Chapter VI: Letter XXII: Mr. Editor, (1)

Having heard that there was a tavern at about the distance of a
mile or so from my favourite country spot, where now and then a few
neighbours meet to spit, smoke segars, drink apple whiskey, cider
or cider-royal, and read the news--a few evenings ago, I put on my
best coat, combed out my wig, put my spectacles in my pocket, and a
quarter dollar--This I thought was right; for although Mrs. Slender
told me eleven-pence was enough, says I, I'll e'en take the quarter
dollar, for a man always feels himself of more consequence when he
has got good money in his pocket--so out I walks with a good stout
stick in my hand, which I always make a point to carry with me,
lest the dogs should make rather freer with my legs than I could
wish. But I had not gone more than half the way, when, by making a
false step, I splash'd my stocking from knee to the ancle. Odds my
heart, said I, see what a hand I have made of my stocking; I'll be
bail, added I, I'll hear of this in both sides of my head--but it
can't now be helped--this, and a thousand worse accidents, which
daily happen, are all occasioned by public neglect, and the
misapplication of the public's money--Had I, said I, (talking to
myself all the while) the disposal of but half the income of the
United States, I could at least so order matters, that a man might
walk to his next neighbour's without splashing his stockings or
being in danger of breaking his legs in ruts, holes, gutts, and
gullies. I do not know, says I to myself, as I moralized on my
splash'd stocking, but money might with more profit be laid out in
repairing the roads, than in marine establishments, supporting a
standing army, useless embassies, exorbitant salaries, given to
many flashy fellows that are no honour to us, or to themselves, and
chartering whole ships to carry a single man to another
nation--Odds my life, continued I, what a number of difficulties a
man labours under, who has never read further than Lilly's
grammar, and has but a poor brain--had I been favoured with a good
education, I could no doubt readily see the _great usefulness_ of
all these measures of government, that now appear to me so
unaccountable--I could then, said I, still talking to myself, see
the reason why the old patriots, whose blood flowed so freely in
purchasing our independence, are cast aside, like a broken pitcher,
(as the scripture says) and why the old tories and active refugees
are advanced to places of power, honour and trust--I could then be
able to explain why Robbins, an American citizen, for killing an
Englishman who held him a slave, and so gaining his liberty, was
delivered to the English to be hanged--and Sterret, who killed a
veteran sailor, who had formerly fought and bled in the cause of
his country, and then was bravely doing his duty, yet, remains
unpunished.... As I said this, by accident I looked up, and
perceived to my surprise, that if I had gone but one step further,
I would have actually knocked my nose against the sign-post--I
declare, said I, here I am, this is a tavern indeed. I then felt in
my pocket, if I had my quarter dollar, which to my joy I found--I
then unbuttoned my coat, to shew my silk waistcoat, pulled my watch
chain a good piece longer out of my pocket, fixed my hat a little
better on my head--and then advanced boldly into the tavern--But I
see I am got to the end of my page, and therefore must defer the
remainder of my adventure to another opportunity."

In the advertisement of the book, the author made the half promise of more letters in the same vein:

"Should these letters meet with a favourable reception in their
present form, a second volume will shortly be published, containing
besides those that have since appeared separately a variety of
original ones upon such interesting subjects as may hereafter claim
the public attention."

The volume was never published. The little family at Mount Pleasant could not subsist alone on letters and poems, however brilliant. The outlook was not a bright one, as the following letter[17] to his brother Peter, in Charleston, dated March 1, 1801, would indicate:

"Having been here [New York] a day or two and finding the brig
Echo, Capt. Webb, to sail for Charleston, I take the opportunity of
dropping you a line by him.

"I left all well at home last Thursday, and the place, etc., as
well as could be expected after my poor mother's absence. I have
been and shall be for some time busy in repairing old fences and
making new ones, and some other small improvements, as far as I
personally can with the money you let me have. Helen goes to school
here, the other two girls are at home, but Agnes is to come here
next month for the same purpose for awhile. There are more cares
and vexations coming on, but still they must be got through with at
some rate. Probably I shall have to embark on some new expedition
or plan before long wherever or to whatever the devil, etc., shall
see fit to drive me. But I shall attempt nothing if I can before I
see you here, in April or May, as you promised.

"I return this morning to Jersey. Mr. Hunn, Peggy, Mamma and Polly
all desire their love to you. My love and respects to Mrs. Freneau
and Miss Dora with her mother and family. Remembrances, love, etc.,
to Mr. Davis, and may I expect to have a line from you by Capt.
Peter."

Freneau was at best a half-hearted farmer. A little anecdote told by the family is eloquent. One day the poet and his wife, who had walked together into the field to inspect the work, found a slave asleep in the young corn. Mrs. Freneau seizing his hoe declared that she would show him how to work. At the very first attempt, however, she cut down a hill of corn, whereupon the slave remarked gleefully: "Ho, ho, Missie Freneau, if that's the way you hoe, the corn'll never grow." She threw down the hoe in disgust, declaring that "No wonder the farm doesn't pay when even the slaves talk in rhymes."

The affairs of the poet were soon such as to give real concern to his friends. In a letter dated September 13, 1801, a part of which we have already quoted, Aedanus Burke wrote Madison:

"I am sorry to have it to say that Freneau, with his wife and two
children, is still in embarrassed circumstances. He is a virtuous,
honest man, and an undeviating Republican; yet utterly incapable
of soliciting anything for himself. The best apology I can offer
for mentioning it, is that I know you have great regard for him.
You were at College together, as I heard you often say."

