1443 
 
 ST. JONATHAN, 
 
 THE LAY OF A SCALD. 
 
 Fye, thou dishonest Sathan ' I call thee by thy most modest terms, for. I 
 r m one of those gentle ones, that will use the Devil himself with courte- 
 sy.— Twelfth Night. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY WILEY It PUTNAM, 
 No. 161 Broadway. 
 
 ( #. 9. WEIGHT, PRINTER, CEDAR tTRXKT. ) 
 
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 ^LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. $ 
 
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ST. JONATHAN, 
 
 THE LAY OF A SCALD. 
 
 Fye thou dishonest Sathan ! I call thee by thy most modest terms, 
 for I am one of those gentle ones, that will use the devil himself, with 
 
 Courtesy.— TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 W 876 
 
 NEW YOKK : 
 PUBLISHED BY THOMAS J. CROWEN, 
 
 No. 567 Broadway. 
 
 1838. 
 
 Oh 
 
7$ .\++i 
 
 DEAN, PRINTER, 2 ANN STREET. 
 
EPISTLE DEDICATORY, 
 
 MY UNCLE SAMUEL 
 
 To whom, my dear Uncle Sam, to whom could I so ap- 
 propriately address a poem on a national subject, as to 
 your venerated self? The manifest propriety — nay, the 
 obvious duty of the measure — is such as to render all 
 apology unnecessary. I waive therefore all explanation 
 and formality; and simply, but respectfully beg leave 
 to inscribe to you this Lay of St. Jonathan, with the 
 hope that you may find it in every way worthy of your ac- 
 ceptence and favor. 
 
 The flatteries which dedicators are accustomed to lavish 
 upon their patrons, would be alike ill-adapted to your re- 
 publican ears, and unworthy of my less flexible caprice. I 
 spare you then the mortification of hearing yourself ad- 
 dressed in terms of extravagant compliment, and, accord- 
 ing to the custom of our widely-extended family, I beg 
 leave to demand an equivalent in return. 
 
 I need not remind you, that it is your nephew's lot to 
 possess in no small degree, that hereditary modesty, which 
 has ever been the distinguishing characteristic of our illus- 
 trious blood. Imagine then dear uncle, the shock which 
 my pretensionless muse must experience, should she be 
 
4 DEDICATION. 
 
 doomed to behold her humble production assigned to the 
 elevated position in your library, to which you have here- 
 tofore exalted, my distinguished antecessors, the author of 
 the Columbiad, and the no less immortal Cyclius of the 
 Late War. I am well aware that your generous heart will 
 prompt you thus to honor me ; but need I assure you that 
 nothing would so much wound me as a distinction so utter- 
 ly undeserved. The favor which I have to beg therefore, 
 and which 1 hope you will in no wise attribute to what 
 your old friends, the French, call mauvaise honte, is that 
 you will by no means persist in ranking me with those 
 twin ornaments of our Western Olympus, and that as I lay 
 no claim to a participation in their laurels, I may at least be 
 delivered from fellowship with their dust and cobwebs. 
 
 For my own part, I fully acknowledge the flimsy claim, 
 which my production supports, to the title of Epic. In 
 fact I had nearly taken for my motto, the preface which 
 Goldsmith's cosmopolite tells of, as introducing one of my 
 poetical predecessors, and which runs much in this strain : 
 " This is a rara avis gentlemen ; a song of its own sort ; 
 quite original ; there are none of your Turnuses or Didos 
 in it — in fact it's altogether a new thing under the sun — so, 
 please you— read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest." And 
 now a word through you, dear uncle, to your numerous de- 
 pendents, the public. 
 
 Be advised then, good messieurs, that the author of these 
 stanzas has written with the truly patriotic desire of intro- 
 ducing to his countrymen, their patron saint ; who if he 
 cuts no great figure in the first two cantos, will anon ap- 
 
DEDICATION. 5 
 
 prove himself for as doughty a divinity, as either of the far- 
 bruited Seven Champions of old ; and in doing this I 
 have surely supplied a desideratum, for which the only 
 reward I claim, is, that St. Jonathan may be received 
 with friendly greeting, and become popular with the peo- 
 ple to whose interests he is devoted. 
 
 What the author has written, he has written with no de- 
 sire of fame — with less expectation of profit. He has 
 written for the times, with some hope of doing the times 
 some service, in a style that he hates, and after a model 
 as repugnant to the true spirit of Poetry, as is Harlequin 
 to Melpomene, a Satyr to Hyperion, or Whistlecraft 
 to all true wit, sublime thought, and beautiful expres- 
 sion. But in extenuation, he has written where it would 
 be hard for the most imaginative to fancy a Parnassus — 
 in New- York. To New-Yorkers, however, it should be 
 no objection that the muse has made her puppet free by 
 birth of their city, and if the bantling has caught the brogue 
 of its birth-place, what else could be expected ! 
 
 I have heard of enchanted cities, and of cities of en- 
 chanters ; of towns into which all who entered were trans- 
 formed, or else conformed to the most debasing usages ; I 
 have heard too of the cup of Circe, which turned all who 
 drank thereof into beasts, and I have read the stories of 
 those genii of old who enslaved men for their weary and 
 unprofitable service, and yet so stupified them that they 
 dreamed not they were captives. And all these I consider 
 no longer as fables ; I smile not over them as in youth, 
 when I read them, and thought them all romance. Alas! 
 1* 
 
6 DEDICATION. 
 
 they are not fables but parables, and their moral is exhibited 
 all around me. What is New- York but that enchanted city, 
 where gain is their god — where men are cheated of long 
 lives in weary slavery to lucre — where they die in the de- 
 lusive dream that they have achieved the real good, and 
 awake to the dread reality too late to amend it. To our- 
 selves we may well apply what Dante says of his native 
 city — not more bitterly than truly : 
 
 La gente nova, e, i suhiti guadagni 
 Or^oglio e disjnisura han generata, 
 Fiorenza, in te, si che !.u gia ten piangi. 
 
 And with this I commend me to thee, my honored relative, 
 and to my tender cousins, the public. In which latter I 
 account myself wiser than those bards who rather appeal to 
 their god-child Posterity ; — a protege which, to judge from 
 what I know of other god-children, will be apt to care 
 very little for the gratuitous obligations of its sponsors, when 
 once, in the words of the rubric, "it shall come to years of 
 
 discretion" 
 
 With all honor, &c, 
 
 Your kinsman, A . 
 
CANTO I 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 Io vegno : guai a voi anime prave !— Dante. 
 
 Most lands have patron saints. The ballad says 
 
 St. George for England fought, for France St. Dennis ; 
 
 St. Patrick lives in Erin's grateful lays ; 
 St. Andrew guardian of the Scotish men is ; 
 
 St. Judas aids the brokers now-a-days ; 
 
 St. Mark — all know. — is tutelar of Venice : 
 
 While the Crout-land preserv'd in od'rous pickle, has 
 
 E'en yet, the memory of good St. Nicholas. 1 
 
 II. 
 
 St. Luke is saint of painters ; and King Harry 
 Shared with the cobblers good St. Crispin's care : 
 
 So Crispin had a double load to carry — 
 But I've a saint for my peculiar share : 
 
 For Mary, thou art mine — unless you marry — 
 Saint of the bright blue eye, and auburn hair! 
 
 And once thou wer't my muse : 'twas blest to write, 
 
 When smiles like thine inspired, thou dream of young 
 delight ! 
 
10 ST. JONATHAN, [cANTO 
 
 III. 
 
 But ah, 'tis gone — that day of sweet romance 
 
 When scarce we felt us in an evil world ! 
 And tho' thou still art lovely — tho' thy glance 
 
 Is witchery yet, and thy bright locks are curled 
 O'er the same brow of beauty — ah! the trance 
 
 That vision'd thee, is vanish'd. I am hurled 
 Back from the fairy heights we haunted then ; 
 I awake, and thou art gone — and I'm with business men. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A city hums around me. Rings the bell 
 
 Of the town dust man, and the huckster cries: 
 
 And one screams charcoal ; others raise the yell 
 Of fire- fire-fire : The rattling engine flies ; 
 
 And one has fish, and one has flesh to sell, 
 And there his art the music-grinder plies : 
 
 Boy's gaiher'd round impede the hast'ning cit, 
 
 Who swears — while they laugh on, throw stones at him, and 
 hit. 
 
 V. 
 
 There rolls the chariot of my lord — no, no ! — 2 
 
 Of Mr. Peddle the Pawnbroker, one 
 That yesterday was bankrupt. Swift they go 
 
 Like nabobs of long line, and flash the sun 
 From their plebian spokes, a shining show — 
 
 As if the liv'ried twain high perched upon 
 The crest-emblazon'd box — an humble pair, 
 Were not in ev'ry sense the highest there. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 11 
 
 VI. 
 
 And mistress Dimity comes footing slow 
 Thro' deep mud-puddles, in a satin shoe, 
 
 She looks much like a walking raree-show, 
 First advertiser of the fashions new. 
 
 Jack Bookworm passes — but she does not know 
 That ill-dress'd man : but " dear sir, how d'ye do" 
 
 She whispers to the thing that follows next, 
 
 With fierce moustaches oo, to prove he's not unsex'd, 
 
 VII. 
 
 There's Mr. Shave the broker ; and there goes 
 A man who's gain'd some little notoriety 
 
 By his five failures. There's Don Timbertoes, 
 A famous friend of trade, and punch and piety ; 
 
 And many more, whom not e'en Musa knows ; 
 The muse perhaps, is not in " good society." 
 
 I ride not in my coach ; but never mind ! 
 
 My grandsire did, when their's got up behind. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And such the animals I'm thrown among, 
 
 I find less food for poetry than pity, 
 And so I keep my rooms, and hold my tongue ; 
 
 And when, as now, I chanced to rhyme a dity, 
 I still am writing prose. My harp unstrung 
 
 Hangs on the willows. When I leave the city, 
 Perchance I'll take it down, and play again ; 
 But here I write — noting-. I live mid business men, 
 
12 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 IX. 
 
 And therefore I eschew thee, pretty muse \ 
 And here I'm scribbling on without invoking 
 
 A single sip of those Castalian dews, 
 
 In which most bards give every word a soaking. 
 
 That too, when Dante-like, I mean to choose 
 
 My pathway near where Satan's realm is smoking; 
 
 For there my hero goes, as Milton's once did : 
 
 So did iEneas, and so many a dunce did. 
 
 X. 
 
 But I'm to go with none to guide, it seems, 
 
 Whereas iEneas had the sybil, and 
 A golden bough to bear him o'er the streams : 
 
 Dante had Virgil's help I understand; 
 Milton was ferried to the land of dreams 
 
 By one Urania ; Byron, by a band 
 Of brother fiends, who said 'twas clearly proven, 
 His foot was clubbed, not half so much as cloven. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So he went in de jura. Baron Byron 
 
 Was peer of Sathan's realm, as well as George's : 
 Half man, half beast — like the old centaur Chiron ; 
 
 And like Prometheus, since from Hell's hot forges 
 He stole the flames ; and gazed th' infernal fire on 
 With eye as naked, as his pretty gorge is — 
 Thence bringing up all things that in the gulf are, 
 Apples — of Sodom, and fair flowers of sulphur. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 13 
 
 XII. 
 
 Chantre d'Enfer, the poet named him well ! 
 
 Rousseau sent back reviving earth to blight! 
 He came — and dazzled little eyes a spell, 
 
 " The comet of a season." Now the night 
 Hath closed on the poor laureate of hell, 
 
 And thou art — where thy dupes may share thy plight ; 
 Where new Fransecas in the dire abyss, say 
 " Galeotto fu il libro e che lo scrisse" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Words, which the modest muse had rather not 
 " Do into English," since it might offend 
 
 Some ear as chaste as hers. And, by good lot, 
 Taking down Byron's works — which I will lend 
 
 To those who can't believe it — I have got 
 
 A decent rendering ; which my learned friend 
 
 Seems to have made on purpose. So I quote 
 
 11 Accursed be the book, and he that wrote !" 3 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now is not this quite pat ! I beg you, find it ; 
 
 In the original 'tis very fine ; 
 Old Dante's song — or as himself design'd it, 
 
 His old Commedia — well named divine — 
 Hath many an equal — ay, unless your blinded — 
 
 Hath many a sweeter, many a nobler line. 
 That blest old bard ! How holy seems his name ! 
 Hallowed e'en now, by centuries of fame ! 
 2 
 
14 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XV. 
 
 However, this is nothing to my story, 
 
 Or rather to my preface. I was saying 
 That I'm about to seek the path of glory, 
 
 According to the public taste, by straying 
 To their old favorite Styx : And there the hoary 
 
 Pilot, must take me over without paying, 
 Since should he prove at all disposed to trouble us, 
 He'd get a thrashing, but he'd get no obolus. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Especially as I'm a living passenger, 
 
 And when I'm back, will trouble him no more : 
 
 So I'll approach with, since you have unfasten'd your 
 Good little ferry-boat for yonder shore, 
 
 I'll e'en step in. Good Charon, tell me, has'nt your 
 Custom increased of late ? TiiriTout your prore, 
 
 Come, no delay — no words you dog, for marry ! 
 
 Your present ghost is load enough to carry. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then off on the scorch'd wave ; where I would pause 
 And tremble e'en at fiction ; lest the dream — 
 
 The spell, that Fancy o'er my vision draws, 
 
 Should be like dreams prophetic. It may seem 
 
 No trifle yet, for aye the horrid jaws 
 
 Of hungry death are open, and the scream 
 
 Of scorners rises — leaping in the dark. 
 
 Where yawns th' insatiate throat of that un glutted shark. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 15 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 It is no trifling theme. Sweet Heaven forgive 
 
 The poet if he trifles ; and dispel 
 Whate'er of doubt that dread alternative, 
 
 Must else dispel in others ! If I tell 
 The hellish arts by which too many live, 
 
 Alas my epic hath its share of hell : 
 Which critics say, in every epopee 
 Must figure, by the rules of prosody ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I wonder who was this law's lawgiver — 
 It was no Solon surely. Why machinery 
 
 And stories dread enough to make one shiver, 
 Are necessaries in the epic scenery: 
 
 Or why the passage of th' infernal river 
 Is always foisted in, no reason plenary 
 
 Has ever been assigned ; though critics urge ill, 
 
 A stop-mouth argument — the plan of Virgil. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I own no rules, and have no muse auxiliar ; 
 
 " But Mr. Poet," so Urania chides, 
 
 II You'd better ask my aid now, just to fill your 
 
 Bright urn Parnassian, from Castalian tides. 
 Your pen wants mending ; have a care — you'll spill your 
 
 Ink from the silver standish there, besides ; 
 How clumsy men are ! Pshaw, there goes your paper ! 
 You cannot do without me ! what a caper !" 
 
16 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " What funny things you bachelors would be, 
 If it were not for women. Come now, ask me 1 
 
 You know you want my help : and there, there see, 
 Your blushing ! Look ! mafoi ! you fear 'twill task me 
 
 But 'twont ! I love to smile ! I'll be to thee 
 
 Clio or Clare : whate'er you choose to mask me." 
 
 Be silent then ! — nay, pardon, Miss Urania ! 
 
 Just steady me thro' this poetic mania ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That is, sing muse, the saint of Yankee land, 
 For sure such saint was never sung of yore, 
 
 Nor did thy harp, in Homer's holier hand, 
 To nobler numbers wake and warm of yore ! 
 
