Chapter XII: Prologue: 120 (3)

Since ink, thank heaven! is all the blood you spill,
Health to the driver of the grey goose quill:
Such war shall leave no widow in despair,
Nor curse one orphan with the public care.
'Tis the worst wound the heart of man can feel,
When touched, or worried, by an ass's heel--
With generous satire give your foes their due,
Nay, give them more, and prove them scoundrels too:
Make them as black as hell's remotest gloom,
But still to genius let them owe their doom:--
By Jove's red lightnings 'tis no shame to bleed,
But by a grovelling swine--is death indeed!--
Now, by the laurels of your royal crew,
I knew no shame, till I engaged with you:--
But such an odour atmosphered your song,
I held my nose, and quickly passed along,
Grieved for the wretch who could such filth display,
His maw disgorging in the public way.
Armed though we are, unusual tumults rise;--
But all resentment in my bosom dies.
We deem, that in the skirmish of a day,
This bard must perish, and his verse decay:
This day he goes to black oblivion's clime;
Turned, chased, and routed by the "power of rhyme."
We wished him still unhandled and unhurt--
We wished no evils to this man of dirt;
We thought to leave him sweltering in his den,
Not with such rotten trash to tinge the pen:
But his mean labours wrought his present woe,
And his own scribblings, now, have laid him low!
Before his eyes the sexton's spade appears,
And muffled bells disorganize his ears:
Already is his mean existence fled,
Sense, wit, and reason--all proclaim him dead:
In his own lines he tolled his funeral bell,
And when he could not sing--he stunk--farewell!

[195] In the _Journal_ of September 11, 1782, in answer to the effusion of the "Foe to Tyrants" in the _Gazetteer_ of September 7, entitled, "To the Foe to Malice. The Farewell." This farewell began as follows:

"When men will prostitute the power of rhime,
Their dirt and malice jingling out of time;
When men the sacred shrine of truth forsake,
And deal in slander, just for slander's sake,
'Tis time to quit plain reason, common sense,
And in their stile Correction to dispense.

"Our Theme first pointed to your _pale-fac'd_ friend
Whom you forsook--unable to defend;
To save his fame, you thought it best to fly
To vile abuse, and low scurrility;
Then feel the Weapons you yourself have us'd
And blame not those you've dirtily abus'd."

The rest of the poem is too vile to reproduce.

TO THE ROYALIST UNVEILED[196]

(And addressed to all whom it may concern)

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears,
And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers;
Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased,
Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest--
Ye, who embraced the democratic plan,
Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man--
To him apply--go--soothe him in distress,[197]
To him fall prostrate--and to him confess.
When first that slave of slaves began to write,
Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight:
Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed,
Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.
Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear;
The viper sickened in that wholesome air,--
Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise,
Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies;
To this new world a nuisance and a pest,
To curse the worthy, and abuse the best.
Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt,
With all the will, but not the power to hurt;
Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals--
Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels?
Who, on the surface of a rugged ground,
Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?--
No--like a Felon, hanged to after time,
Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme."
Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place,
Where never malice shewed its hateful face--
Remove us far from all the ruffian kind
(Baseness with insolence forever joined)
To some retreat of solitude and rest--
Nor shall another pang disturb the breast--
When thought returns--and one regrets to know,
He had to combat with a two-faced foe.

[196] This poem appeared September 25, 1782. The laureate of the _Independent Gazetteer_, after his farewell on September 7, was silent until October 15, when he produced the following:

"STANZAS addressed to _little_ FR--N--U, Poetaster to the _Skunk-scented_ association, and successful imitator of STERNHOLD and HOPKINS, of _poetical_ memory; in humble imitation of _his own_ doggerel.

"Fr--n--u, great man! 'tis thee I sing,
And to thy shrine just incense bring
The attribute of praise;
To thee, who scorn'd all common rules,
Supreme of dunces, chief of fools,
I dedicate my lays.

"Sternhold is dead! What though he be?
Another Sternhold now in thee
Beotia's sons explore;
Like this, thy mind is clear and bright,
Transparent as the darkest night,
When angry tempests roar.

"Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain,
To tell the wonders of thy brain
Where mists of dullness sit;
Cimmerian darkness round thy head,
It's sable mantle long hath spread,
To veil thy wooden wit.

"Thy satire, mystic type of lead,
Keen as a dart without a head,
And vigorous as age;
'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry
To have thy muse its enemy,
When cloathed in her rage.

"Thy bold, heroic numbers swell,
As lofty as the deepest well
Where noxious vapours rise;
Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note,
When spun through Mitchell's[a] brazen throat,
Or midnight Watchmen's cries.

[a] Cryer of Philadelphia.

"Thy eyes, the index of the soul,
With mad, poetic fury roll,
In eager search of fame;
Thy face, ye gods! ah! what a face!
Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace,
Add honor to thy name.

"When, late, sleep's Goddess, clos'd my eyes,
And dreams in sweet gradation rise,
Soul-soothing guests of night,
Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen[b]
Display'd her dull, somnific mien,
In majesty and might.

[b] The Queen of Dullness.

"Thick, opiate dews she did dispense,
Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense,
Hung pendant from her head;
Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd.
Great Fr--n--u's sacred form she held,
Impress'd on genuine lead.

"With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes
She view'd her blest Saturnine prize,
As conscious of his worth;
Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown,
And shook her poppy-teeming crown,
With unaffected mirth.

