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TRUTH, 
 
 GIFT FOR SCRIBBLERS 
 
 SECOND EDITION, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONS AND EMENDATIONS, 
 
 WILLIAM J. SNELLING. 
 
 " Defensor culpje dicet mihi, ' Fecimus et nos 
 Haec juvenes?' Esto. Desisti nempe nee ultri 
 Fovisti errorem." — Juvenal. 
 
 " You think this cruel ?— take it for a rule, 
 
 No creature smarts so little as a fool."— Pokb?-^ 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY B. B. MUSSEY, 63, CORNHILL. 
 
 LEONARD W. KIMBALL. ...PRINTER. 
 
 1832. 
 
.6 3 
 12 3^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832, by 
 
 Benjamin B. Mussey, 
 in the Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FIRST EDITION 
 
 I HAVE often said to myself, when disgusted by newspaper 
 puffs of would-be poets, ' Why suffer thyself to be incommoded 
 by things so trivial 1 The people endure these vermin — why 
 shouldst not thou V Satisfied widi this mental adjuration, I 
 have heretofore been silent, esteeming satire too noble a'weapon 
 to be employed in extirpating insects. At last, the evil has be- 
 come intolerable ; the whole atmosphere is filled with the legs 
 and wings of all sorts of ephemera. I take up my newspaper 
 at breajifast, and at the first glance encounter a violent panegyric 
 on some youth, who has undertaken to fly on wings more waxy 
 than even those of Icarus. I sally forth, and am asked by the 
 
 first friend I meet, ' Have you seen 's new poem 1 I go to 
 
 the Athenseum, take up an American review, and open at Mr. 
 Doolittle's ' Horse Ambroslanae, a Poem,' and am assured ' that 
 Mr. Doolittle, with a little more energy, and a great deal less 
 negligence, will do much to establish a first rate, tip-top reputa- 
 tion.' I go to my shoe-maker for a pair of boots, and he pre- 
 sents me with the Daily , in which there is a copy of 
 
 verses by the celebrated poetess, Mrs. Blue, and asks my opin- 
 ion of her prospect of immortality. Thus am I annoyed from 
 morning till night. 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 I have no quarrels with, or personal dislike to, any individual 
 of the scribbling race. I wish they could write better; I wish 
 they would give more time and attention to their productions ; 
 or, I wish they would not write at all. The conductors of news- 
 papers have been in the habit, in almost all instances, of flatter- 
 ing our young aspirants. These must now hear the language of 
 truth; for I verily believe that the itch of rhyme has withdrawn 
 more persons from the useful pursuits of life than the doctrine of 
 rotation in office, which is a bold word; and I therefore consid- 
 er it my bounden duty to sacrifice some of these young cocks 
 of Bantam to Esculapius, in hopes of retrieving the sanity of 
 the rest. 
 
 I attack none in a personal manner, who have not themselves 
 offended in the same sort. To these I say, " Those who live in 
 houses of glass should not throw stones." True, you have thrown 
 none at me; but you have at others, and I take it upon me to 
 punish your repeated breaches of the peace in a summary man- 
 ner. " What is sauce for goose is sauce for gander also." May 
 the castigation produce amendment, to the extent that you shall 
 never be scurrilous again. Though some of you be incorrigible, 
 such may be made useful by way of examples. 
 
 With respect to the propriety of serving up authors, some of 
 whom are respectable as private individuals, for the public amuse- 
 ment, I can do no better than quote some sentiments of Byron, 
 in which I heartily concur. 
 
 ' An author's works,' he says, ' are public property ; he who 
 purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases: my 
 object is, if possible, to make others write better.' 
 
 Again; — ' No one can wish more than the author, that some 
 known and able writer had undertaken their exposure ; but in 
 the absence of tiie regular physician, a country practitioner may, 
 in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nos- 
 trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, pro- 
 vided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady.' 
 
 I have been told that caustic reproof may blight the hopes of 
 a young and sensitive poet, and stop him short in the beginning 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 of his career. In some very few instances this may have hap- 
 pened. The laws of the land, too, and much more often, ope- 
 rate hardly on individuals ; but this consideration is no argument 
 against their beneficial influence, and is not suffered to obstruct 
 the course of justice. By a parity of reasoning, a poet must 
 sometimes endure severe, but just criticism, for the good of the 
 community. Moreover, I believe that kw plants worth cultivat- 
 ing are so delicate as to be incapable of bearing wind and sun. 
 
 Wherever I have found ability at all above mediocrity, I have 
 acknowledged it, though obscured by a thousand blots. Where 
 talent does not exist, the literary hopes of the writer ought to be 
 blasted, even for his own welfare; and it will give me pleasure 
 to perform the service. 
 