 Come madam Muse, and fill my old inkstand, 
 — I drop the metaphor for 'tis a bore — 
 
 And while along the Pegasean road 
 
 My pen jogs on, guard me from episode ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I write not now for glory ; but for once 
 
 I write for frolic — fun is my delight ; 
 And yet I write for usefulness. There runs 
 
 An undertide in all that I indite. 
 Look deep, look sharp ; and oh my gentle ones, 
 
 I mean your critics — in my epic flight, 
 Mark me, I leave you grov'ling far behind ; 
 Musquitoes that ye be, and maggots of the mind. 4 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 17 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 For ye, at least, are not what such should be 
 
 Where in new worlds the muse would fix her reign ; 
 
 Where rise the fresh young glories of the free — 
 Where Earth's last hope, is yet a wild domain. 
 
 To you 'tis given — alas ! to such as ye ! 
 
 To break the virgin soil, to plough the plain, 
 
 To plant tall pillars, like Abyla's strong, 
 
 Piling great towers of art, and pyramids of song. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Where had the critic e'er a nobler field ? 
 
 Where such high hope ! — To be a nations sire 
 In all its holier glory, and to yield 
 
 Empires to art— to light young genius' fire, 
 And warm to flame the sparks of worth conceal'd. 
 
 Oh, rise some greater Cosmo, from the mire — 
 The marsh commercial, where all genius now 
 Is stagnant, or but shines withjack-o-lantern glow ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Begone ye Masorites ! 5 and oh, appear 
 
 Some Mars-Hill senate of the world of wit ! 
 
 An Areopagus should sentence here, 
 And damn to Lethe, or to Fame admit. 
 
 But whence are ye, and what ! — Who waits with fear 
 Your verdict, as with Midas ears ye sit, 
 
 Van Twillers on the bench, with Jeffrey's jibes, 
 
 And true Baconians — only as to bribes ! 
 2* 
 
18 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Here should ye sit like Hell's stem-fronted three ; 
 
 With voice like Delphi's never heard in vain ; 
 Here should ye rear a Dorian race ; and be 
 
 Like Rome's she-wolf that nursed the hero-twain ! 
 Here anything on earth, but what to me 
 
 Ye seem at present ! — Things of school-boy grain 
 Dressed up like sages, aping wit and witticism, 
 Instead of acting this she-wolf of criticism. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Of course I make exceptions : First, in favor 
 Of my pet magazine the Knickerbocker, 
 
 Who wants to get my portrait for th' engraver : — 
 Ditto of Ammon : and I'm sure no shock or 
 
 Insult, is intended to the shaver 6 
 
 That pounced on Martineau, and did unfrock her, 
 
 Gaining a loss ; since petticoats in trophy, 
 
 Are for a man a non-suit, and so no fee \ 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 I leave out too, from this my sweeping censure 
 
 The Literary Theologic mole, 7 
 Since mutual friends have bound me by indenture 
 
 Not to disturb the blind-mouse in his hole. 
 As for the Quarterly 8 before its bench, or 
 
 At its bar, should I be placed — poor soul ! 
 I'm lost, since tho' acquitted, I'm in short 
 
 Still fineable for a contempt of court. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 19 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Ditto of all Reviews : except again 
 
 My tender cousin of the New Church Journal. 
 I'm quite in love with that Reviewer's pen, 
 
 Especially since he exposed to view, th' infernal 
 Habits and lives of those most heathen men. 
 
 Tom Jefferson and Burr. There's a sweet kernal 
 In those harsh nutshells, and I therefore jocose- 
 ly recommend them to the Loco Focos. 9 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 This journal is moreover my delight 
 
 For its old Fed'ral faith, and staunch regard 
 
 For the good morals, which seem taking flight 
 
 From the worn world, where they have fared but hard. 
 
 Our fathers would have lov'd it ; — (if I'm right) 
 Our foes don't know their fathers, but the bard 
 
 Inherits this from his great grandsire's sire ; 
 
 No democrat I'm sure can travel higher. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Besides, it is a mighty moral engine, 
 
 To crush all moral monsters, such as these, 
 
 Moral-reform, prayer-meetings, — which are stench in 
 The nostrils of all gentry ; if you please, 
 
 'Twill crush whatever hydras you may mention, 
 Except those little, trivial mites in cheese, 
 
 Domestic slavery, and the lynching rope — 
 
 Which can't be seen, save with the microscope. 
 
20 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And yet two million slaves have made a spot 
 On our fair fame, and mobs are now so rife 
 
 Tis bloodstain'd also. I should think 'twas not 
 Quite so invisible ! Your Bowie knife 
 
 Has made us too, a bye-word and a blot — 
 A crimson'd land where law protects not life, 
 
 As Byron said of Lisbon. This has grown 
 
 From its kind parent, Colonel Rottenstone. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And Lovejoy's blood is smoking on the ground, 10 
 And those swart ghosts are hov'ringin the air 11 
 
 To curse it and to blast, who lately found 
 
 Freedom's own soil, a worse than Smithfield. fair. 
 
 Americans burn men. To faggots bound 
 They die for being what our fathers were. 
 
 The Indians too ! But other hands must dress up 
 
 That pink of martial glory, General Jessup. 
 
 XXXV. ' 
 
 Is Osceola dead ? " Ay, dead and damn'd" 
 Say his brave captors. They are damned too 
 
 To an eternal Fame, and shall be cramm'd 
 With the full surfeit of their own ragout. 
 
 Yet are there who applaud it ! " He was shamm'd 
 Say some," by a slight ruse that well may do 
 
 In savage warfare — Out ! let Heav'n not hear 
 
 This curst palaver ! 'Twould make devils sneer. 
 
first] the lay of a scald. 21 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I saw the noble savage yester-eve 
 
 Breathing on canvass ; 12 for he breathes no more 
 'Mid his red braves, where the wild war-cry cleaves 
 
 The pestilential air, and cannons roar. 
 He seem'd to weep ; the prison'd eagle grieves, 
 
 And the chain'd Indian. But his fight is o'er. 
 Soft sleep the hero's ashes, for his days 
 Were few and evil, burnt by their own blaze ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Alas ! it was not given him to die 
 
 Where warriors should, on the well-foughten field ; 
 Nor Yet where Christian hand might close his eye, 13 
 
 And write faith's signet on his shatter'd shield. 
 Weep oh, my country, not for him, but ay 
 
 For thy sad self ; lest a just God should wield 
 Some stronger sword against thee. Thou should'st fear ! 
 — But I must back to my Reviewer here. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Whom I moreover laud, for his bold daring 
 In showing love for — that which I love too, 
 
 But will not name, because 'twould be declaring 
 Something that might arouse a great ado 
 
 In a republic, and set mobs a-tearing 
 
 The office down. And now I've travell'd thro* 
 
 Its merits, and my favorite is dismiss'd 
 
 With, please put me on your subscription list. 
 
22 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Now all the rest I fire at in a corps, 
 
 Save magazines with ladies at their head, 
 
 Which are of course not aimed at. This back door 
 Is left for my escape : and as I dread 
 
 Above all things an intellectual score 
 
 Of females roused against me ; here 'tis said 
 
 Once and for all, I love them, tho' I laughed 
 
 Just now at Rediviva Woolstonecraft. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And here's my code ! ye women all attend ! 
 
 Women are cherubim, and "in their sphere" 
 They move like music. When they would ascend 
 
 They fall — like parachutes : My meaning's clear ! 
 A wife is a boy's mistress, a man's friend, 
 
 An old man's angel, and their lot is here. 
 Let. them adorn it — raise it ! Once I knew 
 A maid, that was a boy's good angel too. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 So too th' Apostle speaks, and deems it shame 
 For female heads to be unveil'd. What then 
 
 Had been his sentence 'gainst the modest dame, 
 Who strips her mind for all the world of men 
 
 To stare and gape at ! Women fond of fame 
 
 Make bare their thoughts unblushingly, e'en when 
 
 They blame the kindred efforts of Celeste, 
 
 Whose pirouettes leave little to be guess'd. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 23 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And these my sober statutes, well agree 
 With his devotion at the female shrine 
 
 Who bows alone to sun-clad chastity, 
 
 And shuns the walks from virtue that incline. 
 
 Nor will they bring one Beauty's frown on me 
 Whose smile I'd prize. I call a mother mine, 
 
 And some fair sisters, and a lovely dozen, 
 
 Who claim the roguish poet for their cousin. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Once more the Reviews. Each stupid thing 
 
 That Carey, Carvills, Harpers, lavish forth 
 Ye praise and puff; but other numbers sing 
 
 Whene'er they tempt you with a work of worth ; 
 Fools with new mortar daubing — but ye fling 
 
 Your mud and muck when Cooper has a birth. 
 Cooper — whose country pays him in such mood, 
 
 The stench of a republic's gratitude. 14 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Straining forever for a great man, yet 
 
 Ye lash the only great man ye have got ! 
 And fuming forth whole tunes of silly fret 
 
 When fat John Bull reviles one bardless lot, 
 One greatest author ye like fools forget, 
 
 And name each driv'ling sonneteer, a Scott : 
 Holding up, 'gainst their blushes, Drakes and Bryants- 
 True bards perhaps — but pigmies are not giants ! 
 
24 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XLV. 
 
 And Irving went to England for his fame, 
 
 The English say, — Irving! — in school-boy days, 
 
 That great, revered, Colossus of a name — 
 Columbia's Phospher, star of earliest rays. 
 
 Oh if 'twere so, it were a grevious shame ; 
 
 For, what delights sweet memory thro' the haze 
 
 Of days gone by, doth bring me — since I read, 
 
 The Broken Heart and wept, or laughed at Brom Bone's 
 head. 
 
 ♦ XLVI. 
 
 Dwell there in thy sweet cottage by Cronest 
 Thou joy to me of many a midnight hour ! 
 
 There, where Dolph's voice disturb'd the sprites at rest, 
 And scared the eaglet from his craggy tower. 
 
 Soft glides his daring shallop, Hudson's breast 
 
 Glassing his sails, till now the black clouds lower, 
 
 And Dunderberg with the red lightnings glows 
 
 That flash in Byron's verse, and roar in Irving's prose. 15 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And Hillhouse with the great unlaurell'd shines ; 
 
 And Drake has bought his laurels but with death ; 
 Sweet bard, for whom the statelier Halleck twines 
 
 So green a wreath : Green be it, as he saith 
 Bryant, the twilight's bard ; — but from the mines 
 
 Of his rich soul, how little cometh ! Faith, 
 I will not praise thee, Bryant. I must urge 
 The spur on thee, for thou deserv'st the scourge. 
 
THE LAY OF A SCALD. 25 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 I've not forgotten Hillhouse. He's my bard ! 
 
 His lays are Grecian temples to the sight ; 
 All stern, majestic beauty, strong and hard, 
 
 Unpainted and untinsell'd — all pure white ; 
 Towering in queen-like symmetry unmarr'd — 
 
 Like a tali fane or some old Dorian height. 
 But ah ! a building now that would be praised, 
 Must brick-and-mortar be, with Yankee barrier raised. 16 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And Hillhouse, with his works, is— who knows where ? 
 
 There are, who prize him, tho' reviewers don't ; 17 
 JBut here is Halleck with his little ware, 
 
 Whom I too praise. But stop! I think I wont! 
 To copy his own style I'm sure is fair — 
 
 Though it is fair by no means ; for his front 
 Or, rather, his foundation, tho' so solid 
 Is always finished off with something squalid. 
 
 Vide his Alnwick Castle. Like himself 
 All bright pure poetry for its beginning ; 
 
 Lordly as Percy or the house of Guelph, 
 
 In its first stanzas : but the style keeps thinning, 
 
 And then come stars, like candles on a shelf 
 
 Ranged in a shining row : then what a grinning ! 
 
 Red-herrings, petticoats, and cotton-bales, 
 
 Finish this grand pasha ! of many tails ! 
 3 
 
ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LI. 
 
 Southey is laureate of England's queen, 
 And Halleck of one sovereign people ditto : 
 
 But how ! what makes his volume then so lean ! 
 Show me his works ! what, not this little bit o' 
 
 Nothing, bound up good cotton-cloth between ! 
 Are these his works ! Macdonnel and Colkitto ! 
 
 When our good laureate resteth from his labors, 
 
 His works will follow him — but not his neighbors. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Yet he's a poet, and by some mistake 
 
 The mob, and critics praise a worthy man, 
 
 All I insist is, that too much they make 
 Of one, whose powder flashes in the pan. 
 
 His works are but a prelude. Why forsake 
 Good Halleck, what you erst so well began, 
 
 Like the St. Esprit porch, your small book won't do, 
 
 Fine front indeed, — but what is it the front to ? 18 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But hold ! you say, for our lov'd country's name ! 
 
 What ! should we grant we have no poets, sir ! 
 And set John Bull a lurking into shame ! 
 
 Ay, grant it since it is so. Stocks, and fur, 
 And cotton-trading stifles love for fame 
 
 In our young bards. The muse lets none of her 
 True sons be lost, nor places her best boast, 
 Over a ledger, or the Evening Post. 
 
THE LAY OF A SCALD. 27 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Say Halleck wrote that glorious burst — Bozzaris ; 
 
 Say Bryant trolled that song of Marion's men : 
 Say Drake hath warbled well of ouphes and fairies, 
 
 And that all these are poets ! so — what then ! 
 Drake's dead, and well his shade deserves to wear his 
 
 Light crown of laurel ; but good Halleck, when 
 Will you and Bryant pay us back in song, 
 The over-plus of fame, advanced so long. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Shame on your silent harps ! shall some good tropes, 
 Save all your trash, like flies in amber cased ! 
 
 Stop, this is harsh ! Ye are kaleidescopes, 
 And beautiful ye look however placed. 
 
 Each shifting doth of beauties give new hopes, 
 How bright, how soft, how beautiful, how chaste ! 
 
 Shapes exquisite indeed, but all of them, 
 
 Made by a few stain'd pebbles, and a gem. 
 
 LVL 
 
 Ay stop ! all this is not my purpose now ! 
 
 I've made this long beginning unawares. 
 Why here are fifty stanzas ! Marry ! how 
 
 Did I do this ! Why really, this scares 
 My courage ! Here's another too, I trow, 
 
 Made by my wond'ring. So it even fares, 
 When once one doth begin to turn astray, 
 ? Tis ten to one, he's lost the better way. 
 
28 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Then, to return, I'll call these trophes a preface ; 
 
 And thus with my apology I'll end : 
 I'm well aware that oft the public deaf is 
 
 To poems long : In short then, I intend 
 To sing awhile. My song in alto clef is, 
 
 I'll not obliterate, alliterate, nor spend 
 My ink in oaths, or rhymes that roll the futile R. 19 
 — I said that every land should have a tutelar. 
 
 LVIIL 
 
 But, wo for us ! Americans as yet 
 
 Know not th' exalted hand that doth uphold, 
 
 And did create our state, pay off our debt, 
 And change our paper currency for gold. 
 
 Some swear it was St. Jackson ; I forget 
 Whether St. Benton, has been yet enrolled ; 
 
 There are who yield the praise of Benton's sham money 
 
 Exclusively to his old friend St. Tammany. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And Erin's children swear a little paint, 
 
 And christian cross upon his forehead written, 
 
 Would make this Tammany as good a saint, 
 As the wild, rampant, dragon-slaying Briton, 
 
 In fact like their own Patrick. 'Tis a faint 
 Resemblance truly, for when they were bitten, 
 
 St. Patrick clear'd the vipers by his sermon, 
 
 While Tammany has filled our land with vermin. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 29 
 
 LX. 
 
 The Dutch who builded Gotham even thought 
 St. Nicholas was guardian of our city : 
 
 And by Dutch logic, some from this have brought 
 The nation under him — the more's the pity ! 
 
