Chapter VI: Canto IV: Grand Attack! (1)

ARGUMENT.

Great Caustic, finding logic sound,
The conjuring crew will not confound,
Like an indignant hero blusters,
The MIGHTY ROYAL COLLEGE musters;
Joins to your worships’ powerful phalanx
“Death-doing” quacks, and men of all ranks!
A bolder, and more desperate host,
Than jacobinic France can boast;
Then marches to o’erturn and knock dead
Each tractoring Perkinistic blockhead;
Their INSTITUTION next attacking,
He sends them all to Satan--packing!

Our ’foresaid MANIFESTO first done,
Which shows our cause a good and just one;
The _boldest_ sons of Galen call on,[101]
That they with fire and fury fall on!

Sound Discord’s jarring tocsin louder,
Than Howard’s fulminating powder:[102]
Then into battle like brave men go,
Who late were “kill’d off,” at Marengo.[103]

But choose a chief before you start,
A bully bold as Buonapart’;
And to make sure of well succeeding,
Another chap like Charles of Sweden.

Step forth thou POTENT PRINCE OF PUFFERS!
Thou modern Hercules of Huffers!
Whose name, as Sternhold used to say,
Will ring “for ever--and a day;”

For thou canst sound (a thing the oddest,
Since an arch quaker should be modest,
And never meddle with a _strumpet_[104])
Thine own great name on _Fame’s_ brass trumpet.

And soon that name’s continuous roar
Shall roll sublime from shore to shore;
Among th’ antipodes, be known,
And _blaze_ through either _frozen_ zone.[105]

No more shall merciless reviewers,
Stick full of satire’s savage skewers
The mighty chief of whom I’m boasting,
As one would spit a _goose_ for roasting.[106]

For should they raise with dire misprision,
’Gainst thee one finger in derision;
This right hand rudest doggrel’s club in,
Shall give the knaves a dreadful drubbing.

But thou, the leader of our throng,
Shalt glitter in a future song,
Which I intend to raise sonorous,
And QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! shall be the chorus.

Then, had I money, I would bet some,
And faith I’ll do it (when I get some)
One half a guinea, sirs (a net sum)
They’ll fall before great doctor Lettsom.[107]

Thou too, famed KNIGHT OF HORRID FIGURE!
With wig than bushel-basket bigger;
Which, in its orbit vast, contains,
At least a thimble full of brains;

Come on, with lion heart, like Hector,
And phiz resembling monkey’s spectre;
Prepare the batteries of thy journal,[108]
To blast with infamy eternal.

In medical societies pour
Forth all thy wonted _learned_ lore:
Tell the vile deeds by quackery done,
By every nostrum, save _thine own_.[109]

For thou didst play the hero rarely,
At Westminster, when routed fairly;
Thy genius show’d such vast resources,
’Gainst Belgraves, Colquhouns, Wilberforces![110]

Though hunted down, thou would’st not yield;
Though trodden on, didst keep the field.
Thus Witherington, in doleful dumps,
For lack of legs, fought stout on stumps!

And could’st thou, pertinacious Bradley,
But maul these mutton heads most sadly,
Soon might thy wig (the people staring)
_All_ in a chariot take an airing![111]

Led on by chieftains so redoubted,
These vile Perkineans must be routed;
Then, if in future people be sick,
They’ll worship us, the gods of physic.

Why stand ye now, like drones, astounded,
The weapons of your warfare grounded?
Arm’d _cap-a-pe_, like heroes rush on,
And crush this reptile institution.

But first, to make the bigger bluster,
Join every quack that you can muster,
Some place in rear, and some in front on,
From Brodum down to _gaseous_ Thornton.[112]

Now, when the foe you first get sight on,
Shout CA IRA, and then rush right on;
And make as terrible a racket,
As ever did a woman’s clack yet,

For should you sound a loud alarum,
Perhaps you may so sadly scare ’em,
Like frighted sheep, they’ll huddle right in
The Old Nick’s den, without much fighting.

Just so a gang of Indian savages,
When they set out to make great ravages,
With war-whoop fright their foes (God help ’em)
And then proceed to kill and scalp ’em.

Prudence, by Doctor Caustic’s test,
A sneaking virtue is at best,
Then drive ahead by hook and crook,
Like lions, leap before you look.

But stop, ere further we proceed,
To set forth every mighty deed,
We must exchange (tho’ horror stiffen ye)
Our Clio for a fell Tisiphone!

For when we do these wretches batter,
’Twill be no water gruel matter;
And you’ll agree then, I assure ye,
Our muse is well changed for a fury.

Thou sprite! thou hag! thou witch! thou spectre!
Friend Southey’s crony and protector:
Who led the bard, with Joan of Arc,
Through death’s deep, dreary, dungeon dark!

Until ye were, I dare be bound,
Near half a mile down under ground;
Mid screeching ghosts and dragons dreadful,
As e’er filled dreaming madman’s head full!

And, after mighty perils past,
On Terra Firma, got at last,
Didst dub thy jacobin toad eater
The “Thalaba” of English metre.[113]

And set the bard to brew a mess
Of horror in a wilderness,
So wondrous horrible, indeed it
Might make one faint away to read it!

Thence sent him under “_rooted waves_”
Adown through vast Domdaniel caves,[114]
In which the metre man and Thalaba,
Had like to have been lost infallibly:

But were translated in a trice
To monsieur Mahomet’s paradise,[115]
There to enjoy, with Houri-ladies,
A whole eternity of play days.

Give me in proper tone to tell,
Between a mutter and a yell,
How best our fierce avenging choler
May do dire deeds of doleful dolor.

Come on! Begin the grand attack
With aloes, squills, and ipacac;
And then with clyster-pipe and squirt-gun,
There will be monstrous deal of hurt done!

Each wry-faced rogue, and dirty trollop,
Must well be dosed with drastic jalap,
And though their insides you should call up,
Still make the numskulls take it all up.

Cram all the ninny-hammers’ gullets,
With pills as big as pistol bullets;
And mingle mercury enough
To season well your doctor’s stuff.

Dash at them escharotics gnawing,
Their carcases to pick a flaw in;
Of nitrous acid huge carboys,
Filled to the brim, like Margate hoys.

