Stay at Cincinnati (continued)—The Democratic Meeting—A Visit to Lane
Seminary—"Public Declamation"—Poem on War—Essay on Education.

In resuming my notice of the Democratic meeting, let me observe that the Democratic party in America is not very reputable. It is the war party, the pro-slavery party, the mob party, and, at present, the dominant party,—the party, in fine, of President Polk. It had just been aroused to the highest pitch of indignation, by a telling speech delivered in Congress against the Mexican War by Thomas Corwin, Esq., one of the Ohio senators. This meeting, then, was intended as a demonstration in favour of Polk and his policy; but it turned out a miserable failure.

When the blustering speaker who "had the floor" when I entered sat down, the "president" (for they do not say the chairman) rose, amidst a tremendous storm of favourite names, uttered simultaneously by all present at the top of their voices, and, as soon as he could be heard, said it had been moved and seconded that So-and-so, Esq., be requested to address the meeting: those who were in favour of that motion were to say "Ay,"—those against it, "No." One great "Ay" was then uttered by the mass, and a few "Noes" were heard. The "Ayes" had it. But an unforeseen difficulty occurred. So-and-so, Esq., either was not there, or would not speak. Amidst deafening noise again, the president rose, and said it had been moved and seconded that John Brough, Esq., be requested to address the meeting. "Ay"—"No;" but the "Ayes" had it. "Now, John Brough," said a droll-looking Irishman, apparently a hod-carrier, who was at my elbow,—

"Now, John Brough,
Out with the stuff."

Here was Paddy on the western side of the Allegany Mountains, with his native accent and native wit as fresh and unimpaired as if he had but just left his green isle, and landed on one of the quays at Liverpool. But John Brough again declined the honour conferred upon him! Then it was moved and seconded and "ayed" that So-and-so, Esq., be requested to address the meeting, but he also was not forthcoming! Nil desperandum. It was moved and seconded and "ayed" that—Callaghan, Esq., be requested to address the meeting. After some hesitation, and a reference to his own "proverbial modesty," he proceeded to foam, and stamp, and thump, and bluster for "the vigorous prosecution of the war," till the American eagle should "stretch his wings over the halls of the Montezumas." At this stage of the proceedings, the spitting and smoke had become so offensive that I was compelled to retire; and I did so with no very high notions of the intelligence and respectability of the American democrats.

The next day being fine and frosty, and the roads hard, I set off in the morning to pay my intended visit to Lane Seminary. I found it a long two miles, all up hill. The seminary itself, the building in which the students are accommodated, is a large plain brick edifice, four stories high, besides the basement-story, and has very much the appearance of a small Lancashire factory. It is 100 feet long by about 40 feet wide, and contains 84 rooms for students. The situation is pleasant, and at a nice distance from the roadside. A large bell was being tolled awkwardly when I arrived. It was 11 o'clock A.M. I found the front door thrown wide open, with every indication of its being entered by all comers without the least ceremony—not even that of wiping the shoes. There was neither door-bell nor knocker, scraper nor mat; and the floor of the lobby seemed but slightly acquainted with the broom,—to say nothing of the scrubbing-brush. It looked like the floor of a corn or provision warehouse. I had no alternative but to venture in. Immediately after, there entered a young man with a fowling-piece, whom before I had seen at a little distance watching the movements of a flock of wild pigeons. I took him for a sportsman; but he was a young divine! I asked him if Dr. Beecher was about. He replied that he guessed not, but he would be at the lecture-room in a few minutes, for the bell that had just tolled was a summons to that room. "Does the Doctor, then," said I, "deliver a lecture this morning?"—"No, it is declamation this morning." "Is it such an exercise," I continued, "as a stranger may attend?"—"Oh, yes!" he replied; "it is public declamation." He then directed me to the lecture-room. It was across the yard, and under the chapel belonging to the institution. This chapel is a very neat building, after the model of a Grecian temple, having the roof in front carried out and supported by six well-proportioned columns in the form of a portico. In a part of the basement-story was the lecture-room in question. The students were mustering. By-and-by Dr. Stowe entered. He invited me to take a chair by his side, on a kind of platform. Professor Allen then came in, and after him Dr. Beecher. The exercise began with a short prayer by Mr. Allen. He then called upon a Mr. Armstrong, one of the students, to ascend the platform. The young man obeyed; and, somewhat abruptly and vehemently, rehearsed from memory a Poem on War. Suiting the action to the words, he began—

"On—to the glorious conflict—ON!"

It quite startled me! Soon afterwards I heard,—

"And Montezuma's halls shall ring."

