ADDITIONAL NOTES.
Reading edition
No. I. Fitted for female education.
Page 25. We are point blank opposed to allowing females any advantages for education, which can possibly induce their ladyships to set up for literata. “Knowledge is Power,” and whereas the “seraphic sex” are prone to acquire knowledge with more facility, and communicate it with more felicity than the rough samples of humanity with whom Madam Destiny has had the impudence to connect them by ties (pretty easily severed nowadays) we are amazingly apprehensive that ladies will not only monopolize our trade of authorship, but usurp our places in Church, State and Medicine. We have often shed cataracts of tears (Della Crusca) over the following lines of Pope, which, though addressed to lady Montague, will apply equally well to nine hundred and ninety-nine other lady luminaries, in whose presence the light of Dr Caustic is like the glimmer of a glow worm in the glare of sunshine.
“In beauty or wit No mortal as yet To question your empire has dared But men of discerning Have thought that in learning To yield to a woman is hard.”
But with leave of the pope, we lords of the lower part of creation will not “yield to a woman.” We will rather let Lord Bacon and the ladies know, by dint of the right of the strongest, that knowledge is not power, but that physical strength is power.
We are excessively provoked with the conductors of the North American Review, who in the No. of that work, dated October, 1835, p. 430, have reviewed, or rather eulogized certain Poems by Mrs Sigourney, and by Miss Gould. And what makes such conduct the more preposterous is that those ladies deserve the encomiums of their admiring Reviewers. They have, likewise, brought into bold relief a great number of lady-authors, such as Miss Burney, Miss Edgworth, Miss Baillie, Miss Martineau, Miss Mitford, Mrs Somerville, Mrs Hemans, Miss Sedgwick, Miss Leslie, Mrs Child, Mrs Hale, &c., whose names and whose merits, correct policy would have consigned to oblivion. Now, be it known, by these presents, that the more merit there happens to be attached to a lady-author, the more her productions should not be taken honorable notice of by a gentleman-critic.
No. II. In foreign source of yellow fever.
Page 54. Some doctors, however, do not coincide in opinion with Dr Caustic on this subject. Dr Miller, in a “Report on the malignant disease, which prevailed in New York, in the autumn of 1805,” has the following passage:
“We live in the latitude of pestilence, and our climate now perhaps is only beginning to display its tendency to produce this terrible scourge. The impurities which time and a police, rather moulded in conformity to the usages of more northern countries than the exigencies of our own, have been long accumulating, are now annually exposed to the heats of a burning summer, and send forth exhalations of the highest virulence.”
No. III.
Page 82, we told your worships, that Perkins was supported by Aldini, and promised some additional remarks by way of illustrating our assertion. We now intend to prove not only that we were correct in our statement, but that light, heat or caloric, electricity, Galvanism, Perkinism, animal spirits, the social feelings, especially when love is concerned, and the stimulus of society, are all intimately connected or different modifications of the same matter.
We will show that light and heat are the same thing in essence, by the authority of some of our prime philosophers whom it would be heresy to dispute or gainsay.
“Universal space,” says Dr Franklin, “so far as we know of it, seems filled with a subtil fluid, whose motion, or vibration, is called light.
“This fluid may possibly be the same with that which attracted by and entering into other more solid matter, dilates the substance, by separating the constituent particles and so rendering some solids fluid, and maintaining the fluidity of others; of which fluid when our bodies are totally deprived, they are said to be frozen; when they have a proper quantity they are in health, and fit to perform all their functions; it is then called natural heat; when too much, it is called fever; and when forced into the body in too great a quantity from without, it gives pain by separating and destroying the flesh, and is then called burning; and the fluid so entering and acting is called fire.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, vol. iii. p. 5, 6.
Now we will see what Lavoisier, according to Fourcroy, can tell us on this subject.
“The comparison which the more modern philosophers, and particularly my illustrious friend Monge, have established between caloric and light, so as to consider these two effects as the product of modifications of the same body, is entitled to much more attention. It is established on a great number of experiments; it naturally and simply explains most of the phenomena; and it agrees with the sublime economy of nature, which multiplies effects much more than the bodies which produce them.
“Fire,” he continues, “is disengaged, and shows itself in the form of heat, when it is gently and slowly driven out of bodies into the composition of which it entered; but it shines in the form of light when it flies out of compounds, in a very compressed state, by a swift motion.
“According to this ingenious hypothesis, caloric may become light, and light on the other hand may become caloric. For this purpose it is only necessary that the first should assume more rapidity in its motion, and the second undergo a diminution of velocity.” Nicholsons’ Fourcroy, vol. i. p. 57.
Our next step in this our wonderful process is to prove, that light, which is the same as heat, may also be identified with electricity.
Here I shall produce the authority of a writer in the Encyclopædia Britannica, who appears to be a very sound philosopher. Under the title Electricity, article 83, you will find that gunpowder has been fired by the electric blast; from which the writer reasons as follows.
“As it therefore appears, that the electric fluid, when it moves through bodies either with great rapidity or in very great quantity will set them on fire, it seems scarce disputable, that this fluid is the same with the element of fire. This being once admitted, the source from whence the electric fluid is derived into the earth and atmosphere must be exceedingly evident, being no other than the sun or source of light itself.” The writer then proceeds to show, that an iron wire has been melted by the discharge of a battery of electricity, and furnishes proofs which must convince the most incredulous, of the correctness of his theory.
Thus far we have proceeded triumphantly in making it abundantly evident that light, heat, and electricity are the same in substance; so that if your worships will permeate this subject with due retention and some small share of true philosophical perspicacity, you will find that heat and electricity are the dregs or sediment of light, and by digesting Dr Black’s theory of latent heat, you will find that the matter of heat, light, and electricity exists in very vast abundance in all bodies and substances.