However this letter may have been received, Freneau obtained no appointment either from Madison or Jefferson, though there is a persistent tradition among his descendants that he was offered a good position under President Jefferson but refused it on the ground that the latter had deserted him in the _National Gazette_ affair. On October 23, 1803, his old-time friend, Francis Bailey, addressed Madison:

"My dear sir: The death of Col. Bauman of New York has left the
Post Office without a Master. I know of no man in the United States
who would fill the office with more ability, or greater integrity,
than Philip Freneau."

As far as we know, there was no response, though the family declare that Madison sent for him and that the poet proudly said, "James Madison knows where I live, let him come to see me."

The "expedition" to mend his fortunes, which he had mentioned to his brother as a disagreeable possibility, became at length inevitable. On Saturday, November 27th, he embarked at New York as Master of the schooner _John_, bound for Fredericksburg, Virginia, with a cargo of salt. A minute log book of this voyage is still to be seen.[18] After an exceedingly hard experience he returned to New York, January 12, 1803, and the last entry in the log reads "Finished discharging the wheat--1264 bushels at 17 cents a bushel freight--214 dollars and 88 cents."

This was the opening voyage of his last period at sea. His brother Peter had fitted out at Charleston a new brig for the Madeira trade, and until 1807 Freneau was busy plying between Charleston and the Azores. In one of his books of navigation is inscribed the following:

"Sailed from Charleston for Maderia with brig Washington, May 12,
1803. Got there June 23. Arrived back at Charleston Aug. 16.

"Sailed in ditto from Charleston Jan. 25, 1804. Arrived in Maderia
March 7th following. A hurricane of wind the whole way. April 12,
sailed from Funchal Road for Teneriff. Arrived at Santa Cruz the
15th; at Arasava, 22nd. Sailed May 11th. Arrived in Charleston,
June 10."

On June 30, 1806, he was in Savannah, Georgia, as Master of the sloop _Industry_. He made his last voyage to the Azores in the _Washington_ in 1807. During this last period of sea life we find evidences everywhere that this old enthusiasm for nautical adventure had greatly waned. He was a sailor now from sheer necessity; he was approaching old age and he longed for the quiet of his home and his family. In one of his books of navigation of this period is penned a verse made in mid Atlantic:

"In dreams condemned to roam
He left his native home
O'er land and ocean vast and wide
With oar and sail, with wind and tide,
Proceeding an imaginary way."

In 1809, Freneau now in retirement at Mount Pleasant, began a new edition of his poems. On April 8, he wrote Madison:[19]

"SIR,--I do myself the pleasure to enclose to you a copy of
Proposals for the publication of a couple of Volumes of Poems
shortly to be put to the Press in this city. Perhaps some of your
particular friends in Virginia may be induced from a view of the
Proposals in your hands to subscribe their names. If so, please to
have them forwarded to this place by Post, addressed to the
Publisher at No. 10 North Alley, Philadelphia. "Accept my
congratulations on your late Election to the Presidency of the
United States, and my hopes that your weight of State Affairs may
receive every alleviation in the gratitude and esteem of the Public
whom you serve in your truly honourable and exalted Station."

Madison's reply has been lost, but on May 12th, Freneau answered from Philadelphia:[20]

"SIR,--After a month's ramble through the States of New Jersey and
New York, I returned to this place on Saturday last, and found your
friendly Letter on Mr. Bailey's table, with the contents. There was
no occasion of enclosing any Money, as your name was all I wanted
to have placed at the head of the Subscription list.--I hope you
will credit me when I say that the republication of these Poems,
such as they are, was not a business of my own seeking or
forwarding. I found last Winter an Edition would soon be going on
at all events, and in contradiction to my wishes, as I had left
these old scribblings, to float quietly down the stream of oblivion
to their destined element the ocean of forgetfulness. However, I
have concluded to remain here this Summer, and have them published
in a respectable manner, and free as possible from the blemishes
imputable to the two former Editions, over which I had no controul,
having given my manuscripts away, and left them to the mercy of
chance.--I am endeavouring to make the whole work as worthy of the
public eye as circumstances will allow. 1500 copies are to be
printed, only; but I have a certainty, from the present popular
frenzy, that three times that number might soon be disposed of.--I
will attend to what you direct on the subject, and will forward the
ten you mention by the middle of July or sooner.--I will consider
of what you say relative to the insertion of a piece or two in
prose, but suspect that anything I have written in that way is so
inferior to the Poetry, that the contrast will be injurious to the
credit of the Publication.--I feel much in the humour of remaining
here about two years, to amuse myself, as well as the Public, with
such matter as that of the fat man you refer to, and if the public
are in the same humour they shall be gratified.--But I am intruding
on your time and will add no more at present.--I had almost said--

"'Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus
Res Italas armis tuteris, moribus ornes
Legibus emendes, in publica commoda peccem
Si longo sermone mores[21] tua tempora, Caesar--'

"My best wishes, Sir, will ever await you, and in particular that
your Presidential Career may be equally honourable though less
stormy than that of your predecessor."