What! (reasoned I) is this the sequel to the Democratic meeting of last night? Has Mars, who presided at the town-hall, a seat in the lecture-room of this Theological Seminary? As the young man proceeded, however, I perceived that his poem was, in fact, a denunciation of the horrors of war,—not, as I had supposed, the composition of another person committed to memory, and now rehearsed as an exercise in elocution, but entirely his own. It was altogether a creditable performance. The Professors at the close made their criticisms upon it, which were all highly favourable. Dr. Beecher said, "My only criticism is, Print it, print it." The venerable Doctor, with the natural partiality of a tutor, afterwards observed to me he had never heard anything against war that took so strong a hold of his feelings as that poem. Dr. Stowe also told me that Mr. Armstrong was considered a young man of fine talents and great devotion; and that some of the students had facetiously said, "Brother Armstrong was so pious that even the dogs would not bark at him!"

Mr. Armstrong was not at all disposed to take his tutor's advice. But he favoured me with a copy of his poem, on condition that I would not cause it to be printed in America,—in England I might. It contains some turgid expressions, some halting and prosaic lines, and might be improved by a severe revision; but, besides its interest as a Transatlantic college-exercise, I feel it possesses sufficient merit to relieve the tediousness of my own prose.

"'On—to the glorious conflict—ON!'—
Is heard throughout the land,
While flashing columns, thick and strong,
Sweep by with swelling band.
'Our country, right or wrong,' they shout,
'Shall still our motto he:
With this we are prepared to rout
Our foes from sea to sea.
Our own right arms to us shall bring
The victory and the spoils;
And Montezuma's halls shall ring,
When there we end our toils.'
ON, then, ye brave' like tigers rage,
That you may win your crown,
Mowing both infancy and age
In ruthless carnage down.
Where flows the tide of life and light,
Amid the city's hum,
There let the cry, at dead of night,
Be heard, 'They come, they come!'
Mid scenes of sweet domestic bliss,
Pour shells of livid fire,
While red-hot balls among them hiss,
To make the work entire
And when the scream of agony
Is heard above the din,
Then ply your guns with energy,
And throw your columns in
Thro' street and lane, thro' house and church,
The sword and faggot hear,
And every inmost recess search,
To fill with shrieks the air
Where waving fields and smiling homes
Now deck the sunny plain,
And laughter-loving childhood roams
Unmoved by care or pain;
Let famine gaunt and grim despair
Behind you stalk along,
And pestilence taint all the air
With victims from the strong
Let dogs from mangled beauty's cheeks
The flesh and sinews tear,
And craunch the bones around for weeks,
And gnaw the skulls till bare
Let vultures gather round the heaps
Made up of man and beast,
And, while the widowed mother weeps,
Indulge their horrid feast,
Till, startled by wild piteous groans,
On dreary wings they rise,
To come again, mid dying moans,
And tear out glazing eyes
Tho' widows' tears, and orphans' cries,
When starving round the spot
Where much-loved forms once met their eyes
Which now are left to rot,
With trumpet-tongue, for vengeance call
Upon each guilty head
That drowns, mid revelry and brawls,
Remembrance of the dead.
Tho' faint from fighting—wounded—wan,
To camp you'll turn your feet,
And no sweet, smiling, happy home,
Your saddened hearts will greet:
No hands of love—no eyes of light—
Will make your wants their care,
Or soothe you thro' the dreary night,
Or smooth your clotted hair.
But crushed by sickness, famine, thirst,
You'll strive in vain to sleep,
Mid corpses mangled, blackened, burst,
And blood and mire deep;
While horrid groans, and fiendish yells,
And every loathsome stench,
Will kindle images of hell
You'll strive in vain to quench.
Yet on—press on, in all your might,
With banners to the field,
And mingle in the glorious fight,
With Satan for your shield:
For marble columns, if you die,
May on them bear your name;
While papers, tho' they sometimes lie,
Will praise you, or will blame.
Yet woe! to those who build a house,
Or kingdom, not by right,—
Who in their feebleness propose
Against the Lord to fight.
For when the Archangel's trumpet sounds,
And all the dead shall hear,
And haste from earth's remotest bounds
In judgment to appear,—
When every work, and word, and thought,
Well known or hid from sight,
Before the Universe is brought
To blaze in lines of light,—
When by the test of perfect law
Your 'glorious' course is tried,
On what resources will you draw?—
In what will you confide?
For know that eyes of awful light
Burn on you from above,
Where nought but kindness meets the sight,
And all the air is love.
When all unused to such employ
As charms the angelic hands,
How can you hope to share their joy
Who dwell in heavenly lands?"

Such was the poem of Frederick Alexander Armstrong. After its rehearsal, a young gentleman read a prose Essay on Education. It was clever, and indicated a mind of a high order, but was too playful; and the performance was severely criticised. Here ended the "public declamation."