The other thing that represses the utterances of love is the characteristic _shyness_ of the Anglo-Saxon blood. Oddly enough, a race born of two demonstrative, outspoken nations--the German and the French--has an habitual reserve that is like neither. There is a powerlessness of utterance in our blood that we should fight against, and struggle outward towards expression. We can educate ourselves to it, if we know and feel the necessity; we can make it a Christian duty, not only to love, but to be loving,--not only to be true friends, but to _show_ ourselves friendly. We can make ourselves say the kind things that rise in our hearts and tremble back on our lips,--do the gentle and helpful deeds which we long to do and shrink back from; and, little by little, it will grow easier,--the love spoken, will bring back the answer of love,--the kind deed will bring back a kind deed in return,--till the hearts in the family-circle, instead of being so many frozen, icy islands, shall be full of warm airs and echoing bird-voices answering back and forth with a constant melody of love.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
Dear Sir,--Your letter come to han', Requestin' me to please be funny; But I a'n't made upon a plan Thet knows wut 's comin', gall or honey: Ther' 's times the world doos look so queer, Odd fancies come afore I call 'em; An' then agin, for half a year, No preacher 'thout a call 's more solemn.
You 're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute, Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish, An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit, I 'd take an' citify my English. I _ken_ write long-tailed, ef I please,-- But when I 'm jokin', no, I thankee; Then, 'fore I know it, my idees Run helter-skelter into Yankee.
Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, I tell ye wut, I ha'n't ben foolin'; The parson's books, life, death, an' time Hev took some trouble with my schoolin'; Nor th' airth don't git put out with me, Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman; Why, th' a'n't a bird upon the tree But half forgives my bein' human.
An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger; Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay, While book-froth seems to whet, your hunger, For puttin' in a downright lick 'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can match it, An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hatchet.