It is evident that Freneau wrote also to Jefferson, for on May 22, 1809, the latter wrote from Monticello.[22]

"SIR,--I subscribe with pleasure to the publication of your volumes
of poems. I anticipate the same pleasure from them which the
perusal of those heretofore published has given me. I have not been
able to circulate the paper because I have not been from home above
once or twice since my return, and because in a country situation
like mine, little can be done in that way. The inhabitants of the
country are mostly industrious farmers employed in active life and
reading little. They rarely buy a book of whose merit they can
judge by having it in their hand, and are less disposed to engage
for those yet unknown to them. I am becoming like them myself in a
preference of the healthy and cheerful employment without doors, to
the being immured within four brick walls. But under the shade of a
tree one of your volumes will be a pleasant pocket companion.

"Wishing you all possible success and happiness, I salute you with
constant esteem and respect."

The reply to Freneau's second letter to Jefferson has also been lost, but Freneau's letter dated Philadelphia, May 27th, has escaped destruction:[23]

"SIR,--Yesterday your Letter, dated May 22d came to hand.--Perhaps
you a little misunderstood me, when I wrote to you from this place
in April last, inclosing the Proposal Paper, respecting the
Poems.--I only wished your name to be placed at the head of the
list, and did not wish you to be at the pains of collecting
Subscriptions, further than as any of your neighbours might choose
to put down their names--Indeed, the whole Subscription plan was
Set a going without my knowledge or approbation, last Winter. But
as I found the matter had gone too far to be recalled, I thought it
best to submit, in the present Edition, to the course and order of
things as they are and must be.--Sir, if there be anything like
happiness in this our State of existence, it will be such to me,
when these two little Volumes reach you in August ensuing, if the
sentiments in them under the poetical Veil, amuse you but for a
single hour.--This is the first Edition that I have in reality
attended to, the other two having been published, in a strange way,
while I was wandering over gloomy Seas, until _embargoed_ by the
necessity of the times, and now again, I fear, I am reverting to
the folly of scribbling Verses.

"That your shades of Monticello may afford you complete happiness
is the wish and hope of all the worthy part of Mankind, and my own
in particular. In such the philosophers of antiquity preferred to
pass life, or if that was not allowed, their declining days.

"Will you be so good as to read the inclosed Verses? They were
published early in March last in the Trenton True American
Newspaper, and in the Public Advertiser, of New York."

On August 7, 1809, Freneau wrote finally to Madison:[24]

"SIR,--The two Volumes of Poems that in April last I engaged to
have published, are finished, and will be ready for delivery in two
or three days. The ten Setts you subscribed for I am rather at a
loss how to have safely transmitted to you at your residence in
Virginia, where I find by the Newspapers, you mean to Continue
until the end of September. Will you on receipt of this, send me a
line or two, informing me whether you would prefer having the Books
put into the hands of some Confidential person here, to be sent or;
that they be sent to the Post Office at Washington; or that they be
forwarded directly to yourself in Orange County. The precise
direction is not in my power."

The 1809 collection is the most elaborate of all the earlier editions of Freneau's works. His statement that it was the only one which received his personal supervision is certainly wrong, for he had carefully supervised the 1795 edition. On the title page he announced that the poems were "now republished from the original manuscripts," and that he had added several "translations from the ancients and other pieces not heretofore in print," but the new poems that had not previously appeared in the _Time Piece_ were very few. On the title page also he placed the stanza:

"Justly to record the deeds of fame,
A muse from heaven should touch the soul with flame;
Some powerful spirit in superior lays
Should tell the conflicts of the stormy days."

The poet's advertisement is as follows:

"The Poems, included in these two volumes, were originally written
between the years 1768 and 1793; and were partly published in the
transient prints of the times, and afterwards collected into two
editions of 1786 and 1795. The present is a revision of the whole,
and now published agreeable to the terms of the subscription issued
in this city, in April last. Such, perhaps, as are not attracted by
mere novelty or amusement, will attend more particularly to the
Poems originating from the temporary events of the American war.
These Poems were intended, in part to expose to vice and treason,
their own hideous deformity; to depict virtue, honour and
patriotism in their native beauty. Such (says a most distinguished
foreign author) was the intention of poetry from the beginning, and
here her purpose should end. Whether the following verses have any
real claim to the attention of the citizens of the American United
States, who may honour them with a reading, is left for the Public
to decide.

"To his Countrymen, the real _Patriotic Americans_, the
_Revolutionary Republicans_, and the rising generation who are
attached to their sentiments and principles, the writer hopes this
collection will not prove unacceptable. A more complete edition
might have been published, so as to include a great number of
miscellaneous Poems and animadversions on public events down to the
present year, 1809; but it has been judged most proper, to restrict
what is now printed to the date of 1793; with the exception of only
a very few pieces of later composition which have been retained,
and inserted in the body of the work, but not so as to materially
interrupt the general tenor of the Poems that arose from the
incidents of the American revolutionary contest.

"The Author will only add, that to this Edition are prefixed two
copper-plate engravings: the one representing ST. TAMMANY,
observing a hostile fleet approaching his shores; the other a
nocturnal view of Captain Jones's engagement with the
Seraphis.--These, it is hoped will be considered not inelegant
embellishments of the edition now presented to the public.

"_Philadelphia, August 2d, 1809._"

The work is divided into four parts:

"Book I. Containing translations from the ancients; and other
pieces on various subjects, written in America.