We next will prove that Galvanism is a modification of electricity. Here we will advert to the theory of Galvani and Aldini, as stated by C. H. Wilkinson, lecturer on Galvanism in Soho square, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, &c. &c. This gentleman informs us, that “the animal body is a description of Leyden phial, or magic battery, in one part of which there is an excess of electricity, and in the other a deficiency. The conducting body communicates the fluid of the part where it is abundant to the part where it is defective; and in this passage of the electricity, the muscular contractions are obtained in the same way as the discharges are produced by the Leyden phial or magic batteries. As the conducting bodies in electricity are the sole agents in the discharge of the Leyden phial, so the same bodies alone serve likewise to excite muscular contractions.” Wilkinson’s Elements of Galvanism, p. 82.
We next will prove that Perkins’s points are the proper conductors of animal electricity. From a specification which Mr Perkins published in the Repertory of Arts, it would seem that zinc is the principal ingredient in the tractors.
“Zinc,” says Fourcroy, “is a conductor of electricity like all other metals, and nothing particular has hitherto been discovered in it with respect to this property; however, the powerful manner in which it effects the sensibility of the human body in Galvanic experiments seems to give it herein a sort of prerogative or pre-eminence over other metallic substances. If we place a plate of zinc under the tongue, and cover the upper surface of this organ with another metal, and especially a piece of gold or silver, and then incline the extremity of this last, so as to approach it to the plate of zinc, at the moment when the two metals come into contact with each other, the person who performs the experiments feels a very perceptible pricking sensation, heat, irritation, and a sort of acerb taste in the tongue, almost always accompanied with a momentous glare, or luminous circle, which suddenly appears before his eyes. No metal produces this singular effect with such force as zinc is observed to do.”
This animal electricity is likewise a modification of what we call animal spirits, and may be termed the stimulus of society. That this was well known to the wisest of men, is evident from this adage of Solomon: “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” The want of a proper communication among animal Leyden phials is the cause of the gloom of the solitaire. The wish to partake of the benefits of the stimulus of society makes man a gregarious animal, and induces the human race to congregate in large cities, and to be fond of routs, balls, assemblies, in which the aforesaid human electric phials are beaming animal electricity in every direction, and thus a flow of animal spirits is communicated by a pleasing contagion to all present.
When we see an animal Leyden phial superabounding with animal electricity, we say it is a spirited animal. When said animal happens to be a hero, a tiger, an irritated ram cat, or a black snake intent on his game, visible flashes of electricity will blaze from the eyes, and communicate very sensible shocks to a spectator. Thus the Gaul, who was commanded to cut off the head of Marius, a celebrated Roman general, and a personage full of the most positive sort of animal electricity, received such a stroke of lightning from the battery of that hero’s head, and at the same time was so thunderstruck with the exclamation of “Tune, homo, audes occidere Caium Marium?” that the dagger dropped bloodless from the hands of the ruthless assassin. Thus Alexander, when hampered in the chief city of the Oxydracæ, kept his foes at a distance by the fire that flashed from his eyes in whole torrents of animal electricity. How often do we see a Congressional spouter, or an itinerant field preacher electrize a large assembly by repeated discharges of this mysterious fluid. In all cases of fanaticism it is mistaken for the fire of devotion, and causes grimaces, contortions, convulsions, and other strange symptoms, which, however, are easily accounted for by the theory of the “animal Leyden phial.”
But the prettiest experiments ever made with animal electricity, I have seen sometimes exhibited by a female philosopher to a levee of her admirers. On such occasions, the lady’s eyes seem to be fountains of animal electricity. This electricity, however, is not vitreous and resinous, but positive and negative. The former expressed by a glance of approbation, and the latter by a flash of disdain. The different effects which discharges of these different kinds of electricity exhibit in the subjects of experiment may be rated among the most wonderful of phenomena. The former transports a man, Southey-like, to “the atmosphere of the highest of all possible heavens,” the latter sinks him “down! down! to the Domdaniel cave at the roots of the ocean.” But as this is a branch of natural philosophy to which, for forty years, past I have not paid the least attention, I shall not attempt further to instruct your worships therein, but refer you to the experiments so delectably set forth in the poems of Little, Johannes Bonefonius, Secundus, and other adepts in that curious science.
AN ODE.[125]
Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws; Should foes then invade us, to battle we’ll hie, For the God of our fathers will be our ally! Let Frenchmen advance, And all Europe join France, Designing our conquest and plunder; United and free For ever we’ll be, And our cannon shall tell them in thunder, That foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! When Britain assail’d us, undaunted we stood, Defended the land we had purchased with blood, Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast, If the old world united should menace our coast:— Should millions invade, In terror array’d, Our liberties bid us surrender, Our country they’d find With bayonets lined, And Washington here to defend her, For foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! Should Buonapart’ come with his sans culotte band, And a new sort of freedom we don’t understand, And make us an offer to give us as much As France has bestow’d on the Swiss and the Dutch, His fraud and his force Will be futile of course; We wish for no Frenchified freedom: If folks beyond sea Are to bid us be free, We’ll send for them when we shall need ’em. But sans culotte Frenchmen we’ll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! We’re anxious that Peace may continue her reign, We cherish the virtues which sport in her train; Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh, And we shiver at Horror’s funereal cry; But still, though we prize That child of the skies, We’ll never like slaves be accosted. In a war of defence Our means are immense, And we’ll fight till our all is exhausted: For foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! The EAGLE of FREEDOM with rapture behold! Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold! The flood-gates of glory are open on high, And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky! They come from above With a message of love, To bid us be firm and decided; “At liberty’s call, Unite one and all, For you conquer, unless you’re divided. Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!” “Americans, seek no occasion for war; The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor; But if in defence of your rights you should arm, Let toils ne’er discourage, nor dangers alarm. For foes to your peace Will ever increase, If freedom and fame you should barter, Let those rights be yours, While nature endures, For Omnipotence gave you the charter!” Then foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry.
