A collection of fugitive essays, in prose and verse. Written by Charles Prentiss. ; [One line from Johnson] ; Published according to act of Congress.

A collection of fugitive essays, in prose and verse. Written by Charles Prentiss. ; [One line from Johnson] ; Published according to act of Congress.

Table of contents

Title page

Preface.

SCATTERED CRITICISM.

NUMBER I.

NUMBER II.

NUMBER III.

NUMBER IV.

NUMBER V.

NUMBER IV.

THE ADIEU. WRITTEN FROM BEACON HILL.

§

NUMBER VII.

NUMBER VIII.

NUMBER XI.

NUMBER X.

NUMBER XI.

NUMBER XII.

NUMBER XIII.

NUMBER XIV.

NUMBER XV.

NUMBER XVI.

NUMBER XVII.

NUMBER XVIII.

ESSAYS—MORAL AND HUMOROUS.

NUMBER I.

NUMBER II. ARGUMENTS IN FAVOR OF WAR.

NUMBER III.

NUMBER IV.

NUMBER V.

NUMBER VI.

NUMBER VII.

NUMBER VIII.

NUMBER IX.

NUMBER X.

NUMBER XI.

NUMBER XII.

NUMBER XIII.

NUMBER XIV. APOSTROPHE TO RUM.

NUMBER XV. A FUNERAL ORATION.

NUMBER XVI. A CREED.

Epigrams.

NUMBER I. On the necessary combination of genius and science in composition.

NUMBER II.

NUMBER III. On my old BOOTS.

NUMBER IV. On a certain writer, who was fond of maggotty Cheese, who frequently observed that nothing was lost.

NUMBER V. On MILTON and POPE.

NUMBER VI. On LIFE and DEATH.

NUMBER VII. On STERNE.

NUMBER VIII.

NUMBER IX. On CHESTERFIELD.

NUMBER X. On PETER PINDAR.

NUMBER XI.

NUMBER XII. ON THE QUESTION—WHAT IS BEAUTY. [The thoughts from Voltaire.]

NUMBER XIII. On RUM DRINKING.

NUMBER XIV. On SHAKESPEARE.

NUMBER XV.

NUMBER XVI. To a Poet with clouts on.

NUMBER XVII. [TYPOGRAPHICAL.] To the same.

NUMBER XVIII.

NUMBER XIX. A certain Lawyer observed that calf skin properly shaved would make good paper.

NUMBER XX. On a man of a full purse and empty heart.

NUMBER XXI.

NUMBER XXII.

NUMBER XXIII. On a slovenly Poetaster, who observed that all good poets were slovenly and poor.

NUMBER XXIV.

NUMBER XXV.

NUMBER XXVI.

POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS.

On being refused a Lady's company to a Ball, the following was sent.

The last AMOROUS EPISTLE from JONATHAN to MOLLY.

CORIDON.

A WILL.

AMBITION.

LINES ON CHATTERTON.

The DRUNKEN DOCTOR. A FACT.

LINES inscribed to a YOUNG LADY, who had taken from the Centinel a MORCEAU of the author's poetry, and preserved it in her pocket book.

A FRAGMENT.

BEAUTY.

LETTER TO A FRIEND.

NESCIO QUID.

The substance of a long SERMON, preached in a small house, by a diminutive "holder forth"— turned into Sapphic.

HONESTY.

DISTINCTION. A POEM, delivered July 15, 1795, at Commencement, Cambridge.

IMAGINATION. A POEM, delivered at a PUBLIC EXHIBITION, in Cambridge, April 13, 1795.

And it came to pass in those days, that the spirit of politics pervaded my mind, which, added to the usual spirit of poetry, shone forth in a brief, yet pertinent EPISTLE TO THE ELECTORS OF A FEDERAL REPRESENTATIVE IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK.

The Drama.

FRIENDSHIP AND INNOCENCE.

PARODY of the 1st. PSALM.

STANZAS TO DOMESTIC RETIREMENT.

FRAGMENT.

A TALE.

§

To Cambridge ORATORS.

To LAURA.

Title page

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

HAVEN, OR THE MERITED GALLOWS.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Room of an Inn—Punctum, Flyhead and others, sitting down to a game of Loo.

SCENE II. Chamber of the inn—Jack lying on the bed—Enter Doctor and Hartly.

ACT II.

SCENE I. The street.

SCENE II. Clarisa alone—a faint light in part of the room.

SCENE II. Tim, Punctum and Hartly.

ACT III.

SCENE I. Enter Hartly, Doctor, Punctum and Tim, with a candle, to the chamber where Clarisa is.

A COLLECTION OF FUGITIVE ESSAYS, IN PROSE AND VERSE.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

A COLLECTION OF FUGITIVE ESSAYS, IN PROSE AND VERSE.

WRITTEN BY CHARLES PRENTISS.

YE FOPS BE SILENT, AND YE WITS BE JUST.

Johnson.

Published according to ACT of CONGRESS.

LEOMINSTER, [MASSACHUSETTS] PRINTED BY AND FOR THE AUTHOR. 1797.

Preface.

[Page]

WHETHER he is saving some future book-seller the trouble of collecting what is contained in the following sheets; or whether he is, by laying them en masse before the public, only bringing down their young hairs in sorrow to the grave of oblivion, is a doubt in the author's mind—but, possessed of a moderate share of vanity, and feelings callous to the ridicule of the uncritical, he submits them to their readers; not calling aloud on their candor, which they will use or disuse, as they please; only requesting, that none condemn without understanding, none criticise without TASTE, and that those few, who have taste, judge with righteous judgment.

SCATTERED CRITICISM.

[Page]

NUMBER I.

IT is a dangerous thing to meddle with a Metaphor. Much knowledge of criticism, and with writers on rhetoric, and much good reading, are requisite. A figure proves frequently too much for a young writer to cope with; and ought to be handled with caution: hence scribblers would not often cut such droll figures in their metaphors.

[Page]

NUMBER II.

WHEN we look over the works of the antient Eastern writers, we find a great sameness in authors who were unknown to each other. Virtues and vices, the passions and inclinations, were likened to objects that surrounded, and to the various operations of nature. A man of integrity was like a rock in the sea, unmoved with the waves of vice, or the storms of adversity. Anger, like a whirlwind, destroyed whatever opposed its fury. An army poured like a torrent. The horsemen flew over the plain. Love grew, Friendship died. And benevolence scattered blessings.

NATURE presents nearly the same objects in all parts of the world: hence the comparisons and figures of the first rude writers of any country have so much similarity. The Rhetoric of OSSIAN differs but little from that of the Persian poets, or the Jewish prophets. Much originality may be seen in all their writings. But [Page] when writers multiplied, and Criticism began to enact her laws, impose her regulations, and set bounds to the irregular sallies of imagination, originality of sentiment was in a great measure wanting. The Poet read the Iliad; observed what ARISTOTLE or LONGINUS condemned, and imitated his beauties, but scarcely dared to wander from his path, lest the Critic should censure his deviations. Fancy, who, with pleasure, before wantoned in the garden of rhetoric, collected her odoriferous flowers, or strayed to neighboring groves, or clumb the distant mount, to scan the beautiful and sublime of nature, was now arrested in her career. Criticism built her fences and made her enclosures, planted her vineyards and laid out her alleys; and ordered fancy never to tread prohibited grounds, nor wander from her sight.

NUMBER III.

I HAVE often thought that the fear of appearing before the bar of criticism, has been of essential disservice to a young genius. Tho [Page] less correct, the lucubrations of a young writer display a noble wildness, and a pleasing incoherency. A superiority of fire and invention, mark the works of all writers who were unacquainted with the laws of criticism.

TO the censures of the critic, I always oppose the authority of the poet. The world may consider it as a happiness, that ADDISON and VOLTAIRE past not their strictures on MILTON and SHAKESPEARE, before their immortal works had gained universal applause. Sin and Death would have been struck out from Paradise Lost, and the plays of SHAKESPEARE been so mangled by the amendments of VOLTAIRE, that the Frenchified Bard of AVON would hardly have thanked the philosopher of FERNEY, for his undeserved kindness.

NUMBER IV.

A BAD writer is always a bad critic. True Taste is as uncommon as an original writer. Some men possess good taste in some branches of literature, and are deficient in others. One judges well of [Page] prosaic composition, on one subject, another on another. Few are capable of criticising accurately on all. He that is a great proficient in grammar determines the merit of a piece by the accuracy of the spelling or the grammar. Another by the style. One is pleased with the pathetic only, another with wit; one is delighted with sublimity, and another with rural simplicity. The souls of but few are possessed with apartments for a comprehensive satisfaction in all. I know a man who reads POPE, but never perceives any thing pleasing in MILTON. I know another who is pleased with all POPE's writings, who dispises BUTLER's HUDIBRAS or TRUMBUL's M'FINGAL. This difference of sentiment arises wholly from a want of true Taste.

NUMBER V.

EVERY man is a Critic; from him, whose whole life has been a continued pursuit of literary acquirements, to him, who was never conversant with any work but the Bible [Page] and Pilgrim's Progress. A certain Justice of Peace, who is master of the "Town Officer," and has half a dozen old volumes in his library, is considered as an accurate judge of composition. His word sanctions the worth of every performance, in the opinion of many. The freshman, who has just gone thro VIRGIL, and has seen the works of the English poets, determines correctly the exact quantum of merit in each. When he arrives to his junior year, he either grows more modest, or becomes an arrant pedant. I have seen four or five discoursing on Mr. PAINE's Prologue; the finest allegory in the English language (the allusion to the deluge) was condemned as nonsensical and incorrect. On asking their reasons for such a decision: "Why," said they, "the stage was not erected, till long after the flood, and NOAH on mount Arrarat has certainly no connection with the Theatre." Yet these gentlemen were great scholars, and could manage a knotty syllogism, or demonstrate the most intricate lemma in Enfield.

[Page]

NUMBER IV.

MANY people imagine that Poetry consists entirely in a knack at rhyming; and on this presumption have often become, in their own opinions, poets of the first rate. 'Tis difficult to give a true definition of this art. Its foundation is a lively imagination. An original manner of conception and expression, a knowledge of grammar and metre, an intimate acquaintance with the passions and feelings, a correct judgment, long practice, much reading, and above all a good natural understanding, are essentially necessary. Scribblers being possessed of some, yet deficient in most of these requisites, what time has been spent, what paper has been wasted, what pains have been taken, for the obtainment of chagrin, disappointment and ridicule, poverty and disgrace. Volumes have opened their eyes to infamy and closed them in eternal oblivion. The world is stocked with poetry, and poetry with nonsense or plagiarism.

[Page]Satires, songs, sonnets, odes, elegies, acrostics, penegyrics, pastorals, invocations, &c. with neither wit, fancy, sweetness, elegance, pathos, beauty, sublimity, nor simplicity, are written for amusement and fame; printed to patronise dullness; read and admired by ignorance, affectation and vanity. Poems like these frequently appear in volumes, more frequently in pamphlets, but without number in magazines and newspapers. For the exemplification of this, I shall take indiscriminately an intended elegy from a Boston paper of Nov. 1795, and point out its deficiences, in grammar, in metre, in poetical expression and conception, together with the insipidity and incoherency of the ideas.

THE ADIEU. WRITTEN FROM BEACON HILL.

THE ORB OF DAY, retiring in the West,

O'erspreads with fluid gold the blushing skies;

CREATION seems to follow on for rest—

To greet new life when SOL again shall rise.

But stay, O Planet of Celestial light—

[Page]Let me one moment more be blest by you,

E're you resign to silver'd LUNA, night—

To sketch this lanscape, and bid all adieu!

For ah, thou cheering and unerring ray,

Ere LUNA hovers o'er the vast domain,

Far from this spot I exit with thy day,

Quit my loved Boston, distant climes to gain.

E'en now, methinks, I see thy parting tear,

Rolling luxurious, thro the high arch'd dome;

And from between yon hill thy smile so dear,

Calms the rude breeze and gilds the sea's fierce foam.

Slow-winding CHARLES in gentle murmurs glide,

Around, each village, autumn's beauties view!

Luxurious commerce on yon eastern tide,

Brings back the riches enterprise had due.

Boston majestic rises up between,

The seat of science and undying fame;

Where love inspires with joy each varied scene—

Where first I felt the power of Cupid's flame!

Adieu!—Sol's quiv'ring faintly ray no more,

[Page]Plays on the systems which my eye can trace,

Already Night in darkness cloaks each shore,

Each Star bright twinkling in its pearly grace.

But lo! a Goddess from the East appears,

And in her train each milder charm await,

Spread their pure light, and drop their dewy tears,

As tho' they come to see and balm my fate.

I greet thee, Goddess of the love-plaint hour,

I greet thee, witness with yon village dale,

When with Eliza in the roseat bower

I told my passion—she approv'd my tale.

Thou, LUNA, then was witness to my truth—

And oft, alas! since then have call'd on you:

My woe hath robb'd me of the joys of youth—

My spirits linger—still my heart is true.

Since dear Eliza broke the vow she made,

So solemn—calling on each throne above,

To witness vows so sacred from a maid,

"None, none but thee, I cannot, will not love!"

[Page]Dearest ELIZA! tell me why this change,

Why leave me thus to mourn without a cause!

Have I o'erbounded virtue's chastest range!

Have I infring'd love's purest sacred law!

No!—I have not—but thou, Eliza, hast!

Thou, and alone have broken every tie;

Ye Gods! too true, Eliza once so chaste,

Has broke those vows which once could never die!

O Poverty! thou cause of this my grief—

Thy cruel hand my bliss and hope's undone!

Riches! I must invoke thy quick relief,

Ah! would I could fit and claim her as my own.

Curst Pride! thou nurse of many a human ill—

To thee, because I'm poor, Eliza flies

Far from my sight—and drinks of thy proud rill—

Nor thinks that thus her wretched lover dies!

* * * * *

But stop!—The parting hour is near at hand

Time points his finger to the full-flowed tide;

[Page]The western breeze bounds swiftly o'er the land,

And soon, full soon, the rolling waves I ride.

Farewell Eliza! my friends, around, adieu!

Should Fortune bless me quick I shall return;

And from this seat the beauteous prospects view—

Blest with Eliza, whom I now must mourn.

B.

Boston, Nov. 1795.

§

Written from Beacon Hill.) How far from it, or how near to it, remains uncertain.

O'erspread with fluid gold the blushing skies.) Skies blushing yellow is quite a novel idea.

Creation seems to follow on for rest.) How does creation follow on?

But stay, oh Planet.) The sun is not a planet. Of what is e're an abbreviation?

For ah thou cheering and unerring ray.) This ray possesses a tear, which rolls luxurious thro the high arched dome; and a smile which calms the rude breeze between a hill. And how does the moon hover? Exit is a noun, not a verb.

[Page] Slow winding Charles in gentle murmurs glide.) Who, that has not the accurate ear of this writer, ever heard a slow winding river murmur? A poet ought to be acquainted with grammar. We find in this beautiful morceau, glide for glides: each milder charm await —for awaits: thou, Luna, then was—instead of wast: None, none but thee I cannot, will not love —cannot love none! If such was her vow, no promise has been broken: Thou and alone have broken—for hast broken.

Where love inspires with joy each varied scene.) Here perhaps the author meant mobs, and the love of licentiousness.

Plays on the systems which my eye can trace.) What an eye this animated poet must have, to trace the invisible systems of the universe!

This jingler had said, in the 3d verse, ere the moon rose he should quit Boston; but the goddess appears, and still this great poctasterling remains. But of what species are these charms, that shed tears and seem (how poetically expressed.)

As tho they came to see and balm my fate.

[Page]Ah would I could sit and claim her as my own.

Farewell Eliza, my friends around adieu.

The easy flowing of these lines, the quantity, accent and harmony, are such as claim the loudest note of applause.

The proud rill of pride, and the bounding breezes, please for their novelty, and add a dimple to the cheek of risibility.

These are only some of the most glaring improprieties. Many other grammatical, logical and rhetorical errors I have omitted, but they may be easily seen. The same want of spirit, that renders the performance insipid and ridiculous, is observable in the conduct of the lovesick swain. The frowns of his dear ELIZA render a voyage to sea necessary for the remedy of so direful a disorder. Yet even these lines have their admirers. They are read and please; and three fourths of the students of our ALMA MATER, unless some critical friend had informed them to the contrary, would say they are sentimental, harmonious and elegant.

[Page]

NUMBER VII.

INACCURACIES of thought, occasioned by a carelessness, common with great writers in a noble frenzy of ideas, when warmed with the subject, and anxious to compleat the sentiments, unless they are very frequent, the true critic always expects to find, and is never greatly displeased. They are easily distinguished from the continual blunders of white haired insipidity and persevering impotency. Typographical errors will sometimes escape the eye of the most vigilant editor, and the misplacing of a letter not unfrequently renders a thought nonsensical or unsuitable.

IT is the part of a penetrating critic to distinguished between the faults of haste and the defects of the understanding.

NUMBER VIII.

WHILE the man, to whom the gifts of nature were only a compound of apathy [Page] and dulness, lolls away the tedious hours of a college life, "unknowing and unknown;" while the unfit sons of wealth have often the most favorable opportunities to enrich their understandings; are indulged with a sight of the streams of literature; have the refusal of many a wholesome draught, yet neglect the cheering cup of pleasing information; see Genius at the plow or the anvil, compelled by the imperious command of Penury to toil away in obscurity that life, which, if devoted to the muses, might tear the laurel from the rival brow of a Homer, and shine as far above the wits of modern days as he outshines the bards of elder time.

BUT when the man, possessed of an unconquerable awkwardness or impotency of thought, tho by friends admonished of his disqualifications, stubbornly plods for that learning which only renders him ridiculous, seized with the cacoethes scribendi, scribbles rhime and still scribbles rhime, till the patience of humanity can no longer encourage, and the arrows of wit wound not the unfeeling [Page] victim; we cannot help regretting the partial distributions of fortune.

THE first rude attempts of genius at composition, tho incorrect, extravagant and wild, discover what ought to be encouraged. A few years practice and attention, might improve and ripen—Industry subdues all.

MERIT ought ever to be raised, but ambitious weakness depressed.

NUMBER XI.

MUCH has been said, and much has been written, on stile. A diversity of stile exists both in poetry and prose; but mostly in poetry. The nervous, dry, laconic, flowery, &c. are equally seen in both; added to which there arises in poetry a great variety, which depends on the construction of poetical sentences, the metre, tranposition and rhyme. Every one is apt to degrade the stile he is unable to reach. One speaks highly of the ease, nature and simplicity of Addison. [Page] Another recommends Gibbon and Johnson. The stately stiffness, the labored elegance of periods, wound off in rotundo, so common in Gibbon's Roman History, are admired by writers, who approximate to his manner, and condemned by those who are unable to command a pompous grandeur of periods. The Prompter laughs at Doctor Johnson: but his Lives of the Poets, while it discovers all the Critic, and all the Biographer, with regard to stile, is the first prose performance in the English language. But the formation of a stile engages so much of the attention of many, that sentiment is often entirely excluded. Many measure the merit of a performance entirely by its stile. I have read over orations and poems, a few obsolete observations, properly repeated, diversified and spun out, are sufficient to gain admiration. Sentence succeeds sentence, beneath my eye, a gorgeous troop of dwarfs, in giant apparel. I would rather see sentiment, with not a rag to her back, than such an awkward abundance of fine clothes, with nobody to wear them.

[Page]

NUMBER X.