"Book II. Containing original pieces, with some relative to the
more early events of the American Revolutionary War.

"Book III. Containing original poems, written and published at
different periods, during the Revolutionary War.

"Book IV. Consisting of Miscellaneous pieces, on the events of the
times, interspersed with others on moral, satirical, and political
subjects."

The author made almost no attempt to arrange the material chronologically as to the dates of composition. He resurrected none of the material dropped from the 1795 collection, but cut from the edition some fifty-five other poems, among them nearly all of the material relating to the French Revolution, the greater number of the New Year Odes, and such fine pieces as "Neversink," "The Country Printer," "Slender's Journey," and "The Wintry Prospect."

The text was taken largely from the 1795 version, and a few minor amendments and changes made, but in no case were they so frequent or so careful as those made for the second edition. The poet's editorial work consisted mainly in elaborated titles with Latin quotations, in foot-notes, and in division of the material into books.

The next few years of Freneau's life were spent quietly at Mount Pleasant. He passed his time, as his daughter describes, "in writing poetry, and in answering and receiving letters." Her picture of the man at this period is full of interest. "Although no farmer, he loved to see the work going on. He was very fond of feeding poultry and all the dumb animals, and when the season came for slaughtering the porkers, he generally managed it so as to have some business in New York, and he was usually absent when poultry was wanted for dinner. Mrs. Freneau had to give orders to the blacks to do it privately. He confessed it a weakness and tried to conceal it."

His interest in politics was still keen. He watched carefully all the premonitory signs of the approaching storm of 1812, and when war was found to be inevitable, his harp was in full tune to satirize the foe, which he had never ceased to hate, and to celebrate the heroes and the victories of his country.

On January 12, 1815, we find him again in correspondence with his old friend Madison:[25]

"SIR,--Since my last return from the Canary Islands in 1807 to
Charleston and from thence to New York; with my Brigantine
Washington, quitting the bustle and distraction of active life, my
walks have been confined, with now and then a short excursion, to
the neighbourhood of the Never Sink hills, and under some old
hereditary trees, and on some fields, which I well recollect for
sixty years. During the last Seven Years my pen could not be
entirely idle, and for amusement only now and then I had recourse
to my old habit of scribbling verses. A Bookseller in New York, Mr.
Longworth, by some means discovered this, and has prevailed on me
to put my papers into his hands for publication. With some
reluctance I consented to gratify his wish, altho' I think after
the age of fifty, or thereabouts, the vanity of authorship ought to
cease, at least it has been the case with myself. Mr. Longworth
informs me the work will be published early in February in two
duodecimo volumes. I have directed him, when done, to forward a
copy to yourself, of which I beg your acceptance. I do not know
that the Verses are of any superior or very unusual merit; but he
tells me the Town will have them: and of course, have them they
will, and must, it seems. The Work cannot be very tedious, for in
two small Volumes there will be upwards of one hundred and thirty
Poems on different subjects, moral, political, or merely amusing,
and not a few upon the events of the times since May 1812. However,
you know a short production may sometimes be tedious, and a long
one very lively and captivating. None of my effusions in these
Volumes much exceed two hundred lines, and several do not reach
more than the fourth part of that number of lines.

"When I left Philadelphia, about the middle of September 1809, the
ten copies of the Revolutionary Poems, which you subscribed for,
were put into a box well secured, and forwarded according to your
direction, under the care of General Steele, then Collector of the
Port of Philadelphia: I have not since heard whether they reached
you or not.

"That Edition was published by _Subscription_ merely for the
benefit of, and to assist Mrs. Bailey, an unfortunate but deserving
widowed female, niece to General Steele, and this consideration
alone induced me to pay some attention to that third Edition.

"But, in mentioning these matters I fear I am intruding both on
your time and patience, constantly, or always perpetually engaged,
as you undoubtedly are, in the duties of your station at a stormy
period, a tempestuous Presidency indeed: May you weather all the
conflicts of these mighty times, and return safe at the proper
period to your Virginian Groves, fields and streams: sure I am,
different very different indeed from your long intercourse with
political Life and the affairs of a 'grumbling Hive.' My best
wishes attend Yourself, and Mrs. Madison, to whom, tho' I never had
the pleasure of her acquaintance, I beg you to present my best
compliments and regards."

On March 3d following, he writes again to Madison:[26]

"SIR,--When I mentioned in my few lines to you, dated from my
residence in New Jersey on the 22d of January last, the two Volumes
of Poems publishing in this city by Mr. Longworth, I did really
think to have had a small box of them at Washington by the middle
of February at farthest, with a particular direction of a couple of
copies to Yourself bound in an elegant manner. Finding, however,
that the business went on slowly here, and a little vexed to be
under the necessity of leaving my Solitude and the wild Scenes of
nature in New Jersey for the ever execrated streets and company of
this Capital, I embarked near Sandy Hook in a snow storm, about the
last of January, and shortly after arrived here, fortunately
unnoticed and almost unknown--At my time of life, 63!!! abounding
however in all the powers of health and vigour, though I consider
my poetry and poems as mere trifles, I was seriously out of humour
on my arrival here to see my work delayed, as well from the
severity of the cold, which has been unremitting for more than a
month past, and perhaps to some other causes it would not be
prudent _here_ to explain. By my incessant exertions in spurring on
the indolence of typography, the work, such as it is, is now
finished, in two small Volumes of about 180 pages each.--The moment
they are out of the bookbinder's hands, Mr. Longworth will forward
you a Copy, and by the first Vessel to Alexandria, Georgetown, or
Washington a Box of them to his correspondents in these places. A
Copy or two of the Revolutionary poems will be forwarded to your
direction--I am sorry the Copies you had were doomed to the flames,
but the author had nearly suffered the same fate in the year
1780.--Yesterday I received from New Jersey a Copy of your friendly
Letter of the 1st February: a Copy, I say, for my wife, or some one
of my four Girls, daughters, would not forward me the original, but
keep it until my return for fear of accidents.

