Shivpreet Singh
Shivpreet Singh
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I’m sitting under the porch in the backyard with the rain doing that soft drumroll on the roof.  Today I found out that Emily Dickinson used to read this poem. In her poem, Besides Autumn the poets sing, Mr. Bryant’s ‘Golden Rod’ is a reference to William Bryant’s poem The Death of the Flowers. Bryant (1794–1878), the big Romantic editor-poet of New York, writes in long, rivered lines; Emily (1830–1886), in Amherst, writes like lightning in a jar. Different rhythms, same season. Here is the complete poem by Bryant: 

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS
- William Bryant

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,[Page 106]
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.


Reading both Emily's poem and Bryant's poem together, your take lands cleanly for me: Emily’s poem really does read like a prayer—“let me keep a pocket of summer in my winter.” She stands on the hinge of the year with a small ask: a few warm mornings, a little stored sun. Bryant’s poem, meanwhile, slowly tilts from field to memory—flowers to a “fair meek blossom” who died. The turn is gentle and devastating. His autumn isn’t just scenery; it’s the liturgy for grief.

I love how both poems personify the weather into meaning. Emily’s autumn is precise and almost mischievous—“a few prosaic Days”—as if she’s negotiating with time. Bryant’s autumn is the old friend who teaches you the word “tender” by breaking it in your hands. In his best metaphors—flowers as a “beauteous sisterhood,” the wind that “searches” and “sighs,” frost falling “as the plague on men”—he’s saying what can’t be said directly: what happens to petals happens to us.

And here we are, the 21st-century readers on wet patio chairs, listening to this cross-century conversation. Emily hears Bryant and winks; Bryant hears the season and answers back. That’s how poets talk across time and place—through weather reports that are really heart reports.

But since we’re being honest with the rain, I also feel a little bad for fall. Everybody uses it. Emily asks it to warehouse warmth for winter. Bryant turns it into an elegy machine. We load it with endings and metaphors until the trees can barely hold their own names. Maybe we owe fall something back—more than our symbolism.

So here’s my own small addition at the end of the page: before we make autumn carry our prayers and our losses, let’s love it for itself—the smoky light on the rill, the buckled gold of the leaves, the way the air fits the skin just right. Let fall be not only a bridge to winter or a curtain call for summer, not only the season we borrow for memory, but a season we keep—unburdened, briefly, simply loved. It is not hot, not cold. It is clear. Which is true about spring too, but then it doesn't have any pollen. It is really the best season for clarity. 

I am sure someone else will continue from where I left. 



I didn’t know Tony Harrison well; I only came to a handful of his poems. But even in those few, I heard something that reminded me of the principles of gurbani—that while the world divides us by class, voice, and circumstance, the truth of oneness still runs underneath. Harrison’s distinct, unyielding cadence refuses to smooth over the raw edges of grief and silence, and in this refusal I recognized a kinship: eloquence is not in polished words but in unflinching truth. For him, poetry was a public act of resistance against everything—propriety, political power, personal pain—that seeks to silence the individual. “Poetry is all busking,” he declared, and his verse stands as a testament to that belief. (For some of the poems I talk about, please see the end of this essay)



A Poet of Divisions

Harrison was, fundamentally, a poet of divisions: between classes, between fathers and sons, between public graffiti and private grief. His poems inhabit these fractures, compelling readers to confront the uncomfortable realities they represent.

In “Turns,” he captures the painful self-awareness of class mobility by trying on his father’s cap, a self-conscious attempt to look:

“more ‘working class’
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!).”

The line is both comic in its youthful posturing and tragic in its recognition that identity is not a costume. The poem’s devastating conclusion—his father collapsing dead, his cap turned inside out in a final, futile gesture—crystallizes the division. The son then vows to speak where his father could not:

“He never begged. For nowt! Death’s reticence
crowns his life’s, and me, I’m opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.”

Here, filial grief is transformed into social indictment, pitting a father’s dignified silence against a son’s educated outcry.


Elegies of Division

This theme of intractable division continues in Harrison’s elegies for his parents. In “Long Distance II,” the separation is from the dead. His father, unable to accept his wife’s absence, performs rituals of denial:

“Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.”

The haunting detail of the slippers is a testament to love made visible through small, desperate acts. Harrison, the rational son, claims, “I believe life ends with death, and that is all,” yet confesses he still dials his father’s old, disconnected number. The poem leaves the reader suspended in this contradiction between reason and ache, a division Harrison refuses to resolve because it is so central to the human experience of loss.

“Book Ends” frames this division as silence. A mother’s observation, “You’re like book ends, the pair of you,” becomes a painful irony after her death, as father and son are left holding nothing together. Harrison writes: “only our silence made us seem a pair.” Their shared grief does not close the gap but sharpens it:

“Back in our silences and sullen looks,
for all the Scotch we drink, what’s still between’s
not the thirty or so years, but books, books, books.”

This is the central paradox of Harrison’s art: the language that empowers him also isolates him. The books that gave him a voice built a wall between him and the man who raised him, a schism that persists powerfully in cultures where education and accent still sort people into insiders and outsiders.


Ashes and Endurance

“Marked with D.” may be his most brutal elegy, but it, too, insists on fracture. The baker father is returned to the ovens of his trade:

“When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven
not unlike those he fuelled all his life…”

Ash becomes flour; cremation becomes a form of baking. The pun feels almost indecent until it is understood as an act of fidelity to a working-class life, stripped of euphemism. The poem then pivots from this stark metaphor to a moment of piercing intimacy, recalling the name his father used for his mother:

“not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.”

The poem is built on this division—between brutal punning and profound tenderness, between the crematorium fire and the memory of a beloved’s name.

If Book Ends depicts silence between men, Marked with D. shows how plain, unsentimental words can preserve what death extinguishes. Harrison admits, “Sorry for his sake there’s no Heaven to reach,” but offers poetry as a more enduring monument than faith.

This endurance is symbolized in “Timer,” where his mother’s wedding ring survives the cremation:

“Gold survives the fire that’s hot enough
to make you ashes in a standard urn.”

The burnished circle is both an ordinary object and a sacred relic, locating permanence not in grand cathedrals but in crematoriums, dog-eared phone books, and worn-out caps.


Private Grief, Public Rage

Harrison’s exploration of division extends from the private to the public sphere. His most notorious poem, “V.,” confronts the desecration of his parents’ gravestone in Leeds during the miners’ strike. Faced with obscene graffiti, football chants, and political rage, Harrison does not recoil but writes directly into the violence of the language itself:

“the Leeds United scarf, the beer, the fags,
the same graffiti, litter, dogshit, stones.”

Critics who called the poem obscene missed the point; its necessity lies in its confrontation. V. stages a battle between the cultivated lyric and the profane demotic, honoring the validity of both. It is not merely about a vandalized wall but about the walls of class, politics, and language that run through Britain—walls that remain firmly in place.


Why Harrison Matters Now

Harrison’s legacy is a reminder that grief is not linear but fractured, marked by fury, silence, and the dark humor of survival. He teaches that class is not a costume but a bone-deep inheritance that shapes the very words in our mouths, and that poetry can cross divides without erasing them.

We live in a time of divisions: of politics, of speech, of memory itself. It is a good time for poetry in general, and for Tony Harrison in particular. His work reminds us that poems can be both blunt instruments and finely tuned laments; they can call out the violence of systems while preserving the tenderness of a father’s voice calling his wife “Florrie.”

At a moment when we risk speaking only in outrage or retreating into silence, Harrison shows another way: to busk in the public square, to say the unsayable, and to let poetry carry the weight that politics alone cannot.

Tony Harrison is gone, but the poems remain. They are, like the ring in Timer, what the fire could not consume. They are the busker’s song that outlasts the closing of the trap, the word that stubbornly, brilliantly, marks the “D” for all of us.

And here, I hear an echo of gurbani. Where Harrison exposes division, Guru Arjan reminds us of the oneness beneath it: “na ko bairi, nahi begana” — no one is my enemy, no one is a stranger. To hold both truths — fracture and unity — is perhaps the task of our time. Poetry, in Harrison’s busking cadences and in the hymns of the Gurus, carries us across that chasm, showing us the fire of division and the flame of oneness, both still burning in us today.

Some Poems of Tony Harrison

Turns

I thought it made me look more “working class”

(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.

My mother said: It suits you, your dad’s cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You’re every bit as good as that lot are!)

All the pension queue came out to stare.

Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR),
his cap turned inside up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink

and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folk might think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.

He never begged. For nowt! Death’s reticence
crowns his life’s, and me, I’m opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.


Long Distance II

Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,

put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.

You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone.
He’d put you off an hour to give him time

to clear away her things and look alone
as though his still raw love were such a crime.

He couldn’t risk my blight of disbelief
though sure that very soon he’d hear her key
scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she’d just popped out to get the tea.

I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven’t both gone shopping; just the same,

in my new black leather phone book there’s your name
and the disconnected number I still call.


Marked with D

When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven
not unlike those he fuelled all his life,

I thought of his cataracts ablaze with Heaven
and radiant with the sight of his dead wife,

light streaming from his mouth to shape her name,
‘not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.’

I thought how his cold tongue burst into flame
but only literally, which makes me sorry,

sorry for his sake there’s no Heaven to reach.
I get it all from Earth — my daily bread —

but he hungered for release from mortal speech
that kept him down, the tongue that weighed like lead.