 1* 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION 
 
 Nothing is farther from the intention of the author of ' Truth' 
 than to offer aught like apology for any part of the contents of 
 his first edition. He could not condescend to deprecate the en- 
 mity of his maligners, even did he hold them in less contempt 
 than he does. He has had abuse enough to satisfy a moderate 
 appetite already, and he expects more. It is the privilege of 
 the beaten to I'ail, and he is perfectly willing that those who con- 
 sider themselves aggrieved by him, or their friends, should exer- 
 cise it at his expense. However, he has been burthened witb 
 some imputations, which respect for public o])inion impels him to 
 rebut. It has been said that he wrote to revenge himself on the 
 critics, that he resented some slight with which his own writings 
 had been received, and that he was actuated by vanity, ill-nature 
 and personal animosity. 
 
 The truth is, he had no acquaintance with any of the subjects 
 of his criticism: he had never any quarrel with anyone of them, 
 and could not therefore have been prompted by hatred. He 
 dissected poets with as much good nature as he ever dissected 
 a goose. 
 
 He had no reason to complain of criticism: none of his works 
 had ever beea noticed by the press with less than decided appro- 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 bation. He had no slight to avenge. If he be vain, the critics 
 have made him so. 
 
 A nevir edition of " Truth" was printed some time since, but 
 was so badly executed that the author was obliged to suppress it. 
 He hopes the statement of this fact will be a sufficient apology 
 for the delay. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 SCENE, THE AUTHOR'S GARRET. 
 
 Dramatis Persona The Author and a Friend. 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 What ! bent to write ? 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Ay, more ; to print again. 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Can neither love nor fear your mood restrain ? 
 Will you, a man to wealth, to fame unknown. 
 Against a host of foes make head alone ? 
 An insect swarm infests the land, 'tis true ; 
 But pray, my meddling friend, what's that to you? 
 If fools will still be fools, why need you care? 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 A public grief is ev'ry man's affair. 
 If in my neighbor's corn a swine I see. 
 Shall I stand idle ? — it concerns not me ? — ■ 
 
10 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Not SO ; my biting whip-lash shall not spare 
 To teach him that I'll have no grunting there. 
 And shall those swine, two-legged though they be, 
 That mar our country's music, 'scape scot-free ? 
 
 To carry out your swinish trope, my friend, 
 Your two-legg'd swine is apt to turn and rend : 
 Then, swine on four legs, though a stiff-neck'd race, 
 May, being soundly beaten, learn their place ; 
 But that no upright porker ever will — 
 You preach to blocks — you over-rate your skill. 
 No task so hard was ever set at school, 
 As of his folly to convince a fool. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 I care no more than does the Pope of Rome, 
 How lofty each in his own eyes may loom : 
 Let Paulding still persist, let Mellen fill . 
 The Token's page with dribblings from his quill ; 
 I hope not their reform — with him who buys. 
 As well as him who writes, my business lies ; 
 If these are bent to palm upon the land, 
 Help'd by th' accomplice press, their " notes" of hand, 
 I'll nail them fast to some oft open'd door, 
 Inscrib'd, "worth just my weight in rags— no more." 
 
PROLOGUE. 11 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Who thanks you, if the public good you prize 
 Above your own ? — Know, Quixote, he who tries 
 To prove his neighbor's judgment faulty, gains 
 Contempt and hatred only for his pains: 
 Take Butler's word, a pleasure quite as sweet 
 Is felt in being cheated as to cheat. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 If neither thanks nor praise the world afford, 
 Well-doing is, to me, its own reward. 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Be not so ultra-patriotic, think 
 What cruel guerdon pays your waste of ink : 
 Webb's''^ trusty cudgel, Whittier's paring-knife, 
 Clark's mad-dog slaver, may assail your life: 
 Think, Willis, woman's likeness and her foe, 
 Stands, both hands full of filth, in act to throw, 
 
 *I have known this valiant soldier and acute critic long, and 
 there has been small pleasure in the acquaintance. He is the 
 identical " Senior Editor" who left the management of the New 
 York Courier and Inquirer with the avowed intention of doing 
 a deed of arms at Washington. He was frightened out of his 
 purpose, however, and almost out of his wits, by the apparition 
 of a pistol with " a mahogany stock and barrel of about four 
 inches." Said pistol was pointed at his person by a ghost. I 
 can pardon Mr. Webb's virulence, but not his insolence in pre- 
 tending to offer me advice. 
 