 Thus, he rules us, and we rule — or we ought — 
 The other states : 'tis plain then by my ditty, 
 
 That he rules all the nation ! So at random, 
 
 St. Nick's our saint, Quod Erat Demonstrandum. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 I say at random, for this candidate 
 
 Guards not our land, nor lives in it at all ; 
 
 For tho' the pious Dutch who form'd our State 
 Built him a church, and offered him a call, 
 
 I've heard it said — for so old crones relate — 
 He never came. He fear'd an ocean squall, 
 
 And living snug at home on crout and ham, 
 
 Refused his realms in wild Niew Amsterdam. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 However, as he sent a substitute, 
 
 We're on the track of finding out our patron, 
 Historians on this head, I know, are mute, 
 
 And would to Lethe, let this fact, and that run ; 
 I say this fact, that sprung from some good root, 
 
 St. Nich'las chose one Katrine, for a matron 
 To all the Dutch, and for a wife to him. 
 A goodly stock she was, yet never bore a limb. 
 3* 
 
30 ST. JONATHAN. [CANTO 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But this, Katrina did. She fill'd his pipe, 
 
 As Hebe doth for Jove ; and kept a lad 
 Who seemed the very devil's architype ! 
 
 Yet by his aid, his testy master had 
 Nothing to do, but sleep, and live on tripe ; 
 
 While Holland still grew rich, as well as bad, 
 Giving him praise for all his servant wrought, 
 Which was quite comme ilfaut, St. Nicholas tho't. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 I do not mean to say he thought in French, 
 
 For this would not be quite in taste for Dutchmen ; 
 
 But that is what he thought, and I won't wrench 
 His tho'ts for any ; least of all for such men 
 
 As speak that uncouth brogue. St. Nick's good wench, 
 I mean goot vrow, kept as 1 said a Teutschman, 
 
 For house-work and et ceteras ; while her lord 
 
 For public service gave him bed and board. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 But Holland now had grown so very wealthy 
 
 That Mammon. So the servant styled himself — 
 
 Began to claim some praise, and soon by stealth, he 
 Became high-steward of his master's pelf. 
 
 And Nick began to wane, while young and healthy, 
 The Dutch preferred to him this rascal elf. 
 
 They praised the saints no more, but praising elves, 
 
 Was very good ; 'twas worshipping themselves. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 31 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 So he grew great, and Nicholas grew jealous, 
 " Tho' Mammon made my people rich, 'tis true," 
 
 He said one day, " while I was only zealous 
 Of being rich myself — he was so too." 
 
 (And here the saint puffed very like a bellows) 
 " And nothing made him these great things to do, 
 
 Save the base hope of gaining all at last, 
 
 And so in future paying for the past." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 «' But be this as it may ; Mammon is young 
 And active too, while I am fat and lazy ; 
 
 He'll oust me soon ! — The villain shall be hung !" 
 So swore he then, and after many days, he 
 
 Told his sweet spouse. This set on fire her tongue, 
 And prettily she called him blind and crazy. 
 
 But this availed not : so her next oration, 
 
 Begged him to change the rope for transportation. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 So matters hung, — not Mammon ; when one time 
 
 As Nicholas did eat his usual fare, 
 He stopped quite short, and with a squint sublime, 
 
 Cried " blixen Katrine ! for I smell a prayer," 
 And so he did, (would I could smell a rhyme !) 
 
 For a blue smoke came sailing thro' the air, 
 *' Quite an unusual thing, my dear," said she : 
 u Yaw, yaw, since Mammon superceded me !" 
 
32 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 He had not heard, nor seen a prayer, so long, 
 At first he scarcely could make out to read it. 
 
 7 Tis sure of raw tobacco ! 'tis so strong ! 
 
 Vile incense this ! 1 think I will not heed it ! 
 
 But here comes more too ! Dunder ! what a throng 
 Of Dutchmen must be praying ! did I heed it 
 
 'Twould all be well — but look, the western gale 
 
 Is full of whiffs ! From Newfoundland they sail." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " Nay, nay, I smell it out," the dame outspoke ; 
 
 " Those Hudsonites are sending you petitions 
 To be their saint ; and blixen ! why, they smoke 
 
 Very like Christians ! If they're good conditions 
 I hope you'll take them, for our league is broke 
 
 With Dutchmen here. I'm fond of foreign missions ; 
 Do think of this !" The dame spoke true enough 
 The colonists so prayed, and smoked their wretched stuff. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Nich'las vouchsafed no answer. For a year 
 He smoked his pipe considering : Another 
 
 He smoked and doubted : Then 'twixt doubts and fear, 
 Another passed. He smoked enough to smother 
 
 John Bull ten times, but then he drank no beer : 
 And so at last, 'twixt this thing, that and t'other, 
 
 The plan was smoked to ashes. What a pack o 1 
 
 Fools they were for wasting their tobacco .' 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 33 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 He said he liked old Amsterdam, much better, 
 And his sweet vrow was fond of it as he ! 
 
 And were she not, he swore he'd never let her 
 Think such a thing, as crossing of the sea ; 
 
 But as she lov'd the Dutch, she oft would fret her 
 Liver most sadly, lest the Dutch should be 
 
 Cut off, in Indian lands, by those red savages 
 
 That spare nor age, nor sex, nor creed, nor cabbages. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Meantime the plodding Dutch upon the side 
 
 Of the big water, went on gloriously ; 
 Built smart brick houses, married, multiplied 
 
 Their children and their money ; and while he, 
 The saint — was smoking, doubting, o'er the tide, 
 
 They took his answer in prosperity, 
 " And sure," they said, " St. Nicholas doth caress us 
 When thus our ships with gold, our wives with children 
 bless us ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 And taking it for granted, till this day , 
 
 The saint is honored as our city's friend : 
 His are our rising glories, and they say 
 
 His, the proud navies that our merchants send, 
 A thousand sail, from out yon calm, clear bay : 
 
 To trade to Britain, China, the world's end, 
 And home, to bring sweet spices ; as of yore 
 Those Jacks of Tyre, rich loads to Salem bore. 
 
34 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Ay, Nich'las is our saint, and these are his ! 
 
 Go plant you on the Batt'ry some fair eve, 
 When sunset's glory o'er the waters is, 
 
 And mark your graceful vessel taking leave. 
 She drops adown the narrows, and I wis 
 
 Yon sole surviving Dutchman, that doth grieve 
 O'er her that leaves him, as the smoke doth curl 
 From his stump pipe, says " Claus 20 protect thee girl." 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Yes, he protects our ships, and 'neath his wing 
 They fly to India, Chili, and the Poles : 
 
 From Britain they our books and breeches bring, 
 From Britain too, some Trollopes, and some Coals ; 
 
 From Asia, sweatmeats, tea, and everything, 
 From Africa, — shame on us ! — living souls ! 
 
 Stories from Spain of Carlos, and from France 21 
 
 Apes, peacocks, parlezvous, new-fashions, and a dance. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 All this they do, and all this, as they think 
 Is done with Nicholas for their protection ! 
 
 But hark ye ! I have dipped my pen in ink 
 
 On purpose friends, to make a slight correction : 
 
 St. Nich'las never came. I do not shrink 
 In this my statement from minute inspection, 
 
 But bold assent, you'll find if you examine his 
 
 Credentials, that our saint, St. Mammon is ! 22 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 35 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 St. Mammon, ay, 'tis Mammon makes our nobles 
 And gives them handsome houses in Broadway : 
 
 St. Mammon 'tis that takes us out of troubles, 
 When Benton drags us into them, I say ; 
 
 Saint Mammon 'tis that multiplies and doubles 
 The paper-cash in Wall-street ev'ry day. 
 
 St. Mammon 'tis that educates our youth, 
 
 Making them rich, gay, vain, ay vagabonds in sooth. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 St. Mammon 'tis, that makes out flag respected! 
 
 How gloriously the red-streak'd banner waves ! 
 St. Mammon 'tis, that gets our chief elected ; 
 
 St. Mammon 'tis, our revenue that saves. 
 St. Mammon 'tis, that gets the prayer rejected, 
 
 Of those who love not Mammon's love for slaves. 
 Ay, 'tis St. Mammon, by another name, 
 Saint of the red-streak'd flag ; and thus it came. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Nay hold ! Tis time to stop ! one canto's done ! 
 
 And I must end or ever I was 'ware : 
 So flies our life too ! Scarce is it begun 
 
 When we begin to end. We take our share 
 Of the good things of earth, and leave — a son, 
 
 To take his too. And we are off — but where ! 
 
 Ah, that's a question which — hath nought to do 
 
 With this my lay, but chance has much with you. 
 
36 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Perhaps you can't as yet, discover how 
 
 My title is connected with my ronan, 
 But that's in store, and ere my final bow, 
 
 'Twill all come out. So let each lovely woman, 
 Bridle her darling vice a little now, 
 
 And wait awhile : for I intend that no man, 
 Or maid shall fancy half the thousand crimes 
 To come — like fiends let loose from Southey's tomb-stone 
 rhymes. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 I have a song in store, before I close 
 
 Of a young damsel, and her gallant lover, 
 The first with long dark lashes, I suppose 
 
 And a full bust, o'er which light ringlets hover ; 
 And pearly teeth — her story full of woes 
 
 And he the cause. I shall not try to cover 
 His guilty character with gilt however, 
 
 As Bulwer does, whose stuff is somewhat clever. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 The bard hath sung in anger not, — but sorrow ! 
 
 And well-away ! Here endeth the first book ; 
 Which saith the printer, you will buy, not borrow, 
 
 If in the story you would further look ; 
 'Tis all the same to me, my friends ! Good morrow ! 
 
 'Twill suit the public, or the pastry-cook : 
 And I'll receive its worth in fame — or jelly ; 
 From you, or else, in cream-tarts, from Guerelli. 
 
FIRST.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 37 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And by the way, since public taste so nice is 
 I recommend you to his shop messieurs ; 
 
 Where you will find soufflets, and water-ices, 
 Blanc-mange, and truffles, and the best liqueurs : 
 
 All cheap, unless this puff should raise his prices ; 
 He's patronized by dames, fops, bores and boors, 
 
 And eke by me, for there I often lose a 
 
 Dime, since "Sine Baccho friget musa." 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Which when interpreted for the sweet ladies 
 Means that without tobacco Musa shivers, 
 
 (Proof that the Muse a very filthy jade is, 
 
 And should not come 'mongst fashionable livers ;) 
 
 However, as you choose ! The bard had paid his 
 Compliments, but like most Indian-givers 
 
 Recall'd them for a moment, just to show his 
 
 Love for the public taste, to which the muse no foe is. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Now then, go forth my book, as some one sings 23 
 No image of thy father, though his heir : 
 
 Away thou wanderest like the sire of kings 
 
 That straying went in faith, he knew not where ; 
 
 Oh would my hand might sound some worthier strings !- 
 But whipcords now, are all the age can bear, 
 
 So lash away — lay on, lay on Macduff ! 
 
 And hang'd be he that takes my rhymes in snuff. 
 4 
 
38 ST. JONATHAN, &C [CANTO FIRST. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Ay crack away ! Since so stern fate betides ; 
 
 Since the sweet harp that charm'd e'en stones of yore, 
 And tam'd the hearts of savage beasts besides, 
 
 Hath for this blockhead age no glory more — 
 Hid let it lie 'neath bales and Spanish-hides, 
 
 The lumber of some cobber-chandler's store : 
 Farewell old harp ! Farewell thy strings, but hold, — 
 They'll hoard thee well I'm sure ; — thy strings are gold !!! 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Thy strings are gold : but they that sway them well, 
 See gold but there alone. The poet's story 
 
 Is this in brief, born, nousled, doth excel, 
 Prints — fails, prints, prints — and gaineth glory ; 
 
 But gains not money — starveth — and they tell 
 How great a minstrel died. The bard before ye, 
 
 Cares not for gold, so makes his canto scanty, 
 
 According to his model — glorious Dante. 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 i. 
 
 St. I. 7.] While the Crout -land preserved, df-c. 
 
 I say the crout-land by way of eminence ; though Russia clairaeth him 
 as well ; and so also do those antipodes of society — mariners and virgins. 
 
 The various accounts of his Saintship, given with signal regard to truth 
 by the Low Dutch Historians ; — how he fasted even in infancy, refusing 
 mother's milk during the whole of Lent ; how he distinguished his boyhood 
 by the miraculous " Tale of a Tub ;" and how he still continueth to fill 
 children's stockings with bon-bons of a winter's night ; — are all no doubt very 
 much to the Saint's credit, but might prove tedious in these notes. 
 
 II. 
 
 St. V. 1.] There rolls the chariot, $c. 
 
 In these stanzas, the Scald meaneth no one in particular, and he desires 
 to let this fact be distinctly understood ; as he is well aware that there are 
 hundreds who might make it a personal affair with much plausible pretext of 
 grievance. 
 
 III. 
 
 St. XIII. 8.] " Accursed be the book, $c n 
 
 See a miserably pedantic translation of Fransesca's story, by Lord Byron 
 published with his works in Murray's late editions. For the sake of show- 
 ing his acquaintance with one or two of the thousand editions of the Divina 
 Commedia extant, his Lordship has disfigured his page with both readings — 
 one perched upon another, in about as fair proportion as his attempts in 
 philosophy, bore to his success in poetry. A characteristic note is annex- 
 ed ; to which the reader is referred, if he would read the noble lord's worst 
 libeller — himself. 
 
 In what I have said of the "great heir of fame" — I desire to detract noth- 
 4* 
 
42 NOTES. [canto 
 
 ing from the glory the worthy have yielded him, as well as the rabble. The 
 man who questions Lord Byron's greatness betrays his own littleness, 
 but equally little is the admirer of his genius, who doats on him as he would 
 on his ladye-love, and cannot discover his deformities, nor observe what a 
 pigmy philosopher, was this Colossus of poetry. Intellectually — what was 
 he? If reason — sound metaphysics — a soul above the world — and a heart 
 undefiled by its vices — are marks of the higher order of mind, he certainly 
 had not these. If vivid, and sometimes sublime imagination — quick percep- 
 tion, and intense feeling and passion — are the attributes of greatness — he un- 
 questionably possessed them. But the truly great man combineth both these 
 sets of qualities in himself! Milton — Dante — were great men, and they 
 were poets, because the intellect becomes necessarily poetical, as it advan- 
 ces to perfection. Byron was a great poet alone : In argument he was weak 
 and sophistical : in morals — corrupt: in philosophy — contemptible: in re- 
 ligion — most pitiable. 
 
 No one should hesitate to speak freely of him. He himself spoke care- 
 lessly of such giant minds as Shakspeare and Milton ; he scrupled not to ri- 
 dicule, that model of all that is morally beautiful, our blessed Saviour ; he 
 recked not the tears of the man of sorrows ; he trifled (how could a poet do 
 so !) with the sublime and awful name of Deity itself. He was not an infi- 
 del — f or he believed, and trembled : but his writings are the most heathen 
 that a christian with baptismal water on his forehead, ever added his name 
 unto. For all that savors of redemption in them, they might have been trolled 
 by a bacchanal of old, or rhapsodized by a priestess, of Cyprian Venus. La- 
 nartine called him the Chantre oVEnfer, and made him angry while alive. 
 1 have not scrupled to repeat it after he is dead— because it is true. The 
 sacred laurels of the English poet fathers protected them not a whit, from 
 his insults : why should his own save him from just criticism ? Particularly 
 as the latter seem given only in fulfillment of the words of scripture, "vidi 
 impium superexaltatum et elevatum sicut cedros LibanV — which the Prior of 
 Jorvaulx might translate. " I hare seen the wicked flourish like a green 
 bay-tree." 
 
 IV. 
 
 St. XXIII. 8.] Maggots of the Mind. 
 