The baker’s man that no one will see rise
and England made to feel like some dull oaf

is smoke, enough to sting one person’s eyes
and ash (not unlike flour) for one small loaf.


Changing at York

A directory that runs from B to V,
the Yellow Pages’ entries for HOTELS

and TAXIS torn out, and the smell of dossers’ pee,
saliva in the mouthpiece, whisky smells.

I remember, now I have to phone
squashing a Daily Mail half full of chips,

to tell the son I left at home alone
my train’s delayed, and get cut off by the pips,

how, phoning his mother, late, a little pissed,
changing at York, from some place where I’d read,

I used 2p to lie about the train I missed
and ten more to talk to some girl’s bed.

And, in this same kiosk with the stale, sour breath
of queuing callers, drunk, cajoling, lying,

consoling his grampa for his granny’s death,
how I heard him, for the first time ever, crying.

— Tony Harrison


Guava Libre

for Jane Fonda, Leningrad, 1975

Pickled Gold Coast clitoridectomies?
Labia minora in formaldehyde?

A rose-pink death mask of a screen-cult kiss,
Marilyn’s mouth or vulva mummified?

Lips cropped off a poet. That’s more like.
That’s almost the sort of poet I think I am.

The lips of Orpheus fished up by a dyke
singing “Women of Cuba Libre and Vietnam!”

The taste, though, taste! Ah, that could only be
(*Women! Women! O abajo men,

the thought of it’s enough to make you come!*)
= the honeyed yoni of Eurydice —

— Tony Harrison


Book Ends

Baked the day she suddenly dropped dead
we chew it slowly, that last apple pie.

Shocked into sleeplessness, you’re scared of bed.
We never could talk much, and now don’t try.

“You’re like book ends, the pair of you,” she’d say,
“Hog that grate, say nothing, sit, sleep, stare…”

The “scholar” me, you, worn out on poor pay,
only our silence made us seem a pair.

Not as good for staring in, blue gas,
too regular each bud, each yellow spike.

A night you need my company to pass
and she not here to tell us we’re alike!

Your life’s all shattered into smithereens.

Back in our silences and sullen looks,
for all the Scotch we drink, what what's still between's
not the thirty or so years, but books, books, books.

An email arrived this morning with lake-effect cheer: one of my favorite contemporary poets, George Bilgere, will visit our Seekers group in January 2026. At that very moment I happened to be rereading Carl Phillips’s We Love in the Only Ways We Can—a poem about what to do when joy and sorrow both knock: turn toward attention. It felt like one of those small alignments the day sometimes offers, a reminder that learning itself can be a way of loving. 

WE LOVE IN THE ONLY WAYS WE CAN
Carl Phillips

What’s the point, now,
of crying, when you’ve cried
already, he said, as if he’d
never thought, or been told—
and perhaps he hadn’t—
Write down something
that doesn’t have to matter,
that still matters,
to you.
Though I didn’t
know it then, those indeed
were the days. Random
corners, around one of which,
on that particular day,
a colony of bees, bound
by instinct, swarmed low
to the ground, so as
not to abandon the wounded
queen, trying to rise,
not rising, from the strip of
dirt where nothing had
ever thrived, really, except
in clumps the grass here
and there that we used to call
cowboy grass, I guess for its
toughness: stubborn,
almost, steadfast, though that’s
a word I learned early, each
time the hard way, not to use
too easily.

So Carl stages a quiet moral drama in this poem.  It begins with a familiar deflection in the presence of tears: What’s the point, now, of crying, when you’ve cried already? The speaker declines that impatience and offers a counter-practice: write down something that doesn’t have to matter, that still matters, to you. The advice is small enough to be missed and large enough to reorient a life. Instead of managing another person’s sorrow, turn toward attention. Let noticing—careful, unhurried, particular—become a form of love. Writing, in this frame, is not display but accompaniment: a way of staying near what hurts until it can be held. (this is the same reason why music works as meditation; it separates us from our ego).

The poem then moves from counsel to parable. On a random city corner, a colony of bees circles low so as not to abandon their wounded queen, who keeps trying—“not rising”—from a ribbon of dirt where almost nothing thrives. The image hums with instruction: when love cannot lift, it lowers itself. It keeps company. It remains within reach and watch, bearing witness rather than solutions. Phillips refuses to varnish this stance with heroism. In the bareness where only “cowboy grass” endures, he hesitates over words like steadfast, a term he learned “the hard way” not to use easily. Presence can be devotion; it can also be stubbornness, fantasy, or self-regard. The poem’s ethics are precise: love asks discernment as much as fervor.

Read this way, the title becomes both blessing and boundary: we love in the only ways we can. Sometimes that means saying less and staying longer. Sometimes it means making a record—assembling a few truthful lines—when fixing is impossible. Sometimes it is neither speech nor text but a rescue scaled to the moment.

History and literature offer a chorus of such ways. One is song: Guru Nanak turns love into remembrance by singing, and in So Kyon Visre—“How could I ever forget You?”—the act of voicing the Beloved steadies the heart. The music is devotion, but it is also attention: naming, again and again, what we refuse to forget. Another is vocation sustained through loss: John Milton, losing his sight, composes the sonnet now known as On His Blindness and discovers that “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Love, there, becomes the patience to keep faith with one’s gift when the usual avenues close. And then there is the smallest and most ordinary rescue: Jane Hirshfield, finding an ant walking on her sofa cushion, lifts it out and reflects in We Think We Are Saving Ants on how such minor salvations are the only kind sometimes available to us. Each example is a different instrument in the same repertoire.

Phillips’s bees belong to that repertoire. Their hovering loyalty suggests that compassion is not a single performance but a practice adapted to the real. Sometimes you lower your flight and keep watch. Sometimes you sing the name that aligns the heart. Sometimes you write down what “doesn’t have to matter” and discover that it does—because it keeps another life present in yours. Sometimes you lift a life no larger than an ant and call the day redeemed. None of these gestures is grand. All of them are exact.

Returning to the happiness of George Bilgere’s yes to our Seekers group, I found myself smiling at how coy I am. I want to learn poetry from those who do it so well, and I’ve made the Seekers group my excuse to invite them. I guess learning is a love. The learning has already begun, because every time George writes to me he includes something not strictly related to logistics that tells me where he is and what’s happening. Last time it was tucked into his signature: “Yours from Cleveland, George.” He didn’t have to mention Cleveland, but he did. 

Today he wrote, “Let me check the calendar and see which of the dates might work best. I’ll just be hanging around in frozen Cleveland, enjoying the Christmas break from teaching,” and he closed with, “Meanwhile, glorious fall approaches! Best, George.” Here is a poet who situates himself—place and season—and takes pleasure in it. Here and now. Even in a mundane email, he’s steadfast in the practice of paying attention to where he is, and how glorious it is. Stay steadfast in love, my mind! How can I forget? Easy to say, hard to accomplish. Stay steadfast.



I went to a reading of Ada Limón at Trinity Church in Menlo Park with my cousin yesterday. The church itself is a beautiful space, a reminder of how the earth can feel like a welcoming home. By the time we arrived it was already full, but just then the ushers opened the first two rows, and somehow I found myself in the front row—close enough to take a picture of Ada Limón with Reverend Jude Harmon.


Ada’s reading was intimate and luminous, her voice grounding the packed room in quiet attention. I was also struck by Reverend Jude Harmon, who gave me a glimpse of what Jesus’ love might look like. Even in his brief role, simply through attentive questions and gentle comments, he showed what it means to listen with care. The congregation, too, was warm and inviting, the whole evening carrying a spirit of welcome. At one point, the folks sitting in the row behind us leaned forward and said that because I was a poet, I deserved the front row seat. And I believed them—for a moment words made me feel worthy, which is magical in itself. Later that evening, I even had the chance to speak with her and have a couple of my books signed, including Startlement, released that very day.

I have not studied Ada Limón’s poetry in depth. I’ve written a little about  Instructions on Not Giving Up, which carries a Krishna-like message from the title onward and has become one of her most beloved poems. I’ve also reflected on Dream of the Raven and connected it to Guru Nanak’s teaching that suffering itself can be a medicine. But I’ve never truly sat with her work—certainly not from the front row of a church filled with readers. After this luminous evening, and now with two of her books in my hands, I know I want to spend more time with her poems.

So why wait? This morning, wanting to linger a little longer in her voice, I opened her new book at random and landed on this beautiful poem:


On Earth As It Is On Earth

by Ada Limón (from Startlement)

Green and green and green, I speak
to the tree line, a booming body, trying
not to boom. I see myself as I once
was, hiding inside a manzanita outside
the ceramic studio, the mirrored rain-
drops hanging on urn-shaped blooms
and soon, too, my strands of hair. There was
always a line where the rain fell and where
it didn’t. It was the line between abandonment
and freedom, loneliness and imagination.
How I waited in there, composing in my mind
a life without rules, without money, cruelty,
clocks, or clothes, how still I am the same,
in the green, in the green, waiting out the rain.

At first glance, the poem is simple: green and green, a body under rain, a manzanita tree to hide in, mirrored drops. Then a hinge appears: the line where the rain fell and where it didn’t. Weather becomes philosophy. That skinny border is suddenly the place between abandonment and freedom, loneliness and imagination. The border between hard work and grace which Guru Nanak talks about in Japji.  Limón plants us on that threshold and, crucially, leaves us there. She doesn’t tell us whether to step out and get soaked or stay tucked inside the leaves. She trusts the reader to choose.