Thus when the Greeks with their commander,
That fighting fellow, Alexander,
Set out one morning, full of ire,
To take and burn the town of Tyre;

A patriotic stout old woman
Looked out, and saw the chaps a coming;
When on a sudden she bethought her
To heat a kettle full of water;

And as they went to climb the ladder,
(Sure never vixen could be madder,
But so the historian of the fray says)
She fired her water in their faces!

But to return to _our_ great battle;
Now rant! rave! roar! and rend! and rattle![116]
Like earth-born giants when they strove,
To pull the ears of thundering Jove!

Pelt the vile foe with weapons missile;
Make vials round their sconces whistle;
Shower on them a tremendous torrent,
Of gallipots and bottles horrent.

Make at ’em now like mad Mendozas;
With forceps pinch and pull their noses,
With tourniquet and dire tooth-drawers,
First gird their necks, then break both jaws.

But lo! they bid our dread alliance
Of doctors, quacks, and drugs defiance;
And, firm as host of cavaliers,
Convert their tractors into spears!

See host to host and man to man set!
A tractor each, and each a lancet!
Each meets his foe, so fierce attacks him!
That sure some god or demon backs him!

Fell Ate’s shriek the world alarms!
Bellona bellows “ARMS! TO ARMS!”
War’s demon dire, a great red dragon,
Drives, Jehu-like, Death’s iron wagon!![117]

Loud shouts and dismal yells arise!
Rend the blue “blanket” of the skies![118]
Grim Horror’s scream and Fury’s frantic
Howl might be heard across the Atlantic!!

Although a comet’s tail should hap
To give our globe a fatal slap,
The “crush of worlds” and “wreck of matter”
Would make ten thousand times less clatter!

Thus high in air two different kinds
Of monsieur Volney’s warring winds
Commence a most impetuous battle,
And round the Blue Ridge make all rattle.[119]

Loud, loud they bellow, blow and bluster,
With all the power that all can muster;
Harsh hurtle, howl, and hiss, but neither
Will yield his foe an inch of ether.

Now to the wretches give no quarter,
Pound them in indignation’s mortar;
Let not the women nor the men chance
To ’scape the pestle of your vengeance!

Make cerebrum and cerebellum,
To rattle like a roll of vellum,
And occiput of every numhead,
To sound as loud as kettle-drum head.

With fell trepaning perforator,
Pierce every puppy’s paltry pate, or
With chissel plied with might and main,
Punch a huge hole in pericrane.

And with a most tremendous process,
With power of elephant’s proboscis,
At once crush dura, pia mater,
As one would mash a boil’d potato!

Pelt, pulverize the rogues with shocks
Like those from moon-disploded rocks,
Sent from that mischief-making planet,
Huge, hissing hot, and hard as granite.[120]

Now, with harsh amputating saw,
Slash frontal os from under jaw;
And make a wound, by cutting slant down,
For doctor Tasker to descant on.[121]

Attack Medulla, hight Spinalis,
From where the head to where the tail is;[122]
Till every bone displays a fracture
Of scientific manufacture.

Thus Virgil tells of sturdy fellows,
Dares ycleped, and old Entellus,
Who, with a pair of iron mittens,
Attack’d each other, like true Britons.

Entellus, stout as Hob the giant,
Made horrid work, you may rely on’t;
Exceeding mightiest verse or prose deed,
Knock’d out two teeth, and made his nose bleed!

And now, with desperate trocar,
Urge on the dreadful “tug of war;”
And, having punch’d them in the crop, say
You meant to tap them for the dropsy.

With burning lapis infernalis,[123]
Convince them human nature frail is;
And taunting, tell them they’re afflicted,
Because they are to sin addicted.

With scalprum scrape off epidermis
And cuticle (I think the term is)
And all the nerves and muscles various,
Because, say you, their bones, are carious.

Thus rocks of primitive creation
Are worn down by disintegration,
Until the mountain mass is brought
To 99 times less than 0.

And when reduced to that condition,
By some additional attrition,
They furnish, by their aggregation,
The pabulum of vegetation.

With antimonials make them sweat away;
Cram each snout full of asafœtida:
Then tell them that their case you fancied
Required some castor oil, so rancid.

And though the drug seem somewhat baleful
Give each a dose of half a pailful;
Then thank them not to make wry faces,
For mild cathartics suit their cases.

Dash at them nitrate, hight argentum,
And tell them, though it does torment ’em
That papists say that purgatory
Is but a passport into glory.

Thus monsieur Satan was quite merry,[124]
When erst, in Heaven, he raised old Harry;
With jokes and cannon, _in terrorem_,
Rush’d on and drove ’em all before him.

Stick your keen penetrating probes
Through right and left hepatic lobes;
And though you pierce the diaphragm,
You need not care a single d--n.

So Indians, when a captive’s taken,
And they resolve to fry his bacon,
Their savage torture to refine,
First stick him full of splinter’d pine.

Dissect a rogue or two alive,
For thus your worships may contrive
To trace the vital springs in action
Of nature’s movements to a fraction.

In fine, your worships will contrive
To leave not one vile wretch alive,
Except those dirty sons of witches,
Whom nature meant to dig in ditches.

But all who would not make most topping
Fellows to work in docks at Wapping,
Some way or other, sirs, I’d have ye
Give a quick passport to old Davy.

But if with all this blood and thunder,
The stubborn blockheads won’t knock under,
And e’en old women bravely wield
Their jordans like Achilles’ shield;

No more with these _our_ weapons dabble,
But raise a Lord-George-Gordon rabble;
Pour on the rogues, that they be undone,
The whole mobocracy of London!

Go, when I bid you, order out
A riotous and ragged rout
From dirty lane and alley dark
From Poplar corner to Hyde Park.

Come on, brave fellows, quick surround ’em;
With canes and cudgels punch and pound ’em;
Brick-bats and broom-sticks, all together,
Like coblers hammering sides of leather.

Brave Belcher, Lee, Mendoza, Bourke,
Let loose your fists in this great work!
Here’s fine amusement for your paws,
Without the dread of police laws.