"'Go on (she cry'd), with fervent zeal,
Thou glory of that common-weal,
Where dullness bears the sway!
E'en L--e to thee shall yield the chair,
His rhimes shall vanish into air,
Before thy duller lay.

"'Corcoran,[c] long ago, hath fled,
And roving Jem,[d] 'tis said, is dead,
Those foes to common sense;
Now Fr--n--u thou, their son and heir.
More stupid than a stupid mare,
Steps forth in my defence.

[c] Dr. Corcoran, a poetaster, well known.

[d] Jemmy, the rover, a sonnetter of the Pennsylvania line.

"'Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest,
No wit shall perforate thy breast,
Nor humour shew her face;
Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm,
Specific as the hundredth psalm,
When W--ch--r sings base.

"'Each flow'r of Billingsgate I'll cull,
To render thee, my son, more dull,
If duller thou canst be,
Thy works with Sternhold's shall be bound,
While Hopkins, from the dark profound,
Shall yield the palm to thee.'

"She ceas'd, and all that own'd her cause,
In one loud transport of applause,
Burst like a sudden gale;
All hail, great man! was Bailey's cry,
Hail! Joe, and Skunk, and Tom, reply,
Dullness and Fr--n--u, hail!"

[197] "To him apply, dear Oswald, in distress."--_Independent Gazetteer._

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[198]

Long have I sate on this disastrous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's courts, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or--perhaps--they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
Perhaps I may defer my voyage as well,
Why should I far in search of patrons roam,
And Shylock leave to triumph here at home?
Should Shylock's poems[199] style you all that's base,
Abuse your stature, and malign[200] your face,
Make you the worst and vilest of your kind,
With not one spark of virtue[201] in your mind;
Would you to Shylock's[202] rancorous page reply,
So fam'd for scandal, and so prone to lie?
Still may those bag-pipes of sedition play,
(For fools may write[203] and knaves must have their day)
Still from that page let clamorous bards[204] defame,
And madness rave, and malice take her aim:
May scribes on scribes in verse and prose combine,
And fiend-like Sawney roar[205] through every line;
Long may they write, unquestion'd and unhurt,
And all their rage discharge, and all their dirt:
Night-owls must screech, by heaven's supreme decree,
And wolves must howl, or wolves they would not be.
From empty froth these scribbling insects rose;
What honest man but counts them for his foes?
When they are lash'd, may dunce with dunce condole,
And bellow nonsense from the tortured soul;
When they are dead and in some dungeon cramm'd,
(For die they will, and all their works be damn'd)
When they have belch'd their last departing groans,
May dogs and doctors barbecue[206] their bones,
And, the last horrors of their souls to calm,
Shylock, their bard,[207] console them with--a psalm!

[198] The first eight lines of this poem appeared first as the opening stanza of MacSwiggin, published in 1775; the rest of the poem was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Dec. 18, 1782, and republished in the 1786 edition under the title "To Whom it may Concern." The above version was made for the edition of 1795, but was not reprinted in 1809.

The _Gazetteer_ of the following week (Dec. 21) contained several parodies of Freneau's poem, one of which was as follows:

"MR. OSWALD:--Whereas a copy of verses of my composition appeared in
Bailey's paper, of whom I should have expected more circumspection, I
have sent you a genuine copy as they ought to have been printed, the
justice of which I hope everybody acquainted with the persons will
acknowledge.
THE AUTHOR.

"Should Oswald's painters all my features trace,
And shew me as I am in soul and face;
Among the vile and worthless of mankind,
Without a spark of virtue in my mind,
And write my name beneath, I would reply,
The portrait, though a true one, told a lie.
"Still shall my bagpipes of sedition play,
And I, like other dogs, shall have my day;
My hoarse-mouth'd cry shall war with sense proclaim,
And madly howl at ev'ry virtuous name;
Our hungry scribes in verse and prose shall join,
Though Chaos glooms through ev'ry stupid line;
In spite of sense we'll write, by shame unhurt,
And all our rage discharge, and all our dirt,
Night-owls will screech, since Heav'n has left them free,
And wolves will howl, or wolves they would not be.
"Although from dirt, we like musquetoes rose,
And quiet people count us still their foes;
When we are crush'd, or chas'd from hole to hole,
We'll strive to tease and torture ev'ry soul.
When we are dead and in some ditch are cram'd
(For die we must, and with our works be damn'd),
When we shall howl our last departing groans,
And brother dogs regale upon our bones;
The horrors of our souls awhile to calm,
Let me compose, and Duffield sing a psalm."

[199] "Oswald's scribblers."--_Freeman's Journal._

[200] "Blaspheme."--_Ed. 1786._

[201] "Reason."--_Ib._

[202] "Who would to Oswald's."--_Freeman's Journal._

[203] "Must prate and dogs."--_Ed. 1786._

[204] "Hoarse-mouth'd whelps."--_Ib._

[205] "And one dark chaos gloom."--_Ib._

[206] "Canonize."--_Freeman's Journal._

[207] "Fallon, the priest."--_Ed. 1786._

THE PROPHECY OF KING TAMMANY[208]

The Indian chief who, famed of yore,
Saw Europe's sons adventuring here,
Looked, sorrowing, to the crowded shore,
And sighing dropt a tear!
He saw them half his world explore,
He saw them draw the shining blade,
He saw their hostile ranks displayed,
And cannons blazing through that shade
Where only peace was known before.

