The Frontiersmen. Gustave Aimard
never-ending forests of America. As for me, if I've got any poetry to quote, I can find enough of our own manufacture. I believe in the home manufacture of that article, just as much as I do in that of the other kind we were talking about last night."
Ralph smiled at Ichabod's literary bigotry. He answered:
"I do not know any reasonable objection to our admiring the men of genius of a foreign or hostile nation, or their writings. Men of genius are the property of the world. Whatever they may think or say that may delight and instruct one people, may equally delight and instruct all others. We are yet in the infancy of the poetic art, and have produced no poets capable of winning a world-wide reputation."
"That's precisely what the British say, Captain; and if I didn't know that your heart was true as steel to the American cause, I should be a little jealous of you. No poets of reputation! Did you ever read Freneau, Captain? To my mind, he's got more poetry in his little finger than Shakspeare had in his whole body. Now, did Shakspeare ever write anything equal to Freneau's "Antiquity of America"?"
And Ichabod began reciting, in a loud voice—
"'America, to every climate known,
Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone;
To either pole extends her vast domain,
Where varying suns in different summers reign.'"
"That's the way the poem begins, and it fully keeps up its pitch all the way through."
Ralph had some knowledge of the poetical compositions of Freneau, who had really produced some poems, full of a fine, poetic feeling, and who was much beyond the mass of his poetical contemporaries in this country; yet, although he entertained a feeling of respect for the ability and services of the revolutionary poet, he could not share the high degree of admiration which Ichabod entertained for him.
"I'll grant," said Ralph, scarcely knowing how to reply to the irritated Ichabod, "that Shakespeare never did write precisely such a poem; and I will admit that I do not believe he ever could have written such an one."
"I knew you were right at heart, Captain," exclaimed Ichabod, highly elated over his equivocal victory. "Some of his verses have done as much towards bringing down the British, as whole regiments of Continentals could have done. But then, Freneau is only one of a whole circle of poets. The British boast about their old ballads; now, I'll take an even bet, that I can show 'em ballads, written here at home, that will make 'em ashamed. Why, we've had a woman that would eclipse 'em all, to my mind—Mrs. Bradstreet, of whom another poet said:
"'Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet.'"
"Mrs. Bradstreet did possess a sweetness of expression," said Ralph; "and, with a higher cultivation, she might have written some fine poetry."
"Might, Captain! Lord bless you, she did! Speaking of the Squire's fishing expedition, what other poet ever said as fine things about fish, for instance, as she did?
"'Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation.
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry:
So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You wat'ry folk that know not your felicity.'"
Ralph was much amused at the earnestness of Ichabod, and he did not wish to irritate him by any depreciating criticism upon verses which he considered so extraordinary; but remarked:
"An admiration of poetic productions depends very much upon the quality of our taste. I presume that I have very little taste for such things; but I do think that our ballad poetry has done us good service. Written in a popular style, and sung or recited by men who felt the particular sentiments usually contained in them, these ballads have frequently proved effective in inspiring a proper, natural feeling."
"Them's my sentiments, Captain," said Ichabod; "and I'm glad to see that you're right on that p'int. We've got ballads on all sorts of subjects, from the time of King Philip's war down to these days. Did you ever read the ballad of 'Lovewell's Fight,' Captain? I call it a great poem. After speaking of the valiant Captain Lovewell, it goes on to say:
"'He and his valiant soldiers
Did range the woods full wide,
And hardships they endured,
To quell the Indian's pride.
"''Twas nigh unto Pigwacket,
Upon the eighth of May,
They spied a rebel Indian
Soon after break of day.
He on a bank was walking,
Upon a neck of land
Which leads into a pond, as
We're made to understand.'
"It then goes on to describe the fight between the company and the Injins that laid in ambush, and winds up with telling who and how many were killed.
"'Our worthy Captain Lovewell
Among them there did die;
They killed Lieutenant Robbins,
And wounded good young Frye,'
while the rest of the company started for home;
'And braving many dangers
And hardship in the way,
They safe arrived at Dunstable,
The thirteenth day of May.'"
"Very good, Ichabod—very good! It is really quite American in style, as well as theme."
"But good as it is, Captain, it isn't a circumstance to some of 'em. There's 'Brave Pawling and the Spy,' and 'Bold Hawthorne,' and 'American Taxation.' That last poem, Captain, has got the true essence of poetry in it. If I was the author of that, I'd die content. The poem goes on to say.
"'The cruel lords of Britain,
Who glory in their shame,
The project they have hit on
They joyfully proclaim;
'Tis what they're striving after,
Our rights to take away,
And rob us of our charter,
In North America.'
"Then 'two mighty speakers, who rule in Piedmont,' propose to King George a plan for taxation of the colonies, to which the king accedes, and says:
"'My subjects shall be taxed
In North America
Invested with a warrant
My publicans shall go,
The tenth of all their current
They surely shall bestow:
If they indulge rebellion,
Or from my precepts stray,
I'll send my war battalion
To North America.'
"Then the people of the colonies address King George, and implore him not to tax 'em; and finally say that if he does they'll fight about it, and that
"'We never will knock under,
O George, we do not fear
The rattling of your thunder,
Nor lightning of your spear;
Though rebels you declare us,
We're strangers to dismay;
Therefore you cannot scare us
In North America.'