12 PROLOGUE, 
 
 Behind his dull file-leader Clapp ;* you stand 
 The mark of all the boobies in the land ; 
 
 * Clapp is the editor of a hebdomadal sheet, which, from its 
 enormity, has been aptly termed " The Weekly Acre of Trash." 
 It is but justice to admit that the editor and paper are worthy 
 of each other. The said Weekly Acre was the organ through 
 which Master Willis gave the public a characteristic epigram. 
 That the author and publisher may be sure of the infamy they 
 courted, here it is: 
 
 Oh Smelling Joseph ! Thou art like a cur, 
 (I'm told thou once didst live by hunting fur) 
 Of bigger dogs thou smellest, and in sooth. 
 Of one extreme, perhaps, canst tell the " Truth;" 
 'Tis a wise thrift, and shows thou know'st thy powers, 
 To leave thy "North West Tales" and take to smelling 
 ours!" 
 
 I hate to be in debt, and therefore entreat Mr. Willis to ac- 
 cept the three following epigrams, and consider his favor six 
 times requited: — 
 
 1st. I liv'd by hunting fur thou say'st — so let it be — ■ 
 But tell me. Natty, had I hunted thee. 
 Had not my time been thrown away, young sirl 
 And eke my powder 1 — puppies have no fur. 
 
 2nd. Our tails'? — thou own'st, then, to a tail — 
 I've scann'd thee o'er and o'er; 
 But though I guess'd thy species right 
 I was not sure before. 
 
 Srd. Our savages, authentic travelers say, 
 
 To natural fools religious honors pay — 
 Had'st thou been born a wigwam's smoke and dirt in, 
 Nat, thine apotheosis had been certain. 
 
PROLOGUE. 13 
 
 And though the marksmen boast nor skill nor wit, 
 Some random shot may haply reach you yet. 
 
 Rail, Clark, Webb, Willis — 'tis your only way 
 To get a hearer — thick skinn'd Whittier, bray: 
 One's heels, the other's poor attempts to bite. 
 My pity, not my wrath or fears excite. 
 What care I that they flatter or condemn ? 
 They rail at me — I gaily laugh at them. 
 When curs from ev'ry dunghill bay the moon. 
 Who ever heeds the key-note of the tune ? 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 A granite mansion stands in Lev'rett-street, 
 Where Massachusetts lodgings gives, and meat. 
 And free of charge, to him whose tongue or pen 
 Denies the merits of his fellow men. 
 Beware the law of libel. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Faith, not I ; 
 The law and Mr. Badlam I defy. 
 I call'd John Neal a madman, Willis half 
 A man, and Finn a dunce, and Lunt a calf: 
 If that be construed into grave offence. 
 Our courts admit the truth in evidence ; 
 2 
 
14 PROLOGUE. 
 
 And such an action will be deem'd a sham — 
 See J. N. Maffit vs. Buckingham. 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Take timely counsel ; if your dire disease 
 Admits no cure, it needs not to displease. 
 Let Nature's works, or Art's, your fancy move, 
 The deeds of heroes, or the pangs of love. 
 Long have you practis'd solely to offend ; 
 Now change your note, and make each foe a friend. 
 I grant our poets' faults are not a few; 
 But some, 'tis thought, have striking beauties too : 
 Be these your theme. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Some public prints there are, 
 So prone to puffing all poetic ware. 
 That us'd, as though to look at pictures, roll'd 
 In tubes, they magnify a hundred fold 
 An author's merit; and, what's stranger still. 
 Make much that don't exist, and never will : 
 Thro' some such microscope have reach'd your eyes 
 The beauties you would have me eulogise. 
 I'd gladly pitch my pipe to praise — ^but how ? 
 I've seen no subject, and I see none now, 
 Save some half dozen. 
 
PROLOGUE. 15 ^ 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Those who read your strains 
 Complain that gall, not ink, your paper stains : 
 They think, so hotly you your victims seek, 
 Not truth or justice, but your passions speak ; 
 With equal wrath you hawks and flies pursue, 
 And wield a cudgel where a straw Avould do : 
 You know no difF'rence of degree in sin; 
 The scholar Pierpont and the punster Finn 
 Fare just alike. Amend — 'tis not too late ; 
 Erase, give credit, alter, mitigate : 
 To please the public, take a milder tone ; 
 For sweets catch many flies, but acids none. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 I know that Dulness to her sons and heirs 
 Gives not their heritage in equal shares : 
 The goddess mother of our rhyming band 
 Has squeez'd her poppies with a partial hand ; 
 On one of Whittier's eyes the juice she tried, 
 And bless'd that hopeful youth Avith one blind side ; 
 At favor'd Fairfield's visage aiming right. 
 She clos'd both optics in eternal night ; 
 Then at her best lov'd Morris hurl'd the. bowl, 
 And in a flood of folly drench'd his soul. 
 
 HoAvbeit, shall I the scale of fools explore ? 
 The best deserves the whip, the worst no more. 
 