"To-morrow morning I embark again for Monmouth, and among other
cares, when I arrive at my magical grove, I shall hasten to exert
all the poetical energy I possess, on the grand Subject of the
Repulse of the British Army from New Orleans. There is a subject
indeed! far above my power, I fear. If there be anything in
inspiration, it will be needful on such a theme. Eight hundred
lines in Heroic Measure I mean to devote to this animating
subject.--In due time you shall hear more from me on this business,
if I am not anticipated by some one more muse beloved than
myself.--Hoping that all health and happiness may attend you, and
that your libraries in future may escape the ravages and flames of
Goths and Barbarians--I remain, etc."

Madison's reply has been lost. On May 10, 1815, Freneau wrote his last letter, as far as we know, to Madison:[27]

"SIR,--Mrs. Anna Smyth, the Lady of Charles Smyth Esquire, a
respectable Citizen of this place, being to set out in a few days
on a tour to Virginia, and expecting to be in your neighbourhood,
either at Washington, or at Montpelier, does me the favour to take
under her particular care, to put, or transmit into your hands, the
two little Volumes I mentioned to you in my letter last Winter, and
to which I received your friendly and obliging Answer.

"Be pleased to accept them as a mark of my attention, respect, and
esteem, in regard to your private as well as public character.

"I have written to Mr. Carey, in Philadelphia, Book-seller there,
to forward on to you, if he has them, the two Volumes of the
Revolutionary Poems, published in Philadelphia in the Summer of
1809, and which you wished to regain, since the loss of your Copies
in the conflagration at Washington last year. I flatter myself, the
arrangement I have made with him will replace them in your
hands.--I will only add, that any attention paid by you to Mrs.
Smyth, I will consider as conferred on myself."

The 1815 edition contains no poems previously published in the poet's earlier collections. The work shows no falling off in vigor from the earlier martial standard set by the poet in his more vigorous years. Some critics have declared that the poet's best work is in this collection. Certain it is that a few of the lyrics of battle have a spirit and swing that make them notable productions.

Freneau placed upon the title-page the ringing challenge:

"Then England come!--a sense of wrong requires
To meet with thirteen stars your thousand fires:
Through these stern times the conflict to maintain,
Or drown them, with your commerce, in the main."

He introduced the work as follows:

"The poetical pieces contained in these volumes were composed at
different periods, and on a variety of occasions, between the years
1797 and 1815, and are now presented to the public, printed from
the author's original and corrected manuscripts, and, it is hoped,
in such a style of typography, as will not be unacceptable to the
reader.--Several of the performances, comprised in this collection,
and chiefly those on political subjects, and other events of the
times, have heretofore appeared in several periodical publications
of _this_ and other STATES of the union. It is presumed, however,
that the poems of this description will not be the less acceptable
to the friends of the muses, now they are collected in these
volumes; with the advantage of having at one view what were before
scattered in those bulky vehicles of information, whose principal
object can be little more than to record the common events and
business of the day, and soon descend into comparative
oblivion.--Whatever may be the fate of the work, they are
respectfully offered to the world, in hopes it may obtain a share
of their attention, and particularly, from the friends of poetical
composition; and in a country where it may be expected, the fine
arts in general will, with the return of peace, find that share of
encouragement, which they seem entitled to demand, in every nation
that makes any pretensions to refinement and civilization.--It is
only necessary to add, that care has been taken to execute the
typographical part as _correctly_ as possible."

The poems were reviewed for the _Analectic Magazine_ by Mr. Gulian C. Verplanck, who said in part:

"He depicts land battles and naval fights with much animation and
gay coloring; and being himself a son of old Neptune, he is never
at a loss ... when the scene lies at sea. His martial and political
ballads are free from bombast and affectation, and often have an
arch simplicity in their manner that renders them very poignant and
striking. If the ballads and songs of Dibdin have cheered the
spirits and incited the valor of the British tars, the strains of
Freneau, in like manner, are calculated to impart patriotic
impulses to the hearts of his countrymen, and their effect in this
way should be taken as the test of their merit, without entering
into a very nice examination of the rhyme or the reason. For our
own part, we have no inclination to dwell on his defects; we had
much rather--

"'With full applause, in honor to his age,
Dismiss the veteran poet from the stage,
Crown his last exit with distinguished praise,
And kindly hide his baldness with the bays.'"