SO much attention is paid and so much care taken to form a stile similar to some eminent writer, that the cultivation of language, rather than of ideas, becomes the study of those who are anxious to distinguish themselves in the literary world. Stile is not a matter of such importance as supposed by many. No man was less attentive to stile than Swift; yet the prose works of but few are more admired. There is a mechanical manner of constructing sentences, of which some have availed themselves. The triad so frequent in Johnson's works, the insertion of an adjective, before almost every substantive, commencing a sentence with a participle or adjective, the transposition of sentences in imitation of the Latins; and every one's reading will furnish him with a variety of other ways to raise and embellish the ideas. But by a continual repetition the art is seen and displeases. And unless the sentiments are equal to the stile, it resembles a splendid [Page] palace without furniture, or a table of elegant dishes or rich plate but nothing to eat.

IN poetry, the language must never falter; the dignity is lost when it fails, whatever the sentiments. But there is such a charm in metre and poetical language, that the weakest of matter is often so graced in rhyme, as to command commendation from the uncritical multitude. Hence poetry becomes more often the refuge of dullness, than the tongue of genius.

NUMBER XI.

THE stile of Milton's Paradise Lost, is vastly superior to any other poetical work in our language. When I read Pope, Addison, Hayley, &c. I am obliged to forget Milton, or I cannot relish them. There is in Milton such a nobleness and independence of expression that every sentiment seems an hero, commanding his little company of words, ever ready and suitable.

[Page]THE stile of poetry is varied by the rhyme. The double endings or Hudibrastic metre, are become quite common in writings of humor and satire. Butler has the honor of invention. Imitations have been frequent and sometimes successful. Trumbul's M'Fingal is by no means inferior. There are but few who are not pleased with the double ending: it is perfectly suitable to low subjects.

NUMBER XII.

NO rule that will universally hold good can be given for puctuation. A compleat system of punctuation cannot be: the endless variety in constructing sentences requires as great a variety of rules. Let us not believe what writers say, till we have examined for ourselves, and are convinced of its propriety. It has been said that the colon is totally unnecessary. Where is the impropriety of its use in the following examples?

[Page]

"CUSTINE lately made a requisition of reinforcements for his army: Pache informed the military committee of this &c."

Moore's Journal.

"SOME dreaded the evils, which impended a total alteration of government: some were the personal friends of the fallen majesty of France."

French Revolution.

"SOME of our vegetables deserve a particular description, on account of their uncommon properties: thus the Bayberry is distinguished by a fine perfume."

Williams's History of Vermont.

THE ipse dixit of the critic, who would annihilate the colon for the sake of being called a profound grammarian, is not always to be believed in preference to the impartial evidence of reason and propriety.

IN punctuation, the universal rule is— to make the sense clear and the sentences harmonious to the ear.

[Page]

NUMBER XIII.

THE arts of embellishing poetry are innumerable. Some men devoid of genius endeavor to become poets by art. Volumes are read; lines are remembered; transpositions, aliterations, figures &c. With a heteroneous collection of unmethodised assistants one sallies into rhyme; scrapes an unwelcome acquaintance with the muses; is insensible of the coolness with which he is treated; waves the banners of poetry, and considers himself as one of the first bards of the age. Others, possessed of real genius, having never made themselves acquainted with the orders and regulations of criticism, often vaguely and inelegantly express the sublimest of sentiments.

NUMBER XIV.

THE great alterations that have been made in Orthrography have been of much advantage to beginners and foreigners: but [Page] the improvement of the art ought to be more thoroughly attended to and understood. I impose on myself the following simple, universal rule, viz: that all words ought ever to be divided as pronounced; and all the letters, or combination of signs to express sounds, ought ever to be joined to that syllable to which they naturally belong.

WHEN I first attended school, words ending in tion, sion, &c. were spelt as two syllables. The reformation was not complete when those were united in one.

WE approve of, and believe true, too much of what we are taught, for habit has often the force of nature. In the word vision, s has the sound of zh, and i that of y; and the sound of zh is in the first syllable; the word ought therefore to be divided thus, vision.

T has sometimes the sound of sh, but never of zh. Edition ought to be divided e-dit-ion: certainly if t has the sound of sh, it should be joined to the second syllable, as there it is pronounced.

[Page]

NUMBER XV.

C HAS often the sound of sh, it is absurd to divide the word mathematician as it usually is: the sound of sh belongs to the penult, and the word ought therefore to be divided, math-e-ma-tic-ian. So of all those words, prec-ious, spec-ial, vit-ious, deficient, offic-ial &c. The letter U sounds often like W. A child is very wrongly taught to divide words thus: e-qui-ty, in-i-qui-ty, &c. instead of eq-ui-ty, in-iq-ui-ty. U is sometimes silent after q, as in the words, liquor, laquey &c. which ought to be divided, liq-uor, laq-uey.

WHERE i has the sound of y, words ought to be divided thus: fol-io, jun-ior, un-ion, bdell-ium, mill-ion, Will-iam &c.

IF masters either consulted the philosophy of orthography, or the ease of learners, many of such absurd ways of dividing words would be neglected.

[Page]

NUMBER XVI.

WORDS ought never to be pronounced differently in reading from conversation. I cannot conceive why any should so rigidly adhere to the old fashioned way of pronouncing words, contrary to the dictates of common sense and universal custom. There is scarcely a man in the United States, who pronounces the word, loved, in common conversation, as two syllables. Since the days of Sternhold and Hopkins, scarce a man has admitted in metre, this obsolete method of pronunciation, and no words ought ever to be pronounced in poetry differently from prose. We may with as much propriety continue the solemn stile of thou, thee, smitest, eateth, &c. in daily tête a tête, as loved, asham-ed, &c.

NUMBER XVII.

IT is strange that one grammarian should so greatly improve on the works of another, [Page] and yet let pass unnoticed many of the most obvious errors. "Words, (says ALEXANDER's grammar) are divided into ten classes." We may with as much propriety divide them into fifty classes as ten. He makes what is usually called the pronoun, a distinct part of speech. His excellency for a governor, his majesty for a king, are as much pronouns as he, she, you, it, &c. Half an hour's reflection will convince any man that the pronoun is not a distinct part of speech. The same maybe said of the participle. It is only a variation of the verb.

NUMBER XVIII.

IT was an old maxim with regard to pronunciation—USUS EST NORMA LOQUENDI— in opposition to which 'tis asserted that all words should be pronounced as spelt.—The rules clashing, the master is unable to vindicate his pronunciation before his school. The boy inquires how the word one is pronounced. On being informed wun, he demands the [Page] pronunciation of tone. The difference of pronunciation perplexes him, and he has no rule to govern him, but is continually obliged to apply to the master for that information which the letters will not give him.

THE proper regulation is: to pronounce words as usually pronounced by men of polite education.

ESSAYS—MORAL AND HUMOROUS.

NUMBER I.

A LONG and heavy purse is one of the greatest ornaments, that graces the person of the fop, the seeker of public honors, the politician, the knave and fool. By its assistance, the maid, over whose head have rolled no less than thirty years; whose beauty would scarce engage the attention of any one of the homeliest sons of Adam; who has long since resigned to the steady and certain power of old age, every charm, of which she might possibly be possessed; whose rotten teeth proclaim the ravages of time; whose [Page] rawboned limbs and paper lips have long been the diversion of the curious; whose understanding never soared above the level of the unlettered jackass. I say, by the assistance of said purse, ten thousand charms hover round her withered face; unnumbered graces please in every word, and every act. She becomes the Delia of the plain, and the lilly of the valley. The sound of her goes abroad in the earth; her conquests increase, and her lovers gather from afar.

THE man, not indebted to the partial hand of nature for the gifts of superior talents; not indebted to a school dame for even a knowledge of his alphabet; who has never profaned the seat of letters with his uncomely presence; by the upholding assistance of said long purse, pursues his path to honors and emoluments. The world's loud plaudit is his. He secures the suffrages of his electors. His vices are gone into a cloud, and his foibles and weakness, the eye of mankind refuses to behold. He rides in the chariot of luxury. He takes the highest seats in the synagogue. The vulgar gape with astonishment; [Page] but the wise wonder at the greatness of so little a man.

WITH the dull eye of uniformed simplicity; with a phiz that demonstratively discovers unbounded ignorance, and extensive nothingness; supreme self conceit, and a supremely inferior understanding; see the lover of CHESTERFIELD, anxious to display those excellences which were never his own, quit the garret of safe obscurity, and the means of an honest life, to get himself a name among the fools of the nation. He has drawn a thousand dollars in a lottery, and his head is filled with ten thousand notions. While the poor widow asks in vain for an inch of a candle, or an ounce of bread; pounds of tallow, and pecks of flower, are wasted on his head. His waistcoat is white satin, and the cape of his coat stands not upright. His hat leans to the sun; and his canee flourishes importance. He has forsaken the adze or the sledge, and eats his beefstake at Fobes' tavern, or Julien's hotel. He may be seen in the front box at the theatre, applauding what others applaud, and hissing what others condemn; [Page] conversing on the merits of CUMBERLAND, or descanting on the beauties of SHAKESPEARE. An oath sanctions each sentence, and he swears with a grace. He ogles the fair at a distance, and the fair at a distance admire. Nancy declares he dresses neatly, and SYLVIA swears he is a pretty fellow. He writes acrostics, and who shall not adore him? He is full of repartees, tho his repartees are empty of all wit. His awkward manners are only the eccentricity of genius. His profuseness is but a generosity of soul; and his want of learning is only his modesty in literature. His character is raised by frequenting the north end; for, to the shame of common sense, in the eye of many a fair, a rake is no blemish the reputation of a lover. But he has eaten the pancake of his property. His taylor sends him a dun, and his barber wishes to settle. When shall his creditors cease from troubling, or where shall the fool find rest? His money has strayed from his pocket; and he pawns his purse for the payment of a penny loaf. Amen to the career [Page] of his glory, and so be it to him that finds riches and gets not wisdom therewith.

NUMBER II. ARGUMENTS IN FAVOR OF WAR.

IN turning over the eternal pages of sacred History, we are enabled to collect some few hints about the first war, that ever was undertaken, namely, the wars of heaven. That this war was a blessing to mankind may be proved from the authority of the knowing & divine MILTON; for tho some of the foolish angels were rather worsted in the encounter, yet says he, to supply the place of those that were sent to chew their brimstone in misery, and to repeople the abode of those, whose places at their departure now became vacant, heaven thought sit to create a new world, and a new set of beings, called man; and certainly man's existence was a blessing, or it would never have been granted.

[Page]WHEN, from the bosom of savage barbarity began to arise societies and kingdoms; when man left the field of hunting and began to cultivate the arts of peace; from these reformations sprang wars and bloodshed. Had all lived in peace all would have been ignorant; all would have been on a level with the beasts; all would have been as savage as the tygers they hunted. War brought conquest, conquest reduction, reduction obedience, obedience emulation, emulation envy and malice, and malice again brought war. The transition has been constant and always will remain.

WAR carries of the dregs of society. How many, whose lives are a curse to the world and themselves, sneak out of existence with all the honors of heroes defending their country. We all must have our exit; and in the great day of reckoning what will be the difference, whether we die by the dagger, the dungeon, or the disentery? To the sound of the trumpet flock the lovers from the frowns of the fair, and rush indifferently to glory or death. At the sound of the [Page] trumpet flock the disappointed statesman, the ambitious youth, and the veteran hero. The loud clangor of the horn, the piercing shrillness of the fife, the animating pulse of the drum, the sudden whiz of the bullet, the explosion of the deep gulleted cannon, the other filled with smoke, the dying groans of the wounded, the spouting blood, the clotted gore, and the mountains of departed enemies, are objects, that yield the sublimest ideas, that give the mind the most horrid satisfaction, that waken revenge, push to glory, honor and happiness. Such is man, and in such barbarous scenes his soul delights, and that which he delights in is his blessing.

WAR has been an established kind of diversion from the remotest days of antiquity; and would it not be highly satirizing the wisdom of mankind, to say that from time immemorial they have been ignorant of their duty or have not fully known that war was a manly, rational entertainment and exercise, from the sloth and luxury of peace? Moreover, by a long continuance in the army, a soldier may learn an easy address, a graceful [Page] step, an easy swim of movement, and a regularity of deportment, which may gain him much honor among the ladies, in an assembly, or at a town meeting.

LOOK at the Crusades, see Europe, warmed with the sacred fire of devotion, all galloping over to Asia, to recover the holy land from the hands of wicked infidels. To die in such a cause must be the greatest happiness, and to live, if possible, still greater.

I SHALL conclude with a solemn invocation, that the time may soon approach, when the voice of peace shall no more be heard in our borders, when every man shall lift up his sword against his neighbor; when the pruning hook shall be beat up into spears, and the ploughshare into daggers; the shovel and tongs into swords and cutlasses; old iron into fieldpieces, and old pewter into bullets; and that wars, fightings, bloodshed, devastation and destruction, shall so overrun the world, that the whole human race may finally be extirpated from existence.

[Page]

NUMBER III.

SO numerous and unrestrained are those rougher passions of the soul, that inveigle the ear of mankind from the neglected voice of reason and conscience, that while we exercise our commiseration we may in a great measure suppress our astonishment, when we see men so anxiously solicitous to wield the sceptre of power, or loll in the chariot of luxury, with all their concomitant diseases, and cares.

How often do we see men, without one longing or regretful look, abandon the humble vale of competence, desert the abodes of contentment, and forever forget the quiet couch of repose, and the very bosom of peaceful enjoyment, to climb the craggy steeps of perilous ambition, never secure from the delusive windings of error, and the poisonous bites of the serpents of envy, and ever looking with an eye of fearful apprehension on the rocks of infamy and disgrace beneath.

[Page]WE seldom take a retrospective view of life; our whole attention is seldom employed about present objects, but with a prophetic eye we scan futurity, and contemplate scenes of honor and enjoyments; but after having spent the whole of our lives in fruitlessly endeavoring to grasp the distant ignis fatuus, on our death beds we perceive it to be only the vapor of disappointment. But in the bowers of peaceful contentment and competence, unsolicitous of honors, unambitious of wealth, lie more true pleasures and enjoyments, than under the tiara of papal sanctity, the crowns of monarchs surrounded with flattering courtiers, the fame of philosophers with systems ill received, or the favorites of APOLLO, persecuted by ignorant critics, or led by the hand of poverty to the cold, damp mansions of the gloomy prison.

HE is the philosopher, who can look down with indignation on an ALEXANDER, who unmoved by even the whispers of ambition, can see with indifference others run the wearying race of glory and riches▪ to [Page] him the vale is more splendid than the palace; to him the frugal board is sweeter than the lavish tables of luxurious emperors; and the subjection of his passions imparts more delight than the subjection of armies. To him nature appears in lovlier charms, conscience approves, and rewarding heaven smiles on all his endeavors.

No point of glory or of wealth can put a period to the desires of the avaricious. Tho on the top of Andes he still wishes to ascend. Tho India yield him all her stores he still covets more. Tho half mankind were obedient to his eye, his progress is not stopped till all are under subjection. Here reason forsakes him, the nobler virtues of the soul withdraw their influence, while the rough and wilful passions bear full sway, temptation prompts to every act of injustice, and brutality marks all his proceedings. With all the lashes of an awakened conscience, and with all the cumbersome appendages of wealth and grandeur, he drags on the heavy load of existence, till the yawning grave gapes to receive the avaricious monster. Yet such [Page] monsters would be half mankind, could they only obtain a gratification of their unbounded wishes.

NUMBER IV.

Defaming as impure what God declares Pure.

MILTON.

SYLVIA is a lady of great delicacy. She once saw a louse, and immediately fainted away. The sight of a beggar turns her stomach. If a man whose rank is not equal to her own attempts to kiss her, she screams and leaves the room. The mentioning of a woman's shift is considered by her as an outrage on decency.

HER petticoat once got unpined at an assembly, and fell on the floor: had the heavens been crushing together, the consternation would not have been greater than that which was occasioned by this fatal catastrophe, and the howlings of agony, that rent the bosom of affected delicacy.

IN antient times a lady could say breeches, [Page] of late they are called small clothes; but SYLVIA▪ always calls them modesty garments.

BUT SYLVIA's real modesty was finally determined to the satisfaction of all. Her lap dog was paying his addresses to a lady of the same species; and, (mirabile dictu,) SYLVIA was seen peaking thro a broken pane of glass to observe their conduct.

THE same kind of affected delicacy obtains in some measure among critics. If a studied chastity of language refines away the meaning into nonsense, 'tis admired.

CHASTITY rests in the soul, not on the tongue. Yet the tongue should always be under subjection. Indecent puns, conveying ideas far more immodest than the word breeches, are uttered almost every evening on the stage; yet the ladies more often smile than hold their heads down.

NUMBER V.

WHY do men forsake the simple dictates of nature? Affectation is really more [Page] disgusting to a man of sense than death. The lover must sigh, plead and intreat, before the fair one will acknowledge a reciprocity of affection. A coquette is a damnable thing and ought to be hated more than a thief. Why can't a young lady, to whom a man has long paid his addresses, honestly avow her opinion and intentions. I have known a woman keep seven lovers in suspense, six years, when she had no choice, and never expected to husband either of them. An ogling eye towards one, a gentle squeeze of the hand for another, a kindness to the third &c. till finally four of them became old bachelors, the fifth married a better wife: the sixth died of the disorder, the seventh went to the East Indies and has never been heard of since.

THIS lady is now fifty years old, and has not been sparked these twenty years. Not considering how convenient a thing a husband is in a house, and how apt to take many a pound of trouble from the load of life, she neglected the golden opportunity, and lives a conspicuous scarecrow to vanity and affectation. [Page] Yet even now she appears young, at least to herself ▪ Should any man be so unpolite as to ask her age, she modestly owns that she has just past her thirtieth year, and must now be ranked among old maids. And, really, her false hair becomes her so well, that if men never judged of her age from her teeth, few would be undeceived. But the fire of her eyes has departed, the bloom of her cheek has forsaken her: yet, like all old maids and old bachelors, she talks much of the comforts of a single life.

NUMBER VI.

MUSIC, whether considered as a source of pleasure and rational entertainment, or as an ennobling duty in religious societies, may with propriety be denominated the sweetest rose in the garden of the polite arts. It has little connection with any of the other arts except poetry, between these there is the closest affinity.

EXCELLENCY in music depends on the [Page] natural delicacy and conformity of the organs. The same may be said with regard to a nice and intimate knowledge of accent, quantity and harmony, in poetic numbers.

As eminence in these arts depends primarily on nature, and secondly on a suitable cultivation of original powers, it has been the lot of but a proportionably small part of mankind to distinguish themselves very greatly in the world. Hence many a HANDEL never touched an organ; and many a MILTON never learned to read.

Though few persons ever become nice and accurate judges of music, yet the pleasure derived from it is almost universal. There are however some, whose souls seem to harmonize with nothing but discord, who receive not the least satisfaction from the best musical performances in the world: but we may say with Shakespeare.

"The man,

"Who is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

"Is sit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;

"That is, he's fit to be a Jacobin.

[Page]A NEGLECT of music may in some sense be considered a neglect of moral duty. The ruder principles of music are found in many of the brutal and inferior parts of creation. The feathered songsters, while sporting from spray to spray, chant forth their Maker's praise. The readbreast mourns in solitary strains her absent mate: or when some unlucky boy has robbed her nest, and from her love and protection torn her tender young; she flutters round; and in the musical moan of grief and despair, curses the wretch, and bids and begs the pilfering hand to spare her unfledged offspring. The humming bird has music in his wings. The beautiful Canary clings to the grates of his unwelcome prison; and, in notes of lively horror, seems to implore, at least—the liberty of the yard. Nor birds alone. The regal lion stalks his lordly round, and pours his thundering base to distant wilds. In vain the bleating lamb, with mild, yet melancholy cry, asks the unfeeling butcher to stay his hand. Nay, even the surly bullfrog of the meadow, in homely, yet regular notes, congratulates [Page] his companions afar off, and banishes the solemn silence of the summer's night. And shall man, endowed with such superior faculties, and capable of heaving to the highest pitch of human perfection the powers of harmony, shall man be silent?

