The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1. R. H. Newell
were chickens, in excellent condition for dressing, and their appearance so delighted our brigadier-general—whom we found sharpening his sword on the bottom of his boot, some miles away—that a consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to cook and eat them immediately, lest the President should administer the oath of allegiance to them, and discharge them in the morning.
Yours, victoriously,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER VIII.
THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."
Washington, D.C., June 30th, 1861.
Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough, and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of that venerable Committee which had offered a prize of $500 for the best National Hymn.
Upon going into literary circles, my boy, no less than fifty acknowledged poets confidentially informed me, that the idea of bribing the muse to be solemnly patriotic was altogether too vulgar to be tolerated for a moment by writers of reputation; and a whole swarm of poets, never acknowledged by anybody, were human enough to say that $500 was not a small sum in these times; but they hadn't "come to that yet, you know."
One very poor Bohemian, my boy (whose scathing sarcasm at the expense of those degraded creatures who prefer wealth to intellect, has often delighted and improved the public mind), was so rash as to intimate that the importunities of his laundress might drive him to the desperate resource of competing for the prize; but he was quickly made to blush for the unworthy thought, by the undisguised contempt for his "dem'd lowness" displayed by a decayed young gentleman in a dirty collar and very new neck-tie, who lives in a two-pair back in Wooster street (fish balls and a roll twice a day), and writes graphic sketches of fashionable life for the wholesale market.
And yet, notwithstanding all this high-mindedness, my boy, there is an immense amount of some sort of genius insidiously pitted against the contemptible $500. Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty "anthems"!
The magnitude of eleven hundred and fifty "anthems" is almost more than one human mind can grasp. Allowing that each "anthem" is a quarter of a yard long, we have a grand total of two hundred and eighty-seven and a half yards of "anthem"; allowing that each "anthem" weighs half a pound (intellectually and materially), I find a gross weight of five hundred and seventy-five pounds of "anthem"!
Let the reflective mind consider these figures for a moment, and it will be stricken with a sense of the singular resemblance between Genius and other marketable commodities. Eleven hundred and fifty anthems are enough to prove that Genius has its private mercenary weaknesses as well as Trade, my boy, and that brains can be bought by the yard as well as calico. Genius may carry with it a seeming contempt for the yellow dross of common humanity; but—it has to pay its occasional washerwoman.
And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee! But must they all, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, my boy—I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminating rag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procured some of the best, from which to quote for your special edification.
Imprimis, my boy, observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—
Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.
Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
Wildly he started—for there in the heavens before him
Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.
The committee have two objections to this: in the first place, it is not an "anthem" at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Scandinavian war-song of the primeval ages.
Next, I present a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THE HON. EDWARD E——, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple's propylon was shattered;
Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY JOHN GREENLEAF W——.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—
To keep the virtues of Preserv-éd Fish.
Preserv-éd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And should they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H——.
A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—
The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above, after reading thus far; for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of surgeons or a Beacon-street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY RALPH WALDO E——.
Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which abnormal man is decimal.
Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
To