Author 
 
 Title 
 
 Class ..[„.. J.:k..2l 
 
 Book..A±h-i-b-:::ii^ 
 
 Imprint 
 
T HE WALK 
 
 ANECETUS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1859. 
 
THE WALK 
 
 ANECETUS^ \a-^^^-^ 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1859. 
 

 oj 29. 4a- 
 
To the City of Boston, eminent for its peculiar notions, for 
 purity in every grade of life, without the least puritanical self- 
 ishness, hypocrisy, or proscription, adopting fully the high tone 
 and gallant bearing of the dashing cavaliers, knowing no North 
 or South, and without a man in her midst who would not peril 
 his life for the Union; without the least particle of pharisaical 
 pride, but loving one another in the true Scripture spirit; hav- 
 ing in her limits no infidels, and by her devotion to the religion 
 of Jesus discountenancing infidelity in every form, — to this 
 model city, "the seat of learning and nurse of art," where 
 genius is sought out and encouraged, and never permitted to go 
 *' naked and hungry; " where " no man who is a man can say 
 he lacks friends;" in fine, to the "Athens of America," we 
 respectfully dedicate this verse, in the hope, and with the belief, 
 that it will tickle the fancy of all the well-disposed, and even 
 interest those who may in its pictures see their own likenesses. 
 It is not intended to offend any one, but to create a sort of 
 br^eeze, whereby all men may know the stagnant t^aters of 
 character are commanded to purify themselves. 
 
 " Know, then, thyself; presume not God to scan : 
 The proper study of mankind is man." 
 
THE WALK. 
 
 " He that stands to contemplate the crowds that fill the streets of a populous 
 city, will see many passengers whose air and motion it will be difficult to behold 
 without contempt and laughter; but if he examines what are the appearances 
 that thus powerfully excite his risibility, he will find among them neither pov- 
 erty nor disease, nor any involuntary painful defect. The disposition to derision 
 and insult is awakened by the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, the 
 liveliness of levity, or the solemnity of grandeur; by the sprightly tip, the 
 stately stalk, the formal strut, and the lofty mien ; by gestures intended to 
 catch the eye, and by looks elaborately formed as evidence of importance." 
 
 Dk. Johnson. 
 
 'T IS meet that tbose who look at men and things, 
 Take note of humbug and of he who wins, 
 Should give the public, at convenient times, 
 A peep with them, that they may learh betimes, 
 How little sense it doth in truth require, 
 To be of mark in those who dare aspire : 
 And who dare not though brainless as a bat, 
 If by pretension they can "cut it ftit." 
 
 Such hath been, and such will ever be, 
 Whilst man a sovereign is in fancy free. 
 What ! who shall dare to say yon ragged boy, 
 May not Hector be of some modern Troy ! 
 What! who shall dare to say " our noble schools," 
 May not hosts of wise men make of fools ? 
 Take but the boy and cram his head with facts, 
 Then watch their fitful progress into acts, — 
 Acts, ye great gods ! neither judge nor jury know. 
 To construe truly, or to well bestow, — 
 So subtle, wiry, scholarly their force — 
 They can 't be wrong, they must be right, of course. 
 
Educate, yes, educate black, white, and grey, 
 
 That they may rise to honors at future day, — 
 
 Tell thera they 'ye naught to do but live and learn. 
 
 To be dashing heros ! demi-gods in turn ! 
 
 They '11 learn — oh, yes, they '11 study night and day, 
 
 To be a somebody on life's high way ; 
 
 They '11 push and jostle where they should be still, 
 
 That all may feel their independent will : 
 
 They 've been to school — have learned to read and write. 
 
 To play at push pin, marbles, fly the kite ; 
 
 They 've read the constitution, — 't is plain to thera, 
 
 They 're qualified for great and startling men ; 
 
 At all events they will push on to power — 
 
 And hang'd be he who praises fails to shower. 
 
 "A little learning is a dangerous thing, 
 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ; " 
 
 Think not, sirs, because ye can make a speech, 
 
 Build houses, ships, sell rags, and humbug teach, 
 
 That ye can play the statesman passing well, 
 
 And rule a nation as fops cut a swell. 
 
 Oh, no ! be modest, — let high-bred genius do, 
 
 The work too heavy, too intricate for you ; 
 
 If butcher or tradesman, be thy thrifty gains. 
 
 More dear to thee than false ambition's pains ; 
 
 Write not thyself fool by boldly tempting that, 
 
 Others through learning prove to be more apt ; 
 
 Be modest ! nor think the maker of blue pill. 
 
 Is therefore qualified to draw up a bill. 
 
 Laws, to be sound, with most skillful wit must be. 
 
 Carved 'to form by legal ingenuity. 
 
 Yet who, oh who, in this our land of schools, 
 
 Is not as competent as the best who rules? 
 
 The public business any one can manage, 
 
 Without much ado or serious damage. 
 
 Where all are au fait at playing high, 
 
 From white-frock butcher, to quacks of ev'ry dye, 
 
It is not strange our state and nation feel, 
 The pressing terrors of their wayward zeal ; — 
 " The instinct of freemen never can be wrong," 
 So go it, asses — drag government along ; 
 We '11 cut the traces when we think 'tis well, 
 To save our body politic from h 
 
 The wise have said, in every age, that rule, 
 
 Is wisdom's privilege, not the right of fool ; 
 
 But we, well planted in this western world, 
 
 Give office freely to knave, dolt, or churl, 
 
 Nor think 't is well for gentleman or scholar, 
 
 To be advanced too far to th' goal of honor. 
 
 Well, be it so, exclaims some lofty soul. 
 
 That views in quiet our wild working whole ; 
 
 Let little men and upstarts have their day ; 
 
 The time will come when talent will have sway — 
 
 When genius ! shall claim its inborn right to rule, 
 
 And sit where dullards now enact the fool. 
 
 Oh, speed those days, those halcyon days of sense, 
 
 When virtuous men shall find due recompense ; 
 
 When the thorough bred and thorough born shall be, 
 
 The band of worthies in authority ; 
 
 Then art shall flourish ! then manners be at par, 
 
 And public honors not audacious air. 
 
 We are republican, — the best of kings. 
 
 From virtue, and from vu-tue only springs ; 
 
 But while we love a liberal form of law. 
 