"Ah, what unequal arms!" he cried,
"How art thou fallen, my country's pride,
"The rural, sylvan reign!
"Far from our pleasing shores to go
"To western rivers, winding slow,
"Is this the boon the gods bestow!
"What have we done, great patrons, say,
"That strangers seize our woods away,
"And drive us naked from our native plain?

"Rage and revenge inspire my soul,
"And passion burns without controul;
"Hence, strangers, to your native shore!
"Far from our Indian shades retire,
"Remove these gods that vomit fire,
"And stain with blood these ravaged glades no more;
"In vain I weep, in vain I sigh,
"These strangers all our arms defy,
"As they advance our chieftains die!--
"What can their hosts oppose!
"The bow has lost its wonted spring,
"The arrow faulters on the wing,
"Nor carries ruin from the string
"To end their being and our woes.

"Yes, yes,--I see our nation bends;
"The gods no longer are our friends;--
"But why these weak complaints and sighs?
"Are there not gardens in the west,
"Where all our far-famed Sachems rest?--
"I'll go, an unexpected guest,
"And the dark horrors of the way despise.

"Even now the thundering peals draw nigh,
"'Tis theirs to triumph, ours to die!
"But mark me, Christian, ere I go--
"Thou, too, shalt have thy share of woe;
"The time rolls on, not moving slow,
"When hostile squadrons for your blood shall come,
"And ravage all your shore!
"Your warriors and your children slay,
"And some in dismal dungeons lay,
"Or lead them captive far away
"To climes unknown, through seas untried before.

"When struggling long, at last with pain
"You break a cruel tyrant's chain,
"That never shall be joined again,
"When half your foes are homeward fled,
"And hosts on hosts in triumph led,
"And hundreds maimed and thousands dead,
"A sordid race will then succeed,
"To slight the virtues of the firmer race,
"That brought your tyrant to disgrace,
"Shall give your honours to an odious train,
"Who shunned all conflicts on the main
"And dared no battles on the bloody plain,
"Whose little souls sunk in the gloomy day
"When virtue only could support the fray
"And sunshine friends kept off--or ran away."

So spoke the chief, and raised his funeral pyre--
Around him soon the crackling flames ascend;
He smiled amid the fervours of the fire
To think his troubles were so near their end,
'Till the freed soul, her debt to nature paid,
Rose from the ashes that her prison made,
And sought the world unknown, and dark oblivion's shade.

[208] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, December 11, 1782.

Tammany was an Indian chieftain of the Lenni Lennape Confederacy of New York and Pennsylvania during the early colonial era. There is a tradition that he was the first Indian to welcome William Penn to America. Some traditions locate his lodge near the present site of Princeton College and others make him end his long life near a spring in Bucks county, Pa. He figures in Cooper's novel, "The Last of the Mohicans."

RIVINGTON'S REFLECTIONS[209]

I.

The more I reflect, the more plain it appears,
If I stay, I must stay at the risque of my ears,
I have so be-peppered the foes of our throne,
Be-rebelled, be-deviled, and told them their own,
That if we give up to these rebels at last,[210]
'Tis a chance if my ears will atone for the past.
'Tis always the best to provide for the worst--
So evacuation I'll mention the first:
If Carleton should sail for our dear native shore
(As Clinton, Cornwallis, and Howe did before)
And take off the soldiers that serve for our guard,
(A step that the Tories would think rather hard)
Yet still I surmise, for aught I can see,
No Congress or Senates would meddle with me.
For what have I done, when we come to consider,
But sold my commodities to the best bidder?
If I offered to lie for the sake of a post,
Was I to be blamed if the king offered most?
The King's Royal Printer!--Five hundred a year!
Between you and me, 'twas a handsome affair:
Who would not for that give matters a stretch,
And lie back and forward, and carry and fetch,
May have some pretensions to honour and fame--
But what are they both but the sound of a name,
Mere words to deceive us, as I have found long since,
Live on them a week, and you'll find them but nonsense.
The late news from Charleston my mind has perplext,
If that is abandoned,--I know what goes next:
This city of York is a place of great note,
And that we should hold it I now give my vote;
But what are our votes against Shelburne's[211] decrees?
These people at helm steer us just where they please,
So often they've had us all hands on the brink,
They'll steer us at last to the devil, I think:
And though in the danger themselves have a share,
It will do us small good that they also go there.
It is true that the Tories, their children, and wives
Have offered to stay at the risque of their lives,
And gain to themselves an immortal renown
By all turning soldiers, and keeping the town:
Whoe'er was the Tory that struck out the plan,
In my humble conceit, was a very good man;
But our words on this subject need be very few--
Already I see that it never will do:
For, suppose a few ships should be left us by Britain,
With Tories to man them, and other things fitting,
In truth we should be in a very fine box,
As well they might guard us with ships on the stocks,
And when I beheld them aboard and afloat,
I am sure I should think of the bear in the boat.[A]
On the faith of a printer, things look very black--
And what shall we do, alas! and alack!
Shall we quit our young princes and full blooded peers,
And bow down to viscounts and French chevaliers?
Perhaps you may say, "As the very last shift
"We'll go to New-Scotland, and take the king's gift."
Good folks, do your will--but I vow and I swear,
I'll be boil'd into soup before I'll live there:
Is it thus that our monarch his subjects degrades?--
Let him go and be damned, with his axes and spades,
Of all the vile countries that ever were known
In the frigid, or torrid, or temperate zone,
(From accounts that I've had) there is not such another;
It neither belongs to this world or the other:
A favor they think to send us there gratis
To sing like the Jews at the river Euphrates,
And, after surmounting the rage of the billows,
Hang ourselves up at last with our harps on the willows;
Ere I sail for that shore, may I take my last nap--
Why, it gives me the palsy to look on its map!
And he that goes there (though I mean to be civil)
May fairly be said to have gone to the devil.
Shall I push for Old England, and whine at the throne?
Indeed! they have Jemmies enough of their own!
Besides, such a name I have got from my trade,
They would think I was lying, whatever I said;
Thus scheme as I will, or contrive as I may,
Continual difficulties rise in the way:
In short, if they let me remain in this realm,
What is it to Jemmy who stands at the helm?
I'll petition the rebels (if York is forsaken)
For a place in their Zion which ne'er shall be shaken
I am sure they'll be clever: it seems their whole study:
They hung not young Asgill for old captain Huddy,[212]
And it must be a truth that admits no denying,
If they spare us for Murder they'll spare us for Lying.