That’s part of why the poem feels therapeutic. If you’re shy, you can read it as a permission slip to dance—go ahead, cross the line, let the water have your hair and your caution. If you tend to act too fast, the poem hands you a stool: sit here, watch the rain break the world into two clean halves, practice not rushing. Either way, you’re welcome. The poem does not close the door behind you; it keeps it open.

It’s also a sonnet—the kind that rhymes in thought. Fourteen lines, a turn at the weather-line, and a last chord that keeps ringing: “in the green, in the green,” while the rain hauntingly rhymes with same. And then there’s the title, which is a small stroke of mischief and devotion. “On Earth As It Is On Earth.” It echoes the Lord’s Prayer:
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen
While it echoes this prayer that Jesus gave to his disciples, she tilts it -- as if the rain was slanted by wind.  Not “as it is in heaven,” but here, now. The poem wagers that heaven is not elsewhere. It is this place, when we agree to notice it.

After I read it, I stayed put for a while, thinking about thresholds. Most of life happens there—on doorsteps, at trailheads, beside riverbanks, in hospital hallways, between emails we send and the replies that may or may not come. Limón’s line of rain gave me a field guide for those places. Stand on the seam. Look both ways. Decide, or don’t, but be alive to the choice.

And then a harder thought arrived. We aren’t just on the threshold of rain and not-rain. We are on the threshold of green and not green. Forests are thinning. Rivers stall. Summers burn longer. The line where the green once held is receding in too many places. Which makes the poem’s refrain feel less like description and more like a vow: “in the green, in the green.” Can we keep that line from slipping back? Can we be the kind of people who notice the change soon enough to help?

There’s a line from Gurbani I carry with me: Wherever my Guru sits, that place becomes green. I hear it as both faith and assignment. The teacher—however you understand that word: divine presence, wise friend, conscience, Shabad—brings greenness with them: attention, tenderness, repair. If that’s true, then greenness is not only a fact of rainfall; it’s a practice. We make places green by how we stand in them: by planting, by protecting, by speaking up, by stepping over the threshold when action is needed, and by waiting wisely when patience will do more good than noise.

Limón’s poem doesn’t tell us which move to make. It offers the stance: alert at the edge, bright to the world, capable of both restraint and courage. In personal life, that might mean letting a hard conversation ripen one more day—or finally walking into it. In civic life, it might mean learning the watershed you live in, calling a representative, planting a tree, or deciding that your backyard will be a little sanctuary of pollinators and shade. Small acts, yes, but that is how lines hold: one rooted choice at a time.

So I finish the poem and look out the window. I am just going to start the purpose of life class, where they think I am teaching them, but in fact they are teaching me.  On the sidewalk there’s a thin wet stripe where the irrigation overshot the lawn and found the concrete. A miniature version of Limón’s border. I stand there for a minute, just looking—earth as it is on earth. Then I think about the larger stripe we’re all standing on together, the one between green and not green, and I wonder what today’s faithful act might be.

And here, now, I pass the ball to you. Stand on the line a moment. Think away. Then decide which side your next step will defend. In the green, in the green. Hopefully, with Ada, Reverend Jude and me in these lines:

Wherever my Guru sits, that place becomes green. 
Whoever sees my guru, that person becomes green.
Shabad: Taati Vao Na Lagai


Many Sikhs would even get annoyed and even angry if you called these songs or bhajans  If we call them a song and Geet it sounds too trivial. It seems it’s primarily for entertainment or exhibition which these shabads are clearly not. Even a term like bhajan is not completely correct, because this is not merely mantras it’s simplistic lines that are just to be repeated.

Shabad and Gurbani are more appropriate names. Gurbani because these are the words of the Guru. But bear in mind, it’s not just the words of Guru Nanak or the other Guru’s, the words of all the Bhagats (Kabir, Namdev etc.) are also called Gurbani. This is because here we talk about the Guru of all Gurus. The preferred name for this is shabad. Most Sikhs are sensitive about what the poems are called. 

Shabad makes sense because it implies the unstruck sound and a meditation upon the meaning of what is being said while repeating the words.  These poems are a reservoir of The qualities of the Guru of all Gurus.  These poems reconnect the singer and listener to the oneness within and around. They need to be sung with love, explored with zest.  

However, the names are not as important to me. I generally don’t object people calling them by any name especially if they understand the context. There are three verses that I am guided by:

1. Log Jaane eh Geet Hai Eh to bhram vichaar. - Kabir 

People know these are songs, but these are the discussions of infinity. - Kabir 

2.  Balhaari jaoon jete terai nao hai

I love you in all your names. - Guru Nanak

3. Jo Prabh Ko Milbo Chahai, Khoj Shabad Meh Leh

Whoever wants to have union with oneness, discover it within the Shabda

The name is not important. Even within Gurbani many of these names are used including Geet (song) and bhajan.  Like Shakespeare says a rose would still be a rose if you called it with another name. The fragrance of the rose is important.  The love, exploration and meditation of these poems is more important to connect anyone to oneness. Not as much what you call then. 

Shabda is the audible kind of brahman, also known as naad bhram, which Guru Nanak calls Ek Onkaar. The quintessential Mandukya Upanishad's first verse, "Om-ity-etad-aksharam-idam sarvam" claims the same, "Om is the word that is everything." The first time the word shabda is used in the Upanishads is in the Matri Upanishad which describes two kinds of brahman: shabda and ashabda brahman. This Shabda is also the path to the unstruck sound ... anhat shabda. The path to the unstruck sound is through shabad kirtan or the kirtan of this shabad. 

Shabad is the penultimate noun. The question is what can one do with Shabad? Do you sing it, read it, understand it or something else? Traditionally we do not "gao" or "sing" shabads, we "padho" or "read" shabads, but even more correctly we do "kirtan" of shabad. It is incorrect to say "sing shabad kirtan" because kirtan includes singing.  Doing shabad kirtan includes all of those: reading, understanding, singing, pouring the shabad inside yourself and eventually becoming the shabad. 

Shabad kirtan can be done through the kirtan of any of the attributes of the shabda.  These attributes can be found in many poems. The Guru Granth Sahib is one of those rare collections where all the poems are about the shabad, this ekomkaar.  Guru Arjan says, the granth is the resting place for the supreme (Pothi Parmesar Ka Thaan). Therefore this kind of singing is correctly called Shabad Kirtan. 

From shabad to Anhad

From shabad to anhad

Shabad is a word of oneness. It can be spoken and heard. And anhad is the word of oneness that can be spoken by no one, and can be heard by a few. 


Shabads are words that take you beyond words. The songs, sung with a love deliciously drenched in maple syrup and heard with an affection of the mothers ear, get you close to what could not be said in words.  It remains a mystery as to how seemingly ordinary words, ones used by the commoner on the street, take you towards a airy destination that is far beyond words. 


But there is more. They are more than conveyance devices. They make you float in this space far from the gravity of earthly aspirations to experience what is beyond words. And strangely, the experience is replicable like a scientific experiment. Everytime you sing you are subject to this transportation and experience. So shabads are words that take you beyond worlds too. 


A love deliciously drenched in maple syrup. 


From Walt Whitman (see https://shivpreetsingh.blogspot.com/2020/09/so-long-by-walt-whitman-immortality.html)

It is night time. And I am reading Walt Whitman in bed before I sleep. And I am awakened by these lines. 
Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? are we here together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms— decease calls me forth.

I learn that these are lines that are the most famous of this poem about death. How beautifully the poet comes alive through his poetry.  A poem about death and goodbyes suddenly becomes a poem of immortality. Isn't that amazing? These are not merely words; these are Walt Whitman himself loving you back like you love him. I am reminded of Guru Nanak.  "These are not merely my words," says Nanak. "These are the words of my love."  I am reminded of Kabir. "These are not merely songs," he explains. "These are the loftiest principles that live forever." It seemed weird when he first said, "I announce what comes after me." Such confidence.  It makes a lot of sense when you get to these lines. 

Introduction to Poetry
This is not just poetry. And Billy Collins explains what we are doing to this living thing that is poetry. We try to beat out a confession out a poetry. Like it should have a meaning that we might understand. Poetry goes beyond intellect. 

https://www.shivpreetsingh.com/2011/03/billy-collins-introduction-to-poetry.html

He put the Belt around my life—
I heard the Buckle snap—
And turned away, imperial,
My Lifetime folding up—
Deliberate, as a Duke would do
A Kingdom's Title Deed—
Henceforth—a Dedicated sort—
A Member of the Cloud—

Yet not too far to come at call—
And do the little Toils
That make the Circuit of the Rest—
And deal occasional smiles
To lives that stoop to notice mine—
And kindly ask it in—
Whose invitation, know you not
For Whom I must decline?

- Emily Dickinson



The supreme giver of the creative powers gives me my purpose, and he holds me to it. He holds me in my place as if it were belt with its buckle snapped. I am such enslaved by the master. The activities of my life are constrained to my gift. Even though I might appear near these earthly beings, I have become a dedicated member of a higher realm, an ethereal member of the cloud. 

When the giver of the creative power remains imperial and turns away, why do other people care what I do with them. These other people do their little toils and want me to be a part of their circuit. They invite me into their realms. But all I have for them is a non-committal smile. 