 The "great unwashed," its tyrant sway deplore. 
 
 Who has not felt death's damning seed to be, 
 
 Herein contained — a gloomy, stern reality ! 
 
 The " great unwashed," by demagogues addressed, 
 
 Are a fearful power in deep and watchful rest — 
 
 A power that strengthens and alarms as time, 
 
 Sad poverty develops in rank and file ; 
 
These " bones and sinews," poorly clad and proud, 
 
 Sov'reign notioned, dict'torial and loud, 
 
 Guided and governed by ambition's brazen knaves, 
 
 IMay do such deeds as blot historic page. 
 
 Be it duty, then, of true men in the land, 
 
 To labor cheerfully to place in command, 
 
 At each public post, though humble its degree, 
 
 A Spartan freeman worthy Thermopylae ! 
 
 Let the " great unwashed " and demagogues behold, 
 
 The hosts of virtue determined to control ; 
 
 Then will they feel a wholesome awe of power, 
 
 That seeks to rule not for the passing hour. 
 
 But for all time ! that sweet liberty may be, 
 
 Continued to man in spotless purity. 
 
 Come, Marcus, come, let us take a quiet stand, — 
 
 Here by this doorway a view we may command, 
 
 Of the crowded street, where, passing to and fro, 
 
 Statesmen, commoners, beggars, and harlots go ; 
 
 Here we will note the various hues of life, — 
 
 And speak of those the busiest in the strife. 
 
 Look, where comes Dives! the man of money made, 
 
 With Banks familiar, of the board of trade ; 
 
 Observe his step, his eye, his mien entire. 
 
 And say if aught doth reverence inspire ; 
 
 Say if the hrute ! more than the immortal soul ! 
 
 Is not expressed in that jew enamelled whole ; 
 
 Look at the lip and read its lettered scorn, 
 
 Of right that mingles not with money'd lorong ; 
 
 See how the cheeks are muscled o'er with dread, 
 
 Of doing aught by which the poor are fed ; 
 
 Yet this man Marcus deems himself a god ! 
 
 Though citizens in gen'ral call him snoh. 
 
 Oh, Snobbery ! how thick thy dwellings are, 
 
 Costly array'd in foreign furniture ; 
 
 Go where we will, some money'd Jack stalks by, 
 
 Fills the sidewalk with his immensity ; 
 
Scents the pure air with tan, or some such stuff, 
 
 By which he 's from obscurity gotten up. 
 
 Oh, murder ! let it not be thought amiss, 
 
 To shout assassin ! and to greet with hiss, 
 
 These characters who fame and fortune rear, 
 
 By artful dodging — the widow'' s, orphan'' s tear. 
 
 Call ye such first ? their wives and daughters pay, 
 
 Respect due to Christian charity ? 
 
 Call ye such first who live to blight the good. 
 
 Around their path, in striving to be woo'd. 
 
 By fops and nimble fools whose brains are crammed, 
 
 With notions soft that signalize the damned ? 
 
 Is heartless 3Iammon ever to be first, 
 
 Because it swells in costly silks and purse ? 
 
 Forbid it. Heaven ! Implant in man the will. 
 
 To honor nothing that 's got of crime and ill ; 
 
 Bless him with truth, and move him to despise, 
 
 The pomp and vanity by Mammon prized. 
 
 Let each and all who value virtue fly, 
 
 The money'd upstart's false gentility. 
 
 Genteel, indeed ! By legal theft, to wring, 
 
 The last dollar from poor fellow-being ; 
 
 To place in silks on wife's and daughter's back, 
 
 That they may make flourish at gay Almack, — 
 
 Living in mansions loaded o'er with pride. 
 
 Scornful of those who without style reside. 
 
 Genteel, indeed ! We name it blackest guilt, 
 
 Allied to that which Jesus' blood hath spilt ! 
 
 No man or woman hath moral right to live, 
 
 In face of human sorrow, and nothing give. 
 
 The poor are with you ! ye lendeth to the Lord, 
 
 Who are mindful of their needs, — relief afford. 
 
 Genteel, indeed ! 0, what a base pretense. 
 
 To dazzle fools ! and rogues, a pleasing sense, 
 
 Of their own foulness doth it kindly raise, 
 
 To be fondled thus by stylish, winsome maids. 
 
10 
 
 See ! Here comes one whose dark and bilious phiz, 
 Is a surging sea of smart, keen sophistries ; 
 L . . d . r of the Bar, whose arguments are stones, 
 He slings, Titanic, breaking heads and bones : 
 But what cares Jupiter 'gainst whom he pleads — 
 His fame must live — it matters not who bleeds ! 
 Mark well his form, his step, his solemn face, 
 In the ensemble his great being trace ; 
 Ask why 'tis power sturdy as this man's, 
 Should sink the Christian in the lawyer's plans. 
 Why may not greatness with goodness be allied, 
 And lawyer's interest be the Christian's pride ! 
 Why should a man, because of subtle wit, 
 Confuse right and wrong for fame or profit ? 
 What is fame, apart from God's perfect law 
 To love thy neighbor, keep thy conscience pure, 
 Whom doth it please when Death's stern voice is heard, 
 And judgment waits as by the inspired Word ! 
 What boots it then who feared or loved us here, 
 If Deity condemns, spurns the tardy tear ! 
 
 But look where saunters carelessly along, 
 One who would excel in dramatic song ! 
 Without genius, he thinks himself a Rowe, 
 An J^schylus, Piron, or Marivaux, — 
 Compiles a play from English, Dutch, or French, 
 Claims to be author of uncommon sense ; 
 Shocked that the people cry about his ears, 
 " Be more honest, sir ; dig onions, pick pears : 
 Write squibs, not plays ; the drama let alone : 
 Enough there are to damn it abroad, at home." 
 The city swarms with fellows made up as these, 
 Soi disa^it geniuses of varied degrees : 
 In painting, poetry, sculpture, and romance, 
 This trash is rampant as " spoonies " in a dance ! 
 
11 
 
 " Art ! art !" they bawl ; '' room for the artist, room I 
 
 But, failing, are non est inventus soon. 
 
 0, humbug, humbug ! When will men attain, 
 
 To know steep is the pinnacle of fame, — 
 
 When will earnest dulness cease to strive with wit, 
 
 And love, not hate, pursue defiant merit. 
 