[A] See Gay's Fables.--_Freneau's note, Ed. 1786._

II.

Folks may think as they please, but to me it would seem,
That our great men at home have done nothing but dream:
Such trimming and twisting and shifting about,
And some getting in, and others turned out;
And yet, with their bragging and looking so big,
All they did was to dance a theatrical jig.
Seven years now, and more, we have tried every plan,
And are just as near conquering as when we began,
Great things were expected from Clinton and Howe,
But what have they done, or where are they now?
Sir Guy was sent over to kick up a dust,
Who already prepares to return in disgust--
The object delusive we wish to attain
Has been in our reach, and may be so again--
But so oddly does heaven its bounties dispense,
And has granted our king such a small share of sense
That, let Fortune favour or smile as she will,
We are doomed to drive on, like a horse in a mill,
And though we may seem to advance on our rout,
'Tis but to return to where we sate out.
From hence I infer (by way of improvement)
That nothing is got by this circular movement;
And I plainly perceive, from this fatal delay,
We are going to ruin the round-about way!
Some nations, like ships, give up to the gale,
And are hurried ashore with a full flowing sail;
So Sweden submitted to absolute power,
And freemen were changed to be slaves in an hour;
Thus Theodore soon from his grandeur came down,
Forsaking his subjects and Corsican crown;
But we--'tis our fate, without ally or friend,
To go to perdition, close hauled to the wind.
The case is too plain, that if I stay here
I have something to hope and something to fear:
In regard to my carcase, I shouldn't mind that--
I can say "I have lived," and have grown very fat;
Have been in my day remarkable shifty,
And soon, very soon, will be verging on fifty.
'Tis time for the state of the dead to prepare,
'Tis time to consider how things will go there;
Some few are admitted to Jupiter's hall,
But the dungeons of Pluto are open to all--
The day is approaching as fast as it can
When Jemmy will be a mere moderate man,
Will sleep under ground both summer and winter,
The hulk of a man, and the shell of a printer,
And care not a farthing for George, or his line,
What empires start up, or what kingdoms decline.
Our parson last Sunday brought tears from my eyes,
When he told us of heaven, I thought of my lies--
To his flock he described it, and laid it before 'em,
(As if he had been in its _Sanctum Sanctorum_)
Recounted its beauties that never shall fade,
And quoted John Bunyan to prove what he said;
Debarred from the gate who the Truth should deny,
Or "whosoe'er loveth or maketh a lie."
Through the course of my life it has still been my lot
In spite of myself, to say "things that are not."
And therefore suspect that upon my decease
Not a poet will leave me to slumber in peace,
But at least once a week be-scribble the stone
Where Jemmy, poor Jemmy, lies sleeping alone!
Howe'er in the long run these matters may be,
If the scripture is true, it has bad news for me--
And yet, when I come to examine the text,
And the learned annotations that Poole has annexed,
Throughout the black list of the people that sin
I cannot once find that I'm mention'd therein;
Whoremongers, idolators, all are left out,
And wizards and dogs (which is proper, no doubt)
But he who says, I'm there, mistakes or forgets--
It mentions no Printers of Royal Gazettes!
In truth, I have need of a mansion of rest,
And here to remain might suit me the best--
Philadelphia in some things would answer as well,
(Some Tories are there, and my papers might sell)
But then I should live amongst wrangling and strife,
And be forced to say _credo_ the rest of my life:
For their sudden conversion I'm much at a loss--
I am told that they bow to the wood of the cross,
And worship the reliques transported from Rome,
St. Peter's toe-nails, and St. Anthony's comb.--
If thus the true faith they no longer defend
I scarcely can think where the madness will end--
If the greatest among them submit to the Pope,
What reason have I for indulgence to hope?
If the Congress themselves to the Chapel did pass,[B]
Ye may swear that poor Jemmy would have to sing mass.

[B] "On the 4th of November last, the clergy and select men of
Boston paraded through the streets after a crucifix, and
joined in a procession in praying for a departed soul out
of Purgatory; and for this they gave the example of
Congress, and other American leaders, on a former occasion
at Philadelphia, some of whom, in the height of their zeal,
even went so far as to sprinkle themselves with what they
call _Holy water_."--_Royal Gazette_, of December 11
inst.--_Freneau's note._

[209] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, December, 1782, in two installments and inserted without change in the edition of 1786. The first installment bore the motto "_Inclusus poenam expectat_.--Virg.," and the second the motto "_Incertus quo fata ferant, quo sistere detur_.--Virg." Almost no change was made in the text for the later editions. Rivington bore this attack with coolness; he calmly inserted the first installment of the poem in his _Royal Gazette_ for December 14, and gave to it the following introduction: "Mr. Rivington, having been applied to by many gentlemen for a pleasant publication respecting himself, exhibited in the Philadelphia _Freeman's Journal_, of December 4th, takes leave to copy it into this Day's Gazette, and assures the Author that a Column shall at any time be most cheerfully reserved to convey that Gentleman's lively Lucubrations to the Public."

[210] "Rivington, in his _Gazette_, fought the _Rebels_, a term of which he made very frequent use while he entertained the opinion that the Americans would be subjected by the British arms."--Thomas's _History of Printing_.

[211] Shelburne was at the head of the British ministry but seven months, yet in that time, by his firmness and zeal, he accomplished a final settlement of the quarrel with the colonies. "The treaty," says Bancroft, "which ruled the fate of a hemisphere was mainly due to Lord Shelburne."

[212] The _Freeman's Journal_ of April 24 and May 1, 1782, gives full details of the Huddy affair. I can do no better than to quote Freneau's own version of the episode contributed to the _Journal_ for June 12:

"Capt. Huddy, of the Jersey militia, was attacked in a small fort on Tom's river, by a party of refugees in the British pay and service, was made prisoner, together with his company, carried to New York, and lodged in the provost of that city; about three weeks after which, he was taken out of the provost down to the water side, put into a boat and brought again to the Jersey shore, and there, contrary to the practice of all nations but savages, was hung up on a tree [April 8, 1782] and left hanging until found by our people, who took him down and buried him.

"The inhabitants of that part of the country where the murder was committed, sent a deputation to general Washington, with a full and certified state of the fact. Struck as every human breast must be, with such outrage, and determined both to punish and prevent it for the future, the general represented the case to general Clinton, who then commanded, and demanded that the refugee officer who ordered and attended the execution, and whose name is Lippencut, should be delivered up as a murderer, and in case of refusal that the person of some British officer should suffer in his stead. The demand, though not refused, has not been complied with, and the melancholy lot (not by selection, but by casting lots) has fallen upon captain Asgil of the guards, who, as I have already mentioned, is on his way from Lancaster to camp, a martyr to the general wickedness of the cause he engaged in, and the ingratitude of those he has served."

Asgill was finally released.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES

Addressed to those Gentlemen who have been pleased to favour FRANCIS WRIGLEY, News Carrier, with their custom

January 1, 1783

According to custom, once more I appear
With the verse you expect at the dawn of the year:
For at length we have got into Eighty and Three;
And in spite of proud Britain, are happy and free.
If the times have been hard, and our commerce gone wrong,
We still have been able to struggle along.
If some, through misfortunes, are slack in the purse,
It is not so bad but it might have been worse.
Great things, the year past, were reveal'd to our eyes:
The Dutch have confess'd us their friends and allies;
And humbled the pride of our haughty invaders,
By fighting their fleets and destroying their traders,
If the English succeeded in taking the Count,
To what, in the end, did their conquest amount?
With their boasts, and their brags, and their shouts of applause,
It but sav'd them from ruin--not ruin'd our cause.
But leaving the weight of political cares
To those, who are plac'd at the helm of affairs,
To the humours of fortune in all things resign'd,
I mean by my visit to put you in mind,
That, as true as a clock, both early and late,
With the news of the day I have knock'd at your gate,
And gave you to know what the world was a doing,
What Louis intended, or George was a brewing.
If sometimes the papers were trifling and flat,
And the news went against us,--I cou'dn't help that;
If parties were angry, and vented their spite,
I bro't you their wranglings--not help'd them to write.
I therefore presume (and not without reason)
You'll remember your Newsman, and think of the season;
The markets are high, and the weather is cold;
No party I serve, and no pension I hold.
We Hawkers are men, and have children and wives
To comfort our hearts, and to solace our lives:
But if I say more, you'll think it is stuff;
And a word to the wise is, in reason, enough.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[213]

Addressed to the Customers of the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL, by the Lad who carries it

January 8, 1783

Let those who will, in hackney'd rhyme
And common cant, take up your time,
And even the muse's aid implore
To tell you what you knew before,
The days are short and nights are long,
The weather cold and hunger strong,
The markets high--and such like stuff--
I'm sure you know it well enough;--
Untaught by us, I dare to say,
You hit, exactly, New Year's day,
And knew at least as well as we
The present year is eighty-three;--
(Such simple things as these to tell
A mere drum head would do as well--)
All this I knew you knew before,
And therefore knock'd not at your door
Upon the individual day
When eighty-three came into play,
With verses for the purpose plann'd
Bidding you gravely watch your sand,
Since death is always near at hand;
All this I left to those whose trade is
To threaten beaus and frighten ladies,
And brought my papers, (swiftly speeding)
The _Freeman's Journal_, for your reading.
Unhappy Journal, doom'd by fate
To meet with unrelenting hate,
From those who can their venom spit,
Yet condescend to steal your wit;
While Timon, with malicious spirit,
Allows you not a grain of merit,
While he an idle pomp assumes
Let him return his borrow'd plumes,
And you will find the insect creeping
With not a feather worth the keeping.
But this is neither here nor there,
May quarrels past dissolve in air;
In Stygian waves of sable hue
Be all absorb'd with Eighty-Two,
Or, lost on Lethe's silent shore,
Disgrace our rising State no more.
Another word I meant to say,
(Kind customers, have patience, pray,
My subject is the New Year's Day)
How came it that mistaken man
Has thus inverted nature's plan,
And contradicted common reason
By making this the mirthful season,
When all is dreary, dull, and dead,
The sun to southern climates fled
To dart his fierce and downright beams
Intensely on Brazilian streams;
No daisies on the frozen plain,
No daffodils to please the swain,
The limpid wave compell'd to freeze,
And not a leaf upon the trees!--
'Tis wrong--the very birds will say,
Their New Year is the bloom of May;
Then nature calls to soft delights,
And they obey as she invites.
And yet this happiness below,
Which all would gain but few know how,
Is not to time or place confin'd,
'Tis seated only in the mind;
Let seasons vary as they will,
Contentment leaves us happy still,
Makes life itself pass smooth away,
Makes every hour a New Year's day.

[213] Text of this and the preceding poem from the edition of 1786. The last twenty-four lines of the above were republished in the edition of 1795, under the title "On the New-Year's Festival."

POLITICAL BIOGRAPHY[214]

HUGH GAINE'S LIFE[A]

CITY OF NEW-YORK, JAN. 1, 1783.[B]

_To the_ Senate[C] _of York, with all due submission,
Of honest_ HUGH GAINE _the humble Petition;[215]
An account of his Life he will also prefix,
And some trifles that happened in_ seventy-six;
_He hopes that your Honours will take no offence,
If he sends you some groans of contrition from hence,
And, further, to prove that he's truly sincere,
He wishes you all a_ happy New Year.

[A] A character well remembered in New York, and the adjacent
States,--now deceased.--_Freneau's note._ Gaine died April
25, 1807.

[B] The British army evacuated New York the November
following.--_Ib._

[C] The Legislature of the State were at this time in session
at Fishkill.--_Ib._

And, first, he informs, in his representation,
That he once was a printer of good reputation,
And dwelt in the street called Hanover Square,
(You'll know where it is, if you ever was there)
Next door to the dwelling[216] of doctor Brownjohn,
(Who now to the drug-shop[217] of Pluto is gone)
But what do I say--who e'er came to town,
And knew not Hugh Gaine at the Bible and Crown.
Now, if I was ever so given to lie,
My dear native country I wouldn't deny;
(I know you love Teagues) and I shall not conceal
That I came from the kingdom where Phelim O'Neale
And other brave worthies ate butter and cheese,
And walk'd in the clover-fields up to their knees;
Full early in youth, without basket or burden,
With a staff in my hand, I passed over Jordan,
(I remember my comrade was doctor Magraw,[D]
And many strange things on the waters we saw,
Sharks, dolphins, and sea-dogs, bonettas, and whales,
And birds at the tropic, with quills in their tails)
And came to your city and government seat,
And found it was true you had something to eat;
When thus I wrote home--"The country is good,
"They have plenty of victuals and plenty of wood:
"The people are kind, and, whatever they think,
"I shall make it appear, I can swim where they'll sink;
"Dear me! they're so brisk, and so full of good cheer,
"By my soul, I suspect they have always new year,
"And therefore conceive it is good to be here."
So said, and so acted--I put up a press,
And printed away with amazing success;
Neglected my person, and looked like a fright,
Was bothered all day, and was busy all night,
Saw money come in, as the papers went out,
While Parker and Weyman[E] were driving about,
And cursing and swearing, and chewing their cuds,
And wishing Hugh Gaine and his press in the suds:
Ned Weyman was printer, you know to the king,
And thought he had got all the world in a string,
(Though riches not always attend on a throne)
So he swore I had found the philosopher's stone,
And called me a rogue, and a son of a bitch,
Because I knew better than him to get rich.
To malice like that 'twas in vain to reply--
You had known by his looks he was telling a lie.
Thus life ran away, so smooth and serene--
Ah! these were the happiest days I had seen!
But the saying of Jacob I found to be true,
"The days of thy servant are evil and few!"
The days that to me were joyous and glad,
Are nothing to those which are dreary and sad!
The feuds of the Stamp Act foreboded foul weather,
And war and vexation all coming together:
Those days were the days of riots and mobs,
Tar, feathers, and tories, and troublesome jobs--
Priests preaching up war for the good of our souls,
And libels, and lying, and Liberty poles,
From which, when some whimsical colours you waved,
We had nothing to do, but look up and be saved--
(You thought, by resolving, to terrify Britain--
Indeed, if you did, you were damnably bitten)
I knew it would bring an eternal reproach,
When I saw you a-burning Cadwallader's[F] coach;
I knew you would suffer for what you had done,
When I saw you lampooning poor Sawney his son,
And bringing him down to so wretched a level,
As to ride him about in a cart with the devil.

[D] A cynical and very eccentric Physician.--_Freneau's note._

[E] New York Printers, many years before the Revolution.--_Ib._
Parker and Weyman were in partnership in the printing
business between the years 1753 and 1759, during which
time they were the leading printers of New York.