 Very ugly words ! — but suggested by the beautiful "Mecca's" of the same 
 proprietor, which figure in Halleck's Elegy on Burns. 
 
 V. 
 
 St. XXVI. 1.] Away ye Masorites, cfc. 
 
 These masorites, according to Dean Prideaux, would have been admir- 
 ably qualified to edit one of our modern reviews : for, that reverend histori- 
 
FIRST.] NOTES- 43 
 
 an tells us, that they were an infinitely contemptible race, dealing in minute 
 investigations, and marvellously acute as to spelling and parsing : which in 
 our land and day, might be made to serve the critic, or the country school- 
 master. 
 
 VI. 
 
 St. XXVIII. 5.] The Shaver that pounced, $c. 
 
 Like the artist who was in the habit of illustrating his works with "this 
 is the man," " this is the dog," I must, profess that this hath reference to that 
 old Trojan horse, the North American, which lately let out a warrior against 
 that petticoated opprobrium of errantry, the authoress of" Society in Ame- 
 rica." The last number of this Review is an honor to the country. The 
 paper on Italian Romance — indeed all the articles are worthy of the Edin- 
 burgh. So be sure to praise me in return, Mr. Trojan — " I've bribed my 
 Grandmother's Review — the Quarterly"— but it's dead. 
 
 VII. 
 St- XXIX. 2.] The Literary Theologic mole, cj-c. 
 
 This review — the ultima ratio of the sometime Colonization humbug — 
 is a grave monastic looking personage, in a sober coat; which coat how- 
 ever is guilty of the only joke for which it wa3 ever made accountable, in 
 the standing motto O. Rich, Red Lion Square, London, stamped upon 
 it with as much emphasis as the Judex damnatur of the Edinburgh. 
 
 As it is seldom seen, and about as frequently heard of, it may be well to 
 explain, that it " comes quarterly," and is expected by those who take it, 
 with about as much enthusiasm as one generally awaits the return of any 
 other intermittent affection. A friend of mine — a queer fellow, who sub- 
 scribes to it through a desire to be thought eccentric — assures me that if it is, 
 as he suspects, the very incarnation of the quatern ague itself, it is never- 
 theless entirely unconnected with the fever. But — ay de mi, Alhama ! — 'tis 
 on its way to the gulf that sooner or later seems to swallow up all American 
 periodicals, and will soon be issued no more — no doubt to the great dismay 
 of dogmatists, and trunk-makers. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 St. XXIX. 5.] As for the Quarterly, cfc. 
 
 Mortuary ! Since writing the above, as the newspapers say, the New- 
 York Review, has begun to prove its jure divino legation, by playing the 
 "Aaron's rod." And lo ! its first attack on Jannes and Jambres, is made, 
 by swallowing up its " fellow-serpent" — the Quarterly ! Alas, poor Yorick ! 
 
44 notes. [canto 
 
 where are now thy jibes and jests ! This leaves one rod less in terrorem for 
 the Muse ; who, in her capacity as rates, hesitates not to prophesy that other 
 magicians are likely to see their own stingless wands turned into whips of 
 vipers, in the same way. So beware, ye small fry ! and look out for what 
 
 Shelley would call " my aunt, the renowned snake." 
 
 IX. 
 St. XXX. 8.] Recommend them to the Loco-Focos. 
 
 These admirable articles are well-adapted to the anarch spirit of the 
 times, and must make all decent men the friends of the new review. But 
 really, one can't help laughing at the prospectus lately put forth by the 
 reverend editors, in which, with a great swell about the absorbing moral 
 questions of the day, they entirely omit any statement of the course they in- 
 tend to pursue, on the important topic of Slavery, a subject which {pro or 
 con) we cannot conceive to be wholly foreign to the plan of a great national 
 Ecclesiastico-Lilerary Publication. They are sufficiently minute as to 
 their opinions on most subjects, and even stoop to specify the " Moral Re- 
 form Quackery" — an affair, almost as inconsiderable as the number of 
 those, who can read this — Brandrethian puff without, laughing. "Why it is 
 that a theme, at present, more than any other, enlisting the sympathies of 
 the whole civilized world ; attracting the observation and scrutiny of the 
 wisest and ablest heads in Europe; calling down upon our country the 
 jeers of the despot, the bitter invective of the orator, the stinging satire of 
 the poet, and the scoffs of insulted Christendom ; — why it is that such a 
 theme should be pushed aside by contemptible quibblings about the expedi- 
 ency of minor ecclesiastical matters, would indeed seem not more mysteri- 
 ous than unnatural, were it not for two words, which the Scald very pro- 
 fanely hinteth — Southern Subscribers. 
 
 I observe that this striking inconsistency has already been severely ani- 
 madverted upon, by a writer in the Emancipator, who signs himself "An 
 Episcopalian." 
 
 X. 
 St. XXIV. 1.] And Lovejoy's blood, <fc- 
 
 He fell at Alton, Illinois, a martyr to Freedom and Humanity. The time 
 was once, in this country, when a citizen shot down by the lawless in de- 
 fence of the liberty of the press, would have had all honor done to his mem- 
 ory, by an indignant community. To what a degree must slavery have 
 tainted the current of popular feeling then, when in the present signal in- 
 stance of outrage, there were many (if not the majority) found entirely on 
 
FIRST.] NOTES. 45 
 
 the side of the murderers, — aye, even base and cold-blooded enough, to en- 
 deavor to finish the tragedy by assassinating his character! The martyr's 
 memoirs have been given to the public, by his afflicted family ; and the no- 
 ble introduction which is prefixed, is worthy of its illustrious author, the 
 venerable Mr. Adams. The author took it up by no means much prejudiced in 
 favor of Mr. Lovejoy ; but laid it down, convinced that — a noble soul — a man of 
 feeling and of taste — of sentiment and of poetry — a man of pure benevo- 
 lence — and one who walked with God — had been sent by the persecuting 
 spirit of Tyranny to the noble army of kindred spirits enrolled before him. 
 Of whom shall his blood be required ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 ;St. XXXIV. 2.] And those swart ghosts, <fc/ 
 
 Have the public so soon forgotten the poor fellows who were burnt, at the 
 South and West, of late ! In one instance the unfortunate deserved death 
 perhaps — but not the fagot : and even his crime is much palliated by the 
 fact, that he was — a slave. "Who shall blame the natural ferocity of a man, 
 who has had his liberty stolen from him, since his earliest boyhood ! Had 
 the negro in question been free, there is no reason to suppose he would 
 have been a murderer. But the virtue of our revolutionary fathers— resist- 
 ing oppression unto death — is no longer " obedience to God," when our- 
 selves are the Tyrants. 
 
 XII. 
 St. XXXVI. 2.] Breathing on canvas, <fc. 
 
 Whoever has seen Catlin's picture of Osceola, must feel as the scald 
 does on this subject. The artist has given — not his features alone, but his 
 sorrow, and his unsubdued disdain. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 St. XXXVII. 3.] Nor yet where Christian hand, $c. 
 
 Did Osceola die mid Christians ! "An' such are Christians, let me serve 
 Mahomed," as said Hogarth's Turk-at-the-window. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 St. XLIII. 8.] The stench of a republic's gratitude, cfc. 
 
 It has been an old story that — the ingratitude of republics ! and we seem 
 bent on confirming it. On the continent of Europe, Mr. Cooper is looked 
 upon with reverence ; his works are translated into many languages, and 
 
46 notes. [canto 
 
 everywhere abroad he is THE GREAT AMERICAN. But here every 
 country gazetteer feels at liberty to blackguard him — because he is not a 
 foreigner, and does not hate his countrymen. If he has faults, I can only 
 say — as Beau Brummel has wont, with his glass at his eye — "eh— is 
 it possible !" 
 
 XV. 
 
 St, XL VI. 8.] And roar in Irving's prose — 
 
 In the story of Dolph Heyliger, compare the description of the thunder- 
 storm in the highlands, with Byron's famous " ■ Leaps-the-live-thunder" stan- 
 za ! I say Byron's ; by excess of courtesy, perhaps, for strictly, that splen- 
 did display of fireworks is the property of several pyrotechnic artists. If 
 there is, what Coleridge calls, a "noble imitation, if it be not a coincidence," 
 between Drayton and Wordsworth, in the " Joanna " of the latter ; what shall 
 we style the strange phenomenon that presents itself, on comparing By- 
 ron's stanza with those lines of the Laker ! Byron did well enough to 
 appropriate, when he could so much improve, an originally fine idea : but it 
 was mean in him to steal from Wordsworth. A man should never borrow 
 from one, whom he has himself posted for a bankrupt. I only notice this to 
 show that Lord B. had by no means so poor an opinion of the Lake School, 
 as he was selfish enough to pretend. No doubt he heartily despised these 
 adherents of his own, whom he befooled into a contempt of such genius as 
 was possessed by Coleridge, and Wordsworth and Southey. 
 
 We hear of one, who had been at work all day behind the scenes at Co- 
 vent Garden, that in the evening, during the play, he sat in the pit, anx- 
 iously awaiting a storm, which he had himself contrived. As, at length, it 
 began very successfully to roar and lighten, up jumped the delighted artist, 
 attracting the attention of the whole theatre by the exstatic yell of, " By 
 Jove, that's my thunder!" I am sure when Wordsworth read that passage 
 of Byron's, he must have said (more calmly than the poor property-man,) 
 " that's my echo !" 
 
 As this note is inserted under a tribute to Mr. Irving, I take the liberty 
 of apologizing to him in this place, for transplanting his beautiful cottage at 
 Tarry town, so far up the river as Cro'nest. Poetry is not overmindful of 
 geography. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 St. XL VIII. 8.] Must brick and mortar be with yankee banner raised. 
 
 Instance — the "American Flag" of Drake, which piece of fustian actual- 
 ly more distinguishes his name with many, than his " Culprit Fay" itself. 
 I have sometimes thought of providing it viith stage-directions — thus: 
 Scene, Parade Ground — Enter militia, to a rub-a-dub march ; halt, wheel, 
 
FIRST.] NOTES. 47 
 
 fire ! — " Chambers let off," (i. e. old spavined field-pieces,) Loquitur drum- 
 major. " Eagle," " stars," " freedom," Huzza ! — feu-de-joie ; flag waves, 
 exit militia — exit smoke. 
 
 XVII. 
 St. XLIX. 2.] Tho' Reviewers dont. 
 
 In the last number of the quarterly — the last in two senses — and the last 
 it deserved to be for its stupidity, — there is a review of poetics by Mr. 
 Clark of Philadelphia, in which there is enough to make a modest author 
 mute for half a century. This cramming young birds is not the way to teach 
 them how to sing. However, I was going to say, that they muster together 
 the American bards, in proof of great poetical genius among us ; and here 
 the inverted climax follows ; " Bryant, Halleck, Dana, Sprague, Clark, 
 
 and others /" Query — this Clark ! Not the author under review, of 
 
 course — but, I suppose, McDonald Clark, Esq., of New-York — common- 
 ly yclep'd "the Mad," in spite of— as I have heard — much harmlessness 
 and good nature. 
 
 Well, this is a fine parade indeed ! But where's Hillhouse ! " Non est 
 inventus" — among the " little corporals." That's right ; the generalissimo 
 should not be forced to show his epaulettes in cvery-day reviews. Prob- 
 ably Mr. Critic includes him in the laconic " and others." Bryant, Hal- 
 leck," and others, against Hillhouse ! " Crows and daws," I say with Pan- 
 darus, " crows and daws ! — porridge after meat!" 
 
 XVIII. 
 St. LII. 7.] Like the St. Esprit Church. 
 
 The famous French Church in Franklin-street, which is emphatically 
 what Robert Hall would style " a splendid introduction — to nothing !" 
 
 XIX. 
 
 St. LVII. 7.] Rhymes that roll the futile R. 
 
 Ut Cyclius olim, who apostrophizes Niagara in the true " Dunder and 
 blixen" spirit somewhat thus — 
 
 Roar, raging river, and rattle, and ring, 
 
 Thro' thy thick throne of graywacke thundering, 
 And e'en as thou thunderest, so will I sing. 
 
48 NOTES. 
 
 XX. 
 
 St. LXXV. 8.] Claus protect the girl. 
 
 According to the very euphonious dialect of the children, who have pro- 
 fanely corrupted St. Nicholas into Santaclaus. This name exists classical- 
 ly also, in the truly Wordsworthian ballad — 
 
 'Tis Santaclaus at Christmas comes, 
 
 And fills our hose with sugar-plums. 
 
 Chor. Sing Santaclaus, &c. 
 
 XXII. 
 St. LXXXV. 1.] Our saint, saint Mammon is. 
 
 I cannot but think that a privity to this fact of secret history, is the true 
 cause of the omission of a biography of St. Nicholas, in the great work of 
 my friend Mr. Knickerbocker. Any attempt to explain would have spoiled 
 his co-citizens of their saint. 
 
 XXIII. 
 St. LXXXVL] As some one sings. 
 Gascoigne — not Southey. 
 
 *** It is to be hoped that the reader will overlook some typographical 
 errors which have escaped notice. Among them is the frequent substitution 
 of one for our. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 Er kann nicht echreiben, doch eein kreuz ist gut, 
 Und vvird ihm honorirt von Iud und Christ.— Schiller. 
 
 I. 
 
 Would I might sing old heroes ! So began 
 Thy lay, sweet bard of Teos :' so shall mine ; 
 
 But I, alas ! must sing of what I can ; 
 
 In which my case is very much like thine : 
 
 Save that I may not sing like thee, old man, 
 Of roses, beauties, rosy loves, and wine. 
 
 The days are gone of Bacchanalian revel, 
 
 And now, a hero must be saint or devil. 
 
 II. 
 
 Mine is a little bit of both : a mean, 
 
 A juste milieu ; or, what is called by Flaccus, 
 
 A golden mediocritas, between 
 
 Sathanas and a friar ; a drunken Bacchus, 
 
 And a spare priest ; a fat-fed Capuchin 
 And a poor poet, or a thorn-fed jackass ! 
 
 In fact, he is, for a convenient rhyme, 
 
 The very greatest hero of his time. 
 
52 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 III. 
 
 Mark that I say not heroine ! By no means : 
 I would have sung of woman, for that matter, 
 
 Because I have a great desire for women's 
 Favor : and then I had a scaling ladder, 
 
 Ropes, and a carriage ready ; priest at home ; inns, 
 On the road, hired ; masks, and a maid that had her 
 
 Window unscrewed, and who, at least in hope, meant 
 
 To gem my song, with a refin'd elopement ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 So that I almost had a heroine, 
 
 Which, in these days of queens, were far more clever : 
 Such would, I'm sure, ensure this lay of mine 
 
 Reception with the gallant critics, ever 
 Upon the watch for queanly things and fine, 
 
 And, always, most unwilling to dissever, 
 From amatory themes, the bard who chants a 
 Lyric, in their lov'd Don-Juan stanza. 
 
 V. 
 
 As 'tis, "I throw myself upon the court !" 
 
 On thee, Judge Mirror, who so well becalmest 
 
 The public on my morals ! and, in short, 
 
 On thee too, Clark, my former lay who damnest ! 
 
 There's " The New-York !" whom I have lash'd in sport ; 
 " There's little Benjamin " as saith the Psalmist, 
 
 With hosts of others whom I more or less censure : 
 
 And there's the Southern Literary Messenger f 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 53 
 
 VI. 
 
 To them I dedicate my song anew ; 
 
 They'll praise or blackguard — just as they were bred ! 
 But let none use me roughly in review ! 
 