THE MORNING.
Behold, my fair, the ruddy morn Anticipate the day; What beauteous tints the sky adorn, And gild the azure way! The sombre mists, which gloomy night Had gather’d in the vale, Are borne aloft, and wing their flight Before the rising gale. Now changed to clouds of varied hue, In airy maze they dance; Now sweep athwart the welkin blue, And gem the gay expanse. The plumy tenant of the grove Is perch’d on yonder spray, And serenades his little love With sweetest roundelay. To taste the pleasures of the morn Is bliss without alloy, Though fashion’s drowsy vot’ries scorn To quaff the cup of joy. But rise, my lovely charmer, rise To greet the early ray, And let my Teraminta’s eyes Add lustre to the day.
AN ODE.[126]
Almighty Power!—The One Supreme! Our souls inspire, attune our lays With hearts as solemn as our theme, To sing hosannas to thy praise! Then, while we swell the sacred song, And bid the pealing anthem rise May seraphim the strain prolong, And hymns of glory fill the skies. Thy word omnific form’d this earth, Ere time began revolving years— Thy fiat gave to Nature birth, And tuned to harmony the spheres. When stern oppression’s iron hand, Our pious fathers forced to roam, And o’er the wild wave seek the land Where freedom rears her hallow’d dome— When tempests howl’d, and o’er the main, Pale horror rear’d his haggard form; Thou didst the fragile bark sustain To stem the fury of the storm! Thou badest the wilderness disclose The varied sweets of vernal bloom— The desert blossom’d like the rose, And breath’d Arabia’s rich perfume! Look down from heaven’s empyreal height, And gild with smiles this happy day; Send us some chosen Son of Light Our feet to guide in wisdom’s way. The sons of faction strike with awe, And hush the din of party rage, That Liberty, secured by Law, May realize a golden age. On those thy choicest blessings shower To whom the cares of State are given; May Justice wield the sword of power, Till Earth’s the miniature of Heaven!
ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.
Why moves to mournful measures slow Yon sable retinue of wo, With tearful eye and visage pale? And why this universal gloom? Sure Nature trembles o’er her tomb, And bids her wilder’d children wail! Do plagues infest, do wars alarm, Has God in wrath made bare his arm, To hurl his bolts of vengeance round? Have towns been sack’d by hostile ire, Have cities sunk in floods of fire, While earthquakes shook the shuddering ground? Ah! no, thy sons, Columbia, mourn A hero past that fatal “bourn From whence no traveller returns;” Before him none more good, more great, E’er felt the unerring shafts of fate, Though glory’s lamp illume their urns. Behold yon pallid war-worn chief, A marble monument of grief, Who once our troops to victory led;— The burst of sorrow now control, But now the tears of anguish roll, A tribute to the immortal dead! Fain would the muse those virtues scan, Which dignified the godlike man, And launch in seas without a shore; But sure his name alone conveys More than a thousand hymns of praise, The matchless Washington’s no more!
DIRECTIONS FOR DOING POETRY.[127] IN THE SIMPLE STYLE OF SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, AND OTHER MODERN METRE MONGERS.
Supposing you would sing About love in the Spring, Something like this will be just the thing. Tell the reader to behold The gay Tints of the cloud-dappled morn! Then streak the azure with gems set in gold, And bring into view Some Tyrian hue, Mix’d with indigo blue. Then the meads must be spangled, And glittering grove With OCEANS of dew! Whew!! But now you must mind That rhymes you must find For lines left behind, You therefore must rove, Say On any day About the fag end of May, And bid lilacs adorn Your beautiful morn; And the thickets must be tangled For the sake of your spangled. Now having found Yourself on firm ground, You may roam along the edges Of hawthorn hedges; Then bid beds of roses And pretty pink posies Ravish our eyes and captivate our noses!!! Interweave, if you will, The hyacinth and daffodil, With now and then a big weed Of purslain and of pig weed, And add fragrant crops Of potato tops, And scatter, here and thereabout, As many hops As you may please to care about; And, between whiles, Say That Nature smiles, In her new holiday Dress;— Nevertheless, These beauties so rare Can never compare With the dear little dove With whom you’re in love. Next glance a quick eye To the flame cinctur’d, multihu’d arch in the sky;— In our vernacular idiom call’d a rainbow, Which perhaps the unpoetic reader would fain know. Then positively declare, That Amanda the fair, Who really beats the Dutch, Exceeds as much All such As does a fine lilac silk gown The dirtiest grogram in town. Then bid your muse higher fly, And say your queen of lasses Each country wench surpasses, Yea, far more excels Your Moggies and Nells, Than doth the noontide blaze the scintillating fire fly.
HORACE SURPASSED.
How funny ’tis, when pretty lads and lasses Meet altogether, just to have a caper, And the black fiddler plays you such a tune as Sets you a frisking. High bucks and ladies, standing in a row all, Make finer show than troops of continentals. Balance and foot it, rigadoon and chasse, Brimful of rapture. Thus poets tell us how one Mister Orpheus Led a rude forest to a contra-dance, and Play’d the brisk tune of Yankee Doodle on a New Holland fiddle. Spruce our gallants are, essenced with pomatum, Heads powder’d white as Killington-Peak snowstorm;[128] Ladies, how brilliant, fascinating creatures, All silk and muslin! But now behold a sad reverse of fortune, Life’s brightest scenes are checker’d with disaster, Clumsy Charles Clumpfoot treads on Tabby’s gown, and Tears all the tail off! Stop, stop the fiddler, all away this racket— Hartshorn and water! See the ladies fainting, Paler than primrose, fluttering about like Pigeons affrighted! Not such the turmoil, when the sturdy farmer Sees turbid whirlwinds beat his oats and rye down, And the rude hail-stones, big as pistol-bullets, Dash in his windows! Willy Wagnimble dancing with Flirtilla, Almost as light as air-balloon inflated, Rigadoons round her, ’till the lady’s heart is Forced to surrender. Benny Bamboozle cuts the drollest capers, Just like a camel, or a hippopot’mus, Jolly Jack Jumble makes as big a rout as Forty Dutch horses! See Angelina lead the mazy dance down, Never did fairy trip it so fantastic; How my heart flutters, while my tongue pronounces Sweet little seraph! Such are the joys, that flow from contra-dancing, Pure as the primal happiness of Eden, Love, mirth, and music, kindle in accordance Raptures extatic.