[F] Lieutenant-Governor Cadwallader Colden.--_Ib._

* * * * *

Well, as I predicted that matters would be--
To the stamp-act succeeded a tax upon Tea:
What chest-fulls were scattered, and trampled, and drowned,
And yet the whole tax was but threepence per pound!
May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend,
And Satan torment me to time without end,
If this was a reason to fly into quarrels,
And feuds that have ruined our manners and morals;
A parson himself might have sworn round the compass,
That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus,
Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage,
Make France, Spain, and Holland with Britain engage,
While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane,
All pity John Bull--and run off with his gain.
But this was the season that I must lament--
I first was a whig with an honest intent;
Not a Yankee[218] among them talked louder or bolder,
With his sword by his side, or his gun on his shoulder;
Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart,
But still was unwilling with Britain to part--
I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain,
I thought she would turn and embrace us again,
And make us as happy as happy could be,
By renewing the aera of mild Sixty-Three:
And yet, like a cruel, undutiful son,
Who evil returns for the good to be done,
Unmerited odium on Britain to throw,[219]
I printed some treason for Philip Freneau,
Some damnable poems reflecting on Gage,[220]
The King and his Council, and writ with such rage,
So full of invective, and loaded with spleen,
So sneeringly smart, and so hellishly keen,
That, at least in the judgment of half our wise men,
Alecto herself put the nib to his pen.

* * * * *

At this time arose a certain king Sears,[221]
Who made it his study to banish our fears:
He was, without doubt, a person of merit,
Great knowledge, some wit, and abundance of spirit;
Could talk like a lawyer, and that without fee,
And threatened perdition to all that drank tea.
Long sermons did he against Scotchmen prepare,[222]
And drank like a German, and drove away care;
Ah! don't you remember what a vigorous hand he put
To drag off the great guns, and plague captain Vandeput.[G]
That night[H] when the Hero (his patience worn out)
Put fire to the cannons and folks to the rout,
And drew up his ship with a spring on her cable,
And gave us a second confusion of Babel,
And (what was more solid than scurrilous language)
Poured on us a tempest of round shot and langrage;
Scarce a broadside was ended 'till another began again
--By Jove! it was nothing but _Fire away Flanagan!_[I]
Some thought him saluting his Sally's and Nancy's,[223]
'Till he drove a huge ball through the roof of Sam Francis;[J]
The town by his flashes was fairly enlightened,
The women miscarried, the beaux were all frighten'd;
For my part, I hid in a cellar (as sages
And Christians were wont in the primitive ages:
Thus the Prophet of old that was wrapt to the sky,
Lay snug in a cave 'till the tempest went by,
But, as soon as the comforting spirit had spoke,
He rose and came out with his mystical cloak)
Yet I hardly could boast of a moment of rest,
The dogs were a-howling, the town was distrest!
But our terrors soon vanished, for suddenly Sears
Renewed our lost courage and dried up our tears.
Our memories, indeed, must have strangely decayed
If we cannot remember what speeches he made,
What handsome harangues upon every occasion,
How he laughed at the whim of a British invasion!
"P--x take 'em (said he) do ye think they will come?
"If they should--we have only to beat on our drum,
"And run up the flag of American freedom,
"And people will muster by millions to bleed 'em!
"What freeman need value such blackguards as these!
"Let us sink in our channel some Chevaux de frise
--"And then let 'em come--and we'll show 'em fair play--
"But they are not madmen--I tell you--not they!"
From this very day 'till the British came in,
We lived, I may say, in the Desert of Sin;
Such beating, and bruising, and scratching, and tearing;
Such kicking, and cuffing, and cursing and swearing!
But when they advanced with their numerous fleet,
And Washington made his nocturnal retreat,[K]
(And which they permitted, I say, to their shame,
Or else your New Empire had been but a name)
We townsmen, like women, of Britons in dread,
Mistrusted their meaning, and foolishly fled;
Like the rest of the dunces I mounted my steed,
And galloped away with incredible speed,
To Newark I hastened,--but trouble and care
Got up on the crupper and followed me there!
There I scarcely got fuel to keep myself warm,
And scarcely found spirits to weather the storm;
And was quickly convinced I had little to do,
(The Whigs were in arms, and my readers were few)
So after remaining one cold winter season,
And stuffing my papers with something like treason,
And meeting misfortunes and endless disasters,
And forced to submit to a hundred new masters,
I thought it more prudent to hold to the one--
And (after repenting of what I had done,
And cursing my folly and idle pursuits)
Returned to the city, and hung up my boots.

[G] Captain of the Asia man of war, who cannonaded the
city.--_Freneau's note._

[H] August, 1775.--_Ib._

[I] A cant phrase among privateers men.--_Freneau's note._

[J] A noted Inn-holder in New-York.--_Ib._
"Black Sam."--_Ed. 1786._

[K] From Long-Island.--_Freneau's note._

* * * * *

As matters have gone, it was plainly a blunder,
But then I expected the Whigs must knock under,
And I always adhere to the sword that is longest,
And stick to the party that's like to be strongest:
That you have succeeded is merely a chance,
I never once dreamt of the conduct of France!--
If alliance with her you were promised--at least
You ought to have showed me your Star in the East,
Nor let me go off uninformed as a beast.
When your army I saw without stockings or shoes,
Or victuals--or money, to pay them their dues,
(Excepting your wretched Congressional paper,
That stunk in my nose like the smoke of a taper,
A cart load of which for a dram might be spent all,
That damnable bubble the old Continental,
That took people in at this wonderful crisis,
With its mottoes and emblems, and cunning devices;
Which, bad as it was, you were forced to admire,
And which was, in fact, the pillar of fire,
To which you directed your wandering noses,
Like the Jews in the desert conducted by Moses)
When I saw them attended with famine and fear,
Distress in their front, and Howe in their rear;
When I saw them for debt incessantly dunned,
Not a shilling to pay them laid up in your fund;
Your ploughs at a stand, and your ships run ashore--
When this was apparent (and need I say more?)
I handled my cane, and I looked at my hat,
And cryed--"God have mercy on armies like that!"
I took up my bottle, disdaining to stay,
And said--"Here's a health to the Vicar of Bray,"
And cocked up my beaver, and--strutted away.

