That each was exposed to a merciless fate
At the hands, or the teeth, or the claws of the other,
At which neither could his astonishment smother,
And neither knew what it was safest to do;
'Twas hard to hold on, but 'twas worse to let go!
Now Johnson still being not far from his house,
Bethought him in time of his excellent spouse,
So he hooted and hallooed and made such a noise
She distinguished at last his affectionate voice,
Calling loudly for help as it rose on the breeze,
Like the panther's wild scream in the tops of the trees:
'O Julee, dear Julee! come, help me this time,
And I never again—will—(oh! bother the rhyme,)
Will bite you, or scratch you, or whip you, not I,
But love and protect you till you or I die.'
Now good Mistress Johnson, dear soul, when she heard
The piteous cries of her penitent lord,
Got herself to the wood with broom-stick in hand.
'I am, most respectfully, yours to command,'
Said the wife, as she came and found Tom and the bear
Both hugging a tree with the grip of despair.
'O Julee, dear Julee! How can you?—now come,
Do help me, or quickly-confound it!—our home
Won't have any master!—dear Julee, consider—
The children no daddy, and you a lone widow!'
An unlucky hint for poor Tom, by the by,
'For worse things might happen!' thought she with a sigh.
But good mistress Johnson, though love was but scant,
Had a heart never hewn from the worst adamant;
It softened apace, so with broom-stick in air
And ire in her eye she advanced on the bear,
Who seeing the enemy thus reënforced
Tried to get his fore-paws from Tom's clutches divorced.
O woman, poor woman! dear woman! sweet thing!
O light of earth's darkness! O treasure supernal!
Thy fond heart, though crushed, win unceasingly cling
To a loved one, though fallen, degraded, infernal!
Thrice Bruin's tough hide from the broom-stick now had a cut;
Quoth Johnson: 'My darling, that weapon's inadequate—
Hold a bit—let me see—now we'll fix him—here, Mother—
Reach your hand—take this paw—hold it tight—now the other.
There, I will dispatch him—ah! where is my gun?
And bullets? dear me!—ah!—why, what have I done?
I will run to the house, and be back in a trice—
Hold on, my beloved! be 'still as a mice!''
'Quick! quick!' the wife shouted. 'Be off—get away!
Make tracks, Mr. Johnson! don't stand there all day!'
So Tom started off in pursuit of assistance,
And leisurely walking a very short distance,
Turned, paused to reflect, then addressed her: 'My dear,
My conscience upbraids me concerning this bear;
A very great doubt has arisen in my mind—
I am not quite sure—but am rather inclined,
Indeed—I may say—I have reached the conclusion
That bears have been made a Divine Institution;
This is plainly deduced from the Scriptures of truth,
Which frightened me much in the days of my youth,
With the story of forty of ages quite tender,
Torn to strings by two gears of the feminine gender:
And not only so, but you see, Mistress Julia,
This same institution is very 'peculiar;'
I found it somewhat inconvenient to hold,
(The cubs are quite harmless, but this one is old,)
He is gentle at first, but as muscle increases,
Shows some disposition to tear one in pieces.
Then hold him the tighter, and keep up good heart,
As it's all in the family, you'll do your part.'
Tom closed his oration with actions to suit,
Then went to his house, where the reprobate brute
Whipped the children and kicked his old mother out-door,
Got tipsy as Bacchus and rolled on the floor,
While his wife held the bear, fast tied to the spot,
And how long she staid there, deponent says not.
Secesh has a bear, and has had many years,
At first, a mere pet, he engendered no fears;
But now he's grown strong and can fight like a major,
And has like his master become an old stager;
He has taught him to work, and has trained him to fight,
Adding strength to his hands and increasing his might;
Albeit if free he would turn on his master,
Who knows it full well, and hence holds him the faster;
But not only so, he insists we shall help
While he fights to destroy us, at holding his whelp!
And strangely enough, we obey his command,
While he strikes at our vitals and plunders the land!
He has murdered the son and led captive the brother,
Has broke up the home and made war on his mother;
And now while our sons by the thousand are slain
The nation to save and its life to maintain,
When the patriot's eyelids are closing in death,
While a prayer for his country inspires his last breath,
Or bleeding he lies as the foul traitor's dart
Is caught in the folds of the flag round his heart,
While freedom's bright bow, for the millions unborn,
No longer encircles the brow of the storm,
While the sun of our glory grows dim in our sight,
And the star of our destiny's shrouded in night;
Still our paralyzed hands, to our country untrue,
Are stretched out to succor the traitorous crew,
As they strike for our lives, fully bent on our ruin,
We lend them assistance by holding their Bruin,
And tell all the world that our national wars
Shall be waged to protect constitutional bears.
And now let us know, my dear sir, in conclusion,
How long must continue this monstrous delusion,
(If not a state secret, so sacred a one
That it may to the Cabinet only be known,)
While being destroyed by a traitorous war,
How long we must aid them by holding their bear?
Or how long shall we flourish our broom-stick, and say,
To one who would help us: 'Keep out of the way!
Go home to your master, your Samaritan neighbor;
Return all his kindness and give him your labor,
Plant corn, hoe the cotton, and keep things all bright,
Give him plenty to eat and more leisure to fight;
For we mean to protect him in every 'RIGHT;'
And the best way of keeping the 'whole Constitution'
Is to help those who fight for its whole dissolution,
(Though this proposition may seem somewhat strange,)
While we dig our own ditches and fire at long range,
For our duty is plain, when the traitor makes war,
To give aid and comfort by holding his bear.'