Let not one Perkinite be found
Encumbering our British ground;
But keep on pelting, banging, mauling,
Until old Beelzy’s den they’re all in.

And I’ll be there and blow war’s trumpet:
Or with death’s kettle-drum will thump it,
Till all’s “confusion, worse confounded”
Than erst in Milton’s hell abounded.

Thus, when the Spartans were in trouble,
Tyrteus help’d them through their hobble,
By singing songs, to raise their courage,
All piping hot, as pepper-porridge.

These are the methods of “dead doing,”
By which to work the wizard’s ruin;
And when with Satan all such trash is,
We’ll rise, like Phenix, on its ashes.

Now, sirs, consent to my PETITION,
And send these varlets to perdition;
So for your weal and welfare, _post hic_,
Will ever pray--

CHRISTOPHER CAUSTIC.

ADDITIONAL NOTES.

No. I.

Fitted for female education.

Page 25. We are point blank opposed to allowing females any advantages for education, which can possibly induce their ladyships to set up for literata. “_Knowledge is Power_,” and whereas the “seraphic sex” are prone to acquire knowledge with more facility, and communicate it with more felicity than the rough samples of humanity with whom Madam Destiny has had the impudence to connect them by ties (pretty easily severed nowadays) we are amazingly apprehensive that ladies will not only monopolize our trade of authorship, but usurp our places in Church, State and Medicine. We have often shed cataracts of tears (Della Crusca) over the following lines of Pope, which, though addressed to lady Montague, will apply equally well to nine hundred and ninety-nine other lady luminaries, in whose presence the light of Dr CAUSTIC is like the glimmer of a glow worm in the glare of sunshine.

“In beauty or wit
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To _yield to a woman is hard_.”

But with leave of the pope, we lords of the lower part of creation will not “yield to a woman.” We will rather let Lord Bacon and the ladies know, by dint of the right of the strongest, that knowledge _is not_ power, but that _physical strength is power_.

We are excessively provoked with the conductors of the North American Review, who in the No. of that work, dated October, 1835, p. 430, have reviewed, or rather eulogized certain Poems by Mrs Sigourney, and by Miss Gould. And what makes such conduct the more preposterous is that those ladies _deserve_ the encomiums of their admiring Reviewers. They have, likewise, brought into bold relief a great number of lady-authors, such as Miss Burney, Miss Edgworth, Miss Baillie, Miss Martineau, Miss Mitford, Mrs Somerville, Mrs Hemans, Miss Sedgwick, Miss Leslie, Mrs Child, Mrs Hale, &c., whose names and whose merits, correct policy would have consigned to oblivion. Now, be it known, by these presents, that the more merit there happens to be attached to a lady-author, the more her productions should _not_ be taken honorable notice of by a gentleman-critic.

No. II.

In foreign source of yellow fever.

Page 54. Some doctors, however, do not coincide in opinion with Dr Caustic on this subject. Dr Miller, in a _“Report on the malignant disease, which prevailed in New York, in the autumn of 1805,” has the following passage_:

“We live in the latitude of pestilence, and our climate now perhaps is only beginning to display its tendency to produce this terrible scourge. The impurities which time and a police, rather moulded in conformity to the usages of more northern countries than the exigencies of our own, have been long accumulating, are now annually exposed to the heats of a burning summer, and send forth exhalations of the highest virulence.”

No. III.

Page 82, we told your worships, that Perkins was supported by Aldini, and promised some additional remarks by way of illustrating our assertion. We now intend to prove not only that we were correct in our statement, but that light, heat or caloric, electricity, Galvanism, Perkinism, animal spirits, the social feelings, especially when _love_ is concerned, and the stimulus of society, are all intimately connected or different modifications of the same matter.

We will show that _light_ and _heat_ are the same thing in essence, by the authority of some of our prime philosophers whom it would be heresy to dispute or gainsay.

“Universal space,” says Dr Franklin, “so far as we know of it, seems filled with a subtil fluid, whose motion, or vibration, is called light.

“This fluid may possibly be the same with that which attracted by and entering into other more solid matter, dilates the substance, by separating the constituent particles and so rendering some _solids fluid_, and maintaining the fluidity of others; of which fluid when our bodies are totally deprived, they are said to be frozen; when they have a proper quantity they are in health, and fit to perform all their functions; it is then called natural heat; when too much, it is called fever; and when forced into the body in too great a quantity from without, it gives pain by separating and destroying the flesh, and is then called burning; and the fluid so entering and acting is called fire.” _Transactions of the American Philosophical Society_, vol. iii. p. 5, 6.

Now we will see what Lavoisier, according to Fourcroy, can tell us on this subject.

“The comparison which the more modern philosophers, and particularly my illustrious friend Monge, have established between _caloric and light_, so as to consider these two effects as the _product of modifications of the same body_, is entitled to much more attention. It is established on a great number of experiments; it naturally and simply explains most of the phenomena; and it agrees with the sublime economy of nature, which multiplies effects much more than the bodies which produce them.

“Fire,” he continues, “is disengaged, and shows itself in the form of _heat_, when it is gently and slowly driven out of bodies into the composition of which it entered; but it shines in the form of _light_ when it flies out of compounds, in a very compressed state, by a swift motion.

“According to this ingenious hypothesis, _caloric_ may become _light_, and _light_ on the other hand may become _caloric_. For this purpose it is only necessary that the first should assume more rapidity in its motion, and the second undergo a diminution of velocity.” _Nicholsons’ Fourcroy_, vol. i. p. 57.

Our next step in this our wonderful process is to prove, that light, which is the same as heat, may also be identified with _electricity_.

Here I shall produce the authority of a writer in the Encyclopædia Britannica, who appears to be a very sound philosopher. Under the title Electricity, article 83, you will find that gunpowder has been fired by the electric blast; from which the writer reasons as follows.

“As it therefore appears, that the electric fluid, when it moves through bodies either with great rapidity or in very great quantity will set them on fire, _it seems scarce disputable_, that this fluid is the same with the _element of fire_. This being once admitted, the source from whence the electric fluid is derived into the earth and atmosphere must be exceedingly evident, being no other than the sun or source of light itself.” The writer then proceeds to show, that an iron wire has been melted by the discharge of a battery of electricity, and furnishes proofs which must convince the most incredulous, of the correctness of his theory.