IN all nations and all ages of the world, attention has ever been paid to music. Its first appearance, we may suppose, was exhibited in the rude tunes of the shepherd while tending his flock, or in songs sung to celebrate the triumphs of a victor, or the downfal of a hero.

THE general regard that is now paid to music gives us the highest reason to believe that this country, ere long, will not blush at a comparison with the elder nations of the world. While the Columbian muse is leading her sons to the pinnacle of poetical excellence, equal in height to the Grecian or Roman name; we hope the sister art of music will not be slow in gathering her votaries, and diffusing those charms of which she is so amply possest. Wherever a genius for music [Page] is found, it deserves our greatest encouragement. Shall we be inattentive to its beauties and excellencies, while according to MILTON, the very demons in the infernal regions consoled by its powers their horrid condition, and solaced by the notes of the harp, their grief and torment, while Satan, on the grand expedition of Adam's ruin, was exploring his way thro Chaos and old night.

"Others more [...],

"Retreated in a silent valley, sung

"With notes angelical to many a harp,

"Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall

"By doom of battle.

"Their song was partial, but the harmony,

"(What could it else when spir'ts immortal sing?)

"Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment

"The thronging audience."

NOTHING can exceed the vivacity and sweetness which music receives when accompanied with female voices. And nothing gives so much of the celestial to the human charms and excellences of the fair as skill in this ravishing art. The lover may gaze with rapture on the beauties of his fair one, but [Page] when soft music glides from her melliffluous tongue, he catches the ardor of angels, and his bosom swells with ecstacy.

THE towering notes of the counter, the swelling sound of the tenor, the shrill animating treble, the grand majestic bass, all conspiring in glorious concord, afford the soul such rapture as the tongue is unable to describe. Such pleasing sounds throw off our cares, exalt our expectations, banish our anxieties, add ecstacy to love, and awaken the most grateful and tender emotions of the breast. Such are the powers of the various modulations of harmony. Is it not then strange that so little attention is paid, and so little pains taken in many societies to become proficients in so divine an art? One reason we may assign. In many places, some elderly people, who, when young▪ had attended to some particular tunes, once much in vogue, for which they still retain a superstitious fondness, continue to praise the [...], in strains of nasal twang, offensive to the ears of common delicacy. They remain strangers to any innovations or improvements, to which they have not leisure or inclination [Page] to attend. The tunes they use are the same their good old grandmothers sung in their youth; and thus, having gained a kind of hereditary approbation, still stand high in their opinion. Thus the versification of the psalms by Sternhold and Hopkins, as they were a long time printed at the end of the bible, led many to believe that the very rhymes were indited by inspiration. Hence it was with the greatest difficulty that the foolish prejudice of many could be so far overcome, as to introduce in our churches the far superior versification of Tate and Brady, or Watts. And, not many years since, the introduction of the pitchpipe, and the raising and falling of the hands for the preservation of time, were by many considered as useless and unhappy ceremonies, tending in a great measure to introduce Popery among us.

INSTRUMENTAL music is certainly a great addition to vocal, and has the happiest effect upon it. Yet there are some, even to this day, who are unwilling to admit into public worship the bass viol, which adds so much solemnity to vocal music. The reason proffered [Page] by some is, that the bass viol looks so much like the common violin, and the common violin is commonly called a fiddle, and a fiddle is commonly made use of to assist in dancing; therefore, the bass viol in religions societies would be apt to make the young men and women think of a fiddle, and a fiddle would lead to dancing: and thus carry their thoughts from religious meditations to dancing, fiddling, and other worldly and unsuitable contemplations. For which reasons the bass viol is by them inadmissible. Arguing thus—why should a man carry his legs to meeting on sunday, when perhaps those same legs carried him to a tavern the day before? The truth is, a man's legs may be of great service to him on sunday as well as week days; so may the violin contribute greatly to the innocent amusements of dancing, and yet add solemnity to church music in the house of God.

[Page]

NUMBER VII.

FASHION establishes a thousand ridiculous practices. I have doubted whether nature teaches the shaking of hands on finding a friend that has been absent. It is a custom of four thousand years standing. At the siege of Troy, Homer fequently mentions it. One of my neighbors, who sees me generally three or four times a day, always shakes hands with me, and twitches with such violence, as to put my wrist frequently in great pain. I see no propriety in this practice. Were it customary on finding a friend to kick his shins, who would be backward in following the fashion? And there is in nature as much propriety in one practice as the other.

WHERE is the necessity of holding up the hand when taking an oath? Isaac laid his finger on Abraham's thigh. Why should not a man as soon hold up his leg as his hand when he swears? GOD looks at the sincerity of the heart, not at the hand nor the leg.

[Page]THE custom of drinking healths is not only foolish, as it answers no good purpose but is a plague. Many a good drink of cider I've lost in preference to disturbing a table of guests by wishing them health. Sometimes Col. P—, who is excessively polite, and has not been out of Boston, that sink of complaisance, more than two years, takes hold of the tankard and begins Mr.— your good health, Mr. yours, and Mr. till I find it is coming to me, and I am obliged to swallow a mouthful of roast beef, before it is half chewed; and sometimes it is my turn to say "I thank you, sir," before it is half down, and then out comes the beef on my plate again. This last practice is growing out of use, and I hope will soon be discontinued. Did not so many fools love to distinguish themselves by their oddities, as a man of reason I should disuse some of these silly customs. People being more apt to imitate the manners of great than of wise men; I shall leave it to some American Prince of Wales in Boston to reform them.

[Page]

NUMBER VIII.

REPETITION of old maxims often answers a good purpose. I don't like to hear a clergyman repeat his text an hundred times, however, in a forenoon's discourse. The Lay Preacher is an admirable writer as well as myself, but he repeats his text too often, and interperses his sermons with too many quotations for a writer, whose fertility of invention would supply him with sentences far superior to those which his universal reading affords.

Contentment is better than riches. This is my text. Ponder it well, and there will be no necessity of repeating it. When I was at college, a rich classmate could give a Professor a beaver hat, and he in return deliver an English oration. I was poor, but contented myself with the thoughts of being able to write a better one, tho I could not buy it. Riches may lead a man to high offices, with nothing else to recommend him; but will neither teach him common sense, nor preserve [Page] him from contempt. Money seldom accompanies merit. I would not advise a man to be very rich. It exposes him to very many inconveniences. 'Tis a plague to a wise man. Get enough to live on comfortably, to treat your friends with, and lend a little to the poor, and Heaven will pay you compound interest. Be contented and easy with a little, for with bags full you cannot be more than contented.

IF you have a scolding wife, and can't keep her tongue still till she is in the grave, be contented; for you might as well try to remove mountains as to prevent it.

IF your husband gets drunk at the tavern and reproof answers no end: don't whine and cry: let him go till he kills himself and look out better next time, for another husband.

IF you have sent a blunderhead to Congress, you must either tie his legs at the next session, or make a better choice at the next election.

IF you are writing an essay, feel dull, [Page] and know not what to say—quit it immediately.

NUMBER IX.

Parvo dives nisi quas tulerat

Natale solum, non norat opes. SENECA.

A happy little was his wealth; and nought,

Beyond the produce of his fields he sought.

I PASSED by the door of a very rich man. To supply his coffers, the widow had been defrauded; the face of the poor had been ground. His house was elegant and costly; his gardens and his orchards were delightful. Every thing appeared calculated to communicate happiness. But peace never dwelt in his habitation, nor was his conscience ever free from reproof. The son of his benefactor was the lowest menial of his kitchen. The virgins whom he had deprived of their chastity, were become common prostitutes. The sordid ambition, the base pleasure of accumulating property, not to assist his neighbors, not to benefit a friend, not to [Page] promote the happiness of society, constituted his enjoyment.

As I was riding by, I saw his dog on his door stone; I was immediately led into a train of reflections on the dog and his master. The dog ever performed the duty of his station according to the best of his knowledge and abilities, and always appeared contented and blest. The master never did any thing right, but thro mistake or to benefit his interest. Is it not rational to believe the dog the happiest and most noble of the two animals.

THE next house I passed by was that of a man who was the owner of a small farm. His children were barefoot, playing round the door; his wife was spinning, and he industriously at work on his farm. He was always easy, always in good spirits, always contented. His land was well cultured, and supplied him with most of the necessaries of life. The rich man with all his lands, his farm, &c. received not half so much of the good things of this world [Page] as he: for tho he raised much he could eat only his own share; and it was his greatest mortification, that he was unable to gormandize himself the whole produce of his acres.

NUMBER X.

PROVERBS, 11th, 16th.

A gracious woman retaineth honor; and strong men riches.

I HAVE sometimes wished that my great grandfather had left an entailed estate, and I should not as now, be obliged to earn my bread with so much difficulty. But upon mature deliberation, I am convinced that entailed estates are detrimental to a republic.— Strong men, says Solomon, retain riches. Look to the men who have a strong hold in the banks. They receive 18 per cent for their money, and that by the same law which calls it usury in other men. Thus strong men retain riches and grow stronger. These banks together with the democratic societies, have a greater tendency to introduce aristocracy [Page] than all the ideal, self created British juntoes, that have been mentioned in the Chronicle, these ten years. Those who have money in the banks must grow stronger in riches, because they receive compound interest at 18 per cent, while the law allows me only 6 per cent. Our rulers don't work it right.

NUMBER XI.

Curas revolvit animus, et repetit metus.

SENECA, O [...]D.

How subject man to fear and pain:

Revolving cares return again,

I HAVE heard a person say that there was no year of his life that he would wish to spend again.—Many have said that were it at their option, previous to their coming into the world, to not exist any way, or be what they were, they should prefer nonexistence to the troubles of this world.—Hope is the great supporter of our spirits. We are always counting the unhatched chickens, and live by anticipation. Did we expect that [Page] the remainder of our days would be as the days that have left us, our spirits would droop; our ambition would be blunted, and our comfort destroyed.

SEVEN eights of the troubles of this life are troubles of our own begetting. For half our diseases we are indebted to our own imprudence and intemperance.—Nothing is more insipid than the common complaint of most men for their misfortunes, when they had themselves taken the command of Providence, and brought down on their own heads the troubles they bewail.

"WAS there ever such a world?" says one. For my part, I was never in a better: and I find this to be, on most accounts, a very good one. Industry will enable almost any man to acquire a sufficiency for his comfort and support. Let us act, in all cases, according to our knowledge. Let conscience overrule, and if we do not succeed in gaining a quantum sufficit of the good things of life, we shall not have the painful reflection of wilful error, nor the pangs of an awakened conscience, [Page] to render more bitter the evils of life.

NUMBER XII.

‘"Know thine own self."’

THIS was the precept of a certain Greek Philosopher, enforced by POPE and MASON, and acknowledged by all men to be both useful and necessary.

IT is the first "thing needful" to know one's self, but it is almost equally important for worldly happiness, to know other men.

SOME preach up the propriety of minding our own business, and not concerning ourselves in the affairs of others. This doctrine is not totally good. The characters of all men ought to be open to investigation: and censure, when just, ought never to be withheld. Even the name of WASHINGTON is not sacred, and never ought to be: yet the ungrounded, malicious calumnies that have been uttered against him have made [Page] more bright his reputation; for how has the gold become the most fine gold!

THE characters of men, after their decease, are never beyond the scrutiny of truth. The old adage. Nil de mortuis nisi bonum, 'Say nothing of the dead except in their favor,' is wholly unreasonable. What shall the honest historion say of NERO? He must pass over him in silence; for not one good deed ever recommended him to notice.

LET us be careful never to condemn, or speak evil of men, without convincing proofs of their neglect of duty. Every man has faults enough of his own to mend, and ought ever be ready to hear and correct them.

NUMBER XIII.

‘"Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences, contrary to what ye have learned."’

SOME have supposed that the Apostle, with the spirit of true prophecy, here [Page] meant the democracy of the present day: but to this I am not willing to accede, for this reason; the Apostle, I am confident, would never trouble his own head nor those of his readers with an account of a clan, destined to answer some good political end; to agitate the mind of republicans, a few months, and who, after sailing down the stream of ridicule and execration, are wafted to the ocean of forgetfulness: to be remembered no more in this world to shame and sorrow, but in the world to come, to their everlasting misery. I rather think the Apostle had particular reference to those jacobinical preachers, who, friends of liberty and equality, take the liberty to preach without knowledge or virtue, and consider themselves as equal to the most enlightened divines; and thus, by good words and fair speeches, deceiving the hearts of the simple.

A PERSON of this description in a neighboring town, not long since, before as great an audience as a school house could contain, was interrupted by the enquiry, "who gave thee this authority?" His answer was, I am [Page] sent of God.—"So am I," says one, and another, till a dozen were preaching at once, and the first was obliged to retreat.

THE Apostle's caution may apply to all descriptions of men.

NUMBER XIV. APOSTROPHE TO RUM.

GREAT is thy power, oh king of evils, and marvellous are all thy works. Disease and infamy are in thy right hand, and the keys of death in thy left. Thou makest friends foes, and foes friends. By thy influence, the bonds of amity might be drawn round GEORGE GWELF, and PETER PINDAR, or the bar of enmity be raised between NISUS and EURIALUS. See the son of thy love; his countenance is as a firebrand; his nose as a promontory covered with hillocks; and his eyes as candles that have gone into the socket. He maketh angles and cricles in his gait, or he lieth like a log parrallel with the [Page] horizon. See him rolling the contents of the bottle from his loaded paunch; yet thy spirit remains. Vain are his endeavors to move his tongue with regularity and grace; or raise his leaden lump of body on his weak and unsupporting legs. Where are thy charms, O Rum, that not only the fool, but the wise often become thy votaries. Does not folly go before thee? And are not poverty and disgrace ever in thy train? Whether thou exercisest thy power in the full bowl of punch, in the clear christal of grog, or the circling mug of tod; still ought the curses of the patriot to fall upon thee, and the indignation of the wise and good banish thee from the face of the earth.

I HAVE seen thy worshippers fall before thee. In the common tavern they are collected. Full oft and quick thy spirit walks around. The knave puts on the mask of honesty. The fool grows wise, and the ignorant talk politics, converse learnedly on the nature of government, the merits of its officers, and the propriety of treaties, acts and regulations.

[Page]GREAT and marvellous are thy works, oh mighty RUM, and in folly hast though done them all.

NUMBER XV. A FUNERAL ORATION.

ON sunday evening last, departed this life, after a long and painful sickness, occasioned by a redundancy of gall, a most excellent saddlehorse, late the property of Doctor JOHN P—S—Esq. As it has been an invariable custom, almost from time immemorial, to endeavor to transmit to posterity the names of those illustrious characters who have deserved well of their country, no one, I presume, will take it amiss, if I employ the attention of my readers a few moments, while I endeavor to relate the atchievements and delineate the most striking features of her character.

SHE received from nature an excellent disposition of mind, as well as great strength and stability of soul. Tho she was never instructed in the precepts of any religion, she [Page] possessed many Christians virtues; such as long suffering under affliction, and patience when heavy laden, which she discovered in transporting meal bags, and performing long journies.

SHE was not addicted to drink, except on warm days after much labor and fatigue. During her whole life 'tis not known that she acquired a single bad habit. The vices most common to beasts of this kind, are biting, kicking, and turning over carriages. But thoughts like thee never touched her spotless imagination. During her illness she discovered no signs of remorse, but seemed to be reflecting with pleasure that she had acted well in her sphere; and that her work was done, and well done: no guilty conscience planted her dying couch with thorns; not one tear trickled down her death pale nostrils; not one sigh escaped from her peaceful bosom.

As she was fond of company, and frequently grazed, and clubed with her companions in the same pasture, some inconsiderate [Page] persons have villified her name by representing her to be a rank jacobin. But may that villain be the heir of eternal infamy, who could thus wantonly asperse the character of so amiable a creature.

After having escaped the SCYLLA of the Botts, & the Charybdis of the horse distemper, she was sucked in by the vortex of a redundant gall, and resigned her soul with composure, on sunday the 20 day of december, in the year of our LORD 1792, in the 19th year of the independence of the United States of America, aged 24 years, 5 months and 10 days, and in the 21st year of her usefulness.

HER master conscious of her superior merits, her services and carefulness, and willing to perpetuate her memory, erected an elegant tombstone over her relics, with these elegiac lines.

Low in the dust my PONE's laid,

Like hammer or like doornail dead,—

'Gainst his opinion I must fight,

Who says, whatever is, is right;

And very wisely change the song,

[Page]Swearing one half that is, is wrong,—

Oh! had it only been my leg,

I might have got a wooden peg;

Oh! had it only been my wife,

I might have still enjoy'd this life,

But since it was th'old mare—no more,

This world's delights and joys are o'er.

NUMBER XVI. A CREED.

I BELIEVE that what ever is, is right —and God is the author of sin.

I believe that we ought all to be willing to be damned; but God grant that this may never be my portion.

I believe that God has decreed every thought, volition and deed—and that we are all moral agents.

I believe every man is born into the world with sufficient sin to damn him eternally—and that no man is punished for another's transgression.

I believe that God hath foreordained a [Page] certain number to eternal life—and that if I do not mend my ways I shall not be one of them.

I believe that regeneration is instantaneous—and we ought to labor all the days of our lives till we shall finally be compleatly regenerated.

I believe that when once a man is regenerated he can never fall into unregeneration— and therefore we ought to be very careful never to sin.

I believe that all sin is to the glory of God—and the more sin the more grace.

I believe that there is but one true religion, which is the Hopkintonian—and that it is a great sin to have charity for any other.

Epigrams.

[Page]

NUMBER I. On the necessary combination of genius and science in composition.

NATURE and Art are man and wife— thus shown.

Neither of them can procreate alone.

NUMBER II.

On the invectives against President Washington.

BARK at the Moon, ye deadly dogs of night—

She neither heeds your howl, nor shines less bright.

NUMBER III. On my old BOOTS.

WHAT boots it that I buy new boots?

While each my leg exactly suits.

My old ones soon to rot will go,

And that is all the new can do.

[Page]

NUMBER IV. On a certain writer, who was fond of maggotty Cheese, who frequently observed that nothing was lost.

THERE's nothing lost, eat with your cheese,

As many maggots as you please:

They'll all crawl upward to your brain,

And in your works appear again.

NUMBER V. On MILTON and POPE.

'TWIXT POPE and MILTON all the odds

Is shown in one short trope,

MILTON's the true Mohogany,

The smoothing Plane is POPE,

NUMBER VI. On LIFE and DEATH.

LIFE and the grave two different lessons give,

Life shows us how to die, death how to live.

NUMBER VII. On STERNE.

A SOUL of sympathy an honest heart—

Five grains of genius, thirty grains of art▪

Green in the leaf, but rotten in the root,

Beauty in blossom; poison in the fruit.

[Page]

NUMBER VIII.

"WHERE'S the day past?" The drunkard cries with sorrow.

It will, says Richard, come again tomorrow.

NUMBER IX. On CHESTERFIELD.

THE splendid globe, tho silvered o'er with care,

The wise consider but as hollow ware.

NUMBER X. On PETER PINDAR.

HERO of humorous satire, mighty Wit—

Thy character behold me hit.

Say, art thou not a laughing CROCODILE?

For, tho galled kings and nobles call the vile,

Unfelt on thy thick shell their arrows fall;

While thy vast jaws of satire can devour them all.

NUMBER XI.

LOVE all your foes, the Parson cries.

Ay ay, says DICK with joyful eyes;

To your proposals, sir, I'll come—

My greatest enemy is rum.

[Page]

NUMBER XII. ON THE QUESTION—WHAT IS BEAUTY. [The thoughts from Voltaire.]