SONG.[129]
When cannons roar, when bullets fly, And shouts and groans affright the sky, Amid the battle’s dire alarms, I’ll think, my Mary, on thy charms; The crimson field Fresh proof shall yield Of thy fond soldier’s love; And thy dear form In battle’s storm His guardian angel prove. Should dangers thicken all around, And dying warriors strew the ground, In varied shapes, though death appear, Thy fancied form my soul shall cheer; The crimson field Fresh proof shall yield Of thy fond soldier’s love; And thy dear form In battle’s storm His guardian angel prove. And when loud cannons cease to roar, And when the din of battle’s o’er, When safe return’d from war’s alarms, O then I’ll feast on Mary’s charms! In ecstacy I’ll fly to thee My ardent passion prove, Left glory’s field, My life I’ll yield To all the joys of love.
TABITHA TOWZER.
Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair, No guinea-pig ever was neater, Like a hakmatak slender and spare, And sweet as a musk-squash, or sweeter. Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek, When dress’d in her pretty new tucker, Like an otter that paddles the creek, In quest of a mud-pout, or sucker.[130] Her forehead is smooth as a tray, Ah! smoother than that, on my soul, And turn’d, as a body may say, Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl. To what shall I liken her hair, As straight as a carpenter’s line, For similes sure must be rare, When we speak of a nymph so divine. Not the head of Nazarite seer, That never was shaven or shorn, Nought equals the locks of my dear But the silk of an ear of green corn. My dear has a beautiful nose, With a sled-runner crook in the middle, Which one would be led to suppose Was meant for the head of a fiddle. Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes, Glass buttons shone never so bright, Their love-lighted lustre outvies The lightning-bug’s twinkle by night. And oft with a magical glance, She makes in my bosom a pother, When leering politely askance, She shuts one, and winks with the other. The lips of my charmer are sweet, As a hogshead of maple molasses, And the ruby red tint of her cheek, The gill of a salmon surpasses. No teeth like her’s ever were seen, Nor ever described in a novel, Of a beautiful kind of pea-green, And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel. Her fine little ears, you would judge, Were wings of a bat in perfection; A dollar I never should grudge To put them in Peale’s grand collection. Description must fail in her chin, At least till our language is richer, Much fairer than ladle of tin, Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher. So pretty a neck, I’ll be bound, Never join’d head and body together, Like nice crook’d neck’d squash on the ground, Long whiten’d by winter-like weather. Should I set forth the rest of her charms, I might by some phrase that’s improper, Give modesty’s bosom alarms, Which I wouldn’t do for a copper. Should I mention her gait or her air, You might think I intended to banter; She moves with more grace, you would swear, Than a founder’d horse forced to a canter. She sang with a beautiful voice, Which ravish’d you out of your senses; A pig will make just such a noise When his hind-leg stuck fast in the fence is.
THE SPLENDORS OF THE SETTING SUN.
Sol, slowly sinking down the steep of heaven, With softened splendor greets the musing eye, Resigns his throne to “sober suited even,” But decorates while he deserts the sky. His noonday beams, insufferably bright, Are now succeeded by a milder blaze, And every slanting filament of light Heaven’s kind and cheering effluence conveys. Now let me wend my solitary way Where groves and lawns present alternate charms;— Gaze on the glories of the waning day, Till night shall fold me in her dusky arms. Mark how the clouds now glow like molten gold, Now gleam like snow-banks, heap’d on banks of snow; Now dash’d with azure, softer hues unfold, Now shift and kindle to a furnace-glow! Compared with these, what is the pride of art! Your petty palaces and pigmy spires— The paltry pageants of the noisy mart, And all the city-connoisseur admires! Should the whole race of man unite as one To celebrate some glorious festal day, The simple splendor of the setting sun Would far surpass their most superb display.
THE SLEEP OF THE SLUGGARD.
O list to an indolent lump of live lumber, Whom slothfulness binds with invisible bands, A little more sleep, and a little more slumber, A little more folding together the hands. “I’ve a villainous cold—and my head, how it aches! The north wind is blowing, and stings like a hornet, And as to this rising as soon as day breaks, ’Tis a vile vulgar habit, and gentlemen scorn it. “I’m none of those wretches, who labor for bread Through foul or fair weather, whatever may hap, I mean to enjoy both my table and bed, So let me turn over and take t’other nap. “I’ve money enough, and can live at my ease, I cannot be caught in necessity’s trap, Will sleep every day till the next, if I please, And so will indulge in another good nap.” His heavy hydropical carcase he turns, And sinks in uneasy intemperate rest, Till dim in his bosom the lamp of life burns, While snorting with nightmare and plethora prest. What horrible visions his bed hover o’er, The phantoms of spleen, the blue devils dire, Like Gorgons and Hydras of fabulous lore, Or red dragons belching whole rivers of fire. Now clings to the side of a prominent steep, O’er a rough, roaring cataract hangs by a hair, Now suddenly sinks in a bottomless deep, And starts, half awake with a shriek of despair! Thus rolls like a porpoise o’er billows of down, Grows big as a mammoth, and fat as a seal, Lives a plague to his friends, or a charge to the town, And dies to make worms a most plentiful meal. Ye sons of Columbia, shun the syren of sloth For if you submit to her leaden control, You will find, when too late, like a venomous moth, She consumes a man’s substance and poisons his soul. If the wizard of indolence takes you in hand, Quick break from his grasp, or you’re quickly undone, Your limbs will be lithe as a wickapy wand,[131] And your sinews be soften’d like wax in the sun.