 Lo ! where, in their carriage proudly placed, 
 Are they who pride themselves on lib'ral tastes ! 
 Mark the presumption seated on their brows, 
 The mock majesty with which they bow to those ; — ■ 
 Who know not at a glance 't is mere petty trash. 
 Striving to 'pear well by making vulgar dash. 
 mothers ! O daughters ! if you would be great, 
 Prize simple virtue, and virtue's pathway take ; 
 It leadeth not to halls where rich fools abound. 
 But to sorrow deep for duties left undone. 
 
 See ! Two demagogues, the ragged rabble's pride. 
 With coarse, hardened brows, in passion deeply dyed 
 The people's property ! and they know it well, 
 Despite their bearing, their caucus-noted swell. 
 The " dear people " are to them a hateful fact ; 
 Speedily they 'd throw the load from off their back ; 
 But " public pap " is thus saddled with a bore, 
 These brawling fellows are fated to endure ; 
 Else would the swarm be much greater than it is. 
 And office-hunters exceed army o' the Cid. 
 
 These passing now are brave military men, 
 Colonels and majors, — most gallant citizens. 
 One would suppose, to view them, hear their talk, 
 That soldier's duty is a high, holy walk, — 
 To kill by rule, to eat the unhappy slaiu. 
 The noblest of arts all men should attain. 
 
12 
 
 No crowd gathers of the waving plume but Clap, 
 Clap is heard from all soldierly and apt. 
 " The cat will mew, the dog will have his day," 
 Thus gents in feathers strut and pass away. 
 
 But here comes one whose name shall never die, 
 
 Whose deeds are glory's in the World's dazzl'd eye ; 
 
 Whose eloquence to Cicero's is compared, 
 
 Of which his country has so largely shared. 
 
 Contrast the demagogue with this honored sage, 
 
 And mark how different the varied shade ! 
 
 The one serves his country for his country'' s good ; 
 
 The other, for self -advancement and his food! — 
 
 A trading politician, who heeds not truth. 
 
 But talks to please the illiterate, uncouth. 
 
 An Everett! — Cleon ! — are distant in their spheres, 
 
 As cerulean depths where twinkling star appears : 
 
 Would the masses could appreciate the true, 
 
 And award to genius the honor due ! 
 
 An Everett in the Presidential chair, 
 
 Would be the nation's glory, — an act how fair ! 
 
 But he, the most polished statesman in the land, 
 
 May fail to get what demagogues demand ; 
 
 And pass away, as Webster, pain'd of soul. 
 
 At the vile ingratitude of human mould. 
 
 We stood, on a bleak and cheerless summer day, 
 
 By Daniel's tomb, that o'erlooks our noble bay ; 
 
 And as the life of that great man recurred 
 
 Fresh to our mind, we fancied that we heard, 
 
 Mingled with the winds, the statesman's silv'ry tones, 
 
 Broken by sweet though melancholy moans : 
 
 " Sir, thine eyes are filled with tears. I know thy grief; 
 
 Thou wouldst have had me, in the flesh, thy chief. 
 
 Thou knowGst that the nation I loved so well, 
 
 And labored to advance by th' power I held, 
 
13 
 
 Refused e'en my name for place I thought to fill, 
 And crushed me to earth with weighty sense of ill. 
 But mourn not, sir ; for no man can he first 
 Who loves his country better than Ms purse, — 
 Who acts from motives pure, mad factions spurn, 
 Intent on duty, a noble statesman firm." 
 We thought how true this voice from the tomb, 
 And deemed it spoke more than statesman's doom. 
 
 But look ! where boldly struts, in gay attire. 
 
 Dandy sons of indulgent wealthy sire : 
 
 They know some Latin, but much less of Greek ; 
 
 Some philosophy, grammatically speak ; 
 
 And, to form judgment from their pert, proud air, 
 
 'T is plain with no one would they deign compare. 
 
 Your man of twenty-one, just from college spawned, 
 
 If perchance a flat, had better ne'er been born ; 
 
 For ere he learns to conduct himself with sense, 
 
 He tumbles in his grave at his friends' expense. 
 
 By gracious ! who 's this looking so wise and fat ? 
 
 Oh ! he 's an alderman, with a bran-new hat. 
 
 Beside him is common-councilman, 
 
 With grave documents in his doughty hand ; — 
 
 Windy as northwest blow, on and off duty ; 
 
 Deems himself orator, sage, and beauty. 
 
 But women laugh at him ; so he 's not yet wed, 
 
 Although 't is whispered, he 's lonely in his bed. 
 
 Again look, Marcus ! Whew ! what a surge she makes ! 
 
 As through the crowd she winds, and her silk dress shakes. 
 
 Mark her bold air, her careless, sensual eye. 
 
 And the painted harlot's padded form descry ! 
 
 No lady fine is better dressed than she ; 
 
 No lady fine is paid more gallantry ! 
 
 The " solid men," e'en with good, buxom wives, 
 
14 
 
 Are prone to visit, where the harlot hives ! 
 There 's not a den throughout the city's bounds, 
 Where "good men" with their inmates do not lounge. 
 " 'T is charity's loveV Oh, nothing more, of course ! 
 Harlots must live, and some one meet the cost ! 
 'T is pity ; for when the solids take to sin, 
 
 And go to after going to meeting, 
 
 Who knows not woman ■penniless will find, 
 
 Relief in way most easy and most kind ! 
 
 She '11 not to the needle be inclined to run, 
 
 Since working hard from rising to set of sun,' 
 
 Doth not afford most skilful hand the pay, 
 
 To guard the body well, keep the honest way. 
 
 Should it, then, surprise that good girls stray away, 
 
 From virtue's path for broad road of decay, — 
 
 That our streets are walked by strumpets bold and bad, 
 
 Eager to trap the thoughtless, admiring lad ? 
 
 Ought it to surprise that e'en girls "well-to-do," 
 
 Should leave honest work to win the harlot's due ? 
 
 Ah, no, Marcus ; the wonder is, that more, 
 
 Desert not truth for falsehood's fatal door. 
 
 What do — oh, what ? — to stay this waste of life, — 
 
 To save the weak in the world's bitter strife ? 
 
 Protect them — ■ ay, protect — fully by our laws ; 
 
 Make greedy capital aid in virtue'' s cause. 
 