The last lines used by Verplanck are from "American Bards," a poem published in Philadelphia in 1820. The reference to Freneau is not without interest:

"Let Freneau live, though Flattery's baleful tongue,
Too early tuned his youthful lyre to song,
And ripe old age, in ill directed zeal,
Has made an enervated last appeal;
His song could fire the sailor on the wave,
Raise up the coward,--animate the brave,
While wit and satire cast their darts around,
And fools and cowards tremble at the sound.
Although ambition never soared to claim
The meed of polished verse, or classic fame,
And caustic critics honor but condemn,
A strain of feeling, but a style too tame.
Let the old bard whose patient voice has fanned
The fire of freedom that redeemed our land,
Live on the scroll with kindred names that swell
The page of history, where their honors dwell;
With full applause, in honor to his age,
Dismiss the veteran poet from the stage,
Crown his last exit with distinguished praise,
And kindly hide his baldness with the bays."

The last years of Freneau's life were eventless, passed quietly at Mount Pleasant, and varied only with frequent visits to New York. Shortly after the issue of the 1815 edition of his poems, the ancestral home was completely destroyed by fire, together with most of the poet's papers, manuscript poems, valuable letters and books--the collection of a lifetime. During his last years he contemplated a complete and final edition of his poetical works. He wrote Dr. Mease of Philadelphia whether there was "enough of the old spirit of patriotism abroad to insure the safety of such an adventure;" and it was the testimony of Alexander Anderson, the once celebrated engraver on wood, that Freneau once consulted with him as to the cost of an illustrated volume of his poems, and departed sadly remarking that his purse was not equal to the venture.

The best picture of the poet in his old age is from the pen of the genial Dr. John W. Francis of New York, who knew him well during his last years:[28]

"I had, when very young, read the poetry of Freneau, and as we
instinctively become attached to the writers who first captivate
our imaginations, it was with much zest that I formed a personal
acquaintance with the revolutionary bard. He was at that time about
seventy-six years old, when he first introduced himself to me in my
library. I gave him an earnest welcome. He was somewhat below the
ordinary height; in person thin yet muscular, with a firm step,
though a little inclined to stoop; his countenance wore traces of
care, yet lightened with intelligence as he spoke; he was mild in
enunciation, neither rapid nor slow, but clear, distinct, and
emphatic. His forehead was rather beyond the medium elevation, his
eyes a dark grey, occupying a socket deeper than common; his hair
must have once been beautiful, it was now thinned and of an iron
grey. He was free of all ambitious displays; his habitual
expression was pensive. His dress might have passed for that of a
farmer. New York, the city of his birth, was his most interesting
theme; his collegiate career with Madison, next. His story of many
of his occasional poems was quite romantic. As he had at command
types and a printing press, when an incident of moment in the
Revolution occurred, he would retire for composition, or find
shelter under the shade of some tree, indite his lyrics, repair to
the press, set up his types, and issue his productions. There was
no difficulty in versification with him. I told him what I had
heard Jeffrey, the Scotch Reviewer, say of his writings, that the
time would arrive when his poetry, like that of Hudibras, would
command a commentator like Gray. On some of the occasions when
Freneau honored me with a visit, we had within our circle one of my
earliest friends, that rare Knickerbocker, Gulian C. Verplanck. I
need not add that the charm of my interview with the bard was
heightened by the rich funds of antiquarian lore possessed by the
latter.

"It is remarkable how tenaciously Freneau preserved the
acquisitions of his early classical studies, notwithstanding he had
for many years, in the after portion of his life, been occupied in
pursuits so entirely alien to books. There is no portrait of the
patriot Freneau; he always firmly declined the painter's art, and
would brook no 'counterfeit presentiment.'"

Freneau's frequent visits to New York were the chief solace of his last years. Says Dr. Francis:

"Freneau was widely known to a large circle of our most prominent
and patriotic New Yorkers. His native city, with all his
wanderings, was ever uppermost in his mind and in his affections.
While in the employment of Jefferson, as a translator in the
department of state, upon the organization of Congress, with
Washington at its head, he had the gratification of witnessing the
progress of improvement, and might have enjoyed increased
facilities had he not enlisted with an indiscreet zeal as an
advocate of the radical doctrines of the day. Freneau was,
nevertheless, esteemed a true patriot; and his private worth, his
courteous manner, and his general bearing won admiration with all
parties. His pen was more acrimonious than his heart. He was
tolerant, frank in expression, and not deficient in geniality. He
was highly cultivated in classical knowledge, abounding in
anecdotes of the revolutionary crisis, and extensively acquainted
with prominent characters.

"It were easy to record a long list of eminent citizens who ever
gave him a cordial welcome. He was received with the warmest
greetings by the old soldier, Governor George Clinton. He, also, in
the intimacy of kindred feeling, found an agreeable pastime with
the learned Provoost, the first regularly consecrated Bishop of the
American Protestant Episcopate, who himself had shouldered a musket
in the Revolution, and hence was sometimes called the fighting
bishop. They were allied by classical tastes, a love of natural
science, and ardor in the cause of liberty. With Gates he compared
the achievements of Monmouth with those at Saratoga. With Col. Fish
he reviewed the capture of Yorktown; with Dr. Mitchell he
rehearsed, from his own sad experience, the physical sufferings and
various diseases of the incarcerated patriots of the Jersey
prison-ship; and descanted on Italian poetry and the piscatory
eclogues of Sannazarius. He, doubtless, furnished Dr. Benjamin
Dewitt with data for his funeral discourse on the remains of the
11,500 American martyrs. With Pintard he could laud Horace and talk
largely of Paul Jones. With Major Fairlie he discussed the tactics
and chivalry of Baron Steuben. With Sylvanus Miller he compared
notes on the political clubs of 1795-1810. With Dewitt Clinton and
Cadwallader D. Colden he debated the projects of internal
improvement and artificial navigation, based on the famous
precedent of the Languedoc canal."