Don't get me wrong. I am thankful for their kindness. For allegedly stooping down to notice my lowly existence. But they don't know me. They don't know my stratospheric flight of creativity. And they don't know wherefrom this comes from. I must decline their invitations.

The world wants to force their circuits upon me. But I must resist. I must realize that I am a member of the cloud. And I must realize that I am entitled to be there from the imperial creator. I am entitled to write my poems, to sing my songs. I am not to be the slave of any one else. It is absolutely OK for me to remain a member of the cloud.

The purpose of life is to sing!

Khasam Ki Bani, a phrase used by Guru Nanak to describe his own poetry, means "Words of my Love". The project started off as a musical celebration of Guru Nanak's 550th birth anniversary. 



Singing Guru Nanak

As long as I sing, I live. As soon as I forget, I die
- Guru Nanak, Raag Asa

On the occasion of Guru Nanak's 550th birth anniversary celebrations, I decide to spend a year meditating upon the words and music of Guru Nanak.  I commence excitedly, focusing on the light that is brighter than one hundred moons and one thousand suns combined.  This is the light of Guru Nanak’s prayer, the universal Aarti with the stars studded in the sky’s platter. 

I decide to sing Guru Nanak completely this year. The initial plan is to record 55 new compositions.  I think this to be momentous because normally I can only do 10-12 compositions in a year. This is also momentous because I will sing shabads that are rarely heard and expound raagas rarely explored. But mostly it is momentous because I will live with the sweet words of the Guru and have them recorded for myself to hear for the rest of my life.
 
I start out with a live recording of an album. I invite 5 musicians to my home to record an improvisation album of the Mool Mantra.  And then I move on to Guru Nanak's shabads, from Rang Rataa to Haun Dhadi and so on. Indeed, like universal power he sings for, his songs are multicolored.  They are filled with humility and love, courage and fortitude, truth and bliss. Satnam!

Days go by, weeks and then months. I am enjoying this a lot compared to previous years. Instead of meandering through the various colors of the oneness randomly. Through singing Guru Nanak, I am focused on singing One, singing Ek Onkaar, singing Naam. 

Within a few months, I realize things are going really well, and music is descending upon me faster than it ever has. I am loving it, and I don’t want to count where I am to see if I am done with 55. That would be very sad. I don’t want it to end. So, I remove the numbered list on my laptop. I stop counting my compositions. Singing Guru Nanak cannot be caged in limits. Akaal!

Now with about a month left for Guru Nanak’s 550th anniversary, I have far exceeded my original number of compositions. But I feel like I have not even the scratched the surface of the Guru's ocean. I have not even begun the sing Guru Nanak. 

His message is precipitating upon me. Singing is his life and singing is his lesson. Different shabads and raags are amalgamating into one. The simplicity of his message is amazingly elegant. Remember Naam sings Baba Nanak. That is his only message. Just that one. One! No other ritual is needed, no higher prayer, no sweeter song, no farther travel, no purer cleansing, no quieter silence, and no fuller symphony.

Remember Naam is the incessant song weaved through all Remember Your True Essence he chants in all his words. In all kinds of darkness, the best answer is to sing the true essence. And no one is bereft of this true essence. At the Guru’s gate everyone is singing. Everything is singing.  The wind singing in its blowing. The water sings in its flowing. The fire sings in its burning. The planets sing in their revolving. I sing too, or do I? 

Now this singing continues and promises never to end. I used to think I sing, but with the Guru’s grace the singing just happens to me.  While I think I am singing Guru Nanak, it is actually Guru Nanak singing. Aakhan Jor Chupai Na Jor. Living that is momentous.

Shabads of Guru Nanak


I decided to spend a year to spend a year working on compositions of Guru Nanak for #GuruNanak550. Someone asked me write about this experience and this is what I said:

Singing Guru Nanak 

For a YearAs long as I sing, I live. As soon as I forget, I die
(So Kyon Visrai)
- Guru Nanak, Raag Asa

On the momentous occasion of Guru Nanak's 550th birth anniversary celebrations, I decide to spend a year meditating upon the words and music of Guru Nanak. Its exciting ... For many years Bhai Gurdas has reminded me how Guru Nanak lighted his life, Kal Taaran Guru Nanak Aaya. I commence excitedly, focusing on the light that is brighter than one hundred moons and one thousand suns combined, the light of Guru Nanak’s prayer, the universal Aarti with the stars studded in the sky’s platter.


I decide to sing Guru Nanak completely this year. The initial plan is to record 55 new compositions. I think this to be momentous because normally I can only do 10-12 compositions in a year. This is also momentous because I will sing shabads that are rarely heard and expound raagas rarely explored. But mostly it is momentous and exciting because I will live with the sweet words of the Guru and have them recorded for myself to hear for the rest of my life.

I start out with a live recording of an album, Guru Nanak's Elemental Meditations. I invite 5 musicians to my home to record an improvisation album of the Mool Mantra. Musicians from three continents come together for 2 hour of bliss. 

And then I move on to Guru Nanak's shabads, from Vadde Mere Sahiba in Raag Asa to Har Bin Jio in Raag Sri to Haun Dhadi in Raag Majh and so on. Like Rang Rataa, the universal power he sings for, Guru Nanak songs are multicolored. They are filled with humility and love, courage and fortitude, truth and bliss. The words are so apt for me. Every one touches the heart. I find it truly amazing that the Guru writes these shabads for me. Often I am just left in wonder. Waheguru Satnam!

Days go by, weeks and then months. I am enjoying this a lot compared to previous years. Instead of meandering through the various colors of the oneness randomly. Through singing Guru Nanak, I am focused on singing One, singing Ek Onkaar, singing Naam.

Within a few months, I realize things are going really well, and music is descending upon me faster than it ever has. I am loving it, and I don’t want to count where I am to see if I am done with 55. That would be very sad. I don’t want it to end. So, I remove the numbered list on my laptop. I stop counting my compositions. Singing Guru Nanak cannot be caged in limits. Akaal!

Now with about a month left for Guru Nanak’s 550th anniversary, I have far exceeded my original number of compositions. But I feel like I have not even the scratched the surface of the Guru's ocean. I have not even begun the sing Guru Nanak.

His message is precipitating upon me. San Ramon has the sweet fragrance of Dharamsaal Kartarpur.
Singing is his life and singing is his lesson. Different shabads and raags are amalgamating into one. The simplicity of his message is amazingly elegant. Remember Naam sings Baba Nanak. That is his only message. Just that one. One! No other ritual is needed, no higher prayer, no sweeter song, no farther travel, no purer cleansing, no quieter silence, and no fuller symphony.

Remember Naam is the incessant song weaved through all Remember Your True Essence he chants in all his words. In all kinds of darkness, the best answer is to sing the true essence. And no one is bereft of this true essence. At the Guru’s gate everyone is singing. Everything is singing. The wind singing in its blowing. The water sings in its flowing. The fire sings in its burning. The planets sing in their revolving. Because the Guru makes them. 

Likewise, in acceptance, I sing too. I sing because what better purpose of life there is. I sing Tere Gun Gaavaan as it was sung by Bhai Samund Singh a hundred years ago. Like Guru Nanak did 500 years ago. Or do I? 

I used to think I sing, but with the Guru’s grace the singing just happens. The Guru just sings and I float in his boat. He takes me across ... Gur Taar Taaranhareya like he did in Ramkali 50 years ago. The decision is not mine. The singing is not mine either. All power is His. Aakhan Jor Chupai Na Jor. Singing Guru Nanak for a year is impossible. This singing continues and promises never to end. Such grace upon me is momentous. 

Playlist of recordings related to this project:

Background 


The Trump and Biden debate is reminding me of another yesteryear debate that was crucial.  In 1858, Abraham Lincoln was a relatively unknown leader of the nascent Republican party before his debates with Stephen Douglas in 1858, the incumbent senator of the democratic party.  He had a hotly contested battle for the senate with Douglas and held seven debates with him in different cities of Illinois.  The central issue of contention was whether slavery should be expanded to the northern free states; Lincoln was in favor of limiting slavery while Douglas was in favor of slavery. 

The debates were popularized because of the gravity of the issue and also because of the availability of information of the debates very quickly through new technologies like the telegram and the increasing ubiquity of the press.  Whatever was said at these debates was published in newspapers on the next morning.  Despite enormous enthusiasm for Lincoln's views, he lost the senate race to Douglas. Some say it was because of some dirty politics played by the incumbents. 

Still, while Lincoln lost the election against Douglass, he won people's hearts.  He was invited to New York to speak to members of the Republican party there who he thoroughly impressed with his oratory.  And later in 1860 he was able to win the election to be president of the United States of America.

Lessons from the Cooper Union Address


Douglas had claimed that the founding fathers were in favor of expanding slavery, that they understood this issue well; he said, "Our fathers, when they framed the Government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now." Lincoln used a very cogent and well constructed argument that went through the stated and potential opinions about the majority of the thirty nine founding fathers to show that the Douglas' arguments were wrong. It is clear from this speech that Lincoln put enormous work into the research of this issue in a time when electronic documentation was not available. 