 Let work be well paid where woman is employed, 
 
 And all be made to do what they would avoid. 
 
 Build houses with public coin where worth may fly, 
 
 Safe from the gripe of hard necessity. 
 
 Work, — ay, work ! — 't is their sacred, natural due : 
 
 No country 's human to woman's cause untrue. 
 
 But see ! Contrast with wanton a loving nun. 
 Her meek, placid phiz, sweet as the morning sun. 
 She feels sin's weight that rests upon mankind, 
 And goeth gently broken hearts to find. 
 
15 
 
 Ah ! many kindly acts daily she performs, 
 
 Where grief hath entered, and love no longer warms. 
 
 Near the sister, there passeth a lady true, 
 
 Whose blood is gentle, soul of godly hue. 
 
 She sees the bold harlot, the gay coquette, 
 
 Who spurns her counterpart, and loves a pet. 
 
 Our lady true wipes from her eye a tear, 
 
 That virtue, like vice, doth so oft appear ! 
 
 She sees just before her a teacher of God, 
 
 And sighs for power of Aaron's magic rod, 
 
 To touch this clergyman, merry, fat, and tall. 
 
 And transform him to likeness of John or Paul ; 
 
 These early fathers, she deemed, would blush to own, 
 
 Our modern doctors in service of God's son ; 
 
 And who does not, with hearts softer than a steel, 
 
 Bleed to behold the base traitors in the field ! 
 
 Look we again : see that squad of actors pass, 
 Who call the grave author, walking by, an ass. 
 Because he urged their manager to bring out, 
 A play this author wrote, called " The Finished Lout.' 
 Actors, we think, are the vainest snobs in town, 
 And do their utmost to run an author down. 
 
 Lo and behold ! the powers of the press ! 
 All Hale, ye who are rarely known to rest ! 
 Mark the pale features, slender form, of him, 
 Having word to say on each public theme. 
 His wide-slit mouth flies open like a flash, 
 What he says is a clever kind of hash ; 
 Not over-common nor under medium sense. 
 But always Advertiser-VkQ, and intense. 
 Beside this prodigy, looking rather Green, 
 Stands a body touched often with the spleen, 
 But, as a whole, a fellow of boundless jest. 
 Of fancy excellent, clean washed, well dressed \ 
 
16 
 
 He' s up and doing, in politics and out, 
 And when he dies will exit with the gout. 
 
 Look, Marcus, — quick ! see, see that booby there, 
 
 Turning the corner with the lordliest air ; 
 
 A modern Greek ! s . g . a, with a and s before. 
 
 Having dealings with the dead, — a classic bore ! 
 
 For pastime, he seeks to improve the breed o' dogs, 
 
 To count the bristles in his favorite hogs, — 
 
 To burden the press with his pen's boyish trash, 
 
 Knock milk-men down, and at dray-horses dash ; 
 
 Forgetful that the drayman, not beast, should get, 
 
 The benefit of his Herculean pet. 
 
 The pride of this Greek and his elder born, 
 
 Who walks as though great Pompey's spirit warmed, 
 
 Will yet, we fear, cost the city many lives : 
 
 Monkeys with cockades are not to be despised. 
 
 I tell you, sir, had we many such pop-guns. 
 
 Soon we should be where flesh to ashes turns. 
 
 But, thanks to liberty ! we may pelt the fool, 
 
 Fearless of the rack, defiant of his rule ; 
 
 And pelt we will, so long as " sly silken Jacks," 
 
 Put themselves forward like hungry, starving rats. 
 
 But look again, and see, in contrast strong, 
 
 To the big booby who just passed along, 
 
 The modest scholar, whose full, witty head, 
 
 Is systematically, deeply read, — 
 
 Who gives us essays on wit and humor free. 
 
 From the humbug and clap-trap of foppery ; 
 
 A Whipple-tree holds not more strong the team. 
 
 Than this fine genius' soul its ev'ry theme. 
 
 Would we could say as much for all who claim. 
 
 In the broad field of lit'rature a name ! 
 
 Would that bold quackery was not rampant here, — 
 
 That stupid dulness did not so oft appear ! 
 
17 
 
 Of all the blockheads in each walk of life, 
 None arc so wilful as those who think, write : 
 The hardest task which men on men impose, 
 Is learned fool to teach he little knows ; 
 Write he will, and lecture in ev'ry town, 
 Where wits are scarce, and anything goes down. 
 
 Ah ! here is one whose graceful bearing wins, 
 Him hosts of friends, despite his public sins. 
 As Speaker o' the House, as polished 31. G., 
 He was gallant, — of marked ability : 
 Foremost his name in annals of the state, 
 But its prestige with him will terminate ! 
 No son succeeding shall his honors gain, 
 No son hath merit glor^ to sustain. 
 
 W p might to-day be nearer to the throne. 
 
 Had he Webster supported, not overthrown. 
 
 So fail all who play a mean, little part, 
 
 Where justice pleads, — a noble mind and heart ! 
 
 Ah ! see the poet-laureate, th' fellow. 
 
 Whose Long acquaintance with rhyme doth mellow, 
 
 All that he writes to pleasing, classic charm, 
 
 Always for good, never for slightest harm. 
 
 He hath bright Fields to sport his gentle muse, 
 
 Fields whom poets and artists aim to use ; 
 
 Fields full of many a classic flower, 
 
 Of fragrance that lives beyond passing hour. 
 
 Look, Marcus, where glides the stout little man 
 
 Who wrote " The S . a Serpent. " Beat him, he who can I 
 
 Hit him and he laughs : critics are his toys ; 
 
 The smartest are to him mere unschooled boys : 
 
 Naught cares he for what Grub-street puppies say ; 
 
 He '11 have his fun in his own funny way. 
 
 A better heart ne'er beat 'neath human skin. 
 
18 
 
 Than throws the blood through each art'ry of him ; 
 And those who laugh at his attempt to shine, 
 Should blush to be thus friv'lous and unkind. 
 Hume, the fiimous historian, has said, 
 So super lit'rature to pins and thread, 
 That e'en mediocrity in letters, 
 Merits pre-em'nence 'bove trade or feathers ; 
 So that, to drive with mod'rate grace a quill, 
 Far exceeds a vulgar profession's skill. 
 