* * * * *

Ashamed of my conduct, I sneaked into town,
(Six hours and a quarter the sun had been down)
It was, I remember, a cold frosty night,
And the stars in the firmament glittered as bright
As if (to assume a poetical stile)
Old Vulcan had give them a rub with his file.
'Till this cursed night, I can honestly say,
I ne'er before dreaded the dawn of the day;
Not a wolf or a fox that is caught in a trap
E'er was so ashamed of his nightly mishap--
I couldn't help thinking what ills might befall me,
What rebels and rascals the British would call me,
And how I might suffer in credit and purse,
If not in my person, which still had been worse:
At length I resolved (as was surely my duty)
To go for advice to parson Auchmuty;[L]
The parson, who now I hope is in glory,
Was then upon earth, and a terrible[224] tory,
Not Cooper[M] himself, of ideas perplext,
So nicely could handle and torture a text,
When bloated with lies, through his trumpet he sounded
The damnable sin of opposing a crowned head;
Like a penitent sinner, and dreading my fate,
In the grey of the morning I knocked at his gate;
(No doubt he was vexed that I roused him so soon,
For his saintship was mostly in blankets 'till noon.)
At length he approached in his vestments of black--
(Alas, my poor heart! it was then on the rack,
Like a man in an ague, or one to be tried;
I shook--and recanted, and blubbered, and sighed)
His gown, of itself, was amazingly big,
Besides, he had on his canonical wig,
And frowned at a distance; but, when I came near,
Looked pleasant and said--"What, Hugh, are you here!
"Your heart, I am certain, is horribly hardened,
"But if you confess--your sin will be pardoned;
"In spite of my preachments, and all I could say,
"Like the prodigal son, you wandered away,
"Now tell me, dear penitent, which is the best,
"To be with the rebels, pursued and distrest,
"Devoid of all comfort, all hopes of relief,
"Or else to be here, and partake the king's beef?
"More people resemble the snake than the dove,
"And more are converted by terror than love:
"Like a sheep on the mountains, or rather a swine,
"You wandered away from the ninety and nine:
"Awhile at the offers of mercy you spurned,
"But your error you saw, and at length have returned:
"Our Master will therefore consider your case,
"And restore you again to favour and grace,
"Great light shall arise from utter confusion,
"And rebels shall live to lament their delusion."
"Ah, rebels! (said I) they are rebels indeed--
"Chastisement, I hope, by the king is decreed:
"They have hung up his subjects with bed-cords and halters,
"And banished his prophets, and thrown down his altars.
"And I--even I--while I ventured to stay,
"They sought for my life--to take it away!
"I therefore propose to come under your wing,
"A foe to rebellion--a slave to the king."

[L] A high church Episcopalian, then rector of Trinity Church,
N. Y., since deceased.--_Freneau's note._

[M] Miles Cooper, President of Kings (now Columbia
College).--_Ib._

* * * * *

Such solemn confession,[225] in scriptural stile
Worked out my salvation, at least for a while;
The parson pronounced me deserving of grace,
And so they restored me to printing and place.
But days, such as these, were too happy to last:
The sand of felicity settled too fast!
When I swore and protested I honoured the throne
The least they could do was to let me alone;
Though George I compared to an angel above,
They wanted some solider proofs of my love;
And so they obliged me each morning to come
And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum,
While often, too often (I tell it with pain)
They menaced my head with a hickory cane,
While others, my betters, as much were opprest--
But shame and confusion shall cover the rest.
You, doubtless, will think I am dealing in fable
When I tell you I guard an officer's stable--
With usage like this my feelings are stung;
The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung!
Six hours in the day is duty too hard,
And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard,
And laughs till his sides are ready to split
With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit:
Because he's excused, on account of his post
He cannot go by without making his boast,
As if I was all that is servile and mean--
But Fortune, perhaps, may alter the scene,
And give him his turn to stand in the street,
Burnt brandy supporting his animal heat--[226]
But what for the king or the cause has he done
That we must be toiling while he can look on?
Great conquests he gave them on paper--'tis true[227]
When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue;
Alack! it's too plain that Britons must fall--
When loaded with laurels--they go to the wall.
From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve,
And where we are going I cannot conceive--
The wisest among us a change are expecting,
It is not for nothing, these ships are collecting,
It is not for nothing, that Matthews, the mayor,
And legions of Tories, for sailing prepare;
It is not for nothing, that John Coghill Knap
Is filing his papers, and plugging his tap;
See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney,
Is boiling potatoes, to serve a long journey;
But where they are going, or meaning to travel,
Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel,
Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens,
Perhaps to St. John's, in the gulph of St. Lawrence;
Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold,
Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold,
Where, scorched by the summer, all nature repines,
Where Phoebus, great Phoebus, too glaringly shines,
And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray
Oppresses the isle with a torrent of day.
Since matters are thus, with proper submission
Permit me to offer my humble Petition:
(Though the form is uncommon, and lawyers may sneer,
With truth I can tell you, the scribe is sincere.)

* * * * *