Thus far we have proceeded triumphantly in making it abundantly evident that light, heat, and electricity are the same in substance; so that if your worships will permeate this subject with due retention and some small share of true philosophical perspicacity, you will find that heat and electricity are the dregs or sediment of light, and by digesting Dr Black’s theory of latent heat, you will find that the matter of heat, light, and electricity exists in very vast abundance in all bodies and substances.

We next will prove that Galvanism is a modification of electricity. Here we will advert to the theory of Galvani and Aldini, as stated by C. H. Wilkinson, lecturer on Galvanism in Soho square, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, &c. &c. This gentleman informs us, that “the animal body is a description of _Leyden phial_, or magic battery, in one part of which there is an excess of electricity, and in the other a deficiency. _The conducting body communicates the fluid of the part where it is abundant to the part_ where it is defective; and in this passage of the electricity, the muscular contractions are obtained in the same way as the discharges are produced by the Leyden phial or magic batteries. As the _conducting bodies_ in electricity are the sole agents in the discharge of the Leyden phial, so the same bodies alone serve likewise to excite muscular contractions.” _Wilkinson’s Elements of Galvanism_, p. 82.

We next will prove that Perkins’s points are the proper conductors of animal electricity. From a specification which Mr Perkins published in the Repertory of Arts, it would seem that _zinc_ is the principal ingredient in the tractors.

“Zinc,” says Fourcroy, “is a conductor of electricity like all other metals, and nothing particular has hitherto been discovered in it with respect to this property; however, the _powerful manner in which it effects the sensibility of the human body in Galvanic experiments seems to give it herein a sort of prerogative_ or pre-eminence over other metallic substances. If we place a plate of zinc under the tongue, and cover the upper surface of this organ with another metal, and especially a piece of gold or silver, and then incline the extremity of this last, so as to approach it to the plate of zinc, at the moment when the two metals come into contact with each other, the person who performs the experiments feels a very perceptible pricking sensation, heat, irritation, and a sort of acerb taste in the tongue, almost always accompanied with a _momentous_ glare, or luminous circle, which suddenly appears before his eyes. No metal produces this singular effect with such force as zinc is observed to do.”

This animal electricity is likewise a modification of what we call _animal spirits_, and may be termed the _stimulus of society_. That this was well known to the wisest of men, is evident from this adage of Solomon: “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” The want of a proper communication among animal Leyden phials is the cause of the gloom of the _solitaire_. The wish to partake of the benefits of the stimulus of society makes man a gregarious animal, and induces the human race to congregate in large cities, and to be fond of routs, balls, assemblies, in which the aforesaid human electric phials are beaming _animal electricity_ in every direction, and thus a flow of animal spirits is communicated by a pleasing contagion to all present.

When we see an animal Leyden phial superabounding with animal electricity, we say it is a _spirited animal_. When said animal happens to be a hero, a tiger, an irritated ram cat, or a black snake intent on his game, visible flashes of electricity will blaze from the eyes, and communicate very sensible shocks to a spectator. Thus the Gaul, who was commanded to cut off the head of Marius, a celebrated Roman general, and a personage full of the most _positive sort of animal electricity_, received such a _stroke_ of lightning from the battery of that hero’s head, and at the same time was so _thunderstruck_ with the exclamation of “_Tune, homo, audes occidere Caium Marium?_” that the dagger dropped bloodless from the hands of the ruthless assassin. Thus Alexander, when hampered in the chief city of the Oxydracæ, kept his foes at a distance by the fire that flashed from his eyes in whole torrents of animal electricity. How often do we see a Congressional spouter, or an itinerant field preacher _electrize_ a large assembly by repeated discharges of this mysterious fluid. In all cases of fanaticism it is mistaken for the fire of devotion, and causes grimaces, contortions, convulsions, and other strange symptoms, which, however, are easily accounted for by the theory of the “animal Leyden phial.”

But the prettiest experiments ever made with animal electricity, I have seen sometimes exhibited by a female philosopher to a levee of her admirers. On such occasions, the lady’s eyes seem to be fountains of _animal electricity_. This electricity, however, is not _vitreous_ and _resinous_, but _positive_ and _negative_. The former expressed by a _glance of approbation_, and the latter by a _flash of disdain_. The different effects which discharges of these different kinds of electricity exhibit in the subjects of experiment may be rated among the most wonderful of phenomena. The former transports a man, Southey-like, to “the atmosphere of the highest of all possible heavens,” the latter sinks him “down! down! to the Domdaniel cave at the roots of the ocean.” But as this is a branch of natural philosophy to which, for forty years, past I have not paid the least attention, I shall not attempt further to instruct your worships therein, but refer you to the experiments so delectably set forth in the poems of Little, Johannes Bonefonius, Secundus, and other adepts in that curious science.

AN ODE.[125]

Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause
Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws;
Should foes then invade us, to battle we’ll hie,
For the GOD OF OUR FATHERS will be our ally!
Let Frenchmen advance,
And all Europe join France,
Designing our conquest and plunder;
United and free
For ever we’ll be,
And our cannon shall tell them in thunder,
That foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

When Britain assail’d us, undaunted we stood,
Defended the land we had purchased with blood,
Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast,
If the old world united should menace our coast:--
Should millions invade,
In terror array’d,
Our liberties bid us surrender,
Our country they’d find
With bayonets lined,
And Washington here to defend her,
For foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

Should Buonapart’ come with his sans culotte band,
And a new sort of freedom we don’t understand,
And make us an offer to give us as much
As France has bestow’d on the Swiss and the Dutch,
His fraud and his force
Will be futile of course;
We wish for no _Frenchified_ freedom:
If folks beyond sea
Are to bid us be free,
We’ll send for them when we shall need ’em.
But sans culotte Frenchmen we’ll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

We’re anxious that Peace may continue her reign,
We cherish the virtues which sport in her train;
Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh,
And we shiver at Horror’s funereal cry;
But still, though we prize
That child of the skies,
We’ll never like slaves be accosted.
In a war of defence
Our means are immense,
And we’ll fight till our _all_ is exhausted:
For foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

The EAGLE of FREEDOM with rapture behold!
Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold!
The flood-gates of glory are open on high,
And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky!
They come from above
With a message of love,
To bid us be firm and decided;
“At liberty’s call,
Unite one and all,
For you conquer, unless you’re divided.
Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!”