Lincoln also claimed, rightly so, that we should not blindly follow our "founding fathers" if they were wrong because they did not understand a certain issue because of the limitation of their times: 
I do not mean to say we are bound to follow implicitly in whatever our fathers did. To do so, would be to discard all the lights of current experience - to reject all progress - all improvement. What I do say is, that if we would supplant the opinions and policy of our fathers in any case, we should do so upon evidence so conclusive, and argument so clear, that even their great authority, fairly considered and weighed, cannot stand; and most surely not in a case whereof we ourselves declare they understood the question better than we.
When you see something blatantly evil, you have to call it by its name: evil.  This reminds me of Guru Nanak calling Babar's attack on Saidpur in 1521 by its name: "evil."  
Let all who believe that "our fathers, who framed the Government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now," speak as they spoke, and act as they acted upon it. This is all Republicans ask - all Republicans desire - in relation to slavery. As those fathers marked it, so let it be again marked, as an evil not to be extended ... 
Lincoln tells us how to deal with those who are calling names.  Southerners were calling Republicans "Black Republicans" because of their fight against the spread of slavery.  And he asks them to think about it.  He says, "pause and ... consider whether this is quite just to us, or even to yourselves."  As an aside, this name calling in the Era after Trump’s presidency is not brand new to history, although it is definitely more middle school. 

Lincoln reminds his own party, "Even though much provoked, let us do nothing through passion and ill temper." It is better to solve issues through peaceful means; it is important to not get provoked; it is important to keep calm and not give into anger.  Or else, we just end up in the baser realms of ourselves.  

And most importantly, Abraham Lincoln stands by the truth and the declaration of independence that "all men are created equal."  

What you do -- in this case, what you say -- is more important than what you wear.  Appearance are superficial; your words and actions are the soul of your being.
An eyewitness that evening said, "When Lincoln rose to speak, I was greatly disappointed. He was tall, tall, - oh, how tall! and so angular and awkward that I had, for an instant, a feeling of pity for so ungainly a man." However, once Lincoln warmed up, "his face lighted up as with an inward fire; the whole man was transfigured. I forgot his clothes, his personal appearance, and his individual peculiarities. Presently, forgetting myself, I was on my feet like the rest, yelling like a wild Indian, cheering this wonderful man."
In the end, his words — the pavan guru — is what changed people’s minds. In the end, the best lesson is to stand for the truth.  Lincoln says in the end, "Let us have the faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it."  The most important lesson is to recognize the being right is the ultimate strength. And that daring to do our duty is most important despite the arduous path. 

This reminds me of Guru Gobind Singh's poem, Deh Shiva Bar Mohe:

Dear God give me this boon, 

To never shirk from doing right
To never fear when I go to fight
to ever have the confidence to win

Let my heart learn
through ordeals of life
to have the desire
to remember your name
incessantly

And when the time arrives
to die bravely in the battlefield


Introduction by Roy P. Basler et al.
In October 1859 Abraham Lincoln accepted an invitation to lecture at Henry Ward Beecher's church in Brooklyn, New York, and chose a political topic which required months of painstaking research. His law partner William Herndon observed, "No former effort in the line of speech-making had cost Lincoln so much time and thought as this one," a remarkable comment considering the previous year's debates with Stephen Douglas.

The carefully crafted speech examined the views of the 39 signers of the Constitution. Lincoln noted that at least 21 of them -- a majority -- believed Congress should control slavery in the territories, rather than allow it to expand. Thus, the Republican stance of the time was not revolutionary, but similar to the Founding Fathers, and should not alarm Southerners, for radicals had threatened to secede if a Republican was elected President.

When Lincoln arrived in New York, the Young Men's Republican Union had assumed sponsorship of the speech and moved its location to the Cooper Institute in Manhattan. The Union's board included members such as Horace Greeley and William Cullen Bryant, who opposed William Seward for the Republican Presidential nomination. Lincoln, as an unannounced presidential aspirant, attracted a capacity crowd of 1,500 curious New Yorkers.

An eyewitness that evening said, "When Lincoln rose to speak, I was greatly disappointed. He was tall, tall, - oh, how tall! and so angular and awkward that I had, for an instant, a feeling of pity for so ungainly a man." However, once Lincoln warmed up, "his face lighted up as with an inward fire; the whole man was transfigured. I forgot his clothes, his personal appearance, and his individual peculiarities. Presently, forgetting myself, I was on my feet like the rest, yelling like a wild Indian, cheering this wonderful man."

Herndon, who knew the speech but was not present, said it was "devoid of all rhetorical imagry." Rather, "it was constructed with a view to accuracy of statement, simplicity of language, and unity of thought. In some respects like a lawyer's brief, it was logical, temperate in tone, powerful - irresistibly driving conviction home to men's reasons and their souls."

The speech electrified Lincoln's listeners and gained him important political support in Seward's home territory. Said a New York writer, "No man ever before made such an impression on his first appeal to a New York audience." After being printed by New York newspapers, the speech was widely circulated as campaign literature.

Easily one of Lincoln's best efforts, it revealed his singular mastery of ideas and issues in a way that justified loyal support. Here we can see him pursuing facts, forming them into meaningful patterns, pressing relentlessly toward his conclusion.

With a deft touch, Lincoln exposed the roots of sectional strife and the inconsistent positions of Senator Stephen Douglas and Chief Justice Roger Taney. He urged fellow Republicans not to capitulate to Southern demands to recognize slavery as being right, but to "stand by our duty, fearlessly and effectively."


Cooper Union Address
New York, New York
February 27, 1860

Mr. President and fellow citizens of New York: -

The facts with which I shall deal this evening are mainly old and familiar; nor is there anything new in the general use I shall make of them. If there shall be any novelty, it will be in the mode of presenting the facts, and the inferences and observations following that presentation.

In his speech last autumn, at Columbus, Ohio, as reported in "The New-York Times," Senator Douglas said:

"Our fathers, when they framed the Government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now."

I fully indorse this, and I adopt it as a text for this discourse. I so adopt it because it furnishes a precise and an agreed starting point for a discussion between Republicans and that wing of the Democracy headed by Senator Douglas. It simply leaves the inquiry: "What was the understanding those fathers had of the question mentioned?"

What is the frame of government under which we live?

The answer must be: "The Constitution of the United States." That Constitution consists of the original, framed in 1787, (and under which the present government first went into operation,) and twelve subsequently framed amendments, the first ten of which were framed in 1789.

Who were our fathers that framed the Constitution? I suppose the "thirty-nine" who signed the original instrument may be fairly called our fathers who framed that part of the present Government. It is almost exactly true to say they framed it, and it is altogether true to say they fairly represented the opinion and sentiment of the whole nation at that time. Their names, being familiar to nearly all, and accessible to quite all, need not now be repeated.

I take these "thirty-nine," for the present, as being "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live."

What is the question which, according to the text, those fathers understood "just as well, and even better than we do now?"

It is this: Does the proper division of local from federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, forbid our Federal Government to control as to slavery in our Federal Territories?

Upon this, Senator Douglas holds the affirmative, and Republicans the negative. This affirmation and denial form an issue; and this issue - this question - is precisely what the text declares our fathers understood "better than we."

Let us now inquire whether the "thirty-nine," or any of them, ever acted upon this question; and if they did, how they acted upon it - how they expressed that better understanding?

In 1784, three years before the Constitution - the United States then owning the Northwestern Territory, and no other, the Congress of the Confederation had before them the question of prohibiting slavery in that Territory; and four of the "thirty-nine" who afterward framed the Constitution, were in that Congress, and voted on that question. Of these, Roger Sherman, Thomas Mifflin, and Hugh Williamson voted for the prohibition, thus showing that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from federal authority, nor anything else, properly forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in federal territory. The other of the four - James M'Henry - voted against the prohibition, showing that, for some cause, he thought it improper to vote for it.

In 1787, still before the Constitution, but while the Convention was in session framing it, and while the Northwestern Territory still was the only territory owned by the United States, the same question of prohibiting slavery in the territory again came before the Congress of the Confederation; and two more of the "thirty-nine" who afterward signed the Constitution, were in that Congress, and voted on the question. They were William Blount and William Few; and they both voted for the prohibition - thus showing that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from federal authority, nor anything else, properly forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory. This time the prohibition became a law, being part of what is now well known as the Ordinance of '87.

The question of federal control of slavery in the territories, seems not to have been directly before the Convention which framed the original Constitution; and hence it is not recorded that the "thirty-nine," or any of them, while engaged on that instrument, expressed any opinion on that precise question.

In 1789, by the first Congress which sat under the Constitution, an act was passed to enforce the Ordinance of '87, including the prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Territory. The bill for this act was reported by one of the "thirty-nine," Thomas Fitzsimmons, then a member of the House of Representatives from Pennsylvania. It went through all its stages without a word of opposition, and finally passed both branches without yeas and nays, which is equivalent to a unanimous passage. In this Congress there were sixteen of the thirty-nine fathers who framed the original Constitution. They were John Langdon, Nicholas Gilman, Wm. S. Johnson, Roger Sherman, Robert Morris, Thos. Fitzsimmons, William Few, Abraham Baldwin, Rufus King, William Paterson, George Clymer, Richard Bassett, George Read, Pierce Butler, Daniel Carroll, James Madison.

This shows that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, properly forbade Congress to prohibit slavery in the federal territory; else both their fidelity to correct principle, and their oath to support the Constitution, would have constrained them to oppose the prohibition.