“A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”
A gentle answer will assuage The ruthless vehemence of ire, But petulance opposed to rage Is adding fuel to the fire. He who is cautious, calm and cool, When made the subject of attack, May smile defiance on the fool, Whose anger puts him on the rack. If injury you must repel, Hard words are not of any use, The greatest energy as well Is shown without, as with abuse. If one should offer you offence, By being angry with the elf, Instead of gaining recompense You are but punishing yourself. But gentle answers will assuage The headlong vehemence of ire, While petulance opposed to rage, Adds tenfold fuel to the fire.
“HAVING FOOD AND RAIMENT, LET US THEREWITH BE CONTENT.”
Art thou blest with food and raiment, Give God thanks for favors given; Gratitude is all the payment Thou can’st make indulgent Heaven. Clothing coarse, and scant subsistence, Recompense which labor brings, With contentment make existence Happier than the life of kings. Why in heaping useless treasure, Shorten life, and health destroy? Where’s the profit or the pleasure, Hoarding what you ne’er enjoy? Why, for Mammon’s paltry proffers, Sell thyself to sin a slave, Can the wealth which swells thy coffers, Buy exemption from the grave? Since the thread of life is brittle Heed the poet’s moral song, “Man in this world needs but little, And that little needs not long.” Wants by luxury created— All of artificial kind, By indulgence never sated, Weaken and debase the mind. To the hardy child of nature, Decent clothes and frugal fare, Furnish pure enjoyments greater Than the pamper’d monarch’s share. Gold by avarice that’s hoarded, Might as well be in the mine, Wealth that’s generously afforded, Can alone be counted thine. Then, if blest with food and raiment, Let thy gratitude be shown, No man’s merits, as a claimant, Give a right to these alone.
HARVEST—INTEMPERANCE.
The arable fields and gay meadows behold, And laughing luxuriant landscape accord, In tributes of verdure, enamell’d with gold, The hard-handed husbandman’s promised reward. But pause ere you gather the bountiful crop, And listen to well meant advice of a friend, The evils which flow from intemperance stop, So far as your own good example may tend. Avoid the inveterate habit of some, (Excessively foolish, atrociously sinful,) Now bloated with brandy, now reeling with rum, Now stuffing with whiskey a spanish brown skin-full. With the fire of the elements raging without, If the fire of the still is consuming within, A body of adamant soon must give out, And the steel-sinew’d laborer soon must give in. A man had much better be burnt at the stake, For thus he will finish his troubles much quicker, Than his own carcase take a blue blaze to make, And be burning for years with the fire of strong liquor.
LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY’S ALBUM.
Miss Ann, you are, it seems to me, An essence all ethereal; The brightest being that can be, Entirely immaterial. A pencil tipp’d with solar rays Your charms could scarcely blazon; Contrasted with your beauty’s blaze Bright Sol’s a pewter basin. Transcendent little sprig of light, If rhymes are always true, An angel is an ugly sprite, Compared to Sylph like you. You frowning tell me, “This indeed Is flattery past all bearing, I ne’er before did hear nor read Of any quite so glaring.” Yes, this is flattery, sure enough, And its exaggeration May teach you how to hold such stuff In utter detestation. Should beaux your ladyship accost With something like this flummery, Tell them their labor will be lost, For this transcends their mummery. The man whose favor’s worth a thought, To flattery can’t descend; The servile sycophant is not Your lover nor your friend.
THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.
It may very truly be said That his is a noble vocation, Whose industry leads him to spread About him a little Creation. He lives independent of all Except th’ Omnipotent Donor: Has always enough at his call— And more is a plague to its owner. He works with his hands, it is true, But happiness dwells with employment, And he who has nothing to do Has nothing by way of enjoyment. His labors are mere exercise, Which saves him from pains and physicians; Then, Farmers, you truly may prize Your own as the best of conditions. From competence, shared with content, Since all true felicity springs, The life of a farmer is blent With more real bliss than a king’s.
THE CULTIVATOR’S ART.