 As, if they're gentlemen, they'll find, instead 
 Of cartels, their own dunce-ships in my new 
 
 Canto, well- pilloried for aye, — their head 
 Spiked through the ears, — and they, in their cravat, 
 Like to be ask'd what they are grinning at ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now, my great hero had been still unsung, 
 But for a lucky chance. I never felt 
 
 Quite fit for epic flights, and still had clung 
 To light Anacreontic, (for I knelt 
 
 To the old Teian, long ago, when young,) 
 Had I not found the printers could not sell't. 
 
 This chang'd the case, and, sad enough for me, 
 
 Gave me that gentlemanly ail — ennui ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Which is the very worst of all diseases, 
 
 Though never mention'd in the town-clerk's list. 
 
 No pestilence, or plague that in the breeze is, 
 Hath half its evils ; not the fog and mist, 
 
 That bringeth melancholy ; nought that freezes 
 The heart, and heart's affections ; not the fist 
 
 Of hired assassins ; not the gout ; not guns ; 
 
 Not " Bulwer's last" ; not Beppo, or bad puns ; 
 5* 
 
54 ST. JONATHAN, [ CANTO 
 
 IX. 
 
 Are half so bad as my old ill — ennui ! 
 
 'Tis worse than jaundice or the tertian ague. 
 Not all Pandora's evils e'er could be 
 
 So potent, or so pestilent to plague you. 
 It hangeth on you like a stinging flea, 
 
 Or rather — sure this simile should take you — 
 Like an unoperating dose of — manna ? 
 No, no — of Pastille's ipecacuanha ! 
 
 X. 
 
 'Tis a bad thing to be diseas'd at all ; 
 
 A very bad thing, too, this taking medicine ; 
 A worse, to have a leg broke by a fall ; 
 
 Worse, if a fire comes when the sick his bed is in ; 
 And even worse to hear a baby squall, 
 
 When a bad ache or throb the bandag'd head is in ; 
 But worse than pills, breaks, potions, squalls, to me, 
 Is that undying death of deaths — ennui! 
 
 XL 
 
 Now, there are many ways for men to die : 
 Some perish like the shatter'd bark at sea, 
 
 Borne off in tempests, and transfixed by 
 The red-hot shafts of incens'd Deity; 
 
 And some die gently, like a summer sky, 
 So beautiful their parting breathings be ! 
 
 E'en the dark clouds of death by Hope made bright, 
 
 And they borne off to-day — we left in night ! 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 55 
 
 XII. 
 
 And slow-consuming waste hath taken some ! 
 
 The loveliest so have faded ! and some go 
 From the damp-vaulted prison, where, long dumb, 
 
 They brooded in a solitude of wo ! 
 Companionless, save when, perchance, would come 
 
 The starving rat, with stealthy creep and slow, 
 To gnaw some long-sped captive's eyeless head, 
 And crunch the hollow bone, that seem'd out-groaninj 
 dread. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And some have died as Lesbian Sappho did — 
 In love with Phaon. 'Twas a foolish dying ! 
 
 And some have gone like Raphael ; some have slid 
 With the torn avalanche ; and some, by trying 
 
 To leave Life's happy valley, and be rid 
 Of the dull tedium, have gone off in flying ; 
 
 And some have died of having learn'd wives ; 
 
 For their sweet spouses laying down their lives ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Some men have died because their life was death : 
 They deem'd damnation better, and so blew 
 
 What brains they had out of their heads, and breath 
 From their tired bodies, There was much ado 
 
 Made over them, and, as the player saith, 
 
 The Crowner's quest sat o'er their corpses ; who 
 
 Publish'd, with far less conscience than humanity, 
 
 Death, by that slander'd personage — Insanity. 
 
56 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XV. 
 
 Which may have been, and, likelier, may not : 
 
 However, as they died, that's all I said. 
 Some men have perish'd on the seas, by lot, 
 
 Giving their bodies to their mates for bread ; 
 And some have died for truth, and are forgot ; 
 
 And some for lies — now call'd the Mighty Dead ; 
 Some die of fear. I know no case of recency, 
 Where men, Verini-like, have died of decency. 2 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And some, like cowards, have met death in battle ; 
 
 And some have died, like heroes, on their pillow ; 
 And some have died of life's eternal rattle ; 
 
 And some of heaving ocean's restless billow ; 
 And some have died of this ill, and of that ill ; 
 
 And some have even died of being still — Oh ! 
 Many have died of ghosts and visions fright'ning; 
 And some of Heaven's own thunderbolts and lightning. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Chaucer died saying, " Lord, forgive my lays, 
 That sounen unto sin ;" and Grotius went 
 
 Weeping o'er all his useless, toil-spent days ; 
 Pope died of peevishness and discontent; 
 
 And Cranmer suffer'd, with his hand a-blaze ; 
 Poor Cowper died — his poet-life well spent — 
 
 Beneath a cloud ; and as his spirit passed, 
 
 It was an hour of darkness, but the last ! 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 57 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 How the old martyrs slumber'd ! They awoke 
 To glory, when their dream of death was done ! 
 
 How sunk great Paul beneath the tyrant's stroke ! 
 How rose he, glorious, like th' unquenched sun ! 
 
 How Stephen slept ! How Abel's slaughter spoke ! 
 How the old prophets suffer'd ! And, when won 
 
 Was the great vict'ry, lifted up on high, 
 
 How Jesus died ! — as God himself should die ! 3 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Like a self-torturing fury died Voltaire ! 4 
 
 Prometheus-like ! — himself the vulture gnawing ! 
 
 Orestes, in his frenzy of despair, 
 
 Torture within, and his poor soul fast drawing 
 
 To deeper torment ! Now arose his prayer, 
 
 Now his wild curse ; and he rose, too, fast clawing. 
 
 As doth the drowning, straws to stay his wrestle, 
 
 Till down he went — death gulfing his poor vessel ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Rousseau, bespattered with all filthy evil, 
 Died lying to his Maker ; and Tom Paine 
 
 Went howling to his kennel. In a revel 
 
 Some try to die, who've liv'd long lives in vain. 
 
 Hume died like a deep debtor to the devil ; 
 
 But I would die as one who Heaven would gain ! 
 
 As the calm Christian dies, my breath I'd give, 
 
 Exclaiming, "Now shall I begin to live !" 
 
58 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXI. 
 
 How glorious 'tis to see the sun go down 
 
 Of a well-treasured day ! How sweet the sight 
 
 Of a brave warrior, who hath earn'd his crown, 
 Departing for the guerdon of his fight ! 
 
 Well hath he borne earth's scoffing and hell's frown ; 
 Now riseth he to glorious life and light ! 
 
 Oh, let me die his death ! and be my days 
 
 Even like his, for they are blessed ways ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The bird of song dies singing; his last breath 
 
 Fading in music ! So died Mali bran. 
 Martyrs have chaunted te deums in death, 
 
 And poets, too, have died like the sweet swan. 
 They could not live by song, and so, in faith, 
 
 They died by it, humming soft rhymes upon 
 Some scornful mistress' eye-brows, or, what's Worse, 
 Sighing, like Chaucer — " to an empty purse." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And some have died in giving others life, 
 
 In agonizing throes of double birth, 
 Bearing an heir to glory in the strife — 
 
 With twin bequeathals to sepulchral earth, — ■ 
 A breathing babe, and, ah ! a breathless wife ; 
 
 The floweret of a season, 'mid the dearth 
 Of the world's desert, bloom'd the fair young bride, 
 Till the fruit ripen'd, and the blossom died. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 59 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So die the fair, the beautiful, the few ; 
 
 So dies the rarest bird of orient story, 
 Even in death bearing itself anew, 
 
 From the sweet ashes of its blaze of glory ; 
 Its burial and its bridal ! — and so, too, 
 
 Dieth your patience ; and, lest I should bore ye, 
 So dieth this already long-liv'd proem : 
 The muse 'most died in bringing forth this poem ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 I only made it for the sake of showing 
 
 What would, and what would not, more blessed be, 
 Than that worst death by which the muse was going — 
 
 That weary, foggy death of deaths — ennui! 
 Now I'm recover'd, and with health am glowing; 
 
 Thanks to St. Jonathan — my remedy ! 
 This poem has restored me, and shall be a 
 Restorative to you — a patent panacea. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Alas ! I am devote to poesie, 
 
 And that is all the handicraft I boast ; 
 But since " there's no demand for poetry," 
 
 Of course my long apprenticeship is lost. 
 'Tis true, I could have scribbled rhymes for the 
 
 Monthly, New-Yorker, Mirror, and a host 
 Of newspapers ; but this was not the kind o' 
 Writing, that my humble muse inclin'd to. 
 
60 ST. JOXATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And as for writing works ! — the printer said, 
 "Works are not fashionable now-a-days." 
 
 Well, what are then ? " Oh, Inklings, or else Lead- 
 Pencillings, or Scratchings by Highways ; 
 
 Or Bulwer's Sketches. Pray, sir, have you read 
 Maltravers, Boz, or Sherry Knowles's plays ?" 
 
 " Can't say I have, save Boz's queer palavers ; 
 
 And when Scott tires, perhaps I'll thumb Maltravers." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Well, sir, allow me to return to work, 
 
 And eke to hint that work might help you too ! 
 
 Your pardon !" — And I thank'd him for his quirk ; 
 For deep, perchance, the sauce-box spoke too true. 
 
 Yet for awhile I chose to lounge and lurk 
 In my lov'd Highlands, having nought to do 
 
 But gaze on beauty, and indulge ennui ; 
 
 When — wonderful ! — a thought occurred to me, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 That if I could not warble to my wish, 
 
 'Twere best to scribble, e'en as others would ! 
 
 So I resolv'd to conjure up a dish 
 
 "To suit the most fastidious" — something good — 
 
 The very best of Heliconian fish ; 
 
 A most recherche plat, in which I could 
 
 Convey a little pepper to the palate, 
 
 And cram Cayenne down dainty throats in salad. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 61 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And, argal, cometh forth this little hallad, 
 In which I had advanc'd to making Saints ; 
 
 Where I broke off abruptly. If it all had 
 
 Been given, though, there would have been some feints 
 
 Of Madam's — who with Nick a little squall had — 
 And some queer things of his too ! But this taints 
 
 My present bill of fare. 'Twill be too far done 
 
 To be brought out anon ! I beg the public's pardon ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Mistress St. Nicholas was, as I said, 
 
 Fond of the colonists, and oft half-minded 
 
 To emigrate herself; but then her Head 
 
 Said no ; and, if she leave her head behind did, 
 
 She saw, at once, she might as well be dead ! 
 So thoroughly the stern old Saint was blinded, 
 
 That for some years, with pretty oaths, by Hilary, 
 
 Her tongue storm'd on — true feminine artillery ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Ah, those sweet lips of woman's ! — who can bear 
 A moment's storm, a moment's siege from such ! 
 
 A woman's words — all air — all rosy air ! — 
 
 Have yet been strong with me, and mov'd me much. 
 
 But who on earth can stand 'gainst Beauty's prayer ! 
 Never a poet, or a soul, — not Dutch ! 
 
 Nich'las had no romance, and, for that matter, he 
 
 Cared not for beauty's words, nor woman's battery. 
 6 
 
62 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Yet oft, in sooth, her battery wax'd warm : 
 
 She found he was impregnable at last, 
 At least to such scalade : and so, to form 
 
 New plans, she cool'd awhile, and calmly cast 
 About her for a stratagem, (since storm 
 
 And bold assault avail'd not,) till there pass'd 
 A thought before her, which she seiz'd, no doubt, 
 For very soon she 'gan to act it out ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 My poem is a farce of lowly life, 
 
 At least in this small part of it ; for which 
 
 I've glean'd materials out of every strife 
 And difference I e'er witness'd. I enrich 
 
 This episode between a man and wife 
 
 With few of these, however ; for " the flitch" 5 
 
 Was never earn'd by a young pair on earth 
 
 More justly than by these : I'll stake you what I'm worth ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But now, with muttering, — and wives will mutter, — 
 The wily dame quite wore her husband out. 
 
 Once he got angry, but began to stutter, 
 
 And so stopp'd short — content, instead, to pout. 
 
 But falling soon into a fearful flutter, 
 
 Because his silver service lack'd — " the crout," 
 
 The gude vrow, laughing, said " she had her cue, 
 
 And would withhold it till he this should do." 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 63 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Do what !" said he. " E'en hear me," said the dame. 
 
 " Dunder and blixen ! do speak quickly then ! 
 Out with it !" " But don't be in such a flame !" 
 
 " Dunder and blixen !" " There it goes again !" 
 " I'll hear it now !" " You won't, or I'm to blame !" 
 
 " These stupid women ! Why, Katrina, men 
 " Had told it all by this !" " Oh, I've no doubt : 
 " Women don't always let a secret out !" 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 How the affair was settled I don't know ; 
 " But once " it came to pass upon a day," 
 A scene ensued, which I proceed to show ; 
 
 But first, perhaps, I should premise and say, 
 That in old times the damsels of the Low- 
 Countries, were wont themselves to sway 
 The cook's affairs ! and married dames, and Dians, 
 At household cookery would often try hands. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And on the day of which I now relate, 
 
 (How they came there, I'm sure I cannot tell,) 
 
 The stately pair within their kitchen sate, 
 
 While from the fire steam'd forth a sav'ry smell. 
 
 (I like those mighty chimneys of old date, 
 Tiled down with Scripture.) And it so befel, 
 
 That, from their talk, I learn'd the saint, at length, 
 
 Had yielded to his wife's, and hunger's strength. 
 
64 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Now, this is true ! I know that in romances 
 The errant knights grant favors but for kisses ; 
 
 And ev'ry bard, on Pegasus that prances, 
 
 Makes mighty Jove unmov'd by minor blisses ; 
 
 But Herod yielded to a damsel's dances, 
 
 And so did Harry Eighth : and then, as this is 
 
 Only a story of plain homespun matter, 
 
 Why should not Nick be mov'd by wholesome batter ? 
 
 XL. 
 
 At all events, he was so ! Oh, thou fair, 
 
 That yet shalt be mine own ! — thou lovely one ! 
 
 Being of beauty ! maid of glossy hair ! 
 (Albeit, I, alas ! as yet know none, 
 
 That may give answer to this flattering prayer !) 
 Where'er thou art beneath the dimmer sun, 
 
 Be well assur'd, if e'er, such weapons wielding, 
 
 You hope to move — you'll find me more unyielding ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 I never will be starved into surrender ; — 
 
 Will willingly bid venison good-bye ; — 
 Aye, bid adieu to duck and turkey tender, 
 
 And e'en to olives, hock, champagne, and pie, 
 And still be obstinate as Charles at Bender ! 
 
 But, dearest, don't assail me — with thine eye I 
 There ! thou hast Samson's secret ! Unto one, 
 One glance of love, I yield, like Solomon. 6 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 65 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Oh, I am no man's subject ! (So can say- 
 All England now /) I am myself, my King ! 
 
 This glory will I claim at least, and may ; 
 'Tis an American's sole glorying ! 
 
 For they have reft all other pride away 
 
 From honest patriots ! But to this I cling ! 
 
 I'm free ! and — (blest be God !) — no chain on me — 
 
 I bind no chain on others, justly free ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 I'm free ! but yet to all sweet, beauteous things 
 Of earth and sky, and of the glorious sea, 
 
 My soul is chain'd ; to all divine, that springs 
 In the All-seeing Soul ; to all that be 
 
 In the old minstrel's warm imaginings ; 
 
 To words and thoughts of loveliness ; to thee, 
 
 My bright ideal of all blended beauty ! 
 