Again, George Washington, another of the "thirty-nine," was then President of the United States, and, as such approved and signed the bill; thus completing its validity as a law, and thus showing that, in his understanding, no line dividing local from federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government, to control as to slavery in federal territory.

No great while after the adoption of the original Constitution, North Carolina ceded to the Federal Government the country now constituting the State of Tennessee; and a few years later Georgia ceded that which now constitutes the States of Mississippi and Alabama. In both deeds of cession it was made a condition by the ceding States that the Federal Government should not prohibit slavery in the ceded territory. Besides this, slavery was then actually in the ceded country. Under these circumstances, Congress, on taking charge of these countries, did not absolutely prohibit slavery within them. But they did interfere with it - take control of it - even there, to a certain extent. In 1798, Congress organized the Territory of Mississippi. In the act of organization, they prohibited the bringing of slaves into the Territory, from any place without the United States, by fine, and giving freedom to slaves so bought. This act passed both branches of Congress without yeas and nays. In that Congress were three of the "thirty-nine" who framed the original Constitution. They were John Langdon, George Read and Abraham Baldwin. They all, probably, voted for it. Certainly they would have placed their opposition to it upon record, if, in their understanding, any line dividing local from federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, properly forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in federal territory.

In 1803, the Federal Government purchased the Louisiana country. Our former territorial acquisitions came from certain of our own States; but this Louisiana country was acquired from a foreign nation. In 1804, Congress gave a territorial organization to that part of it which now constitutes the State of Louisiana. New Orleans, lying within that part, was an old and comparatively large city. There were other considerable towns and settlements, and slavery was extensively and thoroughly intermingled with the people. Congress did not, in the Territorial Act, prohibit slavery; but they did interfere with it - take control of it - in a more marked and extensive way than they did in the case of Mississippi. The substance of the provision therein made, in relation to slaves, was:

First. That no slave should be imported into the territory from foreign parts.

Second. That no slave should be carried into it who had been imported into the United States since the first day of May, 1798.

Third. That no slave should be carried into it, except by the owner, and for his own use as a settler; the penalty in all the cases being a fine upon the violator of the law, and freedom to the slave.

This act also was passed without yeas and nays. In the Congress which passed it, there were two of the "thirty-nine." They were Abraham Baldwin and Jonathan Dayton. As stated in the case of Mississippi, it is probable they both voted for it. They would not have allowed it to pass without recording their opposition to it, if, in their understanding, it violated either the line properly dividing local from federal authority, or any provision of the Constitution.

In 1819-20, came and passed the Missouri question. Many votes were taken, by yeas and nays, in both branches of Congress, upon the various phases of the general question. Two of the "thirty-nine" - Rufus King and Charles Pinckney - were members of that Congress. Mr. King steadily voted for slavery prohibition and against all compromises, while Mr. Pinckney as steadily voted against slavery prohibition and against all compromises. By this, Mr. King showed that, in his understanding, no line dividing local from federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, was violated by Congress prohibiting slavery in federal territory; while Mr. Pinckney, by his votes, showed that, in his understanding, there was some sufficient reason for opposing such prohibition in that case.

The cases I have mentioned are the only acts of the "thirty-nine," or of any of them, upon the direct issue, which I have been able to discover.

To enumerate the persons who thus acted, as being four in 1784, two in 1787, seventeen in 1789, three in 1798, two in 1804, and two in 1819-20 - there would be thirty of them. But this would be counting John Langdon, Roger Sherman, William Few, Rufus King, and George Read each twice, and Abraham Baldwin, three times. The true number of those of the "thirty-nine" whom I have shown to have acted upon the question, which, by the text, they understood better than we, is twenty-three, leaving sixteen not shown to have acted upon it in any way.

Here, then, we have twenty-three out of our thirty-nine fathers "who framed the government under which we live," who have, upon their official responsibility and their corporal oaths, acted upon the very question which the text affirms they "understood just as well, and even better than we do now;" and twenty-one of them - a clear majority of the whole "thirty-nine" - so acting upon it as to make them guilty of gross political impropriety and willful perjury, if, in their understanding, any proper division between local and federal authority, or anything in the Constitution they had made themselves, and sworn to support, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the federal territories. Thus the twenty-one acted; and, as actions speak louder than words, so actions, under such responsibility, speak still louder.

Two of the twenty-three voted against Congressional prohibition of slavery in the federal territories, in the instances in which they acted upon the question. But for what reasons they so voted is not known. They may have done so because they thought a proper division of local from federal authority, or some provision or principle of the Constitution, stood in the way; or they may, without any such question, have voted against the prohibition, on what appeared to them to be sufficient grounds of expediency. No one who has sworn to support the Constitution can conscientiously vote for what he understands to be an unconstitutional measure, however expedient he may think it; but one may and ought to vote against a measure which he deems constitutional, if, at the same time, he deems it inexpedient. It, therefore, would be unsafe to set down even the two who voted against the prohibition, as having done so because, in their understanding, any proper division of local from federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in federal territory.

The remaining sixteen of the "thirty-nine," so far as I have discovered, have left no record of their understanding upon the direct question of federal control of slavery in the federal territories. But there is much reason to believe that their understanding upon that question would not have appeared different from that of their twenty-three compeers, had it been manifested at all.

For the purpose of adhering rigidly to the text, I have purposely omitted whatever understanding may have been manifested by any person, however distinguished, other than the thirty-nine fathers who framed the original Constitution; and, for the same reason, I have also omitted whatever understanding may have been manifested by any of the "thirty-nine" even, on any other phase of the general question of slavery. If we should look into their acts and declarations on those other phases, as the foreign slave trade, and the morality and policy of slavery generally, it would appear to us that on the direct question of federal control of slavery in federal territories, the sixteen, if they had acted at all, would probably have acted just as the twenty-three did. Among that sixteen were several of the most noted anti-slavery men of those times - as Dr. Franklin, Alexander Hamilton and Gouverneur Morris - while there was not one now known to have been otherwise, unless it may be John Rutledge, of South Carolina.

The sum of the whole is, that of our thirty-nine fathers who framed the original Constitution, twenty-one - a clear majority of the whole - certainly understood that no proper division of local from federal authority, nor any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control slavery in the federal territories; while all the rest probably had the same understanding. Such, unquestionably, was the understanding of our fathers who framed the original Constitution; and the text affirms that they understood the question "better than we."

But, so far, I have been considering the understanding of the question manifested by the framers of the original Constitution. In and by the original instrument, a mode was provided for amending it; and, as I have already stated, the present frame of "the Government under which we live" consists of that original, and twelve amendatory articles framed and adopted since. Those who now insist that federal control of slavery in federal territories violates the Constitution, point us to the provisions which they suppose it thus violates; and, as I understand, that all fix upon provisions in these amendatory articles, and not in the original instrument. The Supreme Court, in the Dred Scott case, plant themselves upon the fifth amendment, which provides that no person shall be deprived of "life, liberty or property without due process of law;" while Senator Douglas and his peculiar adherents plant themselves upon the tenth amendment, providing that "the powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution" "are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people."

Now, it so happens that these amendments were framed by the first Congress which sat under the Constitution - the identical Congress which passed the act already mentioned, enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Territory. Not only was it the same Congress, but they were the identical, same individual men who, at the same session, and at the same time within the session, had under consideration, and in progress toward maturity, these Constitutional amendments, and this act prohibiting slavery in all the territory the nation then owned. The Constitutional amendments were introduced before, and passed after the act enforcing the Ordinance of '87; so that, during the whole pendency of the act to enforce the Ordinance, the Constitutional amendments were also pending.

The seventy-six members of that Congress, including sixteen of the framers of the original Constitution, as before stated, were pre- eminently our fathers who framed that part of "the Government under which we live," which is now claimed as forbidding the Federal Government to control slavery in the federal territories.

Is it not a little presumptuous in any one at this day to affirm that the two things which that Congress deliberately framed, and carried to maturity at the same time, are absolutely inconsistent with each other? And does not such affirmation become impudently absurd when coupled with the other affirmation from the same mouth, that those who did the two things, alleged to be inconsistent, understood whether they really were inconsistent better than we - better than he who affirms that they are inconsistent?

It is surely safe to assume that the thirty-nine framers of the original Constitution, and the seventy-six members of the Congress which framed the amendments thereto, taken together, do certainly include those who may be fairly called "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live." And so assuming, I defy any man to show that any one of them ever, in his whole life, declared that, in his understanding, any proper division of local from federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the federal territories. I go a step further. I defy any one to show that any living man in the whole world ever did, prior to the beginning of the present century, (and I might almost say prior to the beginning of the last half of the present century,) declare that, in his understanding, any proper division of local from federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the federal territories. To those who now so declare, I give, not only "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live," but with them all other living men within the century in which it was framed, among whom to search, and they shall not be able to find the evidence of a single man agreeing with them.

Now, and here, let me guard a little against being misunderstood. I do not mean to say we are bound to follow implicitly in whatever our fathers did. To do so, would be to discard all the lights of current experience - to reject all progress - all improvement. What I do say is, that if we would supplant the opinions and policy of our fathers in any case, we should do so upon evidence so conclusive, and argument so clear, that even their great authority, fairly considered and weighed, cannot stand; and most surely not in a case whereof we ourselves declare they understood the question better than we.

If any man at this day sincerely believes that a proper division of local from federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the federal territories, he is right to say so, and to enforce his position by all truthful evidence and fair argument which he can. But he has no right to mislead others, who have less access to history, and less leisure to study it, into the false belief that "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live" were of the same opinion - thus substituting falsehood and deception for truthful evidence and fair argument. If any man at this day sincerely believes "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live," used and applied principles, in other cases, which ought to have led them to understand that a proper division of local from federal authority or some part of the Constitution, forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the federal territories, he is right to say so. But he should, at the same time, brave the responsibility of declaring that, in his opinion, he understands their principles better than they did themselves; and especially should he not shirk that responsibility by asserting that they "understood the question just as well, and even better, than we do now."

But enough! Let all who believe that "our fathers, who framed the Government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now," speak as they spoke, and act as they acted upon it. This is all Republicans ask - all Republicans desire - in relation to slavery. As those fathers marked it, so let it be again marked, as an evil not to be extended, but to be tolerated and protected only because of and so far as its actual presence among us makes that toleration and protection a necessity. Let all the guarantees those fathers gave it, be, not grudgingly, but fully and fairly, maintained. For this Republicans contend, and with this, so far as I know or believe, they will be content.

And now, if they would listen - as I suppose they will not - I would address a few words to the Southern people.

I would say to them: - You consider yourselves a reasonable and a just people; and I consider that in the general qualities of reason and justice you are not inferior to any other people. Still, when you speak of us Republicans, you do so only to denounce us a reptiles, or, at the best, as no better than outlaws. You will grant a hearing to pirates or murderers, but nothing like it to "Black Republicans." In all your contentions with one another, each of you deems an unconditional condemnation of "Black Republicanism" as the first thing to be attended to. Indeed, such condemnation of us seems to be an indispensable prerequisite - license, so to speak - among you to be admitted or permitted to speak at all. Now, can you, or not, be prevailed upon to pause and to consider whether this is quite just to us, or even to yourselves? Bring forward your charges and specifications, and then be patient long enough to hear us deny or justify.

You say we are sectional. We deny it. That makes an issue; and the burden of proof is upon you. You produce your proof; and what is it? Why, that our party has no existence in your section - gets no votes in your section. The fact is substantially true; but does it prove the issue? If it does, then in case we should, without change of principle, begin to get votes in your section, we should thereby cease to be sectional. You cannot escape this conclusion; and yet, are you willing to abide by it? If you are, you will probably soon find that we have ceased to be sectional, for we shall get votes in your section this very year. You will then begin to discover, as the truth plainly is, that your proof does not touch the issue. The fact that we get no votes in your section, is a fact of your making, and not of ours. And if there be fault in that fact, that fault is primarily yours, and remains until you show that we repel you by some wrong principle or practice. If we do repel you by any wrong principle or practice, the fault is ours; but this brings you to where you ought to have started - to a discussion of the right or wrong of our principle. If our principle, put in practice, would wrong your section for the benefit of ours, or for any other object, then our principle, and we with it, are sectional, and are justly opposed and denounced as such. Meet us, then, on the question of whether our principle, put in practice, would wrong your section; and so meet it as if it were possible that something may be said on our side. Do you accept the challenge? No! Then you really believe that the principle which "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live" thought so clearly right as to adopt it, and indorse it again and again, upon their official oaths, is in fact so clearly wrong as to demand your condemnation without a moment's consideration.

Some of you delight to flaunt in our faces the warning against sectional parties given by Washington in his Farewell Address. Less than eight years before Washington gave that warning, he had, as President of the United States, approved and signed an act of Congress, enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Territory, which act embodied the policy of the Government upon that subject up to and at the very moment he penned that warning; and about one year after he penned it, he wrote LaFayette that he considered that prohibition a wise measure, expressing in the same connection his hope that we should at some time have a confederacy of free States.

Bearing this in mind, and seeing that sectionalism has since arisen upon this same subject, is that warning a weapon in your hands against us, or in our hands against you? Could Washington himself speak, would he cast the blame of that sectionalism upon us, who sustain his policy, or upon you who repudiate it? We respect that warning of Washington, and we commend it to you, together with his example pointing to the right application of it.

But you say you are conservative - eminently conservative - while we are revolutionary, destructive, or something of the sort. What is conservatism? Is it not adherence to the old and tried, against the new and untried? We stick to, contend for, the identical old policy on the point in controversy which was adopted by "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live;" while you with one accord reject, and scout, and spit upon that old policy, and insist upon substituting something new. True, you disagree among yourselves as to what that substitute shall be. You are divided on new propositions and plans, but you are unanimous in rejecting and denouncing the old policy of the fathers. Some of you are for reviving the foreign slave trade; some for a Congressional Slave-Code for the Territories; some for Congress forbidding the Territories to prohibit Slavery within their limits; some for maintaining Slavery in the Territories through the judiciary; some for the "gur-reat pur-rinciple" that "if one man would enslave another, no third man should object," fantastically called "Popular Sovereignty;" but never a man among you is in favor of federal prohibition of slavery in federal territories, according to the practice of "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live." Not one of all your various plans can show a precedent or an advocate in the century within which our Government originated. Consider, then, whether your claim of conservatism for yourselves, and your charge or destructiveness against us, are based on the most clear and stable foundations.

Again, you say we have made the slavery question more prominent than it formerly was. We deny it. We admit that it is more prominent, but we deny that we made it so. It was not we, but you, who discarded the old policy of the fathers. We resisted, and still resist, your innovation; and thence comes the greater prominence of the question. Would you have that question reduced to its former proportions? Go back to that old policy. What has been will be again, under the same conditions. If you would have the peace of the old times, readopt the precepts and policy of the old times.

You charge that we stir up insurrections among your slaves. We deny it; and what is your proof? Harper's Ferry! John Brown!! John Brown was no Republican; and you have failed to implicate a single Republican in his Harper's Ferry enterprise. If any member of our party is guilty in that matter, you know it or you do not know it. If you do know it, you are inexcusable for not designating the man and proving the fact. If you do not know it, you are inexcusable for asserting it, and especially for persisting in the assertion after you have tried and failed to make the proof. You need to be told that persisting in a charge which one does not know to be true, is simply malicious slander.

Some of you admit that no Republican designedly aided or encouraged the Harper's Ferry affair, but still insist that our doctrines and declarations necessarily lead to such results. We do not believe it. We know we hold to no doctrine, and make no declaration, which were not held to and made by "our fathers who framed the Government under which we live." You never dealt fairly by us in relation to this affair. When it occurred, some important State elections were near at hand, and you were in evident glee with the belief that, by charging the blame upon us, you could get an advantage of us in those elections. The elections came, and your expectations were not quite fulfilled. Every Republican man knew that, as to himself at least, your charge was a slander, and he was not much inclined by it to cast his vote in your favor. Republican doctrines and declarations are accompanied with a continual protest against any interference whatever with your slaves, or with you about your slaves. Surely, this does not encourage them to revolt. True, we do, in common with "our fathers, who framed the Government under which we live," declare our belief that slavery is wrong; but the slaves do not hear us declare even this. For anything we say or do, the slaves would scarcely know there is a Republican party. I believe they would not, in fact, generally know it but for your misrepresentations of us, in their hearing. In your political contests among yourselves, each faction charges the other with sympathy with Black Republicanism; and then, to give point to the charge, defines Black Republicanism to simply be insurrection, blood and thunder among the slaves.

Slave insurrections are no more common now than they were before the Republican party was organized. What induced the Southampton insurrection, twenty-eight years ago, in which, at least three times as many lives were lost as at Harper's Ferry? You can scarcely stretch your very elastic fancy to the conclusion that Southampton was "got up by Black Republicanism." In the present state of things in the United States, I do not think a general, or even a very extensive slave insurrection is possible. The indispensable concert of action cannot be attained. The slaves have no means of rapid communication; nor can incendiary freemen, black or white, supply it. The explosive materials are everywhere in parcels; but there neither are, nor can be supplied, the indispensable connecting trains.

Much is said by Southern people about the affection of slaves for their masters and mistresses; and a part of it, at least, is true. A plot for an uprising could scarcely be devised and communicated to twenty individuals before some one of them, to save the life of a favorite master or mistress, would divulge it. This is the rule; and the slave revolution in Hayti was not an exception to it, but a case occurring under peculiar circumstances. The gunpowder plot of British history, though not connected with slaves, was more in point. In that case, only about twenty were admitted to the secret; and yet one of them, in his anxiety to save a friend, betrayed the plot to that friend, and, by consequence, averted the calamity. Occasional poisonings from the kitchen, and open or stealthy assassinations in the field, and local revolts extending to a score or so, will continue to occur as the natural results of slavery; but no general insurrection of slaves, as I think, can happen in this country for a long time. Whoever much fears, or much hopes for such an event, will be alike disappointed.

In the language of Mr. Jefferson, uttered many years ago, "It is still in our power to direct the process of emancipation, and deportation, peaceably, and in such slow degrees, as that the evil will wear off insensibly; and their places be, pari passu, filled up by free white laborers. If, on the contrary, it is left to force itself on, human nature must shudder at the prospect held up."

Mr. Jefferson did not mean to say, nor do I, that the power of emancipation is in the Federal Government. He spoke of Virginia; and, as to the power of emancipation, I speak of the slaveholding States only. The Federal Government, however, as we insist, has the power of restraining the extension of the institution - the power to insure that a slave insurrection shall never occur on any American soil which is now free from slavery.

