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variety into it that it soon ran into an immense circulation, and became the basis of The Tribune, established in 1841. A file of The Log Cabin would be choice reading, now that Mr. Greeley is himself a candidate for the highest office in the nation, and might be a model and guide to those who desire to make merry at the Philosopher's expense. From this example grew an army of imitators on both sides. Greeley's followers sung themselves hoarse for

Tippecanoe, and Tyler, too !” and the Van Burenites roared for their favorite in the famous ditty beginning

“ When this old hat was new

Van Buren was the man.” Living men who saw those days will not forget the monster parades of the Whigs after the Maine election in 1840, when they chorused the popular refrain, opening and ending with

“Oh! have you heard the news from Maine, Maine, Maine ?" a lesson not lost upon the Democrats four years after, when they took up the same song and thundered it back upon the Whigs, who lost Maine in the fall elections, and the Presidency in the November following. Tammany Hall came forth in a tumultuous delirium, making night hideous with exulting iteration.

The elections of 1840 and 1844 were far more exciting than any of previous years, excepting always that of General Jackson in 1832, and the amount of speaking and writing was prodigious. All the best talent of those talking times was out: William Allen, Thomas H. Benton, Silas A. Wright, Andrew Stevenson, Robert J. Walker, James Buchanan, Daniel S. Dickinson, C. C. Cambreling, George W. Barton, for the Democrats; Webster, Choate, W. C. Preston, S. S. Prentiss, Thomas F. Marshall, for the Whigs, called out fearful crowds, whose glees and shouts rang from Maine to Georgia in response to the humor and invective of their orators and organs. Thomas F. Marshall's cel

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ebrated speech at Nashville, in 1844, against Polk, contained an allusion to Old Hickory, then at the Hermitage, and even at his great age inspiring his hosts of friends, which ought not to be lost. I quote from memory. It is a little irreverent, but there is a spice in it that shows how freely we treated our idols a generation ago :

“What a career has been that of Andrew Jackson! A career of success by brutal self-will. No impediment stood in his way. If he saw and fancied a pretty woman, even though she was another man's wife, he took possession of her. If he entered a horse at a race, he frightened or jockeyed his competitor. If he was opposed by an independent man, he crushed him. He saw the country prosperous under the Bank of the United States, and shattered it from turret to foundation stone. His rule has been ruin to this people, his counsel full of calamity. And now, when he is approaching his last hours, when good men are praying that he may be punished for his many misdeeds, he turns Presbyterian and cheats the devil himself."

The war called out a flood of witty songs and speeches, and much fine poetry and prose in both sections, only a portion of which has formed several volumes of Frank Moore's invaluable “Rebellion Record;" but peace has made us less sentimental. Our satire now takes the shape of caricature. The photograph and the printed picture supplant the paragraph and the palinode. Harper and Frank Leslie laugh at their adversaries through grotesque illustrations, and millions are satisfied or irritated by sarcasm that needs no prose to strengthen, and no poetry to intensify.

[May 12, 1872.]


One of the sweetest poets of any age was last Tuesday, May 14, 1872, laid away among the oaks and flowers and monuments of Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia. Thomas Buchanan Read, in his fifty-first year, left Rome a little more than a month ago on a brief visit to his native country, and on his arrival at New York sent me his card, now before me, with these words: “Shall see you soon. Am coming home ! Poor fellow ! He is now at home-his last home. Rarely have so many gifts been found in one man. Painter, sculptor, poet; susceptible, high-strung, loving his country and his friends, his soul was too intense for his body, and, like the fabled sword, literally consumed its scabbard. The war brought us close to each other. Our sympathies were in common. His genial nature, his genius, his brilliant conversation, his tenacious memory, made him a delightful companion. Now he is gone, I love to cherish his memory. I wish I could describe his wit, eloquence, and imagery. The rebellion touched his every chord, and roused him to superhuman efforts. His loyalty was an ecstasy, his pictures and his poems were effusions of purest inspiration. Who will forget, that ever heard it, the manner in which Murdoch recited the great ode known as “The Patriot's Oath?” I serve a double purpose in reproducing it, while my friend's grave is still covered with the freshest and loveliest flowers of May, and while the enemies of the nation are organized to repossess themselves of the government. The circumstances under which this wonderful lyric was composed deserve preservation. The news of the brutal murder of General Robert McCook by guerrillas, while he was traveling in Kentucky during the war, reached Cincinnati when Mr. Read happened to be in that city, and aroused universal indignation and horror. Mr. Read participated in this sentiment, and applied



the oath of the ghost in Hamlet with thrilling effect. Shortly after, Mr. Murdoch was the guest of a Kentucky loyalist, at his residence in Danville, in that State. While partaking of his hospitalities, in company with a number of the leading men of the neighborhood, the question of allegiance to the General Government was warmly discussed. Mr. Murdoch's host remarked that many of his friends, although patriotic, were not so clear on the subject of putting down the rebellion as he could wish them to be; upon which Murdoch said he did not desire a controversy, but if he were permitted he would appeal to their sympathies by an invocation to their duty and their principles. They gladly assented. He stood in the centre of the drawingroom with the gentlemen around him, and there recited this magnificent appeal. Intense silence pervaded the assemblage. At the close the entire group was spell-bound. Tears were streaming down the cheeks of many, while others, with the solemnity which marked the absorbing interest awakened by the poet, grasped the hands of their neighbors. The host turned to the sideboard in silence, and as each guest raised his glass to his lips there was a pause which seemed to render audible the words “We Swear.”

Hamlet. Swear on my sword.

Ghost (below). Swear !"-SHAKESPEARE.
“Ye freemen, how long will ye stifle

The vengeance that justice inspires ?
With treason how long will ye trifle,

And shame the proud name of your sires ?
Out! out with the sword and the rifle,

In defense of your homes and your fires !
The flag of the old Revolution

Swear firmly to serve and uphold,
That no treasonous breath of pollution
Shall tarnish one star on its fold.

And hark! the deep voices replying,
From graves where your fathers are lying-

"Swear! oh, swear!'

“In this moment, who hesitates barters

The rights which his forefathers won;
He forfeits all claim to the charters

Transmitted from sire to son.
Kneel, kneel at the graves of our martyrs,

And swear on your sword and your gun; Lay up your great oath on an altar

As huge and as strong as Stonehenge, And then, with sword, fire, and halter, Sweep down the field of revenge.

Swear! And hark! the deep voices replying, From graves where your fathers are lying

'Swear! oh, swear!

“By the tombs of your sires and brothers,

The host which the traitors have slain;
By the tears of your sisters and mothers,

In secret concealing their pain;
The grief which the heroine smothers,

Consuming the heart and the brain;
By the sigh of the penniless widow,

By the sob of our orphans' despair, Where they sit in their sorrowful shadow, Kneel, kneel, every freeman, and swear !

Swear! And hark! the deep voices replying, From graves where your fathers are lying

"Swear! oh, swear !

“On mounds which are wet with the weeping,

Where a nation has bow'd to the sod, Where the noblest of martyrs are sleeping,

Let the wind bear your vengeance abroad; And your firm oaths be held in the keeping

Of your patriot hearts and your God;
Over Ellsworth, for whom the first tear rose,

While to Baker and Lyon you look,
By Winthrop, a star among heroes,
By the blood of our murder'd McCook,


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