PLEASED is the lover with a sparkling eye,

For blooming cheeks can fall in love and die;

While a hump back alone the toad will suit,

The Dev'l—a pair of horns and cloven foot.

NUMBER XIII. On RUM DRINKING.

SEE RICHARD taking spirit,

Which much his spirit rouses:

By too much spirit taking,

He all his spirit loses.

NUMBER XIV. On SHAKESPEARE.

"THOU vast, prolific, intellectual mine."

Thy tho'ts how bright, how noble, how divine.

Tho Voltaire, stealing literary pelf,

Would blast those wreaths he could not wear himself,

See, in the muses' heaven, his greatness sink,

Before thy frowning ere, in coward meanness shrink.

[Page]

NUMBER XV.

I WISH old bachelors a sharp backed horse;

Old maids a pacing mare to ride about;

The Jacobins to hell—needless says Dick,

I'm sure they're going fast enough without.

NUMBER XVI. To a Poet with clouts on.

FILTHY the wretch, whose hopes of fame

On others worth is rested;

Who meanly steals the mental food,

His betters have digested.

NUMBER XVII. [TYPOGRAPHICAL.] To the same.

BE not affronted at a good friend's hint—

When your poetic volume, sir, you print,

High on the wings of honor would you ride;

Let splendid PICA all be laid aside;

Let your LONG PRIMMER in the case recline,

And bold M QUADRATES fill each modest line.

NUMBER XVIII.

SAILOR's description of a modern Newlight Preacher.

A damned saucy fellow, with a damned ugly face,

[Page]First gave us a damned long account of the place

Created for those poor damned souls who've no grace:

Told what a damned parcel of brimstone was there;

How damned hot the country, damned filthy the air;

How the damned fires would burn, and the damned devils stare;

How the damned smoke would roll, and the damned pitchforks fly—

And when some old women set up a damned cry,

He dropt the damned sermon—and damned glad was I.

NUMBER XIX. A certain Lawyer observed that calf skin properly shaved would make good paper.

THE tho't indeed, says Dick, is not so dull;

Well, shave your chin and all your paper skull.

NUMBER XX. On a man of a full purse and empty heart.

THAN thee what man can stand in greater need?

Thy funds of wealth have made thee poor indeed.

[Page]

NUMBER XXI.

SEE HOMER's fiery thoughts,

POPE in sweet language utter;

HOMER remains the true beef steak,

While POPE is but the butter.

NUMBER XXII.

IN sweetest notes the lovely Nancy sung;

Except from one old Hunks, applauses rung.

Sir, I expected to please you at least;

For "music's charms can soothe the savage beast."

NUMBER XXIII. On a slovenly Poetaster, who observed that all good poets were slovenly and poor.

THE dirty dress we can excuse

Of each true fav'rite of the muse;

The case is different quite with you—

A sloven and poor poet too.

NUMBER XXIV.

I'VE tried near half an hour to make

An Epigram delight one;

But feel so very dull indeed,

I think best not to write one.

[Page]

NUMBER XXV.

WHILE all mankind seek their own ends,

An honest man gets many friends;

Tho honesty her friendships may count o'er,

Deceit and flattery have their thousands more.

NUMBER XXVI.

"HOW are your friends?" says JACK to DIC,

My wife is dangerously sick.

Indeed! The truth says DIC, I tell:

There's danger of her getting well.

POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS.

[Page]

On being refused a Lady's company to a Ball, the following was sent.

A BEE, the loveliest of her kind,

Whose words were honey of the mind,

Had slown about from blows to blows,

And now was resting on a rose.

Her seat and beauty caught the eye

Of one, as chance was, passing by;

He asked admittance; but the Fair

Refused him an admittance there.

He cried; why wouldst thou live alone;

And thus politely say, begone;

While we could real bliss enjoy,

With nothing to that bliss annoy?

Yet I'll not sob and groan and cry,

And tell you I'm a going to die,

For 'twould be a confounded lie,

I may perhaps some other find,

That suits, as well as you, my mind,

And is a hundred times more kind.

[Page]

The last AMOROUS EPISTLE from JONATHAN to MOLLY.

How oft in love's vast lake I've been,

The water just up to my chin;

Sometimes soused over head and ears,

In deep despair, and drowned with fears.

How oft my hand around thy waist

Has slyly ventured and clung fast.

What rapture on thy blooming cheek,

Enough to feed my soul a week.

How often have I stood aghast,

While from thy eyes such arrows past.

Each shower appeared to threat my last

All night together have we sat,

In one wide chair, and held our chat

On love, on raptures, and all that.

Thou know'st how oft thy hand I've squeezed,

And thou hast ogled, and I teazed;

Declaring in what state was I,

How I must lay me down and die,

And to the grave for succour fly.

'Mongst all the ills, my life that compass,

There ne'er was one, that made such rumpus

[Page]About my insides, as the love,

Which I have had for thee, thy dove;

How oft have I, my dearest dear,

Declared that thou'rt an angel fair,

And sworn that thou from heaven didst fly,

Yet knew that it was all a lie.

Say know'st thou not what I've told o'er?

For thou shalt never know them more.

Thou ne'er shalt catch me, no, by Jove,

A dying in a fit of love.

I know all thy coquettish arts,

To catch and hold a hundred hearts.

Long may'st thou reign; but when thy charms are past,

The wealthiest fool shall take thee off at last.

CORIDON.

FAREWELL the bliss my better days have known—

My soul now yields to sorrow and to care;

Life wears a melancholy gloom alone,

Nor hope's fair hand can lift me from despair.

[Page]

The leaden hours in solemn silence move,

No more can now the social circle please;

For if a tort'ring foe is found in love,

Vain is the search for happiness and ease.

Life's thorny path with steps forlorn I tread,

Without one rose, to cheer my lonely way;

Grief's sullen mists hang heavy round my head;

Far sly my joys—but all my sorrows stay▪

Of Stoic sternness once I dared to boast,

Nor feared the sov'reign power of female charms;

But, ah! how soon that apathy was lost—

Love's fervid beams all cold indifference warms.

O, thou! whose charms have peirc'd my aching soul,

If e'er one ray of pity touch'd thy heart,

Hear my lorn prayer, thou canst each pang controul,

And every bliss, which lovers feel, impart.

Fair blush'd the blissful morning of my years,

And expectation happier years foretold;

[Page]Dull and forlorn my trembling spirit fears

The clouds will thicken, and the skies grow cold.

O would the muse so tune her plaintive lyre,

With such a sad and melancholy song,

That thou, sweet maiden, might'st that song admire,

And smiling say, "No more thy strains prolong."

Sad and dejected must my life become?

This world appear a worthless world of woe?

In which, without thee, must I, must I roam?

Give one kind look, sweet maid, and answer, NO.

In tender notes thus sang the earnest Swain—

The Nymph, attentive to his fond request,

In ev'ry smile assuaging ev'ry pain,

In ev'ry blush, the mutual flame confest.

A WILL.

I, P—S C—S, of judgment round,

In soul, in limb and wind, now sound;

[Page]I, since my head is full of wit,

And must be emptied, or must split,

In name of President APOLLO,

And other gentlefolks, that follow;

Such as URANIA and CLIO,

To whom my fame poetic I owe;

With the whole drove of rhyming sisters,

For whom my heart with rapture blisters;

Who swim in HELICON, uncertain

Whether a petticoat or shirt on,

From vulgar ken their charms to cover,

From every eye but muses' lover;

In name of every ugly GOD,

Whose beauty scarce outshines a toad;

In name of PROSERPINE and PLUTO,

Who board in hell's sublimest grotto;

In name of CERBERUS and FURIES,

Those damned Aristocrats and Tories;

In presence of two witnesses,

Who are as homely as you please,

Who are, in truth I'd not belie 'em,

Ten times as ugly, faith, as I am;

But being, as most people tell us,

A pair of jolly, clever fellows,

And classmates likewise, at this time,

[Page]They shan't be honored in my rhyme.

I, I say I, now make this will;

Let those, whom I assign, fulfil,

I give, grant, render and convey,

My goods and chattels thus away.

That honor of a College life,

That celebrated UGLY KNIFE,

Which predecessor SAWNEY orders,

Descending to time's utmost borders,

To noblest bard, of homeliest phiz,

To have and hold and use, as his;

I now present C—S P—Y S—R,

To keep with his poetic lumber,

To scrape his quill, and make a split,

To point his pen for sharpening wit;

And order that he ne'er abuse

Said ugly knife, in dirtier use.

And let said CHARLES, that best of writers,

In prose fatiric, skill'd to bite us,

And equally in verse delight us,

Take special care to keep it clean

From unpoetic hands—I ween.

And when those walls, the muses' seat,

Said S—R is obliged to quit,

Let some one of APOLLO's firing,

[Page]To such heroic joys aspiring,

Who long has borne a poet's name,

With said knife cut his way to fame,

I GIVE to those, that fish for parts,

Long sleepless nights and aching hearts,

A little soul, a fawning spirit,

With half a grain of plodding merit.

Which is, as heaven I hope will say,

Giving what's not my own away.

THOSE ovenbaked, or goose egg folded,

Who, tho so often I have told it,

With all my documents to show it,

Will scarce believe that I'm a poet,

I give of criticism the lens,

With half an ounce of common sense,

And 'twould a breach be of humanity,

Not to bequeath D—N my vanity;

For 'tis a rule direct from Heaven,

To him that hath shall more be given.

Item. TOM. M—N, COLLEGE LION,

Who'd ne'er spare cash enough to buy one.

That BOANERGES of a pun,

A man of science and of fun,

That quite uncommon witty elf,

[Page]

Who darts his bolts and shoots himself,

Who oft hath bled beneath my jokes,

I give my old Tobacco Box.

MY Centinels for some years past,

So neatly bound with thread and paste,

Exposing Jacobinic tricks,

I give my chum for politics.

MY neckcloth, dirty, old, yet strong,

That round my neck has lasted long,

I give BIG BOY, for deed of pith,

Namely, to hang himself therewith.

To those, who've parts at exhibition,

Obtain'd by long, unwearied fishing,

I say, to such unlucky wretches,

I give, for ware, a brace of breeches;

Then used; as they're but little tore,

I hope they'll show their tails no more.

AND e'er it quite has gone to rot,

I B—give my blue grey goat,

With all it's rags, and dirt and tallow,

Because he's such a dirty fellow.

Now for my books; first Bunyan's Pilgrim,

(As he with thankful pleasure will grin)

[Page]Tho dogleaved, torn, in bad type set 'tis,

'Twill do quite well for classmate B—

And thus, with complaisance to treat her,

'Twill answer for another Detur. *

To him that occupies my study,

I give for use of making toddy,

A bottle full of whitefaced STINGO,

Another, handy, called a mingo.

MY wit, as I've enough to spare,

And many much in want there are,

I ne'er intend to keep at home,

But give to those that handiest come,

Having due caution, where and when,

Never to spatter gentlemen,

The world's loud call I can't refuse

The fine productions of my muse;

If impudence to fame shall waft her,

I'll give the public all, hereafter.

My lovesongs, sorrowful complaining,

(The recollection puts me pain in,)

[Page]The last, sad groans of deep despair,

That once could all my entrails tear;

My farewell sermons to the ladies;

My satire on a woman's head dress;

My Epigrams so full of glee,

Pointed as Epigrams should be;

My Sonnets soft, and sweet as lasses;

My GEOGRAPHY of MOUNT PARNASSUS;

With all the bards that round it gather,

And variations of the weather;

Containing more true humorous satire,

Than's oft the lot of human nature;

("O dear, what can the matter be,"

I've given away my Vanity;

The vessel can't so much contain,

It runs o'er and comes back again.)

My blank verse, poems so majestic,

My rhymes heroic, tales agrestic:

The whole, I say I'll overhaul 'em,

Collect and publish in a volume.

MY heart, which thousand ladies crave,

That I intend my wife shall have.

I'D give my foibles to the wind,

And leave my vices all behind;

[Page]But much I fear they'll to me stick,

Where'er I go thro thin and thick.

On WISDOM's horse, oh, might I ride,

Whose steps let PRUDENCE' bridle guide.

Thy loudest voice, O' REASON, lend,

And thou PHILOSOPHY, befriend.

May candor all my actions guide,

And o'er my every tho't preside,

And in thy ear, O' FORTUNE, one word,

Let thy swelled canvass bear me onward,

Thy favors let me ever see,

And I'll be much obliged to thee.

And come with blooming visage meek,

Come HEALTH, and ever flush my cheek!

O bid me in the morning rise,

When tinges Sol the eastern skies;

At breakfast, suppertime or dinner,

Let me against thee be no sinner,

AND when the glass of life is run,

And I behold my setting sun,

May conscience sound be my protection,

And no ungrateful recollection,

No gnawing cares nor troubling woes

Disturb the quiet of life's close,

And when Death's gentle feet shall come,

[Page]To bear me to my endless home,

Oh! may my soul, for Heaven will save it,

Safely return to God who gave it.

Cambridge, June 21, 1795.

AMBITION.

HAIL sovereign power, whose mighty sway,

All nations of the world obey.

Ere fountain flowed or hill appeared,

On high thy hideous head was reared.

For first with thee, in Heaven above,

Satan fell desperately in love.

His followers too, with lowly bows,

To thee addresses paid and vows.

But sent from Heaven with all thy train,

In Hell thy standard's raised again,

There would'st thou fire that rebel mob,

To undertake that daring job,

Discountenanced by BEELZEBUB.

As MILTON so divinely sings,

Who soared below with downward wings,

Th' infernal records there to show,

That Register of Deeds below.

[Page]There maddened with heroic fires,

As ev'n ambition's self aspires,

The Stygian pool behold her leave,

To play her pranks with grandmame Eve;

And by her art o'ercame her so,

The world was given up to woe,

And fired by thee, too, some time after,

Nimrod, by help of brick and mortar,

With all his rebel crew, would fain,

Attempt heaven's battlements to gain:

When heaven with ridicule and pity,

Looks down upon their tower and city,

Confounds the language of their rabble,

And stops the progress of their Babel.

LO, taught by her what bards, what heroes;

What Alexanders and what Maros,

To one to drown the world in blood,

To shed of human gore the flood;

The other can't his worth disparage,

But sings his greatness and his courage.

She bids the soldier seek for fame,

Where bullets whiz, or cannons flame;

She bids th' historian's pen declare,

His bravery in the field of war;

She bids the youthful poet-strain,

[Page]Lawrels of long renown to gain.

She bids the fop his ruffles show,

And makes a witling of the beau;

With conquest fills the female mind;

Sets gauzes streaming in the wind;

She learns the ogling eye to turn,

And tells the little heart to burn.

WITH Tyburn hymns from Attic story,

She shows poor bards the way to glory,

She prompts the dreams of politicians,

Shows airbuilt castles in her visions.

Bids JARVIS after CONGRESS strive,

And keeps an AUSTIN's hopes alive.

Lifts Maxamilian to a throne,

Or kindly pulls a Stuart down.

Rules in all ages and all climes,

Yet does a little good sometimes.

SHE opens Euclid to the student,

Who finds not half a gill of good in't.

She bids him waste his hours away,

In pouring over Algebra.

She bids him calculate how far

From Terra to the nearest star;

How long 'twould take a man to go it,

[Page]And then by mathematics show it.

She rears the bumpkin from the dirt,

Bids him put on his ruffled shirt:

Yea, learns him how to write and read,

Where whips and ferules won't succeed.

Oft warms the feelings of the Stoic,

And cowards prompts to deeds heroic.

LINES ON CHATTERTON.

AH, who can tell wat ills that man surround,

Who dares attempt Parnassus' steep to clime

To tread with eager steps the classic ground.

Where the blest Muse inspires with lore sublime,

Here supplicating sons, of every age and clime?

On him her poisonous darts will malice throw:

On him will envy look with leering eye;

And while the few the Poet's beauties know,

His faults alone the many will descry,

And half the Muse's charms unseen, neglected lie.

[Page]

So past, ill fated CHATTERTON, thy days,

Few gloomy days of wretched care & woe;

Unblest with ought of patronage or praise,

Which learning's sons to genius ever owe,

"Ah! cold thou liest in the grave below."

Where were ye then, to whom wealth's portions fall?

Whose spacious domes the hands of affluence fill,

Why heard ye not the Muses' sacred call?

Why suffered penury's frost his warmth to chill;

And cruel, cold neglect the opening rose to kill?

The DRUNKEN DOCTOR. A FACT.

A DOCTOR so trig,

With a right reverend wig,

And a belly as big as a barrel,

Whose horrible eys,

Would give Satan surprise,

And into astonishment stare hell,

[Page]

To whom rum and brandy

Was never unhandy,

Who lov'd well his ease and his wife,

But better admired,

And oft'ner desired,

And never was tired

Of a bottle to comfort his life,

Once sat in his chair,

As grand as lord mayor,

A drinking and thinking of killing,

As he'd never his fill,

He was guggling it still,

And blest could he swill,

He never was weary of swilling.

Just emptied one cup,

And another filled up;

Loud rings on the door the brass knocker

'There ne'er was a man, sir,

'That had such a cancer,'

Says a boy and halloos for the doctor.

'But, my young man,' says he,

'I can't go, do you see?

'I've tore such a hole in my small clothes,

'But get my great coat,

[Page]'Then will be seen, not

'Any dirt, rags or rot,

''Twill so comfort'bly cover up all clothes.'

'I can't stir a jot well,

'Unless I've my bottle,

'So here take this pitcher of toddy;

'And when I can't stand,

'Take hold of my hand,

'And safely me land,

'And I'll cancers cut clean from the body.'

So onward they travel,

O'er rocks, ruts, and gravel,

While the doctor full often a trip got;

And at every time,

On stones, stumps, or slime,

He tumbled sublime,

He'd call for the bottle and sip up.

But when there he came,

Fatigued, drunk and lame,

The patient was dead as a hammer,

Yet he out with his knife,

And cut for his life

Altho the poor wife

Opposed him with strife;

Yet he'd slash & with big oaths would cram her.

[Page]But when, all in vain,

He had labored with pain,

And fruitless had found his endeavor,

He cried, 'Hah his soul,

'Is beyond the north pole,

'Where the high Heavens roll,

'And will soon reach his goal,

'And live with good saints there forever▪

'Now pay me my fee,

'Since heiress you'll be

'To your husband who just now departed.'

'O no no,' she cried,

'That must be denied;

'He long ago died;

'He was dead ere from home sir you started.'

'Well blast you then madam,

'I tell you I glad am,

'He has safely arrived in hell, burn you;

'When I go there myself,

'I will sue the damned elf;

'In court Pandemonium,

'I swear I will hone him,

'And the Devil shall be my Attorney.'

[Page]

LINES inscribed to a YOUNG LADY, who had taken from the Centinel a MORCEAU of the author's poetry, and preserved it in her pocket book.

WHEN Levi's daughter to the careless brook

Consigned the tender offspring of her womb,

The maid of PHARAOH compassion took,

And kindly saved him from the wat'ry tomb,

So, when the Poet's corner, filled was seen

With the sad sorrows of despairing love,

Afloat the fragment swam down Lethe's stream,

Nor one could pity to salvation move.

Till thy kind hands the dying MOSES caught,

And raised him sinking in th' oblivious wave,

The fainting infant thy protection sought,

Nor wished a fairer arm his life to save.

What tho no nurse has nurtured it for fame;

What tho no eulogy the critic gives,

Enough, thy smiling look has raised its name,

Enough, within thy cabinet it lives.

[Page]

A FRAGMENT.