 Now, see yon blust'rer ; how he swings his arms, — 
 
 All the timid seriously alarms ; 
 
 He 's just been fighting for a prize, and won ; 
 
 Many miles in as many hours he 's run : 
 
 There 's scarce bone and muscle in town able, 
 
 To curb this rough, and put him 'to stable : 
 
 We write stable, for such men are horses, 
 
 And, as muscle, should be used as forces, — 
 
 Put to th' dray, where their strength may be admired, 
 
 E'en as the brute whose honors are desired. 
 
 Ab ! note the apostle of the spiiits, 
 Who dares savans to prove there 's nothing in 't ! 
 Learning poohs ; yet Spirit' alism is fact : 
 Thousands so believe, in belief dare act. 
 'T is nothing new for deceased souls to seek, 
 Those in the flesh, familiarly to speak ; 
 But that 't is well to converse with the dead, 
 We think doubtful, and watch the act with dread. 
 Truth ? What more of truth need we to desire, 
 Than Jesus spoke in living words of fire ! 
 '■'■Love thy neighbor ; he simple, pure, and just ; 
 In thy faith in me he thine only trust. '^ 
 Can spirits speak more lovingly than Christ, 
 Or the soul support with more sound advice ; 
 Can they make clear the endless future life, 
 Put doubt at rest, and still opinions' strife ? 
 Is not all confusion with those who say 
 
19 
 
 Spiritualism is the perfect way ? 
 Oh, yes, my Marcus ; trust not to this force, 
 That carries fools and wise men in its course : 
 Know that to be of light and peaceful soul, 
 Is in Jesus'" word to confide alone. 
 
 See, where speeds along the bold men whom hate, 
 
 For slav'ry tempts them to imperil state ! 
 
 Study well their hard features dark and deep ; 
 
 Observe them narrowly from eye to feet : 
 
 See what a lack of noble, gen'rous thought, 
 
 The eye betrays, and e'en the crafty walk ! 
 
 Oh, God, forgive 'em ! they know not what they do, - 
 
 The horrors o' the havoc they have in view. 
 
 Let but the work o' four thousand years be razed, 
 
 That negroes may live in wild freedom's blaze. 
 
 And when again shall man find peace on earth, 
 
 Or cease to curse the one who gave him birth ? 
 
 Give but abolition the flowing rein. 
 
 And soon this land would be a heap of slain. 
 
 Their thoughts are bloody, and of nothing worth ; 
 
 Their purpose, treason to IWrty and truth. 
 
 Let good men fly them as they would a storm, 
 
 'Mid mountain tracks, which, lost, are never found : 
 
 Pity, but do not curse, these wayward men ; 
 
 Satan hath bound them to fell, darksome end. 
 
 Be it the duty of each honest mind, 
 
 Against these rebel chieftains to combine : 
 
 Teach them that Satan, though no coward chief, 
 
 Their native land shall not give o'er to grief ; 
 
 Teach them to know God keeps our spangled flag, — 
 
 Bids us be just, to love Him, and be glad. 
 
 Slavery 's wrong ; who denies this, is unkind, — 
 Would th' noblest purposes of man malign ! 
 We would that ev'ry human form was free. 
 As th' air we breathe, or th' throne of Deity j 
 
20 
 
 But in this state of harsh mental power, 
 
 Wrong toill exist to sad each passing hour : 
 
 So, whilst we would free the fettered limbs o' Ham, 
 
 We wish to act as true cit'zen and man. 
 
 The slave, though his master's sole will is law, 
 
 And is passed by deed, as dwelling-house, store, 
 
 Is not so abject, nor so basely used, 
 
 As demagogues the public ear abuse. 
 
 'T is true, of those that so depress the South, 
 
 Numbers are lashed, and kicked, and cuffed about ; 
 
 But be it known no mule is more stubborn, 
 
 Than such as these, more difF'cult to govern. 
 
 The honest, obedient, steady slave, 
 
 Near to his master's loving heart is laid, 
 
 And seldom receives, e'en from hardened man, 
 
 An unkind word, or a stroke of the hand : 
 
 Still, 't is wrong to hold human flesh in chains, — 
 
 The South will wither if this curse remains. 
 
 The evil is theirs ; 't is theirs to o'ercome : 
 
 Hands off, we say, to ev'ry Northern son ! 
 
 Seek not, by haste, to weld the bonds ye 'd break ; 
 
 Work wisely, with care, be just, patient wait ; 
 
 God hath a time fixed for freedom to th' slave ; 
 
 'Bide it calmly, nor dig thy country's grave ! 
 
 Look ! where approaches "The Lady o' the Lake," 
 One of the B. .k. .ys, haply nam'd of late : 
 Of gentle blood ; her step and air proclaim. 
 She is no ord'nary, pretentious dame : 
 Read on her cheek the gracious mind within, 
 Touch'd deep with sorrow, fruit of Adam's sin ; 
 Know that she, too, hath felt the sting of foes, 
 Who live, unseen, beneath the blooming rose, 
 And, when joy's cup is lifted to the lip, 
 Dash it down ere is ta'en a little sip. 
 
21 
 
 Ask her if e'en most honor'tl blood and worth, 
 Will ward th' heart-ache ofl", or make brighter earth. 
 
 Now, Marcus, note that care-worn figure there, 
 His eye bloodshot, uncomb'd his flowing hair ; 
 Versed in science, a jDoet-paiuter, too, 
 Yet poor indeed, naught knowing well to do. 
 'T is Genius ! 'tis that gift of God that spans, 
 His nature, and its power understands. 
 Thoughtful and proud, it spurns the walks of men. 
 Deems it naught for life's prizes to contend, — 
 Laughs at the crowd who buzz with airs supreme, 
 Pleas'd with the glory for which they thirst, dream. 
 Pismires — oh, pismires! — we think quite as wise, 
 As these smart big boys running for a prize. 
 So says sad Genius, looking from its tub, 
 At long-eared donkies by hard riders rub'd. 
 
 See ! where fine Genius now, disordered, comes, 
 Whose pathway is beset by graceless duns, — 
 Whose dream of life is smoke, home anywhere, 
 But in this world of woe and deep despair. 
 Look at " Sweet Nell," his " Uncle Toby " view, — 
 In their fashioning what has art to do ? 
 'T is Nature ! that wondrous creative thought, 
 By which this fair cosmosic whole was wrought. 
 Yet what cares the fat, frothy man for him, 
 AVho plays at poher and fine plastering ? 
 Could he means invent to turn clay to gold, 
 They 'd seize him by the arm in friendship bold. 
 But art, thank God! lives in the souls of those. 
 Who could not find in Mammon "sweet repose; " 
 Their thoughts are as the stars in azure hung, — 
 They seek for gold to pay the saucy dun. 
 
22 
 
 See wliere walks, with a measured, haughty step, 
 
 Two lovely ladies in Fashion skill'd, 'dept ; 
 
 The beaux delight them ; they the beaux entrance, 
 
 Who squeeze and animate them in the dance ! 
 
 Their noblest thought and highest aim in life, 
 
 Is to change maiden dulness into wife ; 
 
 They care not who th' unlucky man may be, 
 
 So he 's rich, good-looking, of first fam'ly : 
 
 Their time is spent in foolish fancies wild ; 
 
 In judgment simple — brainless as a child : 
 
 They laugh, not knowing why, 'cause others laugh ; 
 
 Besides, a grave demeanor looks not smart ! 
 
 Their hoops delight them, they cause such a spread. 
 
 And make that large which else were flat and dead. 
 
 crinoline ! what Eve doth not admire, 
 
 Thy greatness, thy rotundity desire, — 
 
 Who, by Nature naught, by man not lov'd much. 
 
 Are bound to swell, and beat in pluck the Dutch ! 
 
 Drive on, darlings ! crack loud the streaming whip ! 
 
 And end thy useless days in high-flown fit ! 
 
 Die 'mid thy hoops, thy lavender, and soap, 
 
 And bid the world " splurge "on, and live in hope ! 
 
 Our sweet ladies, in Fashion's arts adept. 
 
 Who wives wish to be, fat and easy kept, 
 
 Are prone to visit each known place in town. 
 
 Where beaux and belles are always to be found. 
 
 The AiKnoRum, draws 'em to its classic shades, 
 
 Where Art and Genius their twin plumage waves : 
 
 They gaze on the paintings, now th' sculpture near, 
 
 And fall in love with 'polio Belvidere ! 
 
 O ladies, fie ! what would your parson say, 
 
 To know you thus his holy care repay ! 
 
 So wags the world ; the loveliest in vain, 
 
 Strive to live without smallest spec of stain : 
 
 Why then wonder, sir, that mere flesh and bones, 
 
 Should go ^mid art to search out dirt and ! 
 
23 
 
 See, there passing, locked arm in arm, two saps, 
 
 Whose faces remind one of outline maps ! 
 
 Their noses pinched by glasses moved with springs, 
 
 The meanest and most ludicrous of things ; 
 
 Their soft, white hands encased in colored kid, 
 
 Which twirls a whalebone, and plajs with eyelid, 
 
 Pats the gay moustache, waves in gestures bold, 
 
 Which says, if the shoulder 's young the head 's old. 
 
 These of quad-patrician blood believe 
 
 The world of worth save theirs hath little need. 
 
 See ! to her slavish work returns the girl, 
 With beauty gifted, delving for a churl, 
 Who tasks from early morn till evening late, 
 Careless of her soul, and its final fote ; 
 B-ead in her eye the dreary hopes within : 
 How tempted she to take the road of sin ! 
 Talk you of slave ? What freedom is there here, 
 When ev'ry day — ay, hour ! — falls 'ppression's tear ! 
 Marcus ! where, where are our men of God, 
 To break the heartless Northern despot's rod ! 
 Where, where the sturdy men of mind and will. 
 To shout bravely, " Thou Shylock, peace, be still ! 
 Give freely o' thy gains to those who serve well. 
 Let none from povWly deem this world a h-—ll ! " 
 
 Lo ! where cometh one whose high, honored name, 
 Will live whilst shall roll the Atlantic main : 
 He, with a spirit dauntless in its will, 
 Hath seized on fire, made ocean but a rill ; 
 Joined hand in hand the old world and the new. 
 Brought peace on earth, good-will to men, in view.* 
 
 * At the time this poem was composed, the Atlantic Telegraph promised 
 ■well ; the writer has confidence in the success eventually of that magnifi- 
 cent idea, and could not withhold the honorable mention he had made of 
 its paternity. 
 
24 
 
 In such natures there 's a deep, ardent soul, 
 That hates, defies, and proudly spurns control ; 
 Ilumhng, by which large numbers earn their bread, 
 Prompt not the plans that task their thinking heads. 
 Contrast with Field the man in yonder door, 
 Who called a " flunky " one far, far before, 
 This foul-mouthed scholar, who thinks himself Sir, 
 Worthy to be kissed, and kept in lav'nder ! 
 But we, who move freely up an' down the world, 
 Can tell this orator he 's thought a churl, 
 By those whose judgment is allied to wit. 
 And well know who flunkyisra best doth fit. 
 
 By Zeus ! a youth just 'mitted to th' Bar ; 
 
 Retain hhn, Marcus, if you 'd be at par ! 
 
 Latin and Greek, Hebrew, Dutch, Spanish, French, 
 
 Besides a large amount of common sense, — ^ 
 
 Logic, physics, science of ev'ry grain, — 
 
 Is orderly 'rang'd in this youngster's brain. 
 
 Neglect him not, be sure, quite sure of that, 
 
 Or some time when in law he '11 knock you flat ! 
 
 See how stiff he bears his full neck and head, 
 
 As though 'twas law, whatever he had said ! 
 
 Spare us — oh, spare us ! — from such mark'd power, 
 
 Dealing death to all who do not cower ! 
 
 Thou ask'st, Marcus, wherein doth humbug lie, 
 In most that we have noted passing by. 
 I '11 tell thee, sir : In false ^pearances ! there 
 'T is. Color but your own, don other's hair, 
 Be statesman, not knowing how to figure ; 
 Pretend, when not, to be the friend o' nigger ; 
 Talk of goodness, though despising virtue, — 
 Of a maid's honor, whilst to her untrue ; 
 Swear you love friends doing you good service, 
 When you hate them well for the debt of this ; 
 
25 
 
 Talk nonsense with bluster, give dinners fine, 
 
 Get your company fuddled on th' best of wine, 
 
 All for th' sake o' something you would be or do, 
 
 In trade, politics, law and vestry, too ; 
 
 Gammon all you can, — be whate'er you please, 
 
 So you gammon well, nor sail 'gainst the breeze. 
 
 Now, sir, not one we see in thousands care, 
 
 Who weeps, so they thrive, — who dies o' wild despair. 
 
 There are a few ever present in th' flesh, 
 
 Whose lives are gentle, who succor th' distress'd ; 
 
 But humbug reigns supreme, and men aspire, 
 
 By fraud and smartness to set th' world on fire; 
 
 They are ev'rywhere, in shop, church, and state, — 
 
 None are so earnest when hot in debate. 
 
 What 's to be done ? What 's to be done, indeed ! 
 
 Why let vulgar impudence retain th' lead ; 
 
 As playful boys whose lessons are unlearn'd. 
 
 Seek the advance true merit would have spurn'd. 
 
 If hard muscle will push for place and fame, 
 
 Worthier men should seize and draw tight th' rein. 
 
 See, yonder cit'zens! who put on grave airs, 
 
 Living on Mt. V n 'way from bugs, bears ; 
 
 They number 'mong that fine substantial class, 
 Who aim to ape the long ear'd stubborn ass ; 
 We call them pleasantly, "sound moneyed men,'* 
 Or, in other words, " th' mushroom upper ten; — " 
 They say to pov'rty — " 'T is pity you're poor," 
 And boot beggars who linger at their door : — 
 They are shy of persons not known as Jirst, 
 Nor likely by swell suddenly to burst ; 
 For 't is painful to know those one must cut, 
 When fate tumbles down 'stead of propping up. 
 
26 
 
 See yonder in silks, laces rich and rare, 
 
 Soft skin'd mammon taking the morning air ; 
 
 So nice their persons, light their royal heads, 
 
 Maids must undress and lift them to their beds ; 
 
 They are bodies tender — worthless as th' snail, 
 
 Making great merit o' well-kept finger nail ; 
 
 Their virtues, — eating, drinking, much dressing, 
 
 And going to church to crave God's blessing ; 
 
 When through the week they' ve fool'd their time away. 
 
 With Madame Grundy — what has she to say ? 
 
 0, fools in hoops ! try to do something well, 
 
 Besides nonsense, — " going it " with a swell ; 
 
 If thy set is first, make thy vaunting true. 
 
 And earn the homage that you claim is due ; 
 
 Then Satire bold will hide its wolfiish head, 
 
 And cry long life I 'stead o' wishing you d , dead ! 
 
 Now, Marcus, pass we ou to our Common, 
 Stroll among the trees, view the pretty pond ; 
 But, first, who 's this passing with thoughtful air^ 
 Looking like Winter touch'd with Spring so fair ? 
 He ? why, a poet ! a clever one, too, 
 But like dreamers he sings when he should do: 
 Do ! be ! outwit some thousand smart Johnnies, 
 And at " fell swoop" strip them of their moneys, 
 Then claim th' meed of praise you '11 get it strong. 
 And will have gain'd/ame better than your song. 
 Poetry — bah ! what need hath the world of love. 
 How glorious th' lion — how mean the dove ! 
 
 Again, look, Marcus, — there 's a charming face ! 
 Methinks it beams with holy Sav'our's grace ; 
 She 's a woman true whom eit'zens applaud. 
 For her learning, wisdom, yielding to th' Lord ; 
 She is not proud, tho' born to high estate. 
 And 'mitted freely to presence o' the great ; 
 
27 
 
 She knows pride is folly, that truth alone, 
 
 Is worthy th' pursuit of th' immortal soul ! 
 
 Which humbleth, sorroweth, that babe like man, 
 
 Doth dare to teach, blind nature should command! 
 
 When God has said Christ is my darling son. 
 
 Trust in Him ! or, forever be undone ! 
 
 But, my Marcus, we may not dare to hope, 
 
 All will a Christian's character denote ; 
 
 Whilst crowds press forward to hear men proclaim, 
 
 Jesus, imposter ! Socrates, the name ! 
 
 Oh, Avork away ye serpents at the file, 
 
 Soon shall thy teeth be wasted with thy bile. 
 
 My word is truth ! the ponderous gates o' hell ! 
 
 Shall not prevail 'gainst what I love so well ; 
 
 Thus saith the Lord ! and what he saith will stand, 
 
 With embattl'd hosts o' Christians in command. 
 
 How fresh, bracing, wild, sportive is the breeze, 
 That from the West comes dancing thro' the trees ; 
 Whose shade unbroken through long summer day, 
 Draws old and young from th' crowded streets away ; 
 Grave, halt and merry here resort to find, 
 Room for loose limb, and pleasure for the mind. 
 The squirrel's chirp, its sweet, confiding will. 
 Attracts th' eye e'en of thoughtless big boy Bill ; 
 But, ah, how happy ! are those tender hearts, 
 Sensitive to all sweet inn'cence imparts ; 
 There see the maiden, matron, children, too, 
 Stooping with hand outstretch'd these " dears " to woo ; 
 And by th' pond observe boys trim natty boats. 
 That o'er the wave with gallant bearing floats ; 
 Note the concern on each excited brow. 
 Of owners of th' craft, astern, beaten now. 
 Ah, most cheerful scene ! coupl'd with bat an' ball, 
 Which our noble Common bids free to all. 
 
28 
 
 The poor with rich may walk amid its trees, 
 
 And with its beauties be comforted an' pleas'd : 
 
 How like a brave, time-worn sent'nel appears, 
 
 Yon sturdy oak of full a thousand years ! 
 
 Ita limbs are weak, but its trunk mocks decay, 
 
 Is fresh, vigorous, as in youth's green day. 
 
 When 'neath its shade, the lover woo'd his mate, — 
 
 Manoah pray'd to make kind unknown fate : 
 
 Those strong iron braces this monarch wears, 
 
 In contrast raark'd to youthful bloom he bears : 
 
 Oft when a boy we' ve play'd about his feet, — 
 In his gracious smiles have said, — " Life, how sweet ! 
 We more than he have chang'd since th' happy time. 
 When friends were true, romantic thought, sublime ! 
 The " Big old tree," long may its branches wave, 
 And " Boston boys" its hardy nature praise ; 
 Right were our fathers when this oak they gave, 
 To lib'rty ! and took counsel in its shade ; 
 Preserve it, let no care be thought too great, 
 By those 'pointed to its protectorate. 
 
