THE CENTENNIAL IN 1876.—the FRENCH AGAIN IN 1878. 283

"The peculiar and valuable qualities of our products will be adopted and reproduced in all parts of Europe, improving the mechanical and industrial arts; and it is reasonable to expect, and gratifying to believe, that the benefits will be reciprocal; that our products will in time acquire those tasteful and pleasing qualities which command more admiration and find a quicker and better market than the barely useful."

Since these words were written, thirteen years have passed; and other World's Fairs have been held: one at Vienna in 1873, one in Philadelphia in 1876, and a third in Paris in 1878; and all that Mr. Beckwith wrote of France and America in 1867 has been confirmed and increased in both countries. The magnificence of 1867 has been surpassed by that of 1876 and 1878; and, to complete the picture, the American Republic has grown more powerful than ever, while that of France has become the model free government of the European continent.

XL.

GERMAN, IRISH, AND YANKEE PATOIS IN POETRY CONTRASTED WITH AMERICAN MELODY.

In the first volume of these "Anecdotes," pp. 203–4, I refer to Clinton Lloyd, Chief Clerk of the House of Representatives of the United States, in connection with his peculiar recitations of Charles G. Leland's famous travestie "Hans Breitmann," and of James Russell Lowell's equally peculiar and remarkable "Hosea Biglow."

Mr. Lloyd is now living at his old home in Williamsport, and more than ever ready to delight his friends with these amusing and instructive delineations. Within that period a new literature, a new art, has become fashionable, differing somewhat from the popular negro minstrelsy, and partaking of

a more sacred character. The band of vocalists from Tennessee who appeared in Washington and Philadelphia within the last four years, under the patronage of General Fisk, and have since exhibited in Europe before the nobility, followed by imitators of more or less excellence, excited a wonderful enthusiasm by their plantation and religious songs, and were, indeed, in their way, most interesting artistes. The celebrated piano-player Blind Tom, though in all respects a musical prodigy, was hardly more attractive than these sable singers; and I can easily realize how the British Premier, Mr. Gladstone, and London society generally, were delighted by their original and thrilling performances.

Mr. Lloyd's recitations, however, were of a higher order, precisely as the authors he quoted were scholars and thinkers. It is the misfortune of such writings as those of Mr. Leland and Mr. Lowell that, while they secure a large circle of readers, they are apt to pass out of memory, simply because there are few such interpreters of their strange dialect as Mr. Lloyd, and I have thought it might serve a good purpose to revive some of the passages. If only my readers could hear these quaint and striking satires as they are given by Mr. Lloyd, with his thorough knowledge of the German and Yankee idiom, they would doubly enjoy them. His capital imitations of the Dutchman and the Yankee are gifts of their kind which I have never seen so well done off the stage. Never shall I forget the evening I heard my good friend Lloyd, in the presence of General Grant and a large company of intelligent ladies and gentlemen, at the White House, reciting these productions:

HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

Dey had biano-blayin.

I felled in lofe mid a Merican frau,

Her name was Madilda Yane.

She hat haar ash prown ash a pretzel,

Her eyes vas himmel-plue,

Und ven dey looket indo mine,

Dey shplit mine heart in two.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

I vent dere, you'll be pound; I valzet mit Madilda Yane,

Und vent spinnen round und roundDe pootiest fraulein in de house,

She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I dells you it cost him dear,
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate lager-beer;

Und venefer dey knocks de spicket in,
De Deutchers gifes a cheer.

I dinks dat so vine a barty

Nefer coom to a het dis year.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

Dere all vas souse und brouse ;
Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost.
De Bratwurst und Braten fine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty;

We all cot tronk ash bigs;
I poot mine mout to a parrel of beer
Und emptied it oop mid a schwigs.
Und den I gissed Madilda Vane

Und she shlog me on de kop;
Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks

Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty—
Where ish dat barty now?
Where ish de lofely golden cloud
Dat float on de moundain's prow?
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern-
De shtar of de shpirit's light?

All goned afay mit de lager-beer-
Afay in de Ewigkeit !"

FROM HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING.

"Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge,

An' say 'twill only set their teeth on edge,
But folks you've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see,
Are 'bout ez mad 'z they wal know how to be;
It's better than the Rebs themselves expected
'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected.
Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast,
For plain truth's all the kindness thet'll last;
Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks say,

How could we punish it a milder way

Than sayin' to 'em, 'Brethren, lookee here,

We'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer;

An' sence both come o' pooty strong-backed daddies,
You take the Darkies, ez we've took the Paddies;

Ign'ant an' poor, we took 'em by the hand,

An' they're the bones an' sinners o' the land.'

I ain't o' them thet fancy there's a loss on
Every inves❜ment thet don't start from Bos❜on;
But I know this: our money's safest trusted

In sunthin', come wot will, thet can't be busted,
An' thet's the old Amerikin idee,

To make a man a Man an' let him be."

MILES O'REILLY ON THE DOWNFALL OF RICHMOND.

"Bad luck to the man who is sober to-night;

He's a could-hearted boddagh or sacret secesher,
Whose heart for the ould flag has never been right,

And who takes in the fame of his counthry no pleasure.

Och, murther! will none of yees hould me, my dears,
For it's out o' me shkin wid delight I'll be jumpin',
Wid me eyes shwimmin' round in the happiest tears,
And the heart in me breast like a piston-rod thumpin'.
Musha! glory to God for the news ye have sint,

Wid your own pretty fisht, Mr. Prisident Lincoln,
And may God be around both the bed and the tint

Where our bully boy Grant does his atin' and thinkin'. Even Shtanton to-night we'll confiss he was right

When he played the ould scratch wid our have-ye-his-carkiss;

And to gallant Phil Sherry we'll drink wid delight,

On whose bright plume of fame not a spot o' the dark is.

Let the churches be opened, the althars illumed,

And the mad bells ring out from aich turret and staple ;

Let the chancel wid flowers be adorned and perfumed,

While the soggarths, God bless them! give thanks for the people For the city is ours that we've sought from the start,

And our boys through its streets Hail Columby are yellin';
And there's pace in the air, and there's pride in our hearts,
And our flag has a fame that no tongue can be tellin'.
All the winds o' the world, as around it they blow,

No banner so glorious can wake into motion.
And wid pace in our own land, ye know, we may go
Just to settle some thriflin' accounts o'er the ocean.
To the De'il with the shoddy contractors and all

Thim gold-speculators, whose pie is now humble;
The cost of beef, praties, and whiskey will fall,

And what more could we ax, for the rints, too, will tumble?
On the boys who survived fame and pinsions we'll press;

Ivery orphan the war's made a home we'll decray it;
And aich soldier's young shweetheart shall have a new dress
That will tickle her hero, returnin', to see it.

Then come, me own Eileen; come, Nora and Kate;

Come, Michael and Pat-all your Sunday duds carry ;

We'll give thanks in the chapel, and do it in shtate;

And we'll pray for the sowls of poor Murtagh and Larry.

Woe's me! in the black shwamps before it they sleep,

But the good God to-night, whose thrue faith they have cherished,

His angels shall send o'er the red fields asweep,

In each could ear to breathe, Not in vain have ye perished.