UP rose the sun, and up I rose;

And rubb'd my eyes, and pick'd my nose;

Pull'd off my cap, put on my clothes;

Wash'd face & hands, my teeth too scrubb'd,

My shoes then clean'd, and buckles rubb'd,

I bade the landlord bring his bill,

And paid upon the nail the quill;

Call'd for my horse and onward rode—

Six miles my eager pony trots;

I stopp'd to get a mess of oats:

AND here I very little stay meant—

I ask'd the the maid to bring some wine;

she look'd so charming and divine,

I drank, and smack'd her for the payment,

Then Onward rode again; mean while,

Strange sights my wandering eyes beguile;

For here was Cuff, with bow and fiddle,

A singing, tiddle lum tum tiddle;

And there was Cato, damning, swearing,

His fiddle strings were always tearing.

Here rode a beau, with powder'd pate,

And ruffled shirt, and cock'd up hat,

On a dull horse, that would not mind him;

[Page]There, Yankees, with their girls behind 'er.

Here rode a lass, on Toby's mare,

All teaming fine, and neat, and fair;

Feathers and gauze of ev'ry kind,

And ribbons streaming in the wind▪

Alas! the lady'd no gallant,

Commencment joy, and only want.

And now, not far ahead, appeared▪

The place where Harvard's walls are reared;

And thitherward my course I steered.

When lo, more folk of every kind,

Of deaf, of dirty, dumb and blind,

A lazy, sprightly, lounging mixtute,

Of every colored dress, and texture;

Tents, thick as mustard—and for sale,

Fresh goods, such as, salt pork and ale,

Plumb cake, and wine, and rum, and brandy,

Bacon, and pies, and sugar candy,

And ev'ry thing that's good aand handy,

Coaches and sulkeys, hacks and chaise,

A running round a hundred ways.

Now down the street, all in a row,

Behold the sons of Harvard go;

[Page]And now, the meeting house all hurry in,

As thick as vermin round dead carrion:

The gentlemen are hot as fire—

They sweat—the ladies too perspire.

And now the lads all tongues 'gan speak,

French, Latin, Hebrew, Syriac, Greek:

A dialogue, in mother tongue—

With loud applause the whole house rung.

Some other parts were toll loll pretty,

Yet none too learned, too deep, or witty.

Some, resolute to be admired,

Bawled, till their own tongues must have tired.

* * * * * * * * * * * Cetera desunt.

Reading, July 25, 1794.

BEAUTY.

BEAUTY, in thee what mighty force is—

The frame, once strong as any horse's,

Oft by thy power grows pale, thin, ghastly,

And sinks down ev'n to death's door hast'ly,

I KNEW a man in strength and vigor,

Who could endure the winter's rigor,

[Page]Or bear the summer's scorching heat,

Unhurt in frost, unhurt in sweat;

But when the arrows of thine eye,

Which thou didst cruelly let fly,

Had pierced down deep into his stomach,

What mighty sobs and sighs did come up;

How did the love pangs in him frolic,

Enough to give a man the cholic;

And with the flame for beauteous MOLLY

He sunk down sad and melancholy;

Somewhat despairing of his life,

But more despairing of a wife:

Then wrote a letter telling her

That she alone could be his cure;

Should she love him, his woes were whist all,

If not—then he must take a pistol;

Or climb the lofty mountain up,

And jump down headlong from its top.

To which the lady gave this answer—

"I'm sure if you're but half a man, sir,

You will not climb the mountain up,

And pitch tail foremost from the top,

For't may so hap a wooden peg▪

Must mate—just such another leg▪

A pistol—foolish chick you are,

[Page]"For brains I'm sure you've not to spare"

THIS cured him—to his work he went;

Tho disappointed, still content;

And at his plough's tail this his song was:

I'm free from love, tho'n love I long was.

Be wise ye fools, let plainness suit you;

What profit is there in a Beauty?

Reading, July 1791.

LETTER TO A FRIEND.

Cambridge, March 23, 1793.

DEAR FRIEND,

NOW let me plainly tell you

That every POLLY, NANCY, NELLY,

HANNAH, BETSY, EUNICE, BRIDGET,

But put a student's mind in fidgets.

When studying Latin, french or so,

The girls are e'er mal-apropos.

Stop, let me scratch my caput—say,

My dear friend, parlez vous Francois,

Mais vous ne pouvez pas comprendre,

More than what Jove says in his thunder,

[Page]Or Cupid with his lips of 'lasses,

Nr noisy Neptune tes thalasses.

Sed dicere jam, my friend, Latine,

Which language you as well as I know,

Nulla littera a te

Eleck upon its way to me—

Et nunquam will, I hope certissime.

NESCIO QUID.

NO more shall earthly scences engage

The muse's Hudibrastic rage,

No more on threadbare themes she'll write—

Nor rose nor lilly now delight;

No more shall she her wit be whetting,

On Phoebus' rising or his setting,

But, to th' infernal realms she soars

And things, before unknown, explores,

Where many a human brute is gone,

Forever shut from light of sun;

Condemned, for earthly sins to pay,

To waste an endless age away:

For, stopt by death, thy hell came [...] on,

Under the prudent care of Satan.

[Page]

BACK in the wilderness afar,

From town and city, noise and jar,

There went I forth with eager grade,

By some superior sybil led;

Such as Aeneas led, of yore,

To where he never was before,

Showing their judges, states and laws,

Returned him safe as e'er he was▪

Beyond the common lot of men,

He went, and he returned again—

Not so our moderns—down they go,

But the way back they never know.

AROUND the wilderness were seen,

Nor rose, nor shrub, nor feet of men;

But blackest trees that grew on high,

A thousand furlongs up the sky,

Beyond the ken of mortal eye:

Each frightful leaf on limbs grown over head

Extended broader than a coverlid:

Whene'er a breath of air appeared,

Ten thousand hurricanes were heard.

Whene'er it rained, the flood in torrents

Poured down their overflowing currents.

The sun could never pierce the leaves:

To other realms his rays he gives.

[Page]Birds thrice as large as great Goliah,

The trees of dreadful height oft fly o'er,

Or light among the branches round,

Or skim along the trembling ground;

Vast whirlwinds from their wings proceed,

And many a mile around 'em spread.

Here beasts of size more bulky far,

Than mamouths or than mountains are;

Whose mouths like caverns oped, whose throats

Would thousand bushels hold of oats;

Whose tails would sweep away an army;

In whose long fur you well might warm you.

ALL these were by the sybil shown;

While I with straightened hairs looked on—

Nor birds, nor beasts nor trees obstructed,

While by the sybil still conducted,

Mile after mile we travelled on,

Without the aid of burning sun,

For darkness only round us shone.

And now appears a horrid hole,

That into jelly turned my soul.

The sybil saw my fearful looks

And thus my tim'rousness rebukes;

[Page]

WHAT awes you now? why filled with fear?

Undaunted tread, no harm is near.

This is Avernus' throat before us,

Of which you've heard such frightful stories:

'Twas Satan's feet first trod this ground,

Satan, thro hell's wide realms renowned,

No hurt can come while I am with you;

With bolder pace advance then prithee.

NOW nearer to the hole we come;

The smell of brimstone, hot as rum,

Our noses filled; and flames of fire

Before us rose in many a gyre.

Here hideous, hissing hydras creep all,

Whose tails wound off like meetinghouse steeple,

Whose eyes in bloody basons rolled;

At whom ev'n devils were appalled.

Here bloodhounds barked with iron jaws,

And raked the ground with angry paws.

With teeth of brass here redhaired cats,

Rats, vultures, owls, snakes, toads and bats;

Here was, in short, each living creature

That ever had been curst by nature.

AS on we further pass around,

No tree, no fruit, no shrub is found

[Page]For here black chaos and old night,

Hold a ne'er ceasing, horrid fight—

Down, down we sink, down many a furlong,

Tempestuous winds about us whirl on;

Rocks, seas, fire, air, confound each other,

And rage, and roar, and make a pother.

These seemed the clouds of hell's broad sky,

Remnants, of chaos, ne'er to die —

Thro these we pass unhurt to flames,

And fires, that never yet had names—

On a steep, sulphurous mount we fall;

Down which, on hands and knees we crawl.

A spacious plain before us lay,

Red grass thereon, as dry as hay.

Far off a city grand was seen

Th' abode of Satan and his Queen,

Each part the knowing sybil shows,

And thus the explanation goes—

THIS was by Satan's order made;

With various tools, saw, axe and spade.

Now see yon towers, upraised on high,

And all those spires, that prick the sky:

You see the domes, proud raised and tall;

You see that round them winds, the wall.

That high built tower is where great Satan

[Page]Resides aloft, most awful state in.

On him his fawning servants wait,

Pride, Envy, Insolence and Hate.

This is the work of Moloch's power,

Uptossed and fashioned in one hour.

He called together all his fellows,

And took a monstrous pair of bellows,

The nose fixed in the ground, he blew,

And like a mighty jug, up flew

That noble pile; while very warm,

They mould it to it's present form:

All done, to see't came Satan running,

And laught at crafty Moloch's cunning;

And laught so loud, as many tell,

He roused the lowest dephs of hell.

For this was Moloch raised to quality,

And rides the song of immortality.

Those other towers, in grand parade,

For Satan's waiting slaves were made.

LO at the city gate the place,

Where tried are all the human race:

Minos and Radamanthus hold

Th' infernal court for young and old.

A thousand Lawyers at the bar

Surpassed the culprits numbers far—

[Page]

MORE had I seen, but, direful fate,

A louse that rambled round my pate,

Clapt his sharp fauceps in my head:

I waked and found myself abed.

NOW why this story long I've told

Of what mad fancy can unfold,

Was but to bring this truth to light—

Fools dream by day, but men of sense by night.

The substance of a long SERMON, preached in a small house, by a diminutive "holder forth"— turned into Sapphic.

DEATH and damnation to the sons of Satan,

Cry all the scriptures, so too does reason.

Ah Satan's children, hear, hear my preaching,

Make due improvement.

Lo as the frog leaps into the cool pool,

So leaps the sinner into the gulph, which

Ever stands ready, with her mouth open

Quick to receive him.

Did you ne'er see a dark dismal cavern,

[Page]So very deep that you could not behold it?

Now that is nothing, when but compared with

Hell's mighty gullet.

Ah sinners, vast sinners, sinners in this room,

Born like dead carrion, all rotten with sin, which

Know is exceedingly sinful; all subjects

Fit for damnation.

Wait for the spirit, for as you now are,

You can no more your own wicked selves stir,

Than a dead log can stand up on end, and

Just like a man walk.

But if you do not wake and bestir you,

Know, that in snow banks of still ceasing sulphur.

Ever, forever, you must be rolling,

Till time no more is.

Death and damnation, Hell, flames and brimstone,

Fire, wrath eternal, lightning and thunder,

There round one's ears fly, and soon will make you

All black as Indians.

[Page]

Born with the itch of Adam's first sin, and

Ne'er to be cured till Christ's mighty ointment,

When you are dipt in regeneration,

Cleanses the scabs off.

HONESTY.

LOOK where the golden thrones of monarchs shine,

Where sceptred blockheads reign by right divine;

With ample power, o'er subject millions rule,

Exhibiting the despot or the fool.

Look where her chests of gold blind fortune grants,

To feed, to satisfy the rich man's wants.

Survey the gaudy dress, dependent groom,

The gold guilt chariot, and the lofty dome.

Look where the steep of fame her children climb,

The sage philosopher the bard sublime;

Borne by the breath of popular applause,

Or crushed in infamy's or envy's jaws,

[Page]Look where the virgin, blest with every charm,

Each eye to captivate, each bosom warm,

O'er rival courtiers holds imperial sway,

The toast and topic of the festive day.

CAN these united claim thy least regard?

The rich, the sage, the monarch or the bard;

Unless calm reason o'er each thought preside,

Duty to heaven impel, and conscience guide,

An honest heart, the soul's ambrosial food,

The highest happiness, the greatest good.

Fame yields no lawrels that impart such bliss,

Earth has no crown equivalent to this.

WHAT tho the world be careless of thy worth;

What tho her hand wild fortune stretch not forth;

What tho grief's mists hang heavy round thy head,

And sullen cares molest thy nightly bed;

What tho detraction's pestilential breath,

Consign thy memory to the shades of death.

[Page]Yet if thy sovereign conscience grant thee rest,

GOD's mighty umpire in the human breast,

If, like Aeolus, reason shall assuage

Thy stormy passions and thy bursting rage;

If virtue's polestar shall direct thy way,

And honor's lamp illume thy every day,

Unmoved with slander; and unstung with guile,

Rewarding heaven on thy pursuits shall smile.

Angels shall crown thy brows with endless green:

Unknown to man, yet not by GODS unseen.

As when some youth, with love's chaste ardor fired,

His ev'ry vein with thrilling bliss inspired:

Far distant from the maid that holds his heart;

Long absent, while the tedious months depart;

Whom first astray wild enterprize has led,

And pale disease chained on her iron bed;

[Page]Death's dart evaded; health's gay bloom returns,

The once wan cheek with crimson vigor burns:

He pants again to find, t' attend his fair,

Who long, than death far more, has claimed his care.

The meeting pair, in love's embraces blest,

The youth rewarded and the maid caressed.

What are the scenes? and what the sorrows past?

Heaven crowns with bliss his highest hope at last.

So shall the youth, whom virtue's arm sustains.

Or o'er prosperity's enchanting plains,

Thro' the wild deserts of perplexing cares,

Or flowery paths, where vice has laid her snares,

Thro the chill winter of misfortune's reign,

Or o'er the ragged wilds of grief and pain,

By her secure be led. His steady eyes

Behold the rich, the never ending prize;

Embracing angels his blest soul convey

To loftiest joys of heaven's immortal day.

[Page]

DISTINCTION. A POEM, delivered July 15, 1795, at Commencement, Cambridge.

WHILE nobler fires the bolder hero warms,

The love of conquest and renown in arms;

Wile daring Miltons court the world's applause,

Or Franklins, deeply versed in nature's laws;

Those humbler wishes of the little mind,

The love of petty notice from mankind,

(Since mirth and humor to the day belong)

Shall be the subject of our lowly song.

IN earliest life, when first the passions wake,

See o'er them all her seat ambition take,

And when gay youth succeeds to infant years,

The love of notice in each act appears.

In rural sports who most applause shall gain,

Who stands the stoutest boxer on the plain,

[Page]Whose brawny limbs the wrestler's palm shall bear,

Or in the chace who first shall seize the hare.

Nor less the city than the rural field,

Of this unnumbered instances can yield.

For of all apes that human form possess,

Your city fop in téte a téte and dress,

(And much of late these ladies, playthings thrive)

Become the most disgusting thi [...] alive,

With amplest vacuum while the head is full,

What charming gewgaws grace the pasteboard skull.

IN them this love conceited worth inspires,

And fills the chicken soul with peacock fires.

For some new excellence their bosoms glow,

And see the witling sprouting from the beau,

But what is more, far more provoking still,

While PAINE scarce writes, ye gods! these fellows will.

'TWAS this that drove Empedocles, how odd!

Down Aetna's furnace, to be deemed a God.

[Page]CROMWELL, urg'd onward by the love of fame,

Upset a kingdom, to set up his name.

Sooner would Fox as gambler stand at helm,

Than be the second patriot in the realm.

Sooner would one his good name wish to rot,

Than have his numerous oddities forgot,

With pompous airs and gait so lordly big,

One gathers half his honors from his wig;

The humor of another more 'twill bless,

That people think him negligent of dress.

The modest parson sets all pride at naught,

Yet's proud to find how humble he is tho't;

While to the lawyer greater bliss will be

The fame of eloquence than honesty;

The safe physician, with sagacious eyes,

Rolls forth his ragged words of awful size;

Prescribes his pills, and makes his learned speech;

While equal benefit results from each.

[Page]

IN Harvard's walls, the scholar's palm t'obtain,

By midnight lamps, one spends his hours in pain.

If while to Fame's bright temple he aspires,

He in progressive retrograde retires;

See him his duty and his books forsake,

And seek for honor, as a blood and rake.

Another, grasping after great renown,

In his great self philosopher is grown;

Who'd in one day the sage's summit reach,

And yet can scarcely tell the parts of speech;

With laboring dulness, and an aching head,

That figurative writer, EUCLID, read;

Then thanks his stars, as member can he rub

Of some selfloved, selfhonored, lurking club,

Formed, when selfflattery walked in wisdom's guise,

When friendship wept, and justice closed her eyes.

NOR less this love is seen in female art—

Sweet maid, so careful of the gazer's heart,

Commands the lawn her lovely neck to screen,

[Page]Yet hopes her bosom does not heave unseen.

With studied carelessness her fan lets drop,

To show with how much grace she'll take it up.

They dart their charms, and with unerring skill,

As all will now confess, they almost kill;

Oft with one careless rolling of the eye,

Volleys of fatal grape shot charms let fly;

Pleas'd who controul most lovers in their train;

Pleas'd who can count the greatest numbers slain.

Justice commands; some few, some few, there are,

With falsest tongues who call themselves the fair;

To knit or sew—with skill like this dispense—

Learn to talk sentiment in spite of sense.

ONE buys up books, most elegant and nice,

Of new editions and of highest price,

While splendid folies grace the letter'd room:

To him alike are SHAKESPEARE, and TOM THUMB.

And such lay claim to science, wit and sense,

[Page]And oft to criticism make pretence,

Scarce with the knowledge of the primmer graced,

Each numskull thinks himself a man of taste.

And if by chance some pilgrim tho't astray,

Which by some accident had lost its way,

Should careless float around his vacant head,

Like beaten gold, o'er many a sheet 'tis spread.

The pen must scratch, as powerful frenzies twitch,

As if the very paper had the itch.

Congress has charms, the statesman [...] that claim,

Which make the venal fool a fool to fame,

And oft while independent merit pleads,

Lo brazen imbecillity succeeds.

WITH hand uplifted, and imploring eye,

The sons of anarchy to faction cry,

O'erturn, o'erturn, o'erturn, and turn again,

'Till we, whose right it is, shall come and reign.

But one was guilty of the greatest sin—

Disgraced his dog, and called him Jacobin;

Touched to the quick, and wounded in his pride,

[Page]The dog turned pale, gave up the ghost, and died.

THE love of notice reigns in every breast,

Nor grants the passions of the bosom rest.

To deeds of pith it prompts the coward soul,

Nor bonds of conscience limit its controul.—

The knave to truth, the fool to wealth it leads,

The native sneak to honorable deeds,

And more in duty's cause the bosom warms,

Than all philosophy's or virtue's charms.

IMAGINATION. A POEM, delivered at a PUBLIC EXHIBITION, in Cambridge, April 13, 1795.

TO ken where fancy soars her airy height,

On daring wings directs her heavenward flight;

To trace her ruder rise, her use, her powers;

Her wandering way from elder times to ours;

Be this our task. Celestial muse, inspire;

O grant some portion of thy heavenly fire;

[Page]While fancy's sallies to his theme belong,

O could those sallies mark thy suppliant's song.

WHILE Egypt's sons from reason's guidance strayed,

To leeks and onions sacred honors paid;

While all the science of the Chaldean school

Taught but to make a madman of a fool;

In Greece, an ORPHEUS played, a LINUS sung;

And heroes halls with painted battles hung.

Waked from dull sleep of long unnumbered years,

Fancy with taste in HOMER's lyre appears;

JOVE's messenger of both to man below.

Rapid and full the heavenly numbers flow;

Strength, fire, invention mark the rolling verse.

See, rapt in extacy, the world rehearse;

See o'er mankind the muse's reign extend;

While HOMER's name with time alone shall end.

SUBLIME on Ida's loftiest top he stood;

Proud of obedience to their poet's nod,

Lo, from their seats on high Parnassus' mount,

[Page]The muses, gliding to Pieria's fount;

Draughts of celestial nectar bear away,

And half the fountain to the bard convey.

There while he stands, the battle sires below;

On hero hero falls, and foe on foe;

Now lowers the sky: complaining thunders roll;

And the linked lightning chequers either pole;

Old ocean heaves tumultuous; Ilion shakes;

And earth, with heaven and hell, distracted quakes.

HOMER enjoys the mighty scene alone;

And when mount Ida rocks not, paints it down.

WILD PINDAR next, of bold and daring thought,

On wings of fleet imagination caught,

To whom the swallow's darting pinions given,

Gliding from gods to men, from earth to heaven,

Charms every heart in his unbridled lays;

And rides the song of never ending praise.

AND lo, where MARO calmly soars on high;

[...]oises his wings, and sails along the sky,

[Page]A steady grandeur and majestic air;

Pruned every line with all the critic's care;

His science ample, and exact his taste;

Invention lively, and his language chaste.

O brilliant Roman sun; thou bard divine,

In fancy's hemisphere forever shine.

ERE long the muse's influence is o'er;

And works of taste are cultured now no more

Her temples moulder, and her seats decay;

And Goths her gold gilt garments bear away;

Condemned in solitary wilds to roam,

Nay, unprovided with a decent home.

From wood to wood, from hill to dale she strayed,

Unheard, unnoticed, melancholy maid.

Lo, where she struggles thro the brush and thorn;

Her hair dishevelled, and her raiment torn.

At length, far off, she kens a cultured spot,

Fresh flowers, cool shades, a low but comely cot;

There, on his door stone, CHAUCER sits and sings;

And tells his merry tales of knights & kings;

[Page]Drinks of his annual, pensioned pipe of wine;

While livelier grows his wit, and readier runs the line.

BUT who shall celebrate a SHAKESPEARE's praise?

Or crown his brows with never dying bays?

Twas his, the av'nues of the heart to find,

The darkest chambers of the human mind;

Twas his, to tread creation's limits o'er,

Where fancy's feet ne'er dared to tread before.

How vain th' attempt of each succeeding wit,

His strength to rival and his manner hit;

CAESAR of half the realms of thought around;

To other bards, alas! forbidden ground.

BUT now the finer arts of taste beloved;

Her gardens weeded, and her lands improved;

From, seat to seat the muse delighted roves;

The laborer honors, and the labor loves.

Far off she kens a mountain of the skies;

Where loftier mounds o'er lofty mounds arise.

Bold was the thought, ev'n in the muse to dare

To climb the steep ascent, and breathe th' empyreal air.

[Page]The summit gained, with painful steps & slow,

She views disdainful mole hill Alps below.

There MILTON sits, enrobed in heavenly light,

While clouds of glory veil him from her sight.

There heaven's high archives generous angels bring;

And GABRIEL's sisters teach him how to sing.

There paints th' arch fiend, in gulphs of sulphur tossed,

And howling horrors of the hideous host.

Or walks with God to climes of elder night,

And sees creation leaping into light.

There paints his Eve not less divinely fair,

Than here Columbia's lovely daughters are.

Sings how curst war first broke his feeble bands,

While mountains trembled in the warrior's hands.

How our grand parents left their precious pale;

The serpent cunning; and the woman frail.

SEE solemn YOUNG, in cheerless churchyards stray;

In silent thought, to shun the noise of day.

As when dark clouds o'er Ether's fields are driven,

[Page]Conceal the sky, and black the face of Heaven;

His lightning genius only serves to show,

How deeply dark he paints the scene of woe.

LANGUAGE may pleasure to the ear impart,

Imagination seizes on the heart;

Wakes the quick tendons stretched with rap'trous pain;

Shakes every limb, and thrills in every vein.

'Tis thine, enchanting power, 'tis thine to bear

The sighing lover to his distant fair;

From clime to clime the fleeting soul convey;

Unblamed the leaden hours, or tedious way.

'Tis thine, blest power, t'outstrip the lazy light;

While laboring time in vain pursues thy flight.

'Tis thine to traverse heaven's eternal round;

From suns to stars, from orb to orb, to bound;

Pleased o'er creation's ample tracts to roam;

Eternity thy life; immensity thy home.

HOW sweet, when PHOEBUS rolls his chariot high.

And rapid flames along the mid day sky;

Beside some murmuring rill, in lonely glade,

Where weeping willows cause a cooling shade;

While the soft gale just pants upon the spray,

[Page]And nature's HANDELS chant the hours away:

How sweet, to sit, with SHAKESPEARE's page soar;

Or walk, with MILTON, worlds unknown before,

BUT ah! how few can taste the muse's charms;

How sew the bosoms, which her frenzy warms.

There are, who oftimes at her portals stand,

Who glean the refuse dropt from taste's fair hand;

There are, to whom her inner doors unsold;

Who, coo [...]y pleased, her furniture behold;

Who yet ne'er leaned upon the muse's breast,

Nor wished to be, nor ever were caressed;

Whose frigid souls her beauties cannot strike;

Who read a MILTON, as they read a PIKE.

Daughters of science, sentiment and taste,

With every charm, and blooming honor graced;

Cease not o'er fancy's fairy fields to stray;

Where bland improvement points the gentle way;

There cull the flowers that never ceasing rise,

Blest with man's culture, & th' enriching skies▪

[Page]Yet never seize the axe, to aim a stroke

At the LOCKE horn-beam, or the EUCLID oak.

LET MAHOMET his declamations roll;

Assert that woman ne'er possest a soul.

The love of virtue, the pursuit of truth,

The brow of wisdom, and the bloom of youth,

The heaving bosom, and the kindling eye,

The melting look, soft air, and long-drawn sigh,

All to the haughty prophet give the lie.

THE veil of future years bold fancy rends.

Scene beyond scene, of lovely tint, extends.

Her fruits ripe science' endless autumn pours,

And taste, and tho't unbolt their richest stores.

Kind reason rouses from her long pressed bed▪

Pale superstition hangs her slumbering head.

Harvard's fair genius into rapture breaks,

And every nerve to extacy awakes;

Bids fame's bright sun to his meridian rise,

And pause for ages in his mid-day skies;

'Till God's disbanding word creation jar,

System with neighboring system kindle war,

And all, that to these humbler orbs belong,

To Chaos elder courts together throng.

[Page]

And it came to pass in those days, that the spirit of politics pervaded my mind, which, added to the usual spirit of poetry, shone forth in a brief, yet pertinent EPISTLE TO THE ELECTORS OF A FEDERAL REPRESENTATIVE IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK.

LET Unus ne'er be chose for Suffolk;

He's too much shell, and not enough yolk.

The best proceedings he'll oppose e'er,

He's Virtue's foe, yet scarcely knows her.

Still blubb'ring, blust'ring, foaming, frothing,

But to die point in hand says nothing.

In short, he seems of wind a bladder,

Blown up on wild ambition's ladder,

Don't let your votes then keep him higher,

And soon he'll cease our heads to fly o'er.

TO high aspiring upstart Duo

No thanks at all I'm certain you owe.

For, when at Congress last, what did he?

At eloquence was he e'er ready?

His tho'ts creep fearfully as mice,

His tongue is surely made of ice.

[Page]By sapient brow, and steadfast eyes,

He fain would make you think him wise,

But were there to his mind a port hole,

You would not give a farthing for't all.

Besides; who knows a virtue of him?

Wisdom would not do wrong to cuff him,

His country's votes should never bless him,

While vice and ignorance caress him.

What constant revelry and gambling!

And after strumpets midnight rambling.

With all his folly, vice and so forth,

Should he to represent us go forth,

Congress would say we've broke their rules,

And sent the worst of Satan's tools,

To represent a pack of fools.

Our claim can foaming Tersius merit,

Who of a bubble has the spirit?

Some think his line of speech like pack thread,

And no more Worthy an attack hard

Than if a pismire broke wind backward.

His rhet'ric, which each fool appalls,

Pours out like Niagara falls;

While scarce a mouse dares crawl the dark in,

And his own lice stand still to hearken,

[Page]In fine, 'tis fit he should be stiled

By all, rank folly's greenest child.

ON him ah well the world may cook,

For he's an admirable cook;

Can dress up nought, with salt and spice,

So wonderfully neat and nice,

And roast it by poetic fire,

So that the dish you'll all admire.

Then send him, if you'll send a curse,

Misrepresentative for us.

IS spenthift Quartus ever known

To take due care of what's his own.

No, never; well then how can he

Careful of public int'rest be?

With coblers credit scarce can gain he;

I would not trust the man a penny.

Forever fawning, soothing, flatt'ring,

A magpie still on nonsense chattering.

And will you put, so rash and raw,

A pistol in a monkey's paw?

AND he in soul's an anti [...]ed'ralist,

Loves the wrong party, and dares head their list.

Oft has he said, he hard would push on,

And overturn the constitution.

[Page]Besides you know that he's a Lawyer,

Who'll put all things in tangles for you,

And then, t' untie these tangles he

Humbly demands his modest fee.

Truth simple laws were plain as light,

Dev'l said, be Quartus, all was night▪

CAN spouting Quintus claim a vote?

A man so little worthy note.

Who makes so little use of reason,

Whose words are ever out of season,

Whose wit's as weak as water warm,

Whose frying passions ne'er are calm,

Whose writings are for nonsense fuel,

Whose pen is dipt in water gruel

Leave him; he'll by himself be worsted,

Leave him; let no such man be trusted. *

HIS country's happiness his aim,

Sextus pursues the path to fame.

Justice and probity attend him;

Attention and success befriend him.

No showy sophistry beguiles;

And heaven on his endeavors smiles.

By him all ignorance is punished;

And vice and folly stand astonished.

[Page]While forceful argument, and reason,

And eloquence ne'er out of season,

Insure him influence and success,

And all his wise proceedings bless.

Should men like him our Congress fill;

What bliss in ev'ry vein would thrill.

Commerce more swift would plow the deep▪

More harvest agriculture reap;

Science more wide expand the mind;

And justice' eyes no more be blind;

Amazed would vice and folly stare;

And we be heav'n's peculiar care.

The Drama.

THE Question, Theatre or none,

In prose is almost threadbare worn —

Now would the muse, in dogg'rel verse,

The speeches of the town rehearse

When now they were collected all

Together close in Fanuel hall;

High in his seat, the rest above,

Grave Crites sat, like rev'rend Jove,

[Page]Placed by the town, in solemn state,

Presiding o'er the warm debate.

Silent around the people stared—

And now, with plenteous words prepared,

Resonus rose, with grief opprest,

And thus the audience loud addrest.

"Why are these mischiefs here a brewing?

Why will you drown yourselves in ruin?

Still will you be with playthings charmed?

Can ne'er this vain desire be calmed?

Why are you e'er in folly warm?

Why's in your souls this gewgaw storm?

What rage for novelty and nonsense

Possesses every man of wrong sense.

Have you not seen, in every age,

What bad effects attend the stage?

Where knaves, where rakes, where rascals joining,

Are virtue's base e'er undermining.

Where fools mispend their precious time,

With witless prose or jingling rhime.

His adze the Carpenter must quit,

And run half mad for playhouse wit.

The blacksmith's sledge the taylor's goose

Must soon grow wholly out of use.

[Page]The merchant too must leave his store;

And sink in nonsense more and more.

And ev'n the priest to playhouse scuds,

And leaves religion in the suds.

Many a dull ass, who does not know it,

Must try to make himself a poet;

Who'd think himself in wit abundant,

Could please the stage, and pour a fund on't

And tho' his head be e'er so hollow▪

Suppose 'twas fill'd up by Apollo,

Scorched by a fire poetic, hard

He'd strain and tug to be a bard,

And then well stewed come forth his plays,

He meets applause, and gains the bays.

And now a numhead grown of quality,

He rides the song of immortality,

Around the stage the critics mustering,

Would like a swarm of bees be clustering;

Catching at faults like dogs or sharks,

Or gravely making shrewd remarks,

Then, publishing each observation,

They'd try to get the critics' station.

The boys would rig their heads with powder,

While clamors for new cloths grow louder.

Barbers and taylors bills to pay,

[Page]Carries one's money fast away.

The girls must have new hats, each day,

New caps, new gowns, for ev'ry play.

If possible, the looking glasses

They'll wear out, rigging heads and faces.

Hoist the high hat above the head,

With plumes enough for featherbed;

And back and forth forever just'ling,

Spoil many a gown of silk and muslin.

At a low price these things we must rate,

For virtue, wealth and peace, they frustrate.

Perhaps they're well enough for boys;

But, men, be tickled not with toys.

I scarce have patience, when I think

That you dare stand upon the brink,

Of woes unnumbered; who can tell?

But on the very brink of hell?

For of these ills who knows th' amount?

Who can the stars above us count?

Surpass, surpass this stone of stumbling▪

Nor't folly's fag end e'er be fumbling.

Be resolute, drive off such trash,

So apt to get a body's cash,

So dang'rous to this peaceful town.

So apt to raze its grandeur down

[Page]O stop these baneful deep laid plots,

Or virtue's throne forever rots,

And o'er it rise proud knaves and sots."

AT length Musacus up arose,

And thus his fine oration goes.

"And have you done indeed Resonus?

No greater good could come upon us.

No more my ear feels bruise or bang,

From thunder of your loud harrangue.

True light'ning might have wro't a wonder,

But only fools are moved with thunder▪

If you've to prosper expectation,

Put some good sense in your oration.

Vast tropes have rolled out from your tongue

And streams of nonsense poured along.

Tropes should hold sense, but yours hold nothing,

And are unfit to put hogs broth in.

Big words with little thoughts avail not

Any more than a twig of walnut,

Yet noble thoughts, with noble words,

Are just like clubs, like guns, like swords.—

But from our purpose not to swerve,

I'll cease your poor lean speech t'observe,

And now pursue th' intended object,

[Page]And enter deep into the subject.

In all polite and polished places,

The tragic muse, and comic graces,

(From whom what gentle virtues team)

Were ever held in high esteem.

And shall the tragic muse e'er mourn,

Far from fair Boston, faint, forlorn?

And shall the comic muse grow dull,

And be with sad dejection full?

If but a stage erected here be,

Judgment the star its course to steer by,

All lively virtues, fair as morn,

Would pullulate the mind t'adorn.

The soul, her utmost strength exerting,

Would stamp all vices down the dirt in.

Ev'n Satan then would lose much pow'r,

And sin and hell would scarce be more.

'Twill make this land on high arise,

And climb sublimely to the skies.

Ride up, as mounting on a ladder,

At its own greatness how 'twill shudder.

Shakespearean geniuses, arising,

Will soon this world here be surprising,

And native sparks around be tost on,

The noble Theatre of Boston.

[Page]From Thespis down to modern days,

What bards exalted ask our praise!

Tho some may say, Poh, far off bear hence

Your thinskulled Sophocles or Terence,

O let their grandest works go speedy hence

And all the train of low tragedians,

Yet when neglected reason rules,

She'll soundly flog such haughty fools.

The Drama, O Bostonians, know,

Is virtue's friend, and vice's foe.

Then rouse yourselves to noble rage;

Pursue your aim, and have a stage."

He said, and hems, and hahs were giv'n,

Some prais'd him to the stars of heaven,

Some loudly cried, "Enough, enough,

All witless talk, bombastic stuff"

Till Cobleratus, from the croud,

Sprung out, and thus poured forth aloud,

"The blustering words of great MUSACUS,

Angry and out of patience make us,

His cause so very wrong, and base is,

He thinks the way to get the case is

Not by fair proof and reason holding,

But by condemning, and by scolding.

So Indians seldom dare to fight

[Page]In open field, and open light,

But stooping down behind old stumps,

Pour in the shot on th' enemies' rumps.

Why should you think great speech you've uttered,

When nought but nonsense has been muttered.

Against the stage, as mountains firm

We stand, nor dread the windy storm,

Nor all the robin-shot, that rattle

From those on t'other side the battle.

We have well manned and strengthened all our ship,

And stick together in close fellowship,

Ready t'engage, since truth's on our side,

With all the bawling force of your side.

How soon will Boston sadly grieve all,

If thus she's led on to the Devil!

A baneful fall she undergoes,

If fools thus pull her by the nose.

How soon her beauty'll be no more,

On her what tides of ill will pour.

She'll lose her greatness, strength and honor,

And all hell's plagues will come upon her.

Speak forth, and let nor priest nor lawyer

Have power from rights of tongue to bar you.

[Page]Put saucy theatrists to silence,

Or they'll become our lords a while hence"

HE spoke and made a silent pause;

And none, to advocate the cause,

Appeared on his side, forward prest,

Mercatus, and the croud addrest.

"CHARMED with sweetly powerful muses,

I cannot hear these vile abuses,

Thus on them cast, without much fretting,

And ignorance's sway regretting.

To woo the soul from vicious ways,

To give the good their proper praise,

To paint the clown, the fool, the knave,

To show what bliss the virtuous have,

To give refinement to the fair,

To raise the laugh, or draw the tear,

In brief to polish and refine,

O goddess of the stage, is thine.

HAS not great Gardiner hunted thro

The works of old times and of new,

And laid the matter plain before you,

Told you the never ceasing glory,

And soul enrapt'ring sweet delight,

That with the theatre unite?

Have not the Drama's rights be shown?

[Page]Th' advantage 'twould be to the town,

How the proprietors 'twould profit

And all the various pleasures of it,

Have not the papers oft enough

Declared the benefits thereof.

If here the muses have but leave

Their liberal, useful power to give,

Then fair PHILENIA's swan would fly o'er

This world an hundred miles up higher,

WARREN'd her pen new scrape and trim,

With visions grand her head would swim;

The muses faithful seed would sow,

And flowers Parnassian round us grow.

A blast to gabbling ganders give,

And bid the virtuous drama live."

AND now, despising all low levity,

Moved up with serious, judge like gravity,

The plain stern CRITES and to each

Gave proper praises for his speech;

And would his own thoughts soon have given,

When low descends a sign from heaven!

JUPITER's golden, wood or silk scales,

Down hanging like two mighty milk pails.

Now loud a voice comes thundering forth;

Spreads east and west, and south and north:

[Page] Nontheatrists, this dreadful day,

"With Theatrists I now shall weigh,"

The voice far sounds around the skies—

To ballance justly Jove now tries;

With ah but little weight descended

The Theatrists —and thus it ended.

Cambridge, March 1792.

FRIENDSHIP AND INNOCENCE.

BLEST be the power, which mingles soul with soul,

Each joy to heighten, and each pang control.

Blest be the power, which gives to life it's wealth,

And adds new flushes to the cheek of health.

Blest be the power, unwelcome care which kills,

And robs PANDORA's box of half its ills.

Unknown the intercourse of man with man,

When in wild woods the wanton savage ran,

For mutual aid societies were formed;

And social compact into friendship warmed,

[Page]With one design the arts of peace were taught;

With one bold heart contending heroes fought.

But now primeval friendship's generous glow,

How few the souls, the kindred souls that know.

The man whom chance from humble station lifts;

Whose merits are but sickle fortune's gifts;

That man has friends, but if mad fortune frown,

His friends turn foes to slander turns renown.

So fickle is the friendship of the day;

It lives with wealth, with want it dies away;

But when the seeds in virtuous soil are sown,

They warm, they shoot, & flourish there alone.

'TIS not the splendor of the golden ore,

In chests so filled it finds not room for more;

'Tis not the loud voice of the trump of fame,

Nor all the pleasures of an honored name;

'Tis not, the fount of learning to exhaust;

Or bear despotic sway from coast to coast;

These, these are not what real bliss impart,

Or give true satisfaction to the heart.

'Tis the bright star of innocence alone,

Can lead to bliss, can soften sorrow's moan.

[Page]The strong enduring pectoral of peace,

At her command the stings of conscience cease.

Let every passion yield to her control,

And let her reign the empress of the soul.