16 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Shall one to praise or pardon make pretence 
 Because he digs the grave of Common Sense 
 But five feet deep, while others sink to ten? 
 Grant it — and see him go to work again. 
 No, this Americo- Arcadian'^ breed 
 Need no such spur to make them show their speed. 
 'Tis perilous to compliment a dunce ; 
 'Twere better knock him on the head at once. 
 
 Alonzo Lewis makes this problem clear ; 
 I gave him six scant lines of praise last year, 
 And mark the consequence — his hand he mends, 
 And works, for very life, to show his friends 
 His firm resolve the world's contempt to brave, 
 And bear the name of blockhead to his grave. 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Who takes another man to task, should be 
 From all the failings that he censures free. 
 Are you thus faultless ? did you never scrawl 
 A verse you'd give a finger to recall ? 
 Or give our bards just reason to condemn, 
 And do by you as you have done by them ? 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 No doubt — no doubt — then let my verses be 
 Damn'd as they merit ? prithee spare not me : 
 
 * Arcadia was famous for its jack-asses. 
 
PROLOGUE. 17 
 
 Lay on ; I'm ready ; let the buffet fall ; 
 
 Come Blanche, come Sweetheart, " little dogs and all :" 
 
 Take all my trash, with strictest rigor try it ; 
 
 I'll weigh your censure well, and profit by it. 
 
 But though my house be glass, my arm has bone 
 And nerve sufficient to propel a stone 
 As well as his that's better lodg'd, my eye 
 As well my neighbor's windows can espy. 
 I wish, indeed, some abler hand than mine 
 Would vindicate our country and the Nine ; 
 But since none offers, since I stand alone, 
 Coragio ! be the thankless task my own. 
 
 FRIK-ND. 
 
 Well, since the voice of friendship not avails, 
 Go! — via! pande vda — spread your sails! 
 
 2* 
 
TRUTH, 
 
 GIFT FOR SCRIBBLERS. 
 
 Moths, millers, gnats, and butterflies I sing ; 
 Far-darting Phoebus, lend my strain a sting ; 
 Much courted virgins,* long enduring Nine, 
 Screw tight the catgut of this lyre of mine : 
 If Fairfield, Dawes and Whittier ask your aid. 
 If Willis follow rhyming as a trade ; 
 If Lunt and Finn to Pindus' top aspire ; 
 I too may blameless beg one spark of fire ; 
 Not such as glow'd in Pope's or Dryden's song — 
 With less assistance I can get along ; 
 To Byron's bow and shafts I lay no claim ; 
 He shot at hawks, I but at insects aim : 
 But grant, since I must war on little things. 
 Just flame enough to singe their puny wings ; ■ 
 
 * Narrate, puellse 
 
 Pierides: prosit mihi vos dixisse puellas ! Juvenal. 
 
20 TRUTH. 
 
 A feather besom give, to bring- them down, 
 And pins to stick them in my castor's crown. 
 
 Faust, O Faust! an' if thy story's true, 
 In thee the Devil only got his due : 
 
 In bullets moulded, and by nitre hurl'd, 
 Thy types had done less mischief to the world. 
 Thou wretch, if spirits can reply from hell. 
 The purpose of thy black invention tell. 
 Couldst thou not see thy press and printing tools 
 
 Create an endless jubilee for fools? 
 
 Whole herds of dunces throng this luckless land. 
 
 As codfish swarm near fishy Newfoundland ? 
 
 Couldst thou not see the loathing public cramm'd 
 With verse on verse ? — most justly art thou damn'd. 
 
 1 hear a voice that cries, 'Lift up thine hand 
 Against the legions of this locust band : 
 
 Let brain-sick youths the wholesome scourge endure; 
 Tlieir case is urgent — spare not — kill or cure ; 
 Hang, hang them up, like smelts upon a string,'; 
 And o'er their books a requiescat sing : 
 Arise, — convince thy country of her shame ; 
 Rise, ere her genius be no more a name.' 
 Rous'd by the call of Duty, I obey ; 
 I draw the sword, and fling the sheath away. 
 
TRUTH. 21 
 
 But where begin ? — When vermin thus abound, 
 No shaft I shoot can bloodless reach the ground. 
 Lo! paddling down the Nash'way, in a scow 
 Of his own building, Rufus makes his bow : 
 And tells how Peggy, erst the kitchen's pride,* 
 Became enamor'd, pined, and whined, and died: 
 Then, sings how strangely salmon swim up stream, 
 And, stranger still, how wolves and 'peckers' scream ; 
 Or tells what streamlet wash'd his school-boy chin. — 
 Pity the booby had not fallen in ! 
 
 In time, perhaps, our servile bard may find 
 That