We’re highly gratified to find, The public more and more inclined The Cultivator’s art to practise, And patronize, because the fact is That righteousness and cultivation Go hand in hand t’ exalt a nation: And Husbandry’s a hobby which A world may ride with spur and switch, If all mankind at once bestrode him They could not tire nor overload him. Not only men, who sit astride, But ladies also on a side- Saddle so neat, or on a pillion, That’s big enough to hold a million, May ride our hobby with a cheer-up, And he’ll not kick, bite, plunge, nor rear up, But vires in eundo crescit,[132] As cousin Virgil somewhere has it So fire, which has obtain’d ascendence, When setting up for independence, Prepares by heat of radiation Combustibles for conflagration;— By burning fast, the mighty master Acquires fresh means of burning faster, Till blazing pyramids arise, Which threaten to consume the skies. With ken prophetic, we behold A brighter age than that of gold, Which, with accelerating pace, Is hurrying on to bless our race; And hail its grand approximation, Mark’d by superior cultivation, When wise men’s heads, and good men’s hearts, Devoted to the art of arts, And industry’s untiring hand, Shall make a garden of our land— Yea, make New England, all exceeding, A new edition of old Eden, If not quite equal, yet before it, In many a root, and fruit, and floret, Indebted for its propagation To modern arts of cultivation. We’re tranced with rapture, when we find The fairer moiety of mankind, Whose smile makes mortal man’s condition But little short of sheer fruition, By whose society is given Earth’s purest prototype of Heaven, Th’ angelic part of human nature Inspire and aid the cultivator. A plant that’s sunn’d by ladies’ eyes Will like an exhalation rise, We hope that horticulture may Be therefore blest with beauty’s ray, Till Flora’s germs gem every waste, And every grove’s a “Bower of Taste.” Adam, in Eden, we believe, Had been a brute without his Eve; An arid heath, a blasted common, Blest with the smiles of lovely woman, We should prefer to all that’s rare In paradise, without the fair. We therefore pray that friendship’s hand From every lady in the land, May be to us henceforth extended, From this time till our time is ended; And would solicit every charmer To please to patronize the Farmer, And make those gentlemen, who claim Her approbation, do the same; And common justice must require her To grant this boon to an admirer Like us, so prone to chant her praises, In verse which absolutely blazes. His head is very like a stump Whate’er its craniologic bump, Who does not see that we the tillers Of earth compose the nation’s pillars, And may be styled, with strict propriety, The props of civilized society. What would have been poor mortals’ lot— Yea, what were man, if we were not? Nature’s poor, simple, houseless child, The weakest wild beast of the wild, Must live on browse, his home must be A cavern or a hollow tree; Sometimes, in spite of fears and cares, Be served up raw to wolves and bears. Or maugre tooth, nail, fist, and truncheon, Make hungry catamounts a luncheon. Our art, moreover, claims ascendence As german to our independence; Both, commonly, are coexistent, And each the other’s best assistant. We farmers are a sort of stuff, Tyrants will always find too tough For them to work up into slaves, The servile tools of lordly knaves. Those men who till the stubborn soil, Enlighten’d, and inured to toil, Cannot be made to quail or cower By traitor’s art or tyrant’s power, They might as well attempt to chain The west wind in a hurricane;— Make rivers run up hill by frightening, Or steal a march on kindled lightning— The great sea-serpent, which we’ve read of, Take by the tail and snap his head off— The firmament on cloudy nights, Illume with artificial lights, By such an apparatus as Is used for lighting streets with gas— Or, having split the north pole till it’s Divided into baker’s billets, Make such a blaze as never shone, And torrefy the frozen zone— With clubs assail the polar bear, And drive the monster from his lair— Attack the comets as they run With loads of fuel for the sun, And overset by oppugnation Those shining colliers of creation— The Milky Way McAdamize, A railway raise to span the skies, Then make, to save Apollo’s team, The Solar Chariot go by steam. These things shall tyrants do, and more Than we have specified, before Our cultivators they subdue, While grass is green, or sky is blue.
AN ODE.
O’er the wild Atlantic wave, Lo the fiends of discord rave; Battle’s bray is heard from far, Battle’s bray is heard from far, To Bellona’s blood-stain’d car, Yoked the madding steeds of war:— But no fiend of battle roars Round Columbia’s happy shores; Peace and plenty, hand in hand, Join to bless her happy land. CHORUS. Laud we then the God of Heav’n, At whose behest fair peace is giv’n, The God, who led our fathers o’er To Columbia’s happy shore. Where th’ embattled host of France, To the kindling war advance, There shall heroes bite the dust, There shall heroes bite the dust, Blood shall tinge the rubrick waves Where the fiend of battle raves. Sons of honor, “Sons of soul,” Whom no tyrants can control, Patriotic myriads join, Round fair freedom’s sacred shrine. Ever laud the God of Heav’n, At whose behest fair peace is giv’n, The God, who led our fathers o’er, To Columbia’s happy shore. Where Britannia’s sons unite To provoke the distant fight, There shall countless heroes fall, There shall countless heroes fall, When the din of battle join’d, Hurtles in the hollow wind. Fiends of horror flit around, Dying heroes strow the ground, Countless ghosts shall wailing go To the sullen shades below. Laud we then the God of Heav’n, At whose behest fair peace is giv’n, The God who led our fathers o’er, To Columbia’s happy shore. May not anarch’s hydra form, Thunder his voice, his breath the storm, Desolate our happy land, Desolate our happy land— Mid fell discord’s wild uproar, May no fiend of anarch roar, Call the rugged, meddling throng Of every clime, of every tongue, To light fair freedom’s funeral pyre, And bid her mid the blaze expire. May the gracious God of Heav’n, At whose behest fair peace is giv’n, The God who led our fathers o’er, Still protect Columbia’s shore.
THE COURSE OF CULTURE.[133]
Survey the world, through every zone, From Lima to Japan, In lineaments of light ’tis shown That CULTURE makes the man. By manual culture one attains What industry may claim, Another’s mental toil and pains Attenuate his frame. Some plough and plant the teeming soil Some cultivate the arts; And some devote a life of toil To tilling heads and hearts. Some train the adolescent mind, While buds of promise blow, And see each nascent twig inclined The way the tree should grow. The first man, and the first of men, Were tillers of the soil; And that was mercy’s mandate then, Which destined man to moil. Indulgence preludes fell attacks Of merciless disease, And sloth extends on fiery racks Her listless devotees. Hail, Horticulture! Heaven-ordained, Of every art the source, Which man has polished, life sustained, Since time commenced his course. Where waves thy wonder-working wand What splendid scenes disclose! The blasted heath, the arid strand, Out-bloom the gorgeous rose! Even in the SERAPH-SEX is thy Munificence described; And Milton says in lady’s eye Is Heaven identified. A seedling, sprung from Adam’s side, A most celestial shoot! Became of Paradise the pride, And bore a world of fruit. The lily, rose, carnation, blent By Flora’s magic power, And tulip, feebly represent So elegant a flower: Then surely, bachelors, ye ought In season to transfer Some sprig of this sweet “TOUCH-ME-NOT,” To grace your own parterre; And every gardener should be proud, With tenderness and skill, If haply he may be allowed This precious plant to till. All that man has, had, hopes, can have, Past, promised, or possessed, Are fruits which CULTURE gives or gave At INDUSTRY’S behest.
A SONG.
SUNG AT AN AGRICULTURAL DINNER, AT CONCORD, MASS.
Since time in the primer first sharpen’d his scythe, And the sands in his glass were beginning to flow, There never was spectacle bonny and blithe, Which came fairly up to our Grand Cattle Show. Derry down, down, down, derry down. Here’s bulls, hogs, and horses, and sheep not a few, Respectable animals, worthy a prize, Like good go-to-meeting folks, each in his pew, All sober as deacons—if not quite so wise. Master Pig is the Chorister, just twist his tail, And he’ll give you altissimo trills in high style, The fine diatonics which run through the scale Of his exquisite gamut will ring for a mile. Our roots have run down to gravity’s centre, Some went on to China, and thieves pulled them through— But that’s a tough story, and I shouldn’t venture, In a high court of Justice to swear it is true. And here we have oxen, stout animals, which Might well go to Congress, representing their race, Round gravity’s centre just give them a hitch, And I guess they would twitch the great globe out of place. The match of our Ploughmen was ne’er matched before, Save when a lorn lover is matched to his fair; They turned the earth over as flat as this floor, Such chaps the great globe, like an apple can pare. In troth, all the world’s nothing more than a show Of animals, shut up, or running at large, You meet with queer creatures wherever you go, And pity their keepers, who have them in charge. A calf sent to college comes out a great bore, An odd metamorphosis that, it is true, But one which has taken place over and o’er;— Now I do not mean you, sir, nor you, sir, nor you. I hate personalities, therefore won’t say, How a jackass conducts when made just ass of Peace, Such animals now and then come in my way, But I never shear hogs for the sake of their fleece. A vile pettifogger, all quibble and jaw, Is ninety-nine thousand times worse than a brute, In a sunbeam he’ll pick an indictable flaw, And against his own shadow show cause for a suit. Here’s health to our orator,[134] one who can boast That he practises well what he preaches about; But gentlemen please not to butter my toast, For we like him so well we can take him without. Here’s “Middlesex Husbandmen,” doing more good Than all the political clubs ever known, Unless a man’s head is the essence of wood, He ranks them above any king on his throne. Derry down, down, down, derry down.
THE EVILS OF A MISCHIEVOUS TONGUE.
Many have fallen by the edge of the sword, but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.—Eccl. Apoc. xxviii. 8. Tho’ millions, the sword of the warrior has slaughter’d, While fame has the homicide’s eulogy rung: Yet many more millions on millions are martyr’d; Cut off by that cowardly weapon, the tongue. One sword may be match’d by another as keen, In battle the bold man a bolder may meet, But the shaft of the slanderer, flying unseen From the quiver of malice, brings ruin complete. An insolent tongue, by a taunt or a gibe, Enkindles heart-burnings and bloody affrays; A treacherous tongue, when impell’d by a bribe, The guiltless condemns, or a nation betrays. A smooth subtle tongue vile seducers employ The fair sex to lure to libidinous thrall; A slip of the tongue may its owner destroy, And the tongue of the serpent occasion’d the fall. Then be it impress’d on Columbian youth, That the tongue is an engine of terrible force; Not govern’d by reason, not guided by truth, A plague, which may desolate worlds in its course.
CHEERFULNESS.
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”
With mirth let us cherish our hearts, ’Tis a precept by Solomon given, And cheerfulness surely imparts The temper best fitted for heaven. Among all the numberless ways By which folly contrives to be wrong, There is none which more weakness displays Than wearing a visage too long. Th’ Omnipotent Donor designs That the gifts of His grace be enjoy’d; Hence, he that forever repines, Had better be better employ’d. When first was created our race, This earth for man’s mansion was given, And shall he find fault with the place To which he’s allotted by heav’n? ’Tis a thing, I believe, understood, In which every sect is agreed, This earth was declared to be good, And so in the Bible we read. Under Providence, tenants at will, A fine habitation we hold; For us to be murmuring still Is wicked, ungrateful and bold. Yet well-meaning people I’ve seen, Who think true religion is shown By a sort of a wo-begone mein, And a whining, conventicle tone. ’Tis true, there’s a season to mourn, As Solomon says—ne’ertheless Our grief should be manfully borne, And ’tis folly to cherish distress. A train of diseases await On a heart that forever is sad, And some, from a sorrowing state, Become irretrievably mad. That religion can never be true Which bows its disciples to earth, For he that has heav’n in view, Has the best of all titles to mirth. With mirth then we’ll cherish our hearts, ’Tis a mandate by Solomon given, For cheerfulness surely imparts The temper best fitted for heaven.
EULOGY ON THE TIMES.
Let poets scrawl satiric rhymes, And sketch the follies of the times, With much caricaturing; But I, a bon-ton-bard, declare A set of slanderers they are, E’en past a Job’s enduring. Let crabbed cynics snarl away, And pious parsons preach and pray Against the vices reigning; That mankind are so wicked grown, Morality is scarcely known, And true religion waning. Societies, who vice suppress, May make a rumpus; ne’ertheless, Our’s is the best of ages; Such hum-drum folks our fathers were, They could no more with us compare, Than Hottentots with sages. It puts the poet in a pet To think of THEM, a vulgar set; But WE, thank G—d, are QUALITY! For we have found this eighteenth century What ne’er was known before, I’ll venture ye, Religion’s no reality! Tom Paine, and Godwin, both can tell That there is no such thing as hell! A doctrine mighty pleasant; Your old-wives tales of a hereafter Are things for ridicule and laughter, While we enjoy the present. We’ve nought to do, but frisk about, At midnight ball, and Sunday rout, And Bacchanalian revel; To gamble, drink, and live at ease, Our great and noble selves to please, Nor care for man, nor devil. In these good times, with little pains, And scarce a penny-worth of brains, A man with great propriety, With some small risk of being hung, May cut a pretty dash among The foremost in society. Good reader, I’ll suppose, for once, Thou art no better than a dunce, But wishest to be famous; I’ll tell thee how, with decent luck, Thou may’st become as great a buck As any one could name us. When first in high life you commence, To virtue, reason, common sense, You’ll please to bid adieu, sir; And, lest some brother rake be higher, Drink, till your blood be all on fire, And face of crimson hue, sir. Thus you’ll be dubb’d a dashing blade, And, by the genteel world be said, To be a man of spirit; For stylish folks despise the chaps, Who think that they may rise, perhaps, By industry and merit. With lubric arts, and wily tongue, Debauch some maiden, fair and young, For that will be genteel; Be not too scrupulous; win the fair; Then leave the frail one to despair: A rake should never feel. When wine has made your courage stout, In midnight revel sally out, Insulting all you meet; Play pretty pranks about the town, Break windows, knock the watchmen down, Your frolic to complete! Besides exhibiting your parts, You’re sure to win the ladies’ hearts By dint of dissipation; Since “every woman is a rake,” A fool may know what steps to take To gain her approbation. By practising these famous rules, You’ll gain from wicked men and fools A world of admiration: And, as we know from good authority, Such folks compose a clear majority, There needs no hesitation.
THE ART OF PRINTING.
Blest be the memory of the Sage, Who taught the typographic page To teem with symbols, heav’n-design’d, The mute interpreters of mind. The world at length had learn’d to prize The art of speaking to the eyes, Which had, by modes which Cadmus taught, Giv’n immortality to thought;— When Faustus, by celestial skill, Found means to multiply at will, Those silent heralds of the kind, Which give ubiquity to mind,— Explored that Art, which brings to view, All that we know—our father’s knew,— And which developes every hour That knowledge, which results in power,— That Art, which gives to man’s control Celestial treasures of the soul, Transcending, many thousand fold, Golconda’s gems, and Ophir’s gold. What but the Printer’s Art sublime, Can register the deeds of time, Recording all that’s said and done Most worthy note beneath the sun? The poet, patriot, saint and sage Have habitations on his page, Are never absent when you call, Alike accessible to all. He introduces man to man, Of every nation, tribe or clan, The humble to the high—Most High, In palaces above the sky. Then bless the memory of the sage, Who taught the typographic page To teem with symbols, heav’n-design’d, The silent heralds of the mind.
THE OLD BACHELOR:
AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.
What singular mortal is that, Who sits in yon cottage alone, Excepting an old tabby cat, Which gray with her master is grown? Say, would you his origin know, Or if the odd mortal came here From regions above, or below? The truth I will tell you, my dear. Dame Nature, a fanciful jade, As ancient philosophers say, When all other creatures were made, Had left a small portion of clay. The matter, indeed, was so crude She meant to have thrown it aside, At length in a frolicsome mood, To make something of it she tried. Her goody-ship, worried about, Was forc’d her old vessels to scrape, For matter to finish the lout To a biped, which had human shape. She moulded the comical stuff, ’Till all in one mass was combined; His body, though quite odd enough, Was perfect, compared with his mind. To a hard unsusceptible heart, She added a thick leaden skull, And threw in of pride such a part, As well might suffice a mogul: But did not implant in his breast A taste for those pleasures refined, Which give to enjoyment its zest, And soften the cares of the mind. Of wisdom she threw in a spice, But omitted to add common sense; Dutch prudence a very large slice, To teach him the saving of pence. She gave him good honesty’s phiz; No mummy was ever more grave, Although, my dear madam, the quiz, To his wit’s full extent is a knave. All this she perform’d in a jerk, And being well pleased with him, so far, She set herself gravely to work, And forced him to swallow a crow-bar. No wonder then, this queer machine, Which so rude, and so awkwardly made is, By nobody ever was seen To bow to the fairest of ladies.[135] At length he was usher’d to light, A half-alive kind of commodity, A thing, which you’d say, at first sight, Was quite the quintessence of oddity. She planted him down in yon hut, To vegetate there with impunity, Till death shall prohibit the Put Any more from disgusting community.
CALORIC.
Earth, sea and air abound in rare Minute caloric particles, Invisible indeed, but still Most energetic articles. Almighty power each atom gave Existence at creation; Each would Omnipotence require For its annihilation. It now lies in a latent state, Anon in ardent action; And He alone, who can create Can bring to naught a fraction. Chief agent in all acts of power Its atoms seem divinities; Tempests, volcanoes, earthquakes are Mere plays of their affinities. ’Tis their’s to drive the lightning’s car, To speed the shaft of thunder, Give earth an atmosphere of fire, And rend the globe asunder!
THE ILLS OF IDLENESS.
What pains and penalties attend The wight whose being’s aim and end Is wholly self-enjoyment! His easy chair becomes a rack, And all Pandora’s plagues attack The wretch who wants employment. To shun the exquisite distress Which ever waits on idleness, He flies to dissipation; Drinks deep to keep his spirits up, And in the inebriating cup Drowns health and reputation. And now in Fashion’s vortex whirl’d, A dandy of the genteel world, He figures in the ton, The wise man laughs, the simple stare To see the consequential air The silly rake puts on. Now drives his curricle about To club, assembly, ball and rout, To waste his time and treasure; Gives sensual appetite the reins, And takes illimitable pains To seem a man of pleasure. The course of life such fools pursue Would worry down the wand’ring Jew,— Worse off than galley-slaves! And ten to one, about the time The man of virtue’s in his prime, Such sots are in their graves. But if their days are lengthen’d out, By dint of constitution stout, In apathy and pain; A ruby and carbuncled face Displays the signal of disgrace Like mark, erst set on Cain. Now dire paralysis and gout Parade their forces round about The citadel of life; In vain the doctor tries his skill; His obstinate opponents still Are victors in the strife. Disease, remorse, with joint attack, Now put at once upon the rack Their bodies and their souls; Victims of vice, they suffer more Than Montezuma did of yore When stretch’d on burning coals.