When Caesar bid war's red flag be unfurled,

And raised the tide of ruin round the world:

Say, when peace drove the cares of camps away,

And calmer reason poured refulgent day,

Was not the thought, that anger's scythe had mown

Its thousands down, its millions overthrown;

That private wrath, to conscience' precepts blind,

Had madly made a harvest of mankind;

Was not the thought the horror of the day,

The MICHAEL's sword that pointed every way?

PARODY of the 1st. PSALM.

CURST is the man, who knows the place,

Where strumpets love to meet;

[Page]Who never heeds the chaste one's ways,

Nor sees her modest seat.

Who in the statutes of the wise.

Has never placed delight;

Who drinks and sleeps away the day,

Gambles and whores all night,

He shall be like, the Lord knows what,

And when his joys are past,

Safe from the bliss of happier realms.

Shall go to hell at last.

Lean is his cheek, and sore his nose,

With lust's disorder dire,

The gout has stiffened all his limbs,

His eyes are red as fire.

Not so the wise not so the chaste,

Who wisdom's dictates hear.

To them are far superior joys;

Superior raptures far,

The fair one's modest look sincere;

Tbe warm embrace of love;

But nobler sweets of marriage bands,

Let bands of Hymen prove.

June 1791.

[Page]

STANZAS TO DOMESTIC RETIREMENT.

IN peaceful bowers where bland contentment reigns,

Far from the busy hum of city strife,

'Tis there that wisdom half her vot'ries gains;

There flows forever blest the stream of life.

The dream is such as innocence inspires;

"Works of day past or morrow's next design;"

There heed they not ambition's ardent fires;

And there at others grandeur ne'er repine.

Heaven from their eyes the book of fate has closed,

And hid hereafter in the gloom of night;

Resigned to heaven's high will, the mind composed,

Believing whatsoever is, is right.

No anxious cares distract the quiet breast,

No dubious faith in providence's sway;

To such remain the calmer joys of rest;

To such time moves delightfully away.

[Page]

FRAGMENT.

FAREWELL the bliss that happier times could tell—

Sweet maid, long loved, and long adored, farewell.

Adieu, blest scenes, I once could pleased pursue;

To love's delights, to Sylvia's charms, adieu.

Go, every thought of her, who caused my woe;

Each tender thought, each loved idea go.

Come black despair, whence sullen spectres roam;

From thy blank vale, with looks of horror come.

FULL oft when night her awful veil has spread;

When all the busy hum of men was dead;

The pale moon riding o'er her mountain sky:

When not one saucy tho't of care was nigh;

Full oft I've sat and lived on every charm,

While in my bosom slept thy careless arm;

[Page]While on thy breast my glowing cheek was laid,

And thro' my soul ten thousand pleasures played.

O could but anger in my bosom burn,

That anger, caused when love meets no return▪

Could stern philosophy bar out the grief;

Business oblivion bring, or hope relief;

No more with sorrowing heart, and aching head,

I'd roll in horror on th' uneasy bed;

Nor strive in vain, while cares like poniards prove,

To sleep on coals of unsuccessful love.

But ah what balm can soften pangs like these?

What Stoic frost can love's warm current freeze?

What power can agonies like mine control;

Or soothe the earnest longings of the soul?

CURST be the force of gold, forgetful maid,

'Twas this alone thy Coridon betrayed;

'Twas this to Henry gave his glowing charms,

'Tis this alone, that Sylvia's bosom warms,

'Tis this alone will cast her from my arms.

* * * * * *

[Page]

A TALE.

YE muses, who, round mount Parnassus,

Lick Helicon, as sweet as 'lasses;

Ye graces, tripping round the mount,

Or guggling nectar from the fount;

Since every body else implores,

That you to them should open doors,

Say, will you lend your gentle aid,

Nay give it, for you'll ne'er be paid;

For poor the present age in purse is;

And bards instead of bread, meet curses.

Where Boston's lofty spires arise,

Pricking the bosom of the skies,

There lived, not fifty years ago,

A man, of stature rather low;

But, than his wig, no age, no clime,

Produced one ever more sublime;

So great, tis said, in sulkey riding,

It chanced, the back part got one side on,

And, gravitation's centre lost,

The car was on the axle tost.

Great was his talent money getting;

[Page]But greater far was that of eating;

For here he out did every one,

Still eating when the rest had done,

Great was his skill in mathematicks,

In which he'd very often play tricks.

So much of algebra he knew,

He'd prove 6 minus 4 was two;

Could prove all Euclid's propositions,

Well as the best of math'maticians.

Deep learned, deep read in politics,

He knew all parliament'ry tricks;

He saw of councellers and kings,

The motions and the secret things;

Could o'er th' Atlantic cast his eye,

And ev'ry act and thought descry,

Would talk ten hours to only win one

O'er to the right side—his opinion.

Great was his skill in prophecies,

No man had more prophetic eyes.

When east the wind began to blow,

He always knew it would be so:

Predicted every coming shower,

But never till 'twas come, or o'er.

Foretold the glory of these regions

Would rise as high as larks or pigeons,

[Page]As ev'ry orator has done,

Since day of Independence shone:

Nay, by the day light of the skies,

Predicted oft the sun would rise.

RELIGION was his great chaef d' aeuvre,

In every kind a firm believer.

All books religious he o'erhauled,

Thence culinary virtues culled,

Thinking by confidence in all,

He must be orthodoxical:

Moreover that perhaps there might,

Among so many, be one right;

And that a better chance he run,

Than those who but believed in one.

HIS skill in Latin was at best

Contained this side of sum es est,

Of Greek he knew that kai was and,

But further could not understand:

And yet so great in both his skill was,

Confuting coblers, taylors, millers,

Some tho't him one of learnings' pillars.

Of Bunyan too so great a lover,

He'd thrice read Pilgrim's Progress over,

[Page]And three times thrice he'd read with care

Each volume of Burn's Justice o'er,

Blackstone and Coke and many more.

And Perry's dictionary too,

Nay two times once * he read it thro.

These books his library composed,

And on them hours and days he dozed.

And now his pedigree we'll trace,

As far up as we can his race.

Than him in youth none e'er was greater,

A scullion boy t' a corporal's waiter.

In camp his fame began to grow,

Was corporal made, and sergeant too.

But happening once to be in battle,

He did not like the dangerous rattle,

Fearing dire wounds in such dire fray.

He took t' his heels and ran away.

Then with a cobler lived a while,

Two or three years in humble stile,

Then sat up for himself, and now

Tow'rd Gentleman Cobler 'gan to grow.

Noted for length of nose and ears,

[Page]And wig that well became his years;

Known by the short coat which he wore,

And breeches with the kneebands tore;

Known by the shortness of his shoestrings,

And stockings always tied with two strings;

Known by his shrugging up of shoulders,

And eyeballs glaring on beholders.

Known better by his yellow beard,

Than any thing we yet have heard.

Yet such indeed his virtuous worth,

His wit, his learning, and so forth,

So much did ev'ry man admire him,

The Governor thought best to Squire him.

Now sixty years in care and strife,

The 'Squire had lived without a wife.

And now what time love's flames and fires

Began to kindle warm desires,

Lamenting that his life thus far

He'd spent, nor once in Venus' war,

A single battle dared to enter on,

On which he'd seen so many venturing;

Determining to lay aside

His cold indifference and pride,

And hatred for the other sex,

[Page]Born as he swore to only vex,

He called his servant (for 'tis true

The great have slaves and Wuttle too)

John heard his voice and oped the door,

"Here John, attend," he cried,,, no more

Shall Wuttle live a single life,

Unblest with children or with wife;

No, I have got a maid in view,

A rich young girl, if fame be true,

Some twenty miles or more from hence,

In beauty great, and great in pence:

And tho' she's very young, no matter,

If I can cleverly get at her,

She's now just twenty six, they say,

And growing older ev'ry day,

Now split the difference and you'll see.

That I am only forty three.

Now JOHN if I could come acrost her,

And in smooth lover's tone accost her;

If, like a snake, I could but charm her,

A daughter of a rich old farmer,

If I could, by sly circumspection,

Wriggle me into her affection,

Or, with close care and cunning art,

Contrive a mouse trap for her heart;

[Page]How blest, supremely blest, were I;

How smooth would move the moments by▪

And if, John, you will be my friend,

And all your kind assistance lend,

I make no doubt I'll gain my end.

I THINK it will our best way be,

To hire a hack; the hack for me.

And next, that all may suit my mind,

You get a horse and ride behind.

Be sure, however ne'er to own

But that the coach is mine alone.

First tell the barber, tho, to come;

For ere I start away from home,

I think 'twould be a great deal best,

To have my head combed, powdered, drest▪

That is, my wig; for wigs you know

Are calculated for a show.

But now no more, go, do your errand,

And my success I dare to warrant.

THE coach arrived; the wig well powdered,

And all his dress compleat accoutered;

At three o'clock in hack he got,

And swiftly made his horse to trot.

Not Phoebus, lolling in his car,

Without a wife, was happier;

[Page]Not Roman Cardinals unspoused,

Nor strolling beggar fed and housed.

AT six o'clock, he'd just arrived

To where the sought for lady lived.

He stops, and John, than light'ning faster,

Let down the coach steps for his master;

But, no brass knocker on the door,

His knuckles thumped till all were sore.

At length forth stepping came a maiden,

Who much our hero's heart did gladden,

With right foot raised behind on toe,

And downward head, he made a bow,

Walk in, says madam Quick walk in,

And drink some brandy, wine or gin.

So in walked Wuttle, in walked John;

And all their chairs sat down upon.

Silence ensued for half an hour,

The 'Squire of utterance had not power.

But, without having more demurrage,

He drank a dram to stir his courage;

Then, rising slowly from his chair,

In language high addressed the fair.

"MADAM, I've come as far as this

Into a wife to turn a miss.

[Page]Your fame is gone, the Lord knows whither,

It reached me, and has brought me hither.

O could you only see my heart,

And feel for once my inward smart,

Caused by the power of Cupid's dart;

O could you know what I endure,

You would not me refuse a cure.

Tis not your money that has charms;

For money ne'er my bosom warms:

'Tis not your houses, barns and cattle,

Tho they be in good case, and fat all;

'Tis not you carpets and silk gowns,

And goodly things from seaport towns;

No, 'tis your mind that charms me so,

It makes my heart go to and fro.

Oh deign, thou earthly goddess, deign

On me your showers of bliss to rain,

For long I've thirsty for them been,

Let me not thirsty still remain.

Here on this floor I humbly stand,

And beg the favor of your hand;

Your hand is all I ask of you—

Aye, let your heart come with it too.

Oh, if you turn away your eyes,

Dead as a nail your lover dies;

[Page]Dead at your feet—Oh murd'rous woman,

Such love as mine's possessed by no man.

Will you, instead of being wife,

Become the murd'rer of my life?

You ought to die upon a gallows,

More than the worst of thievish fellows;

Theirs surely is the better part;

They steal the purse, but you the heart,

Then lend most graciously your ear,

Your suppliant's humble prayer to hear.

HE ceased and John tucked in a word,

Some small assistance to afford.

And then, in lover's lose again,

He poured th' effusions of his brain.

By summing up a hymn to Love,

And Venus in the courts above.

"LET me ever, Love, adore thee▪

Let me ever bow before thee;

And in supplicating strain,

Ask thine ever pleasing reign.

Venus, drawn by gentle doves,

With the graces and the loves,

Loveliest Venus, cease to fly

Thro the regions of the sky.

[Page]Bid thy charming birds desist;

And be every zephyr whist.

Cupid, quit thy mother's car,

And descending from afar,

Take thy seat then near my eye,

Bid thy wounding arrows fly;

Then oh stab Miss Quick's poor heart,

Stab it deep, and make it smart;

Be to Wuttle's wishes true,

Stab her, CUPID, thro and thro;

Make her know that I am pretty,

Wealthy, sober, wise and witty.

There, Miss Quick, is an invocation,

Equalled by no bard in the nation.

Let some sweet word fall from your tongue;

Nor keep me in suspense so long.

An answer, gentle answer, give,

For heaven's sake not in negative;

Lest like some wounded bird I fly,

Faint, flutter, close my wings and die.

SHE heard the thunder of his speech,

That made in either ear a breach,;

And soon replied; "My dearest Wuttle,

I like your courtship not a little.

[Page]Your language, like hogs fat, is melting;

Your arguments, like pebbles pelting.

And then, your eye so sweetly peaking;

Your voice like our small pigs so squeaking;

Your ample, your capacious mouth

Would almost swallow all the south;

Your nose a living sepulchre,

From which I've every thing to fear.

Your wig, th' horizon round that greets;

Would stuff a thousand saddle seats,

Kindles the atmosphere with glory,

And bears a sphere of pomp before you;

In thick curls rolling down your back,

Its shade makes all the room look black.

Your ears, no ass's can be longer;

Your breath, not purgatory stronger.

And then the beauties of your shape,

Compared with, would affront an ape;

But more than all your intellectuals,

And mental food, the best of victuals.

Your mind, so clumsy thick and muddy,

Expressive image of your body.

How sweetly flows the raging stanza,

With how much grace, wit, sire and fancy.

[Page]Of modern bards, and bards of old,

The pleasing substance have you told.

Which shows altho a foolish creature,

You are a beast of thinking nature."

"A beast," quoth Wuttle stood and hammered;

With anger choaked, until he stammered—

"I would not have you; no by gracious,

With house so neat and land so spacious:

I'd let my love, like Etna's crater,

My soul with flames the hottest spatter,

Before I'd link my honored self

With such a curst old stinking elf.

John, get my horses, and my hack,

With welcome speed, we'll paddle back."

Cambridge 1792.

§

THERE lived, if antient tales are true,

And faith to antient tales are due,

There lived a maid, a beautious maid,

Whose looks, expressive fair displayed

[Page]Each feature of the soul within,

Unspotted with a single sin.

At morn her fervent prayers she said,

At night gave thanks and went to bed.

Her cot a shelter to the poor,

No beggar needy left her door.

Desirous nor of wealth nor praise,

Unknown she passed her hermit days.

Years followed years; the scythe of time

Was moving down from clime to clime.

The sun, one day, had mounted up

To dine, and now had gone to sup;

While cows were still a breeding calves,

Doctors deliv'ring pills and salves,

Pigs in the dirt were still a turning,

And mount Vesuvius was burning,

Sheep sought the fold at sound of ding dong,

And Alfred filled the throne of England;

The stars with usual spendor hung,

The conscious moon looked smiling on,

When this fair maid, who ne'er did ought amiss,

Went, modest, out behind the door—

[Page]

To Cambridge ORATORS.

YOU who would in orations shine,

Have care to use big words and fine,

If in your vast round blundering head,

You find there nothing is but lead,

Be sure on politics to write,

Or some historic thing indite;

For there the speech may be admired,

Tho nought but reading is required.

Patient extract with inky thumb,

Tho nothing new may ever come.

Yet 'tis not ev'ry one will know

But that from your own head they flow.

A good apology first chuse,

That they tow'rds you may candor use.

And when you speak, be not at rest,

Oft clap your hand upon your breast,

Oft wide extend your limber arm;

They'll think you're in your matter warm.

And what to fools has often haped

When you are done, yor'n may he claped,

Cambridge Sept. 1791.

[Page]

To LAURA.

LONG, ah too long has man's contemptuous eye,

Unskilled the worth of woman to descry,

Looked with superior insolence and scorn,

On nature's fairest gift, tho latest born.

THIS chap will all his wit & wisdom show,

In ten fine compliments, and one low bow;

Answering to such, there flies the female fop,

Whose head is but a perfect mill'ner's shop.

Such to each other must appear divine,

For little hearts with little hearts must join,

THOU fair, who far from city noise and strife,

Draw'st the pure ether of a rural life,

Deny not audience to the muse's strain

While youthful blood flows warm in every vein;

While suppliant lovers evening visits pay,

And, blest supreme, enjoy the hours away:

Learn to distinguish, with superior care,

The vows of honest worth, from flatt'ry's air.

O'er your young heart still keep a watchful eye,

[Page]And hearing ears to rakes and fools deny.

Despise the fop, in glitt'ring gewgaws drest,

Whose worth lies but in powder and in vest;

Who yields his heart for ev'ry sparkling eye,

For ev'ry maid can fall in love and die.

But let the youth, whose honest, cultured soul,

Nor under vice, nor flatt'ry's base control.

Contemns the vows, to ev'ry fair one made,

And the vile wretch who innocence betrayed,

Let such an youth your whole affections gain,

And with the mutual sigh reward his pain.

Notes

*

By the will of a gentleman of fortune some time since deceased, a number of books were to be distributed with impartiality, to a few of the best scholars in the two senior classes: which books have obtained the name of Deturs.

↵

*

Shakespeare.

↵

*

And three times thrice—Nay two times once] This is the poetical way of expressing numbers, as may be proved from the authority of most of our best Poets.

↵

§

§

[Page]

HAVEN, OR THE MERITED GALLOWS. IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[Page]

HAVEN,

SAMUEL, confederate with Haven,

Cambridge Students.

PUNCTUM,

FLYHEAD,

JACK,

TIM,

HARTLEY,

DOCTOR HOAKS,

COLONEL FARSTER,

LANDLORD.

CLARISSA FARSTER.

HAVEN, OR THE MERITED GALLOWS.

[Page]

ACT I.

SCENE I. Room of an Inn—Punctum, Flyhead and others, sitting down to a game of Loo.

PUNCTUM.

(Laying the cards on the table.)

PONE DUSTUM—down with your dust— two dollars a man and cast round for deal.

(They cast round.)

My deal—but the money is not all down —Tim, where's yours?

TIM.

Wy, sir, I, left my pocket book at home —I'll certainly pay if I lose.

JACK.

I came from Cambridge this morning, and expected to find my father here to day— he'll be here soon—never fear me.

[Page]PUNCTUM.

Your deal, Flyhead.

(He deals)

ALL.

I stand.

PUNCTUM.

A flush—the money's mine.

JACK.

A trump flush.

TIM.

A palm flush.

FLYHEAD.

A misdeal—a misdeal.

(Jack and Punctum contending for the money it falls in the floor, and Tim gets it.)

JACK.

You've broke my leg.

TIM.

Pity it was not your neck.

JACK.

You shall be brought to justice for this— Hartly can't I recover of him.

HARTLY.

You had better recover of your wound first.

JACK.

Where's a doctor?

[Page]HARTLY.

There are more doctors in this town than there are lice in your head.

TIM.

Then they are an doctors. Landlord,

(enter Landlord)

send somebody for a doctor—here is a man dying of a broken leg.

HARTLY.

There have been action and reaction here.

TIM.

Dont groan so—Patience is as necessary here as when studying Euclid.

JACK.

I would rather have studied ten propositions there than one such cursed axiom as this.

TIM.

Let us carry him up chamber and put him to bed—get a nurse to take care of him, and we'll off.

JACK.

Don't go: don't go—my leg is broke in two—in two.

HARTY.

And now then you have three legs—but let us carry the poor devil up chamber.

Exeunt except Punc. Hart. and Tim.

[Page]PUNCTUM.

You cursed Irishman— Tim, that money was fairly mine for I'd a flush.

TIM.

And I'd a palm flush—and I'll make another flush with my palm on your cheek unless I'm more civilly treated.

PUNCTUM.

Well, well, I won't quarrel with you— but you must lend me the money to go to the billiard table tomorrow.

TIM.

You'll honestly pay me in a few days, ha?

PUNCTUM.

Yes I will

(takes the money)

there now I've got my right and if ever you get it again I'll call you no blunderhead.

(They scuffle—Tim throws Punctum against the legs of a man in disguise, who, with another, are carrying a woman by force, with her face covered.)

SAMUEL.

You son of a bitch, what does this mean? Keep your hind legs to yourself.

HARTLY.

I generally get out of the way of a man's [Page] boots—especially if the approximation to any vulnerable part be increased by an acquired velocity.