“Americans, seek no occasion for war;
The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor;
But if in defence of your rights you should arm,
Let toils ne’er discourage, nor dangers alarm.
For foes to your peace
Will ever increase,
If freedom and fame you should barter,
Let those rights be yours,
While nature endures,
For OMNIPOTENCE gave you the charter!”
Then foes to our freedom we’ll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry.

THE MORNING.

Behold, my fair, the ruddy morn
Anticipate the day;
What beauteous tints the sky adorn,
And gild the azure way!

The sombre mists, which gloomy night
Had gather’d in the vale,
Are borne aloft, and wing their flight
Before the rising gale.

Now changed to clouds of varied hue,
In airy maze they dance;
Now sweep athwart the welkin blue,
And gem the gay expanse.

The plumy tenant of the grove
Is perch’d on yonder spray,
And serenades his little love
With sweetest roundelay.

To taste the pleasures of the morn
Is bliss without alloy,
Though fashion’s drowsy vot’ries scorn
To quaff the cup of joy.

But rise, my lovely charmer, rise
To greet the early ray,
And let my TERAMINTA’S eyes
Add lustre to the day.

AN ODE.[126]

ALMIGHTY POWER!--The ONE SUPREME!
Our souls inspire, attune our lays
With hearts as solemn as our theme,
To sing hosannas to thy praise!

Then, while we swell the sacred song,
And bid the pealing anthem rise
May seraphim the strain prolong,
And hymns of glory fill the skies.

Thy word omnific form’d this earth,
Ere time began revolving years--
Thy fiat gave to Nature birth,
And tuned to harmony the spheres.

When stern oppression’s iron hand,
Our pious fathers forced to roam,
And o’er the wild wave seek the land
Where freedom rears her hallow’d dome--

When tempests howl’d, and o’er the main,
Pale horror rear’d his haggard form;
Thou didst the fragile bark sustain
To stem the fury of the storm!

Thou badest the wilderness disclose
The varied sweets of vernal bloom--
The desert blossom’d like the rose,
And breath’d Arabia’s rich perfume!

Look down from heaven’s empyreal height,
And gild with smiles this happy day;
Send us some chosen SON OF LIGHT
Our feet to guide in wisdom’s way.

The sons of faction strike with awe,
And hush the din of party rage,
That LIBERTY, secured by LAW,
May realize a golden age.

On those thy choicest blessings shower
To whom the cares of State are given;
May Justice wield the sword of power,
TILL EARTH’S THE MINIATURE OF HEAVEN!

ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.

Why moves to mournful measures slow
Yon sable retinue of wo,
With tearful eye and visage pale?
And why this universal gloom?
Sure Nature trembles o’er her tomb,
And bids her wilder’d children wail!

Do plagues infest, do wars alarm,
Has God in wrath made bare his arm,
To hurl his bolts of vengeance round?
Have towns been sack’d by hostile ire,
Have cities sunk in floods of fire,
While earthquakes shook the shuddering ground?

Ah! no, thy sons, Columbia, mourn
A hero past that fatal “bourn
From whence no traveller returns;”
Before him none more good, more great,
E’er felt the unerring shafts of fate,
Though glory’s lamp illume their urns.

Behold yon pallid war-worn chief,
A marble monument of grief,
Who once our troops to victory led;--
The burst of sorrow now control,
But now the tears of anguish roll,
A tribute to the _immortal dead_!

Fain would the muse those virtues scan,
Which dignified the godlike man,
And launch in seas without a shore;
But sure his name alone conveys
More than a thousand hymns of praise,
The matchless WASHINGTON’S no more!

DIRECTIONS FOR DOING POETRY.[127]

IN THE SIMPLE STYLE OF SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, AND
OTHER MODERN METRE MONGERS.

Supposing you would sing
About love in the Spring,
Something like this will be just the thing.
Tell the reader to behold
The gay
Tints of the cloud-dappled _morn_!
Then streak the azure with gems set in gold,
And bring into view
Some Tyrian hue,
Mix’d with indigo blue.
Then the meads must be _spangled_,
And glittering _grove_
With OCEANS of dew!
_Whew!!_

But now you must mind
That rhymes you must find
For lines left behind,
You therefore must _rove_,
Say
On any day
About the fag end of May,
And bid lilacs _adorn_
Your beautiful _morn_;
And the thickets must be tangled
For the sake of your _spangled_.

Now having found
Yourself on firm ground,
You may roam along the edges
Of hawthorn hedges;
Then bid beds of roses
And pretty pink posies
_Ravish_ our eyes and _captivate_ our noses!!!
Interweave, if you will,
The hyacinth and daffodil,
With now and then a big weed
Of purslain and of pig weed,
And add fragrant crops
Of potato tops,
And scatter, here and thereabout,
As many hops
As you may please to care about;
And, between whiles,
Say
That Nature smiles,
In her new holiday
Dress;--
Nevertheless,
These beauties so rare
Can never compare
With the dear little dove
With whom you’re in love.

Next glance a quick eye
To the flame cinctur’d, multihu’d arch in the sky;--
In our vernacular idiom call’d a rainbow,
Which perhaps the unpoetic reader would fain know.
Then _positively declare_,
That Amanda the fair,
Who really beats the Dutch,
Exceeds as much
All such
As does a fine lilac silk gown
The dirtiest grogram in town.
Then bid your muse higher fly,
And say your queen of lasses
Each country wench surpasses,
Yea, far more excels
Your Moggies and Nells,
Than doth the noontide blaze the scintillating fire fly.

HORACE SURPASSED.

How funny ’tis, when pretty lads and lasses
Meet altogether, just to have a caper,
And the black fiddler plays you such a tune as
Sets you a frisking.

High bucks and ladies, standing in a row all,
Make finer show than troops of continentals.
Balance and foot it, rigadoon and chasse,
Brimful of rapture.