The death of Freneau was a sad one. On the evening of the 18th of December, 1832, he had gone on an errand to Freehold, some two miles distant. When he set out to return, late in the evening, a fierce and blinding storm was in progress. His friends sought to dissuade him, but he insisted on returning. Instead of taking the long way round by the road, he took the usual short way through the fields, and was soon lost in the roaring "blizzard." He circled into a swamp, and doubtless, after hours of wandering, sank down benumbed and hopeless, to be found by his friends a few hours later, still breathing but nearly lifeless. For the whispered tradition that he was intoxicated when he left the town, there is no foundation.

The next issue of the _Monmouth Press_ contained a notice of his death:

"Mr. Freneau was in the village and started, towards evening, to go
home, about two miles. In attempting to go across he appears to
have got lost and mired in a bog where his lifeless corpse was
discovered yesterday morning. Captain Freneau was a stanch Whig in
the time of the Revolution, a good soldier, and a warm patriot. The
productions of his pen animated his countrymen in the darkest days
of '76 and the effusions of his muse cheered the desponding soldier
as he fought the battles of freedom."

His old friend, John Pintard, wrote a biographical notice of the poet in the _New York Mirror_ for January 12, 1833, in which he dwelt largely upon his mental endowments and accomplishments:

"He was a man of great reading and extensive acquirements; few
were more thoroughly versed in classical literature, and fewer
still who knew as much about the early history of our country, the
organization of the government, and the use and progress of
parties."

The house which Freneau occupied during his last years is still standing. His remains rest in the little cemetery at Mount Pleasant, which recently, in honor of the poet, has been rechristened Freneau.

VII.

The personality of Philip Freneau, if we judge from contemporary testimony and the effect which his personal presence invariably exerted, was a singularly winning one. The bluff, hearty old sailor breathed out good-will and honesty with every breath. He was the soul of honor, and, despite his caustic pen, the kindest hearted creature in the world. All that one of his grand-daughters can remember of him is that once he took her upon his knee and chided her for having killed a fly. "Surely," he said, "it was not made without some wise end, and its little life was as dear to him as is yours to you." It reminds one of "My Uncle Toby." There is a cheery optimism in many of his poems. A stanza like this might have been written by Browning:

"All nature must decay, 'tis true,
But nature shall her face renew,
Her travels in a circle make,
Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake,
Die but to live and live to die."

His temperament was Celtic. He inherited with his French blood a passionate love for beauty, a sensuous, dreamy delight in the merely poetic, in the weird and romantic. He had not the Teutonic stability; he was easily exalted, easily depressed; he went often to extremes; he was sensitive to a degree that made criticism a torture, and he was proud beyond all reason. He had been deeply touched by the principles of the Revolution; he had suffered personally at the hands of the enemy; he had followed Paine in his democratic doctrines even to the extremes, and he tried to live consistently with these exalted ideals. His honesty and his ignorance of the world prevented him from seeing how greatly these principles must be modified to become of really practical value.

His kindly heart made him a fierce foe to all kinds of tyranny and oppression. He saw sights in the West Indies that made him a bitter opponent of human slavery. Again and again in his poems and prose sketches does he condemn the evil. His message is almost as intense as Whittier's:

"O come the time and haste the day
When man shall man no longer crush,
When reason shall enforce her sway,
Nor these fair regions raise the blush
Where still the African complains
And mourns his yet unbroken chains."

Not only slavery, but every other form of oppression and wrong received his condemnation. He wrote boldly against intemperance in a day when the use of intoxicating liquors was well-nigh universal and wholly uncriticised; he spoke eloquently on cruelty to animals; and he was one of the earliest to demand equal rights for man and woman.

Freneau's religious inclinations have been sometimes harshly criticised by those of puritanic creed. The school of Dr. Dwight could speak of him only in contempt, yet it is true that the poet was a deeply religious man. His love of freedom and his perfect sincerity affected his creed. He had an intense dislike for hollow formalism. In his "Jamaica Funeral" he has pictured a hypocritical priest in colors as vivid almost as Chaucer's. He detested

"The holy man by Bishops holy made."

He loved sincerity, and the creed that came not from dry formalism, but from reason and from an honest heart.

It has often been overlooked by his critics that Freneau was a widely read and thoroughly cultured man; that he was a linguist of more than ordinary powers; and that he knew intimately the chief writings in Latin, Italian, French, and English. He was no ignorant, careless scribbler, tossing into the ephemeral columns of the press hasty rhymes of which he never thought again. He revised and corrected with patient care, and he took a deep interest in the children of his pen, rescuing at one time or another almost every one of them from the oblivion of the newspaper.

VIII.