 And, oh, to thee, my God, I glory in my duty ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 I am a slave to loveliness. Around 
 
 God's world delights me ; but the crowded mart, 
 Where the eternal wheels of Mammon sound, 
 
 — Harsh discord to the music-loving heart, 
 How could I e'er endure it ! Ah ! 'tis found 
 
 In this un-bard-like song, of which no part 
 Doth please me ! But I'm lagging ! — what's the matter ? 
 I said Katrina cook'd, and Nick lov'd batter ! 
 6* 
 
66 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Lady of Gotham ! is not this refin'dl 
 
 I think, myself, it is not, pretty miss ! 
 The subject was not chosen to my mind ; 
 
 But now it can't be alter'd, for it is 
 A veritable hist'ry. I'm inclin'd 
 
 To think, — as coarse and unrefin'd as 'tis, — 
 Your great-great-grandma did exactly so, 
 In Holland, not a century ago ! 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And what, if you are deck'd in silks and satins, 
 
 And call on cousins in a chariot now ; 
 And spend more time at masquerades than matins, 
 
 And promenade to see the foplings bow ! 
 If you do this — when, shod in clumsy pattens, 
 
 Your grandam spun, and, haply — milk'd the cow ! — 
 That is more reason I should sing thee, child, 
 Old Holland's primal manners, undefil'd ! 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 But, oh ! Refinement, is it ? Please, then, look — 
 No, not one stanza further ! Go to Carvill — 
 
 He keeps five doors below the pastry-cook — 
 And he will suit your wishes to a marvel. 
 
 Don't buy old Milton's very vulgar book, 
 
 Nor Pope's, nor Shakspeare's ! I confess they are vile ! 
 
 But purchase Boz, Hood, Bulwer, Cruikshank, Marryatt, 
 
 And take them home in your Refinement's chariot. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 67 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 I love refinement, — shun the unrefin'd, 
 
 And wish the fine were finer than they are ; 
 
 I love fine ladies, fine soirees, fine mind, 
 Fine eyes, fine dancing — not a fine segar ! 
 
 I love to read a fine bon-mot, or wind 
 
 Through Pope's fine verse, or Cowper's, better far ! 
 
 I love a fine new book, a finish'd dandy, 
 
 And even Stuart's steam -refiri 'eZ cream-candy ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Besides all this, my creed upon this topic, 
 
 Is, dear Refinement ! just what you may please. 
 
 I want my work well read in either tropic : 
 And (as refinement changes, by degrees 
 
 Of latitude, and measures telescopic,) 
 I name no other fine affairs than these ; 
 
 Lest what might suit a nice New-York blue-stocking, 
 
 In prudish Philadelphia might be — shocking ! 
 
 L. 
 
 But, though I love refinement, for a while 
 
 I condescend to sturdy, homely, prose ; 
 And, after all, the world is prosy ! Smile, 
 
 And doubt it, if you please. But look ! — the Rose 
 Of blessed Albion's old ancestral isle — 
 
 The youthful Queen, with Monarchs for her beaux, 
 And Dukes for valets — aye, the Queen would be 
 The Rose no more — without her toast and tea ! 
 
68 st. Jonathan*,- [canto 
 
 LI. 
 
 We left the dinner doing ! — Mr. Critic, 
 
 Mark this part as a blemish, if you please ; 
 
 And say, the poem would be superstitick, 
 (For that the poet surely writes with ease,) 
 
 But that, in this place, is a scent mephitic, 
 
 Badly brought in, of sardines, crout, and cheese ; 
 
 Then add, " This episode alone will kill it !" — 
 
 I care not. Here the dame put on the skillet. 
 
 LII. 
 
 She was her own cook ; and, to do up dinner, 
 In " gay, good humor," she began to work : 
 
 Now pour'd in water, to make this dish thinner, — 
 Now added, to the other, some fine pork ; 
 
 Then flew round, briskly, as a jenny-spinner, 
 And, like an old Sicarius, used her fork. 
 
 — For see, to have this a good epic poem, 
 
 This should not be omitted — as I'll show 'em ! 
 
 LIII. 
 
 For Homer, — first great favorite of the Muses, — 
 Wrote also the first cook-book, called the Iliad : 
 
 From which, the modern cook-book author chooses 
 
 His rules for roasting beef. Hence, great Corcellet had 
 
 His recipes for goose, and Charlotte-ruses ! 
 
 Homer begg'd all his diet : True ! but still he had 
 
 That innate knowledge of fine sauce for turkies, 
 
 Which to describe, you know, the poet's work is. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 69 
 
 LIV. 
 
 I say the Iliad was a cook-book ! Some, 
 With Porson, will deny this, I've no doubt ; 
 
 But undertake to read it, and you'll come, 
 Before you know it, on a drinking bout, 
 
 Where one kills oxen, one hands round the rum, 
 And one turns good beef-quarters inside out ; 
 
 Trusses them well, roasts, and, with nice art, tastes them, 
 
 While turn-spit Agamemnon duly bastes them. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Then, the Odyssey, too, keeps up the roasting, 
 Until the whole at length becomes — a bore ; 
 
 And what with turning, burning, frying, toasting, 
 You truly tire of old Homeric lore. 
 
 These recipes are mix'd with fights, and boasting, 
 Among the bully Greeks, to make them more 
 
 Instructive ; and, on this, the poem built is, 
 
 On which a Flood of ink, and anger, spilt is ! 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Just as dear Cowper built his pleasant Task 
 
 Upon a sofa : just as I, good friends, 
 Am building mine on — nothing : Milton's mask 
 
 Is built on nothing also, though it wends 
 Through such a wild of sweets. A cider-cask 
 
 Has been a theme ; — but here my wand'ring ends ! 
 I took this turn to prove you, there must be 
 Cooks, well as gods, in every epopee. 
 
70 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LVII. 
 
 And sure, when Homer sets me the example ; 
 
 And Virgil, too, with plagiarizing pen, 
 Does the same thing ; and, in a kitchen ample, 
 
 Collects jEneas, Gyas, and such men ; 
 When even Milton don't presume to trample 
 
 On this good rule, — but makes Eve, even then, 
 And there, in Paradise, serve her own table, 
 Ere Cain was suckled, or his brother Abel ; — 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 I say, — with all these things before my eyes, 
 I'd be truss'd up myself, by the Reviewer, 
 
 And charg'd with heaping up a pack of lies, 
 Instead of writing epopees, I'm sure, 
 
 If, now, I did not turn to cakes and pies, 
 
 And show you our good dame ; who, chaste and pure, 
 
 Has all this time been copying Homer's priest, 
 
 — Calchas, I mean — in getting up a feast. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And, all the while, as she was stewing, broiling, 
 And fricasseeing, o'er the blazing fire ; 
 
 And still — to keep her boddice lace from spoiling— 
 Upholding her high petticoats, still higher, 
 
 Her tongue was reasoning, as her hands were toiling, 
 For her liege lord, and all true Dutchmen's sire. 
 
 But, then, I will not tire you with her reasoning : 
 
 'Twas dry, and, like her dinner, wanted seasoning. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 71 
 
 LX. 
 
 But here's her argument, in brief synopsis ! — 
 
 "If you can't be a double saint yourself, 
 And know whate'er the prospect of the crops is, 
 
 On both sides Ocean, at a time, — your pelf, 
 In which I know the sum of all your hopes is, 
 
 Won't be diminished, if you send an elf 
 To rule them in your stead !" She hung a ham on 
 As this she spake — " and I propose our Mammon." 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Nich'las sat smoking, thro' this dull oration ; 
 
 But now his fine-cut was nigh burnt to ashes : 
 At once — as if he saw the new-born nation — 
 
 Out of his mouth, his burnt stump-pipe he dashes ; 
 Thrice smiles ambrosial self-congratulation, 
 
 While quakes his queue, and keen his squint-eye flashes, 
 Then speaks — " Yaw, yaw, I'll send the good Mynheer ; 
 That's just vat I vas thinkin of, my dear !" 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Mammon was call'd : " Mammon, my dear," said he, 
 " I dub thee saint ! But your unlucky name — 
 
 St. Mammon, doth not sound well ! It will be 
 Ever against your prospering, and fame : 
 
 What shall I call thee 1 — ever dear to me 
 
 As Jonathan to David ! Aye, e'en so — the same ! — 
 
 I've got it — and I name thee from that fact ! — 
 
 Hereafter, as St. Jonathan you'll act !" 
 
72 ST. JONATHAN, ["CANTO 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Aye, that I will !" replied the quondam Mammon, 
 Who had the English accent, to a marvel ; 
 
 "I'll be a saint, and by no means a sham 'un !" 
 
 (Here was the dinner serv'd :) " And, since you carve ill, 
 
 Pray let me help you from this smoking gammon ; 
 
 'Twill come in well ; and, doubtless, it's to starve, ill ! 
 
 And now, good sir, what land must I be saint of] 
 
 — I hope it is not Holland, that you're faint of!" 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " No, no !" said Nich'las ; " but, by your kind aid, 
 You know, dear Mammon, I have rais'd this land, 
 
 That erst in fens, and marshy bogs, was laid, 
 To rear her head, and bless my wise command. 
 
 Once was she feeble, as a little maid, 
 
 Now, a fine nursing mother she doth stand, 
 
 And scarce hath need of two of us at present, 
 
 So we have plann'd, for you, an exile pleasant." 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Then he went on, expounding and explaining, 
 And added, " Mammon, you have work'd so hard, 
 
 That, though I much would fancy your remaining, 
 I think this saint-ship is your due reward." 
 
 " But, sir" — " No, no, you're good enough ! No feigning ! 
 No modesty ! Your excellence is marr'd 
 
 Only by your distrust of it ; and you 
 
 Have earrCd this gift ! I yield it as your due." 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 73 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " But, sir," said Mammon, raging to be cheated 
 Thus of his saint-ship, and thus too exiled, — 
 
 " Nay," said St. Nick, " this must not be repeated ! 
 You're worthy of it ; take it all, my child !" 
 
 Then both began to be a little heated ; 
 
 And the fair dame call'd out, " Good sirs, be mild !" 
 
 But Nich'las yell'd, with many an oath objurgatory, 
 
 " Begone ; and choose 'twixt Hudson-kill and Purgatory !" 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And Mammon, with his nether end a-smarting, 
 
 Soon found him kick'd from Nicholas' back door ! 
 
 This had been terrible, and somewhat starting 
 To a saint's pride : but Mammon had before 
 
 Been kick'd, as I shall show you. So, departing, 
 He turn'd towards Holland's low -lands, to deplore ; 
 
 And, much as Eve did, when she left her flowers, 
 
 He wept o'er happy Holland's bogs and bowers, 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 " Farewell, sweet fields ! Farewell, ye buxom lasses ! 
 
 Farewell, Van this-one, — and farewell, Van that ! 
 Must I leave you, too, Mynheers Vandergrasses ; 
 
 And you, rich house of Brinckerhoef and Piatt ! 
 These fens, these dykes, too, — built by drudging asses, — 
 
 Where I had hoped to flourish and grow fat ! 
 Farewell ! — nay, ruin seize thee, Nich'las ! Dunder !" 
 — Here he went off in light blue mist, and thunder. 
 7 
 
74 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 'Tis said, he hurried not to his new charge, 
 
 Who, all the while, believ'd in Nicholas ; 
 But, loose, he roam'd about the world, at large, 
 
 Borne on each wind ; as light, too, and as fickle as 
 The breeze, that was his aeronautic barge. 
 
 At length — for every holy saint a sickle has — 
 When he perceiv'd the harvest ripe and ready, 
 Here, he alighted, and has since liv'd steady. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 The time of his arrival was an age, 
 
 And more, since he was banish'd from the East. 
 The Revolution spent meanwhile its rage, 
 
 And people, stocks, and money, soon increas'd. 
 Then came he hastily : as, from a cage, 
 
 Escapes some roaring, raving India beast, 
 Seeking whom he might easiest devour ! 
 I say, he came at this important hour. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Nor was he here in those soul-trying days, 
 
 When our brave fathers fought fierce Freedom's war ; 
 
 Far nobler spirits led them o'er the ways 
 Of Glory ; and made glorious ev'ry scar 
 
 Their bold breasts took, while kindling the bright blaze 
 That since hath shone o'er many a land afar. 
 
 'Twas not the lust of gold, or booty, then, 
 
 That kindled them to rage — those iron-fronted men ! 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 75 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 For then, thine arm, our Father, as of yore, 
 When 'neath the floods accurst Busiris fell, 
 
 Was broad display'd ; and men did then adore 
 The mystic might that wrought the miracle. 
 
 But since, they've bow'd the golden calf before, 
 Nor fear'd thy guiding light ; — thy shadow'd cell 
 
 Of mercy ; — man, thy nobler, holier ark ! 
 
 They strip that ark for gold, yet hide the tablets dark ! 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But this is metaphor ! " The Lord deliver 
 
 Us, and our land, from plague, disease, and want !" 
 
 " So far, so good ! The Litany for ever !" 
 
 " Us from vain glory, pride, hard hearts ; and grant, 
 
 For all our good, our hearts may bless the Giver ! 
 Preserve the harvest — let not corn be scant !" 
 
 " Amen !" — " And bless the desolate oppress'd!" 
 
 — " Does that mean slaves 1 Our priest shall be undress'd !" 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Such are our prayers ! Oh, where's the prophet tongue, 
 That, touch'd with fire, rebuked the church of old ? 
 
 Isaiah's, — that to inspiration stung, 
 
 Spared not for peer, worse priest, or princes bold ! 
 
 Now list the words his poet-anger sung, 
 
 And hear Columbia's twin-denouncement told ! 
 
 " Listen, oh Earth ! Ye Heavens, behold it well,— 
 
 The people I have nourish'd, dare rebel." 
 
76 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 " Behold ! the rulers of the land, no more 
 
 Regard the poor man's cry, the widow's tears ! 
 
 Behold the bondaged captive at your door — 
 
 His cry, at length, hath pierced th' Almighty ears ! 
 
 And yet ye come to fast, to bow before 
 
 My throne — insulted long ! Jehovah hears ! 
 
 Yet is your sacrifice — offence ! Your song 
 
 My soul abhors ! Your hands are red with wrong ! 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " Bring not again your incense ! Go, relent ! 
 
 Give o'er your jubilees — your monthly prayer ! 
 Your fasts, your feasts, I cannot bear ! Repent ! 
 
 Relieve th' oppress'd ! The captive be your care ! 
 Are these the fasts I choose ? The sackcloth shent ; 
 
 The head a bulrush ; vows of empty air ! 
 Away — go break the yoke ! If ye would be 
 Heard of your God, oh, let th' oppress'd go free !" 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Such were his words, who was a mouth to Him, 
 Whom on the sapphire throne he saw unveil'd ; 
 
 Whose harp was strung by chaunting Cherubim ; 
 Whose eye beheld the amber blaze — nor quail'd. 
 
 Numbers they were, which holy Seraphim 
 
 Heard and approv'd ; which, oft, when high he sail'd 
 
 To inmost Heav'n, themselves had taught the seer : 
 
 Words which stout fiends might tame, denounc'd to human 
 ear! 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 77 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Think not to serve both Mammon and your God ! 
 
 — And this idea brings me back once more : 
 I think I said St. Mammon, loath to plod 
 
 With the Dutch settlers, came not to our shore, 
 But wander'd somewhere to the land of Nod ; 
 
 So, here I add — I should have told before — 
 A little bit of Mammon's pedigree, 
 That song and story may accordant be. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 If some have long consider'd it a mystery, 
 
 That Mammon — (mention'd in the hallow'd Bible 
 
 As an arch-devil, and in Milton's history 
 
 Nam'd with the fiends again) — should leave his tribe all, 
 
 And turn good Christian, let the critic's bistoury 
 Probe well the story, for it is no libel ; 
 
 And that, thus living with a saint we find him, 
 
 Is still no marvel, if we duly mind him. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 This brings me to that portion of my story 
 
 In which I promis'd copying iEneas, 
 In seeking Pluto's regions, dark and gory ! 
 
 So here I go ; and if I find that he has 
 Got prison'd there, together, Whig and Tory, 
 
 I'll let you know it ; careful not to be, as 
 My great exemplar was, let out again, 
 By the wrong gate, from that infernal den. 
 7* 
 
78 8T. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 I'm now to startle you with the narration, 
 
 That saints and devils very much agree ; 
 In fact, are occupants of the same station — 
 
 CalPd saints, gods, devils, interchangeably. 
 So that a devil guards each Christian nation, 
 
 From England to Cape Horn and Owhyhee. 
 And e'en our own prime Yankee-land has one : 
 My hero, please you, sirs, — St. Jonathan ! 
 
 LXXX1I. 
 
 In Homer's times, these very fellows ruled 
 
 The world, by name of God, nymph, fawn, or Centaur ; 
 
 And Cyprus, Crete, Iona, Greece, were school'd 
 To tutelars, as Ithaca to Mentor. 
 
 Milton tells this ; and now — how they befool'd 
 
 Good Christians, by the Seine, Tweed, Liffey, Trent, or 
 
 The Rappahannock, to select and choose 
 
 Ex-gods for patron saints — sing, Heavenly Muse ! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 'Tis known that rogues, uphauled by the Recorder 
 To his Tartarean Court, have many names, 
 
 Since iterated alias brings disorder 
 Into the verdict ; so each devil claims 
 
 The right of being satyr, saint, or lord, or 
 Patron of whales, or tutelar of dames ; 
 
 All for the sake of keeping unsuspicious 
 
 The mystery that makes us superstitious. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OP A SCALD. 79 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 St. George is nought but Pythian Apollo, 
 Killing the dragon ; and St. Patrick seems, 
 
 With his high mitre, heart and noddle hollow, 
 And crucifix inwrought with twisted beams, 
 
 Nothing but Hermes — he that used to follow 
 The stolen kine, and ford the Stygian streams 
 
 With a wing'd hat, and snaky rod — a token 
 
 Of Patrick's after-power, which dens of serpents broke in. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 St. Andrew with his cross is, — what is he 1 
 
 Oh, Ixion with his wheel ; the same old fellow ! 
 
 St. Dennis must be Priapus ! Didst see 
 The saints of Onolulu — made to sell O ? 
 
 Brought out by Cook — black as mobocracy, 
 
 And grinning with green teeth, and eyes all yellow ? 
 
 Turks, too, have saints ; and Ali Bey, and Yussuf, are 
 
 Their better names for the incarnate Lucifer ! 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Beelzebub — next mate, as poets tell, 
 To Satan's self — has, by a lucky trick, 
 
 Shuffled the name that clung to him in Hell, 
 And here is mostly known as — the Old Nick. 
 
 His name was Saturn, ere the Pagan fell 
 Before the Christian creed ; and, as I pick 
 
 From the old fathers, though it seem ridiculous, 
 
 Old Nick and Saturn — are the good St. Nicholas ! 
 
80 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Old Nick and St. Nick, then, the same ; no wonder 
 That Mammon should be found in his employ ! 
 
 And thus I've cut this Gordian knot asunder, 
 Like Philip's son ! And Mammon, when a boy, 
 
 Seems to have been a cherub ; but the thunder 
 
 Of incens'd Heaven once wrought him sore annoy. 
 
 From morn to noon — from noon to eve, he fell, — 
 
 As Milton says : You know the story well ! 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And, for his history, I refer you then 
 
 To Milton's works, first book, and thirteenth page ; 
 Where, you will find, he first was known to men 
 
 As Mulciber, or Vulcan, in the age 
 
 i Nick was Saturn. But he chang'd again 
 
 After the Christian day ; and, on the stage, 
 As Nich'las' servant, made his humble bow. 
 So Mammon, Vulcan once, is good St. Johnny now ) 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 And so, it seems, poor Mammon went to Hell, 
 Like all his followers since ; and there he built 
 
 A palace for King Sathan, as they tell, 
 
 All of pure gold ; but I suspect 'twas gilt ! 
 
 For, surely, all the gold that he could sell, 
 He never gave away, like water spilt, 
 
 And yielding nought. 'Twas ere he did invent, 
 
 Tor his good friends, the Jews, stout bonds and ten per cent. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. PI 
 
 xc. 
 
 No doubt, he would have taken lands in pay ; 
 
 But, to Hell's lands, he had as good a right 
 As Lucifer himself; and, Rabbins say, 
 
 A little better. I believe it, quite : 
 And well I wot, that, at the present day, 
 
 His children own, in those dark realms of night. 
 More good square acres than the rest together — 
 Including Sathan's ten good miles of tether. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 What follow'd after this, I do not know, 
 
 And hope I never shall. But I suppose 
 He cheated all his customers, and so 
 
 Was sued by them ; for, as the story goes, 
 The very devil's self could bear ne moe 
 
 Such meanness in his kingdom. Up he rose, 
 And, not possessing thunderbolts, like Kronion, 
 He kick'd the niggard elf sheer out of Pandemonion. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 And then he fell to earth, a little lame ; 
 
 Lame in his nose, as critics have found out, 
 Since he on Lernnos fell. But common fame 
 
 Declares it was his leg, and not his snout. 
 Then how he liv'd until he chang'd his name, 
 
 You've read in Homer's gossip, I've no doubt. 
 At last he grew quite poor, and all forlorn, 
 Met Saturn — on the day Christ's pioneer was born. 
 
82 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Confounded, first, each at the other look'd. 
 
 Mammon looked mean, and Saturn look'd triumphant : 
 Saturn stood straight, but Mammon somewhat crook'd — 
 
 Cow'ring to earth, as if the dog had some faint 
 Notion, that Saturn meant to drag him, hook'd 
 
 To Tartarus. But — lest you should become faint 
 Of my long page — he only gave a leer 
 Infernal : sooty black, Hell's proper sneer ! 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 And said, " Well, this is you, then, I declare ! 
 
 I haven't seen you for this long, long time ; 
 And, I observe, you limp ! You had a pair 
 
 Of handsome legs ! — But, then, that leap sublime ! 
 You cut a funny figure in the air : 
 
 As now you must on earth, — for, Mammon, I'm 
 About disguising me in a new creed, 
 Which Fate imposes !" Mammon said, " Indeed — 
 
 xcv. 
 
 If thou be'st he — but, oh, how chang'd, my mate !" 
 
 — " Don't call me beast, — or mate ! Stop trifling thus ! 
 
 I tell you, there is one just born, of late, 
 Whose life will be the very death of us, 
 
 Since our old altars tremble — cursed fate ! 
 E'en at his coming. He, of Azotus, 
 
 Fell down before him once ; and so must we, 
 
 Unless 'neath sheep-skins long, our hoofs may hidden be !" 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 83 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 And then, and there, the twain matured a plan 
 
 Of operations, till the hundredth year; 
 Saturn in all attacks to lead the van, 
 
 And Mammon ever to bring up the rear. 
 Then, when the century — so call'd by man — 
 
 Should all be spent, both promis'd to appear 
 On the same spot ; and make some happy barters, 
 Of their old names, for those of saints and martyrs. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 So 'twas agreed. They shook their horrid hands, 
 
 As Pilate did, and Herod, afterwards ; 
 Then stood a moment, as Apollo stands 
 
 When he lets fly his arrows ; then, like birds, 
 Both fly : and Mammon in Judaea lands — 
 
 Saturn, " where Calf looks down upon the Curds!" 1 
 What Mammon had to do in Juda — guess ! 
 If you are ignorant, — I am no less. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 But this I know : A twelve-month from this time 
 Judas was born ! — who sold his Lord, and got 
 
 Some thirty sous, and sons to heir his crime : 
 The sons have multiplied, the sous have not. 
 
 But still the Messieurs Judas gain a dime 
 Upon a dollar, — on a crown, a groat ; 
 
 Call'd brokers now ; and, in high-sounding firms, 
 
 Feeding, like leeches, on their fellow-worms ! 
 
ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 About this time flourish'd the Pharisees ! 
 
 Great zealots were they, and they paid their tithes : 
 Aye, and they compass'd rivers, mountains, seas, 
 
 Earth, fire, and water; shaving down, like scythes, 
 Sin, and fat crops ; the Pagan's faith and fees ; 
 
 Breaking their bands as Samson did his withes ; 
 Tneir life's great end, God's praise — and merchandise ; 
 ially this last, or History lies ! 
 
 But here, my Muse, please grant me leave to say, 
 How greatly we're mistaken on this head ! 
 
 We have a notion, at the present day, 
 
 That these same Pharisees, who, (prophets said,) 
 
 Were " fools, and blind," were desperately astray, 
 And must have been most arrantly misled. 
 
 t; What wicked knaves they were ! Most precious villains, 
 .iiling Bulwer's heroes, and Crebillon's !" 
 
 CI. 
 
 " The} ihought themselves so righteous! — Shocking bad ! — 
 They lov'd establish'd creeds ! — Priest-ridden men ! — 
 
 They paid church-rates, and tithes ! — Oh, raving mad ! — 
 And wore odd garments ! — They were Quakers then ? — 
 
 They lov'd chief seats, and greetings ! — That is sad ! — 
 They said a thousand prayers where we say ten ! — 
 
 What hypocrites ! — They went to church all-weathers, 
 
 And preach'd in markets ! — Give them tar-and-feathers !" 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 85 
 
 CII. 
 
 Now, this is all mistake. Their friends would tell 
 A diif'rent story. They were men of worth, 
 
 Of property and standing, — and liv'd well. 
 
 They kept all feasts, and fast-days, and so-forth, 
 
 Especially the feasts! To live, and swell 
 Their bodies to the fulness of their girth, 
 
 Was only but a very venial sin : 
 
 The flesh was fed, but grace was warm within ! 
 
 cm. 
 
 We have the history of one of them ; 
 
 Dan Dives calPd, who fed poor Lazarus. 
 A very honest man ! — that had to stem 
 
 Hard times, when he was young, like one of us. 
 His earnings came apace, and would condemn 
 
 Our present Patent-Railroad-Omnibus 
 Accommodation plan of making fortunes! 
 — But, «• pray no episodes" — the Muse importunes. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Dives grew rich by sober, thrifty means, 
 
 And gave his honest rental to the Lord ; 
 Fed on fine wheat, and stock'd with wholesome beans 
 
 The neighboring poor — well suited to their board. 
 "They must not be too nice. The man who gleans 
 
 My fields," said he, " when all my sheaves are stored, 
 May bless me e'en for that, and not expect 
 Too much from one." All this was, sure, correct ! 
 8 
 
86 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 cv. 
 
 Nor did he drive the sick man from his door ; — 
 Ah ! no — the dogs were good, and so was he : 
 
 They lick'd the poor, starv'd beggar's ev'ry sore, 
 And Dives sent him crumbs. His misery 
 
 Was oft reliev'd from Madam Dives' store ; 
 And e'en the children threw a ha'penny ! 
 
 And when the beggar died, good Dives said, 
 
 With pity in his eye, "Poor devil, is he dead !" 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Some say this Dives was a Saducee ! 
 
 If so, I've been mistaken. I don't care ; 
 I find myself mistaken — so did he ! 
 
 He died, and left his money to his heir, 
 Expecting that his death his end would be, — 
 
 And giving up his body to be fare 
 For worms. The Scriptures say he was mistaken. 
 False faith, tho' all sincere, will never "save one's bacon !" 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Yet all his life was very justifiable ; 
 
 And Dives, were he living in our day, 
 Would never be, by judge or jury, try-able, 
 
 But keep a nice four-story in Broadway. 
 Yet, that somewhat was wrong, is undeniable ; 
 
 For follow out his fate : — The Scriptures say 
 This Dives " lifted up his eyes — in Hell !" 
 — Can any one inform how this befell 1 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OP A SCALD. 87 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 I say, had Dives lived in eighteen hundred, 
 
 And "had the same advantages as we" 
 He would have been quite orthodox, nor blunder'd 
 
 'Gainst the dread creed of penal misery : 
 — A Presbyterian — but the sect is sunder'd, — 
 
 A staunch Episcopalian Pharisee, 
 With Saducees and Methodists at variance ! 
 — The Saducees now hail as Unitarians ! 
 
 CIX. 
 
 And then, this Dives would have said his prayers, 
 And been, in all things, a most honest man : 
 
 Quite pious, when,— quite free from week-day cares, 
 He rose on Sundays, and his vows began ; 
 
 He would have lived perhaps to hoary hairs, 
 Spite of his wine ! And, as his race he ran, 
 
 He would have done some pretty things, and clever, 
 
 And died "in hope of happiness forever!" 
 
 CX. 
 
 In fine, should Dives die in these our times, 
 The public would bewail their dreadful loss ! 
 
 The clergy would acquit him of all crimes, 
 And kindly would his peccadilloes gloss. 
 
 Religious papers would come out in rhymes, 
 " His treasures to his virtues were but dross !" 
 
 The Churchman and Observer would be very 
 
 Pathetic, too, in their obituary ! 
 
88 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 CXI. 
 
 ***** 
 
 * * * * 
 ***** 
 
 * * * * 
 ***** 
 
 * * * * 
 ***** 
 
 * * * * 
 
 CXII. 
 
 Then he'd wind up with dash and exclamation, 
 Informing us that " Dives, in his will, 
 
 Had left undoubted proofs of his salvation," 
 In all the products of his cotton-mill, 
 
 Bequeath'd in trust to him ! ! to free the nation 
 From those two million negroes, that are still 
 
 Feeding on us — the lazy, dingy rascals : 
 
 E'en greater pests than Kendalls, or Job Haskells ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 But papers, now-a-days, as Cobbett said, 
 
 Would weep their loss, if Satan's self should die ! 
 
 " Most shocking news ! — Alas, the Devil's dead ! 
 We hope the rumor may turn out a lie !" 
 
 Or, if they did not, when the news was read, 
 His num'rous sons, bereav'd, with tearful eye, 
 
 Would call with — " Well, sir, 'tis a pretty caper ! 
 
 Insult our father ! Villain ! stop my paper !" 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 89 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Thou, too ! — nay, rather you two who do edit 
 Another well-baptized Commercial Journal — 
 
 Who do not " buy the truth," but have the credit 
 Of " selling it" at clever gains — (I learn all 
 
 The items of town-talk, and eke have read it) — 
 
 I say you, too, would weep ! And though the infernal 
 
 Slaughter of Lovejoy drew no tears, but smiles ! 
 
 You'd weep, should Dives die, ye crocodiles ! 
 
 cxv. 
 
 First, you would say — " We learn that he has given 
 
 A million to his little heirs — 'tis well ! 
 Five hundred more, to have his body driven, 
 
 In a deck'd hearse, to church, and "make a swell !" 
 This last alone should rest his soul in Heaven ! 
 
 Something to us ! — This keeps him out of Hell ! 
 And thousands towards extinguishing the taint 
 Of having blacks among us! — Precious saint !" 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Such is the church, alas ! in these our days ; 
 
 And many a Christian is a Pharisee, 
 Who shuns the closet where the humble prays, 
 
 And sounds a trumpet, that we all may be 
 Acquainted with His self-denying ways, 
 
 And learn, of Him, all evil lusts to flee. 
 Such are too many, who with lips adore 
 The Christian's God! — in heart, like those of yore, 
 8* 
 
90 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Still bowing down to Mammon ! Ay, the clergy, 8 
 Who boast their wealth above, and, gravely sage, 
 
 Cease not, on Sundays, to exhort and urge ye, 
 May, upon week-days, all their might engage — 
 
 Not to help Sion, and from lusts to purge ye ; 
 But to keep up the speculation rage, 
 
 And palm off bubble building-lots in — Texas ! 
 