Thus poets tell us how one Mister Orpheus
Led a rude forest to a contra-dance, and
Play’d the brisk tune of Yankee Doodle on a
New Holland fiddle.

Spruce our gallants are, essenced with pomatum,
Heads powder’d white as Killington-Peak snowstorm;[128]
Ladies, how brilliant, fascinating creatures,
All silk and muslin!

But now behold a sad reverse of fortune,
Life’s brightest scenes are checker’d with disaster,
Clumsy Charles Clumpfoot treads on Tabby’s gown, and
Tears all the tail off!

Stop, stop the fiddler, all away this racket--
Hartshorn and water! See the ladies fainting,
Paler than primrose, fluttering about like
Pigeons affrighted!

Not such the turmoil, when the sturdy farmer
Sees turbid whirlwinds beat his oats and rye down,
And the rude hail-stones, big as pistol-bullets,
Dash in his windows!

Willy Wagnimble dancing with Flirtilla,
Almost as light as air-balloon inflated,
Rigadoons round her, ’till the lady’s heart is
Forced to surrender.

Benny Bamboozle cuts the drollest capers,
Just like a camel, or a hippopot’mus,
Jolly Jack Jumble makes as big a rout as
Forty Dutch horses!

See Angelina lead the mazy dance down,
Never did fairy trip it so fantastic;
How my heart flutters, while my tongue pronounces
Sweet little seraph!

Such are the joys, that flow from contra-dancing,
Pure as the primal happiness of Eden,
Love, mirth, and music, kindle in accordance
Raptures extatic.

SONG.[129]

When cannons roar, when bullets fly,
And shouts and groans affright the sky,
Amid the battle’s dire alarms,
I’ll think, my Mary, on thy charms;
The crimson field
Fresh proof shall yield
Of thy fond soldier’s love;
And thy dear form
In battle’s storm
His guardian angel prove.

Should dangers thicken all around,
And dying warriors strew the ground,
In varied shapes, though death appear,
Thy fancied form my soul shall cheer;
The crimson field
Fresh proof shall yield
Of thy fond soldier’s love;
And thy dear form
In battle’s storm
His guardian angel prove.

And when loud cannons cease to roar,
And when the din of battle’s o’er,
When safe return’d from war’s alarms,
O then I’ll feast on Mary’s charms!
In ecstacy
I’ll fly to thee
My ardent passion prove,
Left glory’s field,
My life I’ll yield
To all the joys of love.

TABITHA TOWZER.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair,
No guinea-pig ever was neater,
Like a hakmatak slender and spare,
And sweet as a musk-squash, or sweeter.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek,
When dress’d in her pretty new tucker,
Like an otter that paddles the creek,
In quest of a mud-pout, or sucker.[130]

Her forehead is smooth as a tray,
Ah! smoother than that, on my soul,
And turn’d, as a body may say,
Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.

To what shall I liken her hair,
As straight as a carpenter’s line,
For similes sure must be rare,
When we speak of a nymph so divine.

Not the head of Nazarite seer,
That never was shaven or shorn,
Nought equals the locks of my dear
But the silk of an ear of green corn.

My dear has a beautiful nose,
With a sled-runner crook in the middle,
Which one would be led to suppose
Was meant for the head of a fiddle.

Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes,
Glass buttons shone never so bright,
Their love-lighted lustre outvies
The lightning-bug’s twinkle by night.

And oft with a magical glance,
She makes in my bosom a pother,
When leering politely askance,
She shuts one, and winks with the other.

The lips of my charmer are sweet,
As a hogshead of maple molasses,
And the ruby red tint of her cheek,
The gill of a salmon surpasses.

No teeth like her’s ever were seen,
Nor ever described in a novel,
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,
And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel.

Her fine little ears, you would judge,
Were wings of a bat in perfection;
A dollar I never should grudge
To put them in Peale’s grand collection.

Description must fail in her chin,
At least till our language is richer,
Much fairer than ladle of tin,
Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.

So pretty a neck, I’ll be bound,
Never join’d head and body together,
Like nice crook’d neck’d squash on the ground,
Long whiten’d by winter-like weather.

Should I set forth the rest of her charms,
I might by some phrase that’s improper,
Give modesty’s bosom alarms,
Which I wouldn’t do for a copper.

Should I mention her gait or her air,
You might think I intended to banter;
She moves with more grace, you would swear,
Than a founder’d horse forced to a canter.

She sang with a beautiful voice,
Which ravish’d you out of your senses;
A pig will make just such a noise
When his hind-leg stuck fast in the fence is.

THE SPLENDORS OF THE SETTING SUN.

Sol, slowly sinking down the steep of heaven,
With softened splendor greets the musing eye,
Resigns his throne to “sober suited even,”
But decorates while he deserts the sky.

His noonday beams, insufferably bright,
Are now succeeded by a milder blaze,
And every slanting filament of light
Heaven’s kind and cheering effluence conveys.

Now let me wend my solitary way
Where groves and lawns present alternate charms;--
Gaze on the glories of the waning day,
Till night shall fold me in her dusky arms.

Mark how the clouds now glow like molten gold,
Now gleam like snow-banks, heap’d on banks of snow;
Now dash’d with azure, softer hues unfold,
Now shift and kindle to a furnace-glow!

Compared with these, what is the pride of art!
Your petty palaces and pigmy spires--
The paltry pageants of the noisy mart,
And all the city-connoisseur admires!

Should the whole race of man unite as one
To celebrate some glorious festal day,
The simple splendor of the setting sun
Would far surpass their most superb display.

THE SLEEP OF THE SLUGGARD.

O list to an indolent lump of live lumber,
Whom slothfulness binds with invisible bands,
A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,
A little more folding together the hands.

“I’ve a villainous cold--and my head, how it aches!
The north wind is blowing, and stings like a hornet,
And as to this rising as soon as day breaks,
’Tis a vile vulgar habit, and gentlemen scorn it.

“I’m none of those wretches, who labor for bread
Through foul or fair weather, whatever may hap,
I mean to enjoy both my table and bed,
So let me turn over and take t’other nap.

“I’ve money enough, and can live at my ease,
I cannot be caught in necessity’s trap,
Will sleep every day till the next, if I please,
And so will indulge in another good nap.”

His heavy hydropical carcase he turns,
And sinks in uneasy intemperate rest,
Till dim in his bosom the lamp of life burns,
While snorting with nightmare and plethora prest.

What horrible visions his bed hover o’er,
The phantoms of spleen, the blue devils dire,
Like Gorgons and Hydras of fabulous lore,
Or red dragons belching whole rivers of fire.

Now clings to the side of a prominent steep,
O’er a rough, roaring cataract hangs by a hair,
Now suddenly sinks in a bottomless deep,
And starts, half awake with a shriek of despair!

Thus rolls like a porpoise o’er billows of down,
Grows big as a mammoth, and fat as a seal,
Lives a plague to his friends, or a charge to the town,
And dies to make worms a most plentiful meal.

Ye sons of Columbia, shun the syren of sloth
For if you submit to her leaden control,
You will find, when too late, like a venomous moth,
She consumes a man’s substance and poisons his soul.

If the wizard of indolence takes you in hand,
Quick break from his grasp, or you’re quickly undone,
Your limbs will be lithe as a wickapy wand,[131]
And your sinews be soften’d like wax in the sun.

“A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”

A gentle answer will assuage
The ruthless vehemence of ire,
But petulance opposed to rage
Is adding fuel to the fire.

He who is cautious, calm and cool,
When made the subject of attack,
May smile defiance on the fool,
Whose anger puts him on the rack.

If injury you must repel,
Hard words are not of any use,
The greatest energy as well
Is shown without, as with abuse.

If one should offer you offence,
By being angry with the elf,
Instead of gaining recompense
You are but punishing yourself.

But gentle answers will assuage
The headlong vehemence of ire,
While petulance opposed to rage,
Adds tenfold fuel to the fire.

“HAVING FOOD AND RAIMENT, LET US THEREWITH BE CONTENT.”

Art thou blest with food and raiment,
Give God thanks for favors given;
Gratitude is all the payment
Thou can’st make indulgent Heaven.

Clothing coarse, and scant subsistence,
Recompense which labor brings,
With contentment make existence
Happier than the life of kings.

Why in heaping useless treasure,
Shorten life, and health destroy?
Where’s the profit or the pleasure,
Hoarding what you ne’er enjoy?

Why, for Mammon’s paltry proffers,
Sell thyself to sin a slave,
Can the wealth which swells thy coffers,
Buy exemption from the grave?

Since the thread of life is brittle
Heed the poet’s moral song,
“Man in this world needs but little,
And that little needs not long.”

Wants by luxury created--
All of artificial kind,
By indulgence never sated,
Weaken and debase the mind.

To the hardy child of nature,
Decent clothes and frugal fare,
Furnish pure enjoyments greater
Than the pamper’d monarch’s share.

Gold by avarice that’s hoarded,
Might as well be in the mine,
Wealth that’s generously afforded,
Can alone be counted thine.

Then, if blest with food and raiment,
Let thy gratitude be shown,
No man’s merits, as a claimant,
Give a right to these alone.

HARVEST--INTEMPERANCE.

The arable fields and gay meadows behold,
And laughing luxuriant landscape accord,
In tributes of verdure, enamell’d with gold,
The hard-handed husbandman’s promised reward.

But pause ere you gather the bountiful crop,
And listen to well meant advice of a friend,
The evils which flow from _intemperance_ stop,
So far as your own good example may tend.

Avoid the inveterate habit of some,
(Excessively foolish, atrociously sinful,)
Now bloated with brandy, now reeling with rum,
Now stuffing with whiskey a spanish brown skin-full.

With the fire of the elements raging without,
If the fire of the still is consuming within,
A body of adamant soon must give out,
And the steel-sinew’d laborer soon must give in.

A man had much better be burnt at the stake,
For thus he will finish his troubles much quicker,
Than his own carcase take a blue blaze to make,
And be burning for years with the fire of strong liquor.

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY’S ALBUM.

Miss Ann, you are, it seems to me,
An essence all ethereal;
The brightest being that can be,
Entirely immaterial.

A pencil tipp’d with solar rays
Your charms could scarcely blazon;
Contrasted with your beauty’s blaze
Bright Sol’s a pewter basin.

Transcendent little sprig of light,
If rhymes are always true,
An angel is an ugly sprite,
Compared to Sylph like you.

You frowning tell me, “This indeed
Is flattery past all bearing,
I ne’er before did hear nor read
Of any quite so glaring.”

Yes, this is flattery, sure enough,
And its exaggeration
May teach you how to hold such stuff
In utter detestation.

Should beaux your ladyship accost
With something like this flummery,
Tell them their labor will be lost,
For this transcends their mummery.

The man whose favor’s worth a thought,
To flattery can’t descend;
The servile sycophant is not
Your lover nor your friend.

THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.

It may very truly be said
That his is a noble vocation,
Whose industry leads him to spread
About him a little Creation.

He lives independent of all
Except th’ Omnipotent Donor:
Has always enough at his call--
And more is a plague to its owner.

He works with his hands, it is true,
But happiness dwells with employment,
And he who has nothing to do
Has nothing by way of enjoyment.

His labors are mere exercise,
Which saves him from pains and physicians;
Then, Farmers, you truly may prize
Your own as the best of conditions.

From competence, shared with content,
Since all true felicity springs,
The life of a farmer is blent
With more real bliss than a king’s.

THE CULTIVATOR’S ART.

We’re highly gratified to find,
The public more and more inclined
The Cultivator’s art to practise,
And patronize, because the fact is
That righteousness and cultivation
Go hand in hand t’ exalt a nation:
And Husbandry’s a hobby which
A world may ride with spur and switch,
If all mankind at once bestrode him
They could not tire nor overload him.
Not only men, who sit astride,
But ladies also on a side-
Saddle so neat, or on a pillion,
That’s big enough to hold a million,
May ride our hobby with a cheer-up,
And he’ll not kick, bite, plunge, nor rear up,
But _vires in eundo crescit_,[132]
As cousin Virgil somewhere has it
So fire, which has obtain’d ascendence,
When setting up for independence,
Prepares by heat of radiation
Combustibles for conflagration;--
By burning fast, the mighty master
Acquires fresh means of burning faster,
Till blazing pyramids arise,
Which threaten to consume the skies.

With ken prophetic, we behold
A brighter age than that of gold,
Which, with accelerating pace,
Is hurrying on to bless our race;
And hail its grand approximation,
Mark’d by superior cultivation,
When wise men’s heads, and good men’s hearts,
Devoted to the art of arts,
And industry’s untiring hand,
Shall make a garden of our land--
Yea, make New England, all exceeding,
A new edition of old Eden,
If not quite equal, yet before it,
In many a root, and fruit, and floret,
Indebted for its propagation
To modern arts of cultivation.

We’re tranced with rapture, when we find
The fairer moiety of mankind,
Whose smile makes mortal man’s condition
But little short of sheer fruition,
By whose society is given
Earth’s purest prototype of Heaven,
Th’ angelic part of human nature
Inspire and aid the cultivator.
A plant that’s sunn’d by ladies’ eyes
Will like an exhalation rise,
We hope that horticulture may
Be therefore blest with beauty’s ray,
Till Flora’s germs gem every waste,
And every grove’s a “Bower of Taste.”

Adam, in Eden, we believe,
Had been a brute without his Eve;
An arid heath, a blasted common,
Blest with the smiles of lovely woman,
We should prefer to all that’s rare
In paradise, without the fair.
We therefore pray that friendship’s hand
From every lady in the land,
May be to us henceforth extended,
From this time till our time is ended;
And would solicit every charmer
To please to patronize the Farmer,
And make those gentlemen, who claim
Her approbation, do the same;
And common justice must require her
To grant this boon to an admirer
Like us, so prone to chant her praises,
In verse which absolutely blazes.

His head is very like a stump
Whate’er its craniologic bump,
Who does not see that we the tillers
Of earth compose the nation’s pillars,
And may be styled, with strict propriety,
The props of civilized society.
What would have been poor mortals’ lot--
Yea, what were man, if we were not?
Nature’s poor, simple, houseless child,
The weakest wild beast of the wild,
Must live on browse, his home must be
A cavern or a hollow tree;
Sometimes, in spite of fears and cares,
Be served up raw to wolves and bears.
Or maugre tooth, nail, fist, and truncheon,
Make hungry catamounts a luncheon.

Our art, moreover, claims ascendence
As german to our independence;
Both, commonly, are coexistent,
And each the other’s best assistant.
We farmers are a sort of stuff,
Tyrants will always find too tough
For them to work up into slaves,
The servile tools of lordly knaves.
Those men who till the stubborn soil,
Enlighten’d, and inured to toil,
Cannot be made to quail or cower
By traitor’s art or tyrant’s power,
They might as well attempt to chain
The west wind in a hurricane;--
Make rivers run up hill by frightening,
Or steal a march on kindled lightning--
The great sea-serpent, which we’ve read of,
Take by the tail and snap his head off--
The firmament on cloudy nights,
Illume with artificial lights,
By such an apparatus as
Is used for lighting streets with gas--
Or, having split the north pole till it’s
Divided into baker’s billets,
Make such a blaze as never shone,
And torrefy the frozen zone--
With clubs assail the polar bear,
And drive the monster from his lair--
Attack the comets as they run
With loads of fuel for the sun,
And overset by oppugnation
Those shining colliers of creation--
The Milky Way McAdamize,
A railway raise to span the skies,
Then make, to save Apollo’s team,
The Solar Chariot go by steam.
These things shall tyrants do, and more
Than we have specified, before
Our cultivators they subdue,
While grass is green, or sky is blue.

AN ODE.

O’er the wild Atlantic wave,
Lo the fiends of discord rave;
Battle’s bray is heard from far,
Battle’s bray is heard from far,
To Bellona’s blood-stain’d car,
Yoked the madding _steeds of war_:--
But no fiend of battle roars
Round Columbia’s happy shores;
Peace and plenty, hand in hand,
Join to bless her happy land.

CHORUS.

Laud we then the _God of Heav’n_,
At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,
The God, who led our fathers o’er
To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where th’ embattled host of France,
To the kindling war advance,
There shall heroes bite the dust,
There shall heroes bite the dust,
Blood shall tinge the rubrick waves
Where the fiend of battle raves.
Sons of honor, “Sons of soul,”
Whom no tyrants can control,
Patriotic myriads join,
Round fair freedom’s sacred shrine.

Ever laud the _God of Heav’n_,
At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,
The God, who led our fathers o’er,
To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where Britannia’s sons unite
To provoke the distant fight,
There shall countless heroes fall,
There shall countless heroes fall,
When the din of battle join’d,
Hurtles in the hollow wind.
Fiends of horror flit around,
Dying heroes strow the ground,
Countless ghosts shall wailing go
To the sullen shades below.

Laud we then the _God of Heav’n_,
At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,
The God who led our fathers o’er,
To Columbia’s happy shore.

May not _anarch’s_ hydra form,
Thunder his voice, his breath the storm,
Desolate our happy land,
Desolate our happy land--
Mid fell discord’s wild uproar,
May no fiend of anarch roar,
Call the rugged, meddling throng
Of every clime, of every tongue,
To light fair freedom’s funeral pyre,
And bid her mid the blaze expire.

May the gracious _God of Heav’n_,
At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,
The God who led our fathers o’er,
Still protect Columbia’s shore.

THE COURSE OF CULTURE.[133]

Survey the world, through every zone,
From Lima to Japan,
In lineaments of light ’tis shown
That CULTURE makes the man.
By manual culture one attains
What industry may claim,
Another’s mental toil and pains
Attenuate his frame.

Some plough and plant the teeming soil
Some cultivate the arts;
And some devote a life of toil
To tilling heads and hearts.
Some train the adolescent mind,
While buds of promise blow,
And see each nascent twig inclined
The way the tree should grow.

The first man, and the first of men,
Were tillers of the soil;
And that was mercy’s mandate then,
Which destined man to moil.
Indulgence preludes fell attacks
Of merciless disease,
And sloth extends on fiery racks
Her listless devotees.