SAMUEL.

Damn your velocity.

HARTLY.

Not so fast, sir,—be cool—this is a land of liberty—Pity if a man's legs can't go where they please—especially if they can't help it—But I have a question to ask you— pray what young woman was you carrying up chambers—muffled, and crying for help?

SAMUEL.

It was only,—sir,—it was—'twas a sister of mine, who just now fainted in the street.

HARTLY.

A sister, ha—what made her cry out for deliverance.

SAMUEL.

In a mad fit, I suppose—well I must go take care of her.

(Exit.)

TIM.

How soon his anger is over—so let ours be.

PUNCTUM.

Return me the money and bring in a bottle of wine and you shall no more be beat, [Page] bruised, banged, or vulnerated in a pulsory manner.

TIM.

Agreed—But to tell the truth I was hurt most cursedly▪

PUNCTUM.

Then it follows that you was most cursedly hurt—and it also follows that a little wine would be good for you—and, as the blows came from me, it follows that there must be a sympathy between us—and conquently it follows that I ought to have some of the wine. All these consequences are syllogistically drawn.

TIM.

Call the Landlord—

Enter Landlord.

A bottle of wine, sir, if you please.

HARTLY.

Among all your followings it must certainly follow that this wine will be a gift to me—and consequently I pay nothing. But pray tell me—what do you think of those fellows carrying that woman up chamber, vi et armis?

[Page]TIM.

Every man must think for himself, I suspect some love intrigue.

HARTLY.

I admire to come to this tavern once in a while to see mankind— [...] see fighting, drinking and gambling.

While Luna bright,

With silvery light,

Is filling fast her crescent horn.

With various gabble

Round the table,

Playing, drinking,

Never thinking

Of the far approach of morn.

Every player,

Takes his chair,

The cash laid up for private weal,

Then we may

Sit and play,

Then we will,

With gambler's skill,

Shuffle, cut, cast round for deal.

They that stand

Shift their hands,

Thundering oaths at every word,

[Page]Up this leads,

His flush of spades,

At his rump,

A flush of trump,

Till lordly [...] flush comes, and sweeps the board.

Then the brandy

Is so handy,

And the punch and wine go round.

Then one half drunk,

True college spunk,

Tobacco smoking,

Bodies soaking,

Take delight in

Swearing, fighting,

Till by the brighter beams of Sol we're found.

(Enter Doctor Hoaks.)

DOCTOR.

Your servant, gentlemen,—can you direct me to a man who has dislocated some jugular joint, or disamputated a limb, I forget which —some where in this house.

HARTLY.

Are you a physician, sir?

[Page]DOCTOR.

I practice physic in this town sir,—I believe my name is in the register.

HARTLY.

Sit down, doctor,—we shall have some wine here in a few minutes—Pray, Doctor, how long have you practised in this town?

DOCTOR.

Almost a month, sir—I practised in the country a long time; but, travel at one shilling a mile, and never get pay, can't support a man in the character of a gentleman —so I have lately moved into town—advertised thus—"Doctor HOAKS informs his numerous patients that he has removed his lodgings from Summer street to Seven Star lane, where he continues to practice to universal satisfaction"—I plead law, sir, preach divinity and doctorate.

HARTLY.

But what know you of divinity, sir,—ay, the wine is coming.

DOCTOR.

I can thank God for this wine as Paul did at the sight of the three taverns.

[Page]HARTLY.

Now give us a specimen of your knowledge of Law—I will propose a case—a man commits fornication with my daughter, I sue him for the maintenance of the child.

DOCTOR.

Here we must consider the two grand points of the law, quo pacto and quo animo—no previous contract being made, and there appearing no evidence of malprepense, the defendant will recover costs of suit—Hah—and I am a poet—Poeta nascitur, non fit—a poet is not made in a fit—long study and much reading are necessary to speak lines extempore.—

A right good Doctor makes each art his rule.

HARTLY.

"Then drops into himself and is a fool."

DOCTOR.

You don't mean me, sir, I hope.

HARTLY.

No, sir, you said, if I remember, a right good Doctor.

DOCTOR.

I sometimes make lines extempore—and I can repeat the noblest passages of the greatest [Page] authors in the English tongue.—But I must attend this sick man—where is he?

HARTLY.

Up chamber.—I will attend with you.

(Exeunt Omnes.)

SCENE II. Chamber of the inn—Jack lying on the bed—Enter Doctor and Hartly.

DOCTOR.

Where is this same sick gentleman?

JACK.

Here I am, sir, are you a Doctor?

DOCTOR.

I practice physic, sir, I can tell you your complaint and cure you.

JACK.

What is my complaint, sir.

DOCTOR.

Complaining consists in repining, mourning, grunting, growling, groaning, muttering, sighing, &c. the cures are various—If you have disamputated a limb, or dislocated a membrane, then the whole disorder consists in complaint and remedy, and the remedy must be a vitriolic plaster of elastic gangrene.

[Page]HARTLY.

Wonderful, learned and ingenious Doctor—I will propose one simple question.

DOCTOR.

A simple question—ha—I don't deal in simples.

HARTLY.

You have a deal of them in your head however—Tell me what is the best remedy for a cephalic belly ache.

DOCTOR.

A cephalic belly ache—a cephalic belly ache—a difficult question to the unlearned, but one that I could easily answer—had I time.

JACK

Attend to my leg—damn you.

HARTLY.

Damned enough already. This doctor is a fool. I would not have you trust yourself to him. I would rather be placed between the upper and nether millstone.

DOCTOR.

As course a man as you needs grinding— ha—ha—ha— Don't blackguard me, sir, I am a wit among other things.

[Page]HARTLY.

And quite another thing among wits.

JACK.

Look at my leg, Doctor.

DOCTOR.

(Feeling of his leg.)

No bones broke, sir, only a vulneration in the wounded part.

JACK.

But it pains me; what shall be done?

DOCTOR.

A speedy removal of the pain will be the best remedy—But let me fairly see the leg— You have only hurt some sores here—What is the matter here—here are sores upon sores, like Pelio and Ossan heaped upon Atlas—Let me feel of your pulse—Now don't be scared —I am only about to lance them—'Tis nothing to what I have done—I have sawed off men's legs and arms—I have cut cancers out of the flesh that run their roots within two inches of the heart—in short, as old Shakespeare says,

(Theatrically)

"I could a tale unfold,

Whose slightest word would harrow up thy soul

[Page]Freeze thy young blood, make thine hair to stand,

And thy knees"—go knicker knocker knicker knocker knicker knocker.

Here is my lance—now don't be scared.

"Come thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep thro the blanket of the dark,

To cry"—let that man's scabs alone.

JACK.

(Kicking him)

Go to the Devil.

DOCTOR.

Your leg has soon recovered.

HARTLY.

Hark

(a woman's voice in distress,)

a female groan—what can all this mean?

DOCTOR.

Ay surely what can all this mean?—Let us go off, or they'll think we are the murderers—and if we go they'll surely think we are. — What shall be done?

HARTLY.

I fear 'tis done already—Somebody's dead or just about to die—but good souls never [Page] flinch—let us stay here—Doctor I do not like your head and shoulders—malicious eye, low forehead, wicked look—If you'll decamp we'll clear you from all crime, but, for myself—I'd not be found in company like yours, for half my reputation.

DOCTOR.

I am a greater man than you suppose.

The time of my birth—I can tell you sir when,

My neighbors have told me again and again.

I know even the moment good heaven be praised,

'Twas that year that my daddy his great hog stye raised:

My daddy'd a pig,

That had broke his poor leg,

I doctored it over and over,

Tho very much sick,

The swine very quick,

By my med'cine and skill did recover.

And then, as the moon which will give the most light

And show all her lustre in a dark foggy night,

Or as summer suns in the front of a cot,

I saw my young genius blaze up piping hot.

[Page]Then with Doctor O'BILE

I studied a while

And no man could study, sir, faster,

A fortnight or so

Did I with him go,

Till I'd ten times more skill than my master.

At the puddle of physic a long time I drank,

I bought two great doctor books thick as a plank,

Then I read all the books that most ever were written,

But with Bunyan and Shakespeare I mostly was smitten.

In villages round,

Ten miles I was found,

Cured many a maiden and clown,

But where genius thrives

And the good doctor lives

I must be—so I moved into town.

This account of myself, sir, I have given you, that you might not speak evil of dignities—Now pay me my demands for this visit and I'll soon be scarce.

HARTLY.

Give him some cash—Here's half a crown [Page] to be rid of such a fellow and money that I pay most cheerfully.

DOCTOR.

Your servant, gentlemen.

HARTLY.

You ought to be my scullion boy's servant.

(Exit Doctor.)

Let us attend him out—and then contrive some way to know the meaning of all this.

(Exeunt.)

ACT II.

SCENE I. The street.

COL. FARSTER.

Hallo, sir, have you seen a young woman forced by here, by ruffian hands within this half an hour?

DOCTOR.

I have seen a great many young women, rough enough, but I did not observe their hands—You breathe hard; are you unwell? I am a physician, sir,—Step into the next house and I will remedy a prescription for a small sum.

[Page]COL. FARSTER.

Are you a fool?—Have you seen two or three men force a young woman thro this street.

DOCTOR.

Force—force—that makes a rape—I am an attorney also—Any law question you should wish to propose I shall be happy to attend to for a small premium.

COL. FARSTER.

Rascal! do you mean to insult me?

(kicks him.)

(Exit Col.)

DOCTOR.

Assault and battery—O if I had witnesses.

I can be assaulted, battered,

I can be all torn and tattered,

If I can meet

My Clara sweet,

If I can but stick my head in,

Hymen's pen with that fair maiden,

If my Clara

Will but marry

To th' old Harry

She will carry

My bags of trouble bags of care,

Like bags of meal on some old mare.

[Page]

SCENE II. Clarisa alone—a faint light in part of the room.

CLARISA,

solus.

'Tis said the heaviest curses of heaven fall on him who robs the child of innocence of all her heart holds dear—her untainted chastity— How often has my father, when in my years of childhood, said, that 'twas the sweet delight of heavenly angels, over the charms of innocene to watch, & keep that innocence secure— Shall I call down the baleful curses of high heaven upon the head of him who thus, with impious joy, bears off my happiness, my all— How long must I remain confined—abandoned to my tho'ts of deepest wretchedness, without one distant ray of hope e'er more to see one farthest glimpse of that serene and constant stream of pleasure, which were consigned to me, by youth, gay spirits, and unsullied fame —Where are those pleasing prospects, those bland visions, that travelled o'er my dreams of future bliss—Or do these villains mean that height of joy to me—my innocence being gone —to take my life—Thrice welcome, would they carry their vile machinations to that high [Page] pitch of rankest crime, from which even devils recoil, and turn away their eyes more innocent, at sight of acts like these, pregnant with sin and hell—Oh! stolen my chastity, and stolen by unknown robbers—To what more savage scenes of brutal lust am I reserved—But ah— a handkerchief

(takes it up)

perhaps the owner's name may here be found

(puts it in her pocket.)

Assert no more,

That heaven's high power

From brutal arms the chaste can save.

Say not so—when

Devils formed like men,

Have brought my virtue to its grave.

Come lovely death,

Snatch, snatch my breath,

To thy kind arms I gladly fly;

Unseen, unknown,

Without one groan,

O let me sweetly swoon and die.

(Enter Landlord)

LANDLORD.

Miss, I was ordered, if you made any noise to disturb the good people of the house, [Page] to put a handkerchief in your mouth—You will not be hurt here, and presently you will be at liberty—Depend on it, the gentleman who brought you here, will carry you where you please, and pay you well.

(Exit.)

SCENE II. Tim, Punctum and Hartly.

HARTLY.

Who can this woman be? You know 'tis said, this Landlord sometimes keeps a house for bad men and women—but sure no common prostitute would make a noise like that —Here comes that Hoaks again.

(Enter Doctor.)

DOCTOR.

Gentleman I did not intend returning so soon, but I fear the young lady up chamber is the very same lady who fell in love with me at the theatre the other night; for she is not at home—and I met a man who enquired after a ruffian lady—I guess she is the very one— and if she is, 'twill be a piece of gallantry in me to rescue her.

HARTLY.

We have been sitting here, almost in mute astonishment and silent fear, ever since your [Page] departure—The Lady we have heard conversing with herself, bemoaning her fate, and crying out aloud; but now she's still—and from this house I'll not depart, till I discover the cause of such unheard of, melancholy clamors.

DOCTOR.

Let me advise you to go with me to the chamber and force open the door—But if there should be a robber or a man with a pistol—I should be so scared that I should disoblige my small clothes in a minute—I always do when I am affrighted—and if the sweet Clara,

(if it should be she)

should know it,—ah —what will become of our courtship.

HARTLY.

I think it would be well to go together— and let us go quick—I've a good cane, that has saved my life many a time, and with it I'll not fear—whatever may be there.

'Tis good in man when vice prevails,

And virtue fears an overthrow,

When chastity the rake assails,

To rescue from impending woe.

And oh what self applause he gains,

O'er his whole soul what rapture steals;

[Page]'Tis sweet reward for all his pains,

When conscious rectitude he feels.

(Exeunt.)

ACT III.

SCENE I. Enter Hartly, Doctor, Punctum and Tim, with a candle, to the chamber where Clarisa is.

CLARISA.

Wretches—Oh my God—Am I become a market place for lust? Has that thrice curst Landlord sent you hither?

HARTLY.

Madam, we're all your friends—Accidentally hearing that a lady had been forced away from her associates and from her parents— we had strong suspicions that you must be the person—We have knocked down the landlord and with difficulty found our way to this apartment—But is there not a man with you?

CLARISA.

Wretched and undone—Yet, would to God I could know the author of my misery.

[Page]HARTLY.

Give us a brief account of your misfortune, and nothing shall be wanting on our part, to find the offender and bring him to justice.

CLARISA.

The laws can give no recompence for injured innocence and virtue lost.

TIM.

Young as I am—deep as I've dipt in dissipation's pool—I feel—I feel a just resentment for your wrongs, and far as my power extends, I'll search each nook and corner of the house—each lane and street and corner of the town, till I find out the hated author of a deed like this.

CLARISA.

My name is Clarisa Farster—I was this evening walking home with my mother, when two mendevils snatched me form her— muffled my face and brought me here. In this dark chamber, sobs and sighs availed nothing—I fainted—and by the cursed mead of man's superior strength I lost—what can never be recovered—The villain (for one went out and shut the fatal key upon the door) [Page] soon as his brutal purpose was accomplished, crept out the door, and left his handkerchief, telling me that he'd soon return and pay me for the trouble he had been the cause of—Pay me—Good heavens—

HARTLY.

'Twill then be best to wait his coming— hark—

(A cry without)

CLARISA.

My father—sure 'tis my father's voice.

(Enter Col. Farsten.)

COLONEL.

My daughter Clara—Clara—

CLARISA.

O my father.

HARTLY.

No time—too precious, sir, to be lost.— Your daughter—sir, guess the whole—my tongue would faulter at so base a tale—

DOCTOR.

And mine faulters now so I can't speak a single word.

COLONEL.

Where is the wretch?

HARTLY.

He'll soon return—Doctor, go find an officer, at once,

(Exit Doctor.)

Close the door, [Page] lest he mistrust—for he will soon be here— stand ready to seize him and others if there are—let us blow out the light we'll then be sure to catch him.

(Haven and Samuel open the door softly and enter—Colonel and Hartly seize them, and with Punctum hold them fast.)

COLONEL.

Who are you? Tell me who you are.

HAVEN.

Let me alone—I'll not tell you who I am.

COLONEL.

Tell me who you are.

HAVEN.

Let me alone, I'll not tell you who I am.

COLONEL.

Ay struggle—you're grappled by an arm that will hold you fast till you're delivered to the sheriff's hands.

HAVEN.

Sam, where are you?

SAMUEL.

In just such a box as yourself, only it takes two to hold me.

HAVEN.

Good Lord—A sheriff's coming.

(Enter Doctor and Sheriff.)

[Page]COLONEL.

Are you a sheriff?

SHERIFF.

Ay, a deputy sheriff, sir, I am.

COLONEL.

Here, take these fellows under your care— Let them not go, upon your peril—I'll have a mittimus in half an hour.

(Exit Colonel.)

DOCTOR.

Now you're safe, you dogs—Miss Clara, do you know me? I am Doctor Hoaks—a physician and surgeon—and I believe you're the same Lady that is in love with me—'Tis I that got this sheriff—tis I that found out where you was—all I.

HAVEN.

Oh don't carry us to goal—oh don't.

SHERIFF.

If you have done no ill, you will be recompensed for all your troubles—If crimes are alledged against you, and are proved, then you need fear a goal, and more a court of justice.

CLARISA.

But Oh—what court of justice can do justice to me?

[Page]HAVEN.

Oh madam, can you forgive me—forgive me—I'll grant this hand—the hand of wealth and reputation.

CLARISA.

I disdain the hand, the head, the heart— If such a wretch as you have wealth and reputation, no honest woman would except of them.

(Enter Colonel.)

COLONEL.

Wretch—soon shall the strong goal contain that cursed heart—and if there be force in the laws of this commonwealth—ere long, I'll see your carcase swinging in the air—tied to an honest rope—Are there not prostitutes enough in this town to satisfy your base unbridled passions?

HAVEN.

I've offered to marry her.

COLONEL.

I'd rather marry her to that simple Doctor, who well deserves my thanks for his assistance in detecting you.

DOCTOR.

You call me simple, sir—I compound all my medicines.

[Page]COLONEL.

Here are two crowns for your trouble, Doctor, I believe we shall have no more need of your assistance.

DOCTOR.

Ah well—this will do as well as a wife, till it's spent—but do get that man hanged.

(Exit Doctor)

HAVEN,

Ah but forgive me—I'll wear out years in prayers and penitence—I'll be your bound slave during life.

COLONEL.

Not one year can you have for prayers and penitence—use well the few remaining days of life—there's no repentance in the grave—you plead for mercy—shall one eyed mercy browbeat the honest claims of justice, and save that devil for whom the gallows waits—You robbed me of my joys—my daughter of her virgin purity—and you shall die—your associate—and your landlord, shall feel the vengeance of the law. This handkerchief betrays your name at full—I know your character—The goaler'll soon be here to drag you to the house appointed [Page] for the authors of crimes like yours.

(Enter Goaler.)

COL. FARSTER.

Here take this villain; who has so long defrauded the goal of its just dues,

HAVEN.

O GOD of mercy! hear my prayer!

To Heaven I look—forgiveness there—

Tho rightly curst,

My doom is just,—

Be this my prop,

In Thee I hope;

And when I stand before the bar of Heaven,

Oh may my vile offences be forgiven.

(Exeunt omnes.)

Information about this book

Title statement

A collection of fugitive essays, in prose and verse. Written by Charles Prentiss. ; [One line from Johnson] ; Published according to act of Congress.

Prentiss, Charles, 1774-1820.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2007-01.

ID [DLPS]

N24686

ID [TCP]

N24686

ID [STC]

Evans 32708

ID [NOTIS]

APW2163

ID [IMAGE-SET]

32708

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99008009

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 32708.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N24686)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 32708)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 32708)

Source

— A collection of fugitive essays, in prose and verse. Written by Charles Prentiss. ; [One line from Johnson] ; Published according to act of Congress., Prentiss, Charles, 1774-1820..

Extent

204 p. ; 18 cm. (12mo)

Printed by and for the author.,. Leominster, (Massachusetts) :: 1797.. (Parentheses substituted for square brackets in imprint transcription.) (In some copies, an errata slip is mounted on p. 4.) ("Haven, or The merited gallows. In three acts."--p. [173]-204.)

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.

EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).

The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.

Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.

Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.

The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.