As to the absolute literary value of Freneau's literary remains, there is room for honest difference of opinion. He is certainly not, if we judge him from what he actually produced, a great poet. But he must in fairness be viewed against the background of his age and his environment. Nature had equipped him as she has equipped few other men. He had the poet's creative imagination; he had an exquisite sense of the beautiful; and he had a realization of his own poetic endowments that kept him during a long life constantly true to the muse. Scarcely a month went by in all his life, from his early boyhood, that was not marked by poetic composition. Few poets, even in later and more auspicious days, have devoted their lives more assiduously to song.

Freneau was the first to catch what may be called the new poetic impulse in America--the new epic note. Previous to the Revolutionary era, America was destitute even of the germs of an original literature. Before she could produce anything really strong and individual, there was necessary some great primal impulse that should stir mightily the whole people; that should strike from their hands the old books and the old models; that should arouse them to a true realization of themselves; and that should clear the atmosphere for a new and broader view of human life. Such new forces are always needed by society, but they stalk with long strides over the centuries.

In pre-Revolutionary America such an upheaval was near at hand. It came with appalling suddenness. The colonists had had no gradual preparation for the idea of separation from England. As late as 1775, Franklin declared before the House of Commons that in all of his journeyings up and down the colonies he had not heard expressed one single wish for complete independence. Even after Concord and Bunker Hill, Freneau, the radical, could write:

"Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign."

The idea of independence came all in a moment; but once it had come, it went with leaps and bounds to its extreme. Never in all history has a whole people been lifted by such rapid stages into a region of such vast outlook. We can trace the growth of the new spirit, not decade by decade, but month by month: Justice, Freedom, Independence, and then the radiant vision of perfect Liberty and the Rights of Man, and then like a torrent the sense of boundless possibilities and glorious destiny:

"No pent-up Utica contracts our powers,
But the whole boundless continent is ours."

The soul of man stirred by such ideals, and successful in realizing them beyond all dreams, struggled for utterance. It is such upheavals in human society that make poets and bring outbursts of song and periods in the history of literature. But there was no burst of song in America; instead there followed one of the most pathetic spectacles in all literary history--a people with a vision that transported them into the clouds, yet powerless through environment and early education to transmute that vision into song. The South, thrilled by the new spirit, turned it at once into action, and took the leadership in war and statesmanship. New England lifted up her voice, but she could speak only through the medium of old spiritual conceptions and worn-out poetic forms. A young Connecticut parson, thrilled through and through, pours his enthusiasm into an epic of the wars of Joshua done in the heroics of Pope; a brilliant Boston lad would sing of "War and Washington," but he must set it to the tune of Dryden; and a gifted Connecticut satirist, overflowing with the true poetic spirit, is content simply to add new American stanzas to "Hudibras." With all her rhymers and all her inspiration, New England gave forth not a single original note. It was the repeating of the old spectacle of a heavenly anthem sung unto shepherds,--unto those utterly unable to give it utterance.

We see them, however, struggling heroically with the burden. From 1774, when Dwight completed his "Conquest of Canaan," "the first piece of this kind ever attempted in this country," as he observed in his preface, until 1808, which ends the period with Barlow's "Columbiad"--the "Polyolbion" of American poetry--the years are strewn thick with the wrecks of epics. Every poet of the era felt his soul burn with the epic fire. Charles Brockden Brown, when only sixteen, had started no less than three of these Homeric efforts: one on the discovery of America, and one each on the conquests of Mexico and Peru. It was our heroic era, but it yielded almost nothing of value. Mere exaltation availeth little unless it be grounded either upon genius or long-continued culture.

America, however, was not without her genius. Before Dwight and Barlow and Trumbull had written a line, Freneau at Princeton was planning epics American in scene and spirit. He had dreamed, over his Virgil, of a greater Aeneas who had sailed into the pathless West to discover a new world, and to plant there the seeds of a greater than Rome; he had translated with beating heart the words of Seneca:

"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,
When ocean shall unloose the bands of things,
And an extended region rise at last;

"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land
Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;
Nor shall the world's remotest region be
Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore."

"Fired at the theme," he had mapped out the epic of a new world; but his work of this era, like all schoolboy epics, had resulted only in fragments which were to strew his earlier volumes. How strong and original was this youthful dream one can judge from the ringing lines of "Columbus to Ferdinand," "Discovery," and the "Pictures of Columbus," which are mere epic fragments. There is an originality and a fire in them utterly new in American poetry. There is poetry of a high order in such a climax as that recording the soliloquy of the dying Columbus, beginning:

"The winds blow high; one other world remains,
Once more without a guide I find the way."

But Commencement was at hand. Here was a chance, indeed; here was a theme commensurate with the occasion. The two young dreamers would outline an epic poem; they would essay "Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme":

"Now shall the adventurous Muse attempt a theme
More new, more noble, and more flush of fame
Than all that went before."

Never was graduating exercise based on broader foundations. The young graduates bewail at every step their limitations of space. The plan they suggest is the plan of a "Columbiad." They would begin with all the tale of Columbus; they would rehearse the story of Cortez and Pizarro; they would discuss at learned length the origin and the characteristics of the Indians; they would tell the story of the early colonies; and would trace the course of settlement and review the progress and the promise of agriculture and commerce; they would peer into the future and mark the time

"When we shall spread
Dominion from the North and South and West,
Far from the Atlantic to Pacific shores,
And shackle half the convex of the main."

But, alas, the time! An epic cannot be condensed into a graduation exercise. Suddenly the poet bursts into true prophetic rapture: