Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
  Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
An’ marched round in front of a drum an’ a fife,
  To git some on ’em office, an’ some on ’em votes;
        But John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee.

Wal, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us
  The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,—­
God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers,
  To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough;
        Fer John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

[The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sentiment,—­’Our country, right or wrong.’  It is an abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much more, certain personages, elevated for the time being to high station, our country.  I would not sever nor loosen a single one of those ties by which we are united to the spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect due to the Magistrate.  I love our own Bay State too well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the function of Justice of the Peace, having been called thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Patriae fumus igne alieno luculentior is best qualified with this,—­Ubi libertas, ibi patria.  We are inhabitants of two worlds, and owe a double, but not a divided, allegiance.  In virtue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland.  There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves us from our other and terrene fealty.  Our true country is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, and the like.  Our terrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so fair a model, and all they are verily traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this their original intendment.  When, therefore, one would have us to fling up our caps and shout with the multitude,—­’Our country, however bounded!’ he demands of us that we sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth.  Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she oversteps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair’s-breadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather to be looked upon quasi noverca.  That is a hard choice when our earthly love of country calls upon us to tread one path and our duty points us to another.  We must make as noble and becoming an election as did Penelope between Icarius and Ulysses.  Veiling our faces, we must take silently the hand of Duty to follow her.