John Brown's effort was peculiar. It was not a slave insurrection. It was an attempt by white men to get up a revolt among slaves, in which the slaves refused to participate. In fact, it was so absurd that the slaves, with all their ignorance, saw plainly enough it could not succeed. That affair, in its philosophy, corresponds with the many attempts, related in history, at the assassination of kings and emperors. An enthusiast broods over the oppression of a people till he fancies himself commissioned by Heaven to liberate them. He ventures the attempt, which ends in little else than his own execution. Orsini's attempt on Louis Napoleon, and John Brown's attempt at Harper's Ferry were, in their philosophy, precisely the same. The eagerness to cast blame on old England in the one case, and on New England in the other, does not disprove the sameness of the two things.

And how much would it avail you, if you could, by the use of John Brown, Helper's Book, and the like, break up the Republican organization? Human action can be modified to some extent, but human nature cannot be changed. There is a judgment and a feeling against slavery in this nation, which cast at least a million and a half of votes. You cannot destroy that judgment and feeling - that sentiment - by breaking up the political organization which rallies around it. You can scarcely scatter and disperse an army which has been formed into order in the face of your heaviest fire; but if you could, how much would you gain by forcing the sentiment which created it out of the peaceful channel of the ballot-box, into some other channel? What would that other channel probably be? Would the number of John Browns be lessened or enlarged by the operation?

But you will break up the Union rather than submit to a denial of your Constitutional rights.

That has a somewhat reckless sound; but it would be palliated, if not fully justified, were we proposing, by the mere force of numbers, to deprive you of some right, plainly written down in the Constitution. But we are proposing no such thing.

When you make these declarations, you have a specific and well-understood allusion to an assumed Constitutional right of yours, to take slaves into the federal territories, and to hold them there as property. But no such right is specifically written in the Constitution. That instrument is literally silent about any such right. We, on the contrary, deny that such a right has any existence in the Constitution, even by implication.

Your purpose, then, plainly stated, is that you will destroy the Government, unless you be allowed to construe and enforce the Constitution as you please, on all points in dispute between you and us. You will rule or ruin in all events.

This, plainly stated, is your language. Perhaps you will say the Supreme Court has decided the disputed Constitutional question in your favor. Not quite so. But waiving the lawyer's distinction between dictum and decision, the Court have decided the question for you in a sort of way. The Court have substantially said, it is your Constitutional right to take slaves into the federal territories, and to hold them there as property. When I say the decision was made in a sort of way, I mean it was made in a divided Court, by a bare majority of the Judges, and they not quite agreeing with one another in the reasons for making it; that it is so made as that its avowed supporters disagree with one another about its meaning, and that it was mainly based upon a mistaken statement of fact - the statement in the opinion that "the right of property in a slave is distinctly and expressly affirmed in the Constitution."

An inspection of the Constitution will show that the right of property in a slave is not "distinctly and expressly affirmed" in it. Bear in mind, the Judges do not pledge their judicial opinion that such right is impliedly affirmed in the Constitution; but they pledge their veracity that it is "distinctly and expressly" affirmed there - "distinctly," that is, not mingled with anything else - "expressly," that is, in words meaning just that, without the aid of any inference, and susceptible of no other meaning.

If they had only pledged their judicial opinion that such right is affirmed in the instrument by implication, it would be open to others to show that neither the word "slave" nor "slavery" is to be found in the Constitution, nor the word "property" even, in any connection with language alluding to the things slave, or slavery; and that wherever in that instrument the slave is alluded to, he is called a "person;" - and wherever his master's legal right in relation to him is alluded to, it is spoken of as "service or labor which may be due," - as a debt payable in service or labor. Also, it would be open to show, by contemporaneous history, that this mode of alluding to slaves and slavery, instead of speaking of them, was employed on purpose to exclude from the Constitution the idea that there could be property in man.

To show all this, is easy and certain.

When this obvious mistake of the Judges shall be brought to their notice, is it not reasonable to expect that they will withdraw the mistaken statement, and reconsider the conclusion based upon it?

And then it is to be remembered that "our fathers, who framed the Government under which we live" - the men who made the Constitution - decided this same Constitutional question in our favor, long ago - decided it without division among themselves, when making the decision; without division among themselves about the meaning of it after it was made, and, so far as any evidence is left, without basing it upon any mistaken statement of facts.

Under all these circumstances, do you really feel yourselves justified to break up this Government unless such a court decision as yours is, shall be at once submitted to as a conclusive and final rule of political action? But you will not abide the election of a Republican president! In that supposed event, you say, you will destroy the Union; and then, you say, the great crime of having destroyed it will be upon us! That is cool. A highwayman holds a pistol to my ear, and mutters through his teeth, "Stand and deliver, or I shall kill you, and then you will be a murderer!"

To be sure, what the robber demanded of me - my money - was my own; and I had a clear right to keep it; but it was no more my own than my vote is my own; and the threat of death to me, to extort my money, and the threat of destruction to the Union, to extort my vote, can scarcely be distinguished in principle.

A few words now to Republicans. It is exceedingly desirable that all parts of this great Confederacy shall be at peace, and in harmony, one with another. Let us Republicans do our part to have it so. Even though much provoked, let us do nothing through passion and ill temper. Even though the southern people will not so much as listen to us, let us calmly consider their demands, and yield to them if, in our deliberate view of our duty, we possibly can. Judging by all they say and do, and by the subject and nature of their controversy with us, let us determine, if we can, what will satisfy them.

Will they be satisfied if the Territories be unconditionally surrendered to them? We know they will not. In all their present complaints against us, the Territories are scarcely mentioned. Invasions and insurrections are the rage now. Will it satisfy them, if, in the future, we have nothing to do with invasions and insurrections? We know it will not. We so know, because we know we never had anything to do with invasions and insurrections; and yet this total abstaining does not exempt us from the charge and the denunciation.

The question recurs, what will satisfy them? Simply this: We must not only let them alone, but we must somehow, convince them that we do let them alone. This, we know by experience, is no easy task. We have been so trying to convince them from the very beginning of our organization, but with no success. In all our platforms and speeches we have constantly protested our purpose to let them alone; but this has had no tendency to convince them. Alike unavailing to convince them, is the fact that they have never detected a man of us in any attempt to disturb them.

These natural, and apparently adequate means all failing, what will convince them? This, and this only: cease to call slavery wrong, and join them in calling it right. And this must be done thoroughly - done in acts as well as in words. Silence will not be tolerated - we must place ourselves avowedly with them. Senator Douglas' new sedition law must be enacted and enforced, suppressing all declarations that slavery is wrong, whether made in politics, in presses, in pulpits, or in private. We must arrest and return their fugitive slaves with greedy pleasure. We must pull down our Free State constitutions. The whole atmosphere must be disinfected from all taint of opposition to slavery, before they will cease to believe that all their troubles proceed from us.

I am quite aware they do not state their case precisely in this way. Most of them would probably say to us, "Let us alone, do nothing to us, and say what you please about slavery." But we do let them alone - have never disturbed them - so that, after all, it is what we say, which dissatisfies them. They will continue to accuse us of doing, until we cease saying.

I am also aware they have not, as yet, in terms, demanded the overthrow of our Free-State Constitutions. Yet those Constitutions declare the wrong of slavery, with more solemn emphasis, than do all other sayings against it; and when all these other sayings shall have been silenced, the overthrow of these Constitutions will be demanded, and nothing be left to resist the demand. It is nothing to the contrary, that they do not demand the whole of this just now. Demanding what they do, and for the reason they do, they can voluntarily stop nowhere short of this consummation. Holding, as they do, that slavery is morally right, and socially elevating, they cannot cease to demand a full national recognition of it, as a legal right, and a social blessing.

Nor can we justifiably withhold this, on any ground save our conviction that slavery is wrong. If slavery is right, all words, acts, laws, and constitutions against it, are themselves wrong, and should be silenced, and swept away. If it is right, we cannot justly object to its nationality - its universality; if it is wrong, they cannot justly insist upon its extension - its enlargement. All they ask, we could readily grant, if we thought slavery right; all we ask, they could as readily grant, if they thought it wrong. Their thinking it right, and our thinking it wrong, is the precise fact upon which depends the whole controversy. Thinking it right, as they do, they are not to blame for desiring its full recognition, as being right; but, thinking it wrong, as we do, can we yield to them? Can we cast our votes with their view, and against our own? In view of our moral, social, and political responsibilities, can we do this?

Wrong as we think slavery is, we can yet afford to let it alone where it is, because that much is due to the necessity arising from its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes will prevent it, allow it to spread into the National Territories, and to overrun us here in these Free States? If our sense of duty forbids this, then let us stand by our duty, fearlessly and effectively. Let us be diverted by none of those sophistical contrivances wherewith we are so industriously plied and belabored - contrivances such as groping for some middle ground between the right and the wrong, vain as the search for a man who should be neither a living man nor a dead man - such as a policy of "don't care" on a question about which all true men do care - such as Union appeals beseeching true Union men to yield to Disunionists, reversing the divine rule, and calling, not the sinners, but the righteous to repentance - such as invocations to Washington, imploring men to unsay what Washington said, and undo what Washington did.

Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the Government nor of dungeons to ourselves. Let us have the faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.  
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SHIVPREET SINGH

Singing oneness!
- Shivpreet Singh

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