 Vide, the puffs with which the papers vex us ! 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Then, as for those most worthy men, the laity, 
 They have unbounded right to cheat and shave, 
 
 If only, when their note is due, they pay it ye ! 
 And upon fast-days look demure and grave. 
 
 They must not spend the wealth they get — in gaiety. 
 But, in the colonizing of the slave! ! 
 
 — 'Tis such a charity to ship the niggers, 
 
 Who, in our churches, cut such ugly figures ! 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 For they have found a patent rail-road plan 
 
 Of doing all their duty, and of still 
 Keeping themselves as quiet as they can ! 
 
 They look on persecution as a pill, 
 And as by no means " the chief end of man" — 
 
 Wholesome, perhaps, if wicked times, and ill^ 
 Assail the church ; but as a grand ingredient 
 Of Christian life, by all means — inexpedient i 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 91 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Such are, alas, the Christians of the day ! 
 
 And such, too many priests of lowly Jesus ! 
 Oh, ye blind guides, who keep the truth away, 
 
 Get you a golden calf, and pray with Croesus ! 
 Or, rather, serve no more these things of clay, 
 
 Nor, for false doctrine, annually fleece us ! 
 I speak not unto all ! — But there are some 
 Will wince,when this they read ! To such These Presents 
 come ! 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 And this is all through Mammon — here, at last ! 
 
 As I have said before. He kept his vow ; 
 And, when that guilty century was past, 
 
 Once more to Saturn made his humble bow. 
 Saturn said, " Come, don't be a saint too fast ! 
 
 I must employ you as my 'prentice now : 
 You're a good workman, and I want to use you ; 
 And since you offer, sure, I won't refuse you !" 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 Now, Mammon never offered ; but he feared, 
 And so became his valet, and his lacquey. 
 
 Together, thro' long centuries they steer'd, 
 Mammon still acting as his master's blackey, 
 
 And patronizing the poor Jews, who (clear'd 
 From Palestine) negociated pacquets, 
 
 And bills, and such like ! Mammon, too, had play-days ; 
 
 And then he made — bulls, councils, and armadas. 
 
92 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 And he had frolics, too ; and soon was seen, 
 — Child of his lust — the fiend-born Slavery ! 
 
 Monster more curst than Polypheme, I ween ; 
 Medusa's head, a Fury's heart, and she 
 
 More cruel than Erynnys ! Since, have been 
 None like her, but her sons ! Accursed be 
 
 The hour, when Mammon, more accursed, brought her 
 
 O'er the stain'd sea, and planted here — his daughter. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 And Mammon carried, as his badge of office, 
 In Saturn's train, a staff yclep'd a bident. 
 
 This he was forc'd to shoulder; and his scoff is. 
 That now, as he's a Saint, and haply lighten'd 
 
 Of the sad load, this circumstance enough is, 
 To give it him once more, a little brighten'd, 
 
 Upon his flag, emblazon'd with bright dross, 
 
 And 'neath, the scroll, " St. Jonathan's Red Cross !" 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 This cross is pretty ; like his friend, St. George's ; 
 
 Far handsomer than Andrew's ; and his own ! 
 He recommends it for a flag, and urges 
 
 The Texians to adopt it ; and has shown, 
 That Red has a nice reference to scourges 
 
 And slavery. I think it can have none, 
 And therefore recommend it. It is nigh 
 The model of a pitch-fork, or a Y. 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 93 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 In course of time — quod vide in your histories — 
 Holland emerg'd, all glorious, from the mud ; 
 
 And Russia, too, which, doubtless, her twin sister is, 
 At length began to bourgeon, and to bud. 
 
 Then, too, began to open other mysteries, 
 And holy names the calendar 'gan stud ! 
 
 And there St. Nicholas was soon enroll'd, 
 
 With Mammon for his squire. The rest is told. 
 
 CXXVIL 
 
 St. Jonathan is here at last ! but goes 
 
 By a plain title, — more republican ! 
 He suits himself to all ; and, in plain prose, 
 
 Is but the Yankee, Brother Jonathan — 
 True brother to John Bull ; and, as he grows, 
 
 He takes his brother's manners, one by one ; 
 But still supports the national democracy, 
 Against young sneering bloods,with poetry and hock crazy. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 And here, St. Jonathan doth live at ease ; 
 
 For when he first determin'd here to settle, 
 He travers'd the whole country by degrees, 
 
 And took the nation, like a man of mettle. 
 In Northern States he manufactur'd cheese 
 
 Out of white-oak, and mustard out of nettle, 
 Flints out of horn, and nutmegs out of wood ; 
 And so the people thriv'd, grew rich — and good ? 
 
94 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTO 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 But in the South he fix'd his chief dominion, 
 
 Where his chief work was raising rice and negroes ; 
 
 Besides, he forg'd out fetter, chain, and pinion, 
 
 And handcuffs, too, for locking slaves in thick rows ; 
 
 Whips, too, he made, which ev'ry little minion 
 
 Of his curst daughter sways, and makes to dig rows 
 
 In the scarr'd backs of those, whose blood and pain 
 
 Manure the hell-born harvest of their cane ! 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 He has the tact of shuffling on the coil 
 
 Of mortal Nature, when and where he pleases. 
 
 Now he is in Nantucket, making oil, — 
 
 And now, in Hartford, selling white-oak cheeses ; 
 
 And then, again, he's found on Southern soil ! 
 He comes and goes, like fogs upon the breezes, 
 
 None knowing how ! And, when it is as dark as 
 
 Egypt, at night, he doffs and dons his carcass ! 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 " A stranger has appear'd in town," they say ; 
 
 " A goodish looking fellow, with a cough : 
 Quite a mysterious chap !" He stays a day, 
 
 And then they find his corpse — but he is off! 
 Another fellow, then, is seen, away 
 
 Some thousand miles ! Tis he, the same ! Like " Goff, 
 Or Whalley, or the Devil," he is there, — 
 Here — far away — in Georgia — ev'ry where ! 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD. 95 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 If ever you should find a carcass, quiz it ! 
 
 'Tis very likely his. He has his home 
 Somewhere or other : Who can tell where is it ? 
 
 And when he takes it in his head to roam, 
 He leaves the family to make a visit ; 
 
 But does it in the way I've told. My tome 
 Concludes with this ! In my succeeding present, 
 I'll bring you to the South's savannas pleasant. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Aye, to those fair savannas : made, 'twould seem, 
 For Eden's twin ; where mourn the Helot race ! 
 
 Where the bright gold mine flashes back the beam 
 Of the sweet sky ; and bondsmen bow their face ! 
 
 Where the broad rivers pour a silver stream ; 
 But human fountains dye the waves a space ! 
 
 Where all their fields are white with mimic snow, 
 
 But whirlwinds scent afar the blood that smokes below ! 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 My canto's done ! Farewell till next we meet ! 
 
 There is a sorrow in that sound — farewell ! 
 It hath sad music, when the sounds repeat 
 
 The lov'd one's wish ; loving, and lov'd as well ! 
 A more than wind-harp melody ; that, sweet, 
 
 Lingers i' th' ear, and in the heart doth dwell ! 
 " Ay, marry ! But thus bored with your dull riddle," 
 You say, perhaps, " 'tis merry as a fiddle !" 
 
96 ST. JONATHAN, [CANTC 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Then be it so ! If, holding up to Nature 
 
 A mirror true, I shock you, and enrage : 
 You're only angry at your own vile feature, 
 
 While, you suppose, you're storming at my page. 
 Farewell, dear reader ! kind, good-natured creature ! 
 
 Grow wise, grow good, grow patient, and be sage ! 
 For, in my following canto, I may bring you 
 To a whole hive of sweets — that yet may sting you ! 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 Farewell ! For now — his hero well install'd— 
 The bard defers what else he hath to say. 
 
 The bard ! — but, really, I should be call'd 
 
 Something less sounding in my rhymes to-day ! 
 
 Well, then, no bard, an' please you, — but a Scald ! 
 And this, dear reader, is a Scaldic lay ! 
 
 Now, Scald, — and this I mention for reviewers, — 
 
 Meaneth a kind of minstrel, good Messieurs ! 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 But, Postscript! I don't mean to be revicw'd ! 
 
 And, therefore, I forbid all publications, 
 (Having for their design " the public good," 
 
 And " coming quarterly,") in future rations, 
 To dish me up at all. 'Tis understood, 
 
 I hope, by all who fill those mighty stations ! 
 E'en my New-York Review is not exempt : 
 'Twill please preserve " a dignified contempt" 
 
SECOND.] THE LAY OF A SCALD, 97 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 The journals will accept my private thanks, 
 
 And advertise this peremptory notice ; 
 Their bills will all be settled at the banks ; 
 
 And this last stanza just the one to quote is. 
 Please hand them in ere August, (filled in blanks,) 
 
 For then the Samson — which a mighty boat is — 
 Is charter'd to convey me from the country : 
 I can't back out, without too much efFront'ry. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 My object in embarking, is to make 
 
 Arrangements with the Anglian Reviews, 
 
 And Blackwood's, and the Edinburgh, to take 
 In their especial care my humble Muse. 
 
 When I come back, perchance, for pity's sake, 
 I'll hear my dear New-Yorker — if I choose. 
 
 Meantime, of course, 'twill be advised, and wait 
 
 Till better judges settle on my fate. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 'Twould not be modest for my tender brothers 
 
 To speak of me before a wiser cousin ! 
 That's right, my little fellows ! wait for others ! 
 
 You're learning manners : pray, don't put your nose in ! 
 The English are, in every thing, our mothers ; 
 
 And if our land bears Irvings by the dozen, 
 Or Coopers — they must all be suckled there ; 
 While these unneeded midwives stand and stare ! 
 9 
 
98 ST. JONATHAN. [CANTO SECOND. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 West fled us, and drew monarchs. Had he staid, 
 He might have gilded tavern-signs ! And Morse, 
 
 Had he but left his country, would have made 
 A name for her to boast, and claim — of course ! 
 
 As 'tis, how ill they treat him ! I'm afraid 
 He has been throwing pearls before a — horse ! 
 
 Unjust alike in praising, or in blame, 
 
 Genius we kill, and blast our heirs of fame ! 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 Ah me ! for I, myself, have been unjust, 
 
 To Halleck's harp, and Bryant's ! — bards, indeed, 
 
 Well worthy of the lyre, the laurell'd bust, 
 The people's plaudit, and the poet's meed. 
 
 Oh, blame not them ! The lucre and the lust 
 Of the cold world, lets e'en its laureates bleed ! 
 
 And, were my mood as meek, this soul of mine 
 
 Were theirs who stifle song, and drown the dream divine. 
 
 END OF CANTO SECOND. 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES. 
 
 St. I. 1.] So began thy lay, &c. 
 
 GlXw \Zysiv ArpeiSas. Ode I. I give what the Fourth Form boys 
 would call a free translation. 
 
 II. 
 
 St. XV. 8.] Where men, Verini-like, have died, &c. 
 
 Verini sacrificed himself to his virtue. 
 
 Denique, praeceptis cunctorum sensibus, omnes 
 Hue veniunt, atque haec mens fuit una viris ; 
 Non posse extremes hunc tempus sperare juventae, 
 Gaudia percipiat ni tua, pulchra Venus ! 
 Res miranda quidem, rara, et per saecula visa, 
 Exemplum in puero tale pudicitise : 
 Qui vitse sanctum potuit prseferre pudorem, 
 Viveret ut semper, tunc voluisse mori. — Landino. 
 
 III. 
 
 St. XVIII. 8.] As God himself should die. 
 
 The life and death of Socrates were those of a sage ; the life and 
 death of Jesus Christ were those of a God. — Rousseau. 
 
102 NOTES. [CAXTO 
 
 IV. 
 
 St. XIX. 1.] Like a self-torturing fury died Voltaire, &c. 
 
 Dr. Tronchin, his physician, declared that the furies of Orestes 
 were nothing to his. 
 
 V. 
 
 St. XXXIV. 6.] "The flitch" 
 
 Id est, of bacon ! given to a pair who had been married a twelve, 
 month without scolding ! See the whole story, with an account 
 of the marvellous few that merited it, in Nos. 607 and 608 of the 
 Spectator. 
 
 VI. 
 
 St. XLI. 8.] / yield like Solomon. 
 
 Thou hast ravish'd my heart with one of thine eyes. — Canticles. 
 
 VII. 
 St. XCVII. 6.] "Where Calf looks down upon the Curds." 
 An amended reading of Byron's — 
 
 "Where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 St. CXVII. 1.] The Clergy, &c. 
 
 Let none suppose that these stanzas are in any wise designed to 
 favor the miserable anarchical prejudice of a paltry class of disorga- 
 nizes, who, in two hemispheres, are making their onset against all 
 religion by an outcry against the clergy. In treating, allegorically, 
 of the influence of Mammon on our national character, I could not, 
 in honesty, overlook its effect on the pulpit ; and though, like Cow« 
 
SECOND.] NOTES. 103 
 
 per, I feel that I am touching a holy thing, I fear I am only too just 
 in my remarks. To say nothing of the universal enslavement of the 
 American pulpit on the subject of Slavery, it is a fact that the charges 
 here preferred have been, in a measure, true. During the times of 
 the Speculation bubble, many of the cloth allowed themselves to en- 
 gage pretty heartily in worldly matters, and the building of air castles 
 not only, but eke of air cities, and, for aught I know, of kingdoms, 
 which were not the kingdom of Heaven ! This was done by the 
 clergy of more names than one, and, at least, in one instance, to the 
 so great scandal of the Church, as to call for diocesan interference. 
 
 Nevertheless, such is the author's contempt for the Infidel outcry 
 against the clergy, that he is desirous, even thus awkwardly, of ex- 
 culpating himself from any appearance of fellowship with them. The 
 American clergy are more important to its existence as a Republic 
 than all its legislators ! That virtue which, all agree, is the only 
 bulwark of a popular government, has no such defenders as the cler- 
 gy. What we have most to fear, is, lest the Almighty should resent 
 our national irreverence for his ambassadors, and recall them from 
 the land where their blood is poured out unavenged, leaving us to the 
 tender mercies of the serpent which ourselves are nourishing. 
 
 *#* The Author notices that the Publishers have thought proper to 
 substitute a constellation of their own for one of his less sparkling 
 stanzas. He begs leave to assure the public, that, as he is himself no 
 friend of fragments, and had purposed never resorting to this silly 
 trick of those who show their wit by hiatus, he will fill up the blank 
 either with the original stanza, or a better — in future editions ! 
 
Wiley <$* Putnam, Publishers, <£c, 161 Broadway, N. Y. 
 
 [list continued.] 
 
 IV. 
 
 SKETCHES OF YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ; 
 
 In which those interesting members of the Animal Kingdom are 
 classified according to their instinct, habits, and general charac- 
 teristics. By Quiz. With six Illustrations by Phiz, and Original 
 Sketches by various Literary Gentlemen of New- York. 1 vol. 3 2mo. 
 
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 LYRICAL PIECES. By Park Benjamin. 
 (In Press.) 
 
 VI. - 
 
 A TREATISE ON CIVIL ENGINEERING. 
 By D. H. Mahan, 
 
 Professor in the Military Academy at West Point. 
 1 vol. 8vo. with Plates. 
 
 VII. 
 
 TOPOGRAPHICAL DRAWING. 
 
 By Lieut. Eastman, U. S. A. With pla+cs. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
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 DAVIES' COURSE OF MATHEMATICS. 9 vols. 8vo. ■ 
 
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 CAMPBELL'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
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 SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
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 ST. JONATHAN, THE LAY OF A SCALD.