 See, where comes Roscius, like a Forest King, 
 
 Treading the earth as though 'twas made for him ; 
 
 Metamora's gait, look, barbaric air. 
 
 Will always be in vogue where Forests are. 
 
 Lear, Macbeth, Othello, and Hamlet, too, 
 
 Th' Indian hero always brings to view : 
 
 O, for an actor that can shape his soul. 
 
 To each part he plays as if 't were his own. 
 
 There 's a true genius, heir to honor'd name, 
 
 In the sad walks of high dramatic fame. 
 
 Who if he will seek th' mast'ry of his art, 
 
 Will_be this God, enthron'd in ev'ry part ; 
 
29 
 
 But yet, yet, he has so much to learn, 
 We fear his genius •will true method spurn ; 
 But if young B. . . .h would be a king indeed, 
 He must mount the throne with much care, not 
 
 *Look at that face ! the historian o' Spain, 
 In 'bella's and Ferd'nand's eventful reign ; 
 How sweet its features, undeform'd by years, 
 Where passion in its noblest type appears ; 
 Not brutal, vile, as darkens o'er the brow. 
 Of those gross wordlings who are passing now ; 
 Mark the diiF'rence 'tween scholar and a man, 
 AVhose pleasure 't is to eat, drink, lie, and damn. 
 0, would this world, by sense and passion torn, 
 Might learn 't was not for this that man was born 
 Of twofold nature, soul and grov 'lling flesh. 
 He ne'er should subject the greater to the less. 
 
 See, yonder mansion ! fam'd relic o' the past, 
 Where th' patriot Hancock liv'd, breath'd his last; 
 There lingers yet 'round that low hoary pile, 
 A glory shed by virtue's dauntless child ! 
 Let not this structure be rudely swept 'way. 
 When time shall lead its inmates back to clay ; 
 But let it go down, down thro' ages long. 
 To fire the soul, and strengthen freedom's song ! 
 But there are those, Marcus, who hate to see, 
 E'en the rose untouch'd, it's for 'fumery ; 
 So there are who this mansion would acquire, 
 On speculation ! sordid, mean desire. 
 
 * The same remark we have made in regard to our notice of Field will 
 have some application here. When this poem was written, Prescoit was in 
 the flesh. 
 
30 
 
 Such, had they strength snflScient to possess, 
 The city's rule, would best cit'zens distress, 
 By parc'lling 'to lots these noble grounds ! 
 Cording its wood to vend throughout the towns ! 
 And this is progress, — to turn all 'to dollars, 
 Careless o' results, what brute-living follows. 
 
 "Would we be free, happy by lib'ral rule. 
 We must task th' heart in bus'ness as at school 
 Freedom will vanish when sent'ment shall fail. 
 To sway the mind, o'er prejudice prevail. 
 The beautiful, true, are th' basis o' our laws, 
 The ablest advocates in virtue's cause ; 
 Slight but their influence, bid them glide 'way. 
 Darkness eternal will close th' nation's day. 
 
In order that there may be no misapprehension of the author's 
 meaning, in the allusion he has made to the great and supreme 
 subject of education, he would state that in his humble judg- 
 ment the morale of our system of education, so far from giving 
 strength of character, practically weakens it, by exciting in the 
 mind of all youth hopes of " success in life " by means of 
 knowledge, which hopes in the majority of cases are destined 
 never to be realized, — if by success is meant a leading position 
 in life, and not poorly paid servitude. We must educate, but 
 there is a wide difference between instructing youths in the 
 elements of truth, and cramming their brains with an ambition 
 for study, which in too many instances disqualify them for the 
 discharge cheerfully of the humble duties, which, as men, they 
 may be forced to accept, as a means of support. There are few 
 boys graduating from our public schools with any talent, or 
 ambition, who have not imbibed the notion from parent or 
 teacher, that with their education they ought not to fail of being 
 great men. The consequence is that while every intelligent boy 
 points high, we have in the youth of our country an imperti- 
 nence and audacity painful in the extreme ; the result, as we 
 contend, of a high-flown school system, which ought to be 
 brought under a more rigid and restrictive policy. We say 
 rigid and restrictive policy, by which we would be understood 
 to mean a curtailment of all studies which have not a practical 
 ultimate, and are not especially adapted to the brains that are to 
 receive them. And, above all, it seems to us that the ambitious 
 boy, whose delight it is to distance his fellow students, ought'to 
 be brought under such a moral training as will impress him with 
 the only correct view which boy or man can take of superior 
 intellectual ability, i. e., that it is a special trust from God, and, 
 instead of being cause ior joy, should be rather cause o^ sad^iess, 
 and ought, by no manner of means, to be allowed to foster an 
 impudent and reckless character, or a godless life. We want, 
 
32 
 
 in our schools, as much of ethics as possible, and as little of 
 rivalry as is compatible with good order and industry."! If boys 
 at school become thoroughly impressed with the idea, and pain- 
 fully alive to it, that the only good thing is ambition, and the 
 only praiseworthy act outwitting all with whom one deals, that 
 boy or boys has been grounded in a lamentable error, which 
 will be quite certain, if it carries him to honor and greatness, to 
 leave him in the midst of all triumphs, without sympathy heart- 
 felt from his dependents and supporters, and with but few, if 
 any, outside of his own household who would •aot'jrejoice at his 
 fall. We are well aware that no man can occupy a leading 
 position of any kind without being aspersed and hated ; but we 
 believe the chivalrous soul that climbs to power in the fear of 
 Heaven, and with a guarded trust in man, will never stumble 
 or fall without the evidence being conclusive to his mind that 
 human nature, bad and brutal as it is, is not wholly without 
 the redeeming virtue of love, even when petrified by the harshest 
 experiences. It is love more than ambition that should be 
 called into action in our schools ; and the smart, or the dull boy, 
 should be made to feel that no amount of intellectual triumphs 
 can ever compensate for the loss of that honest sympathy in life 
 which is the unpurchased offering — the free gift of admiration 
 for a consistent, a truthful, a noble character. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 'V91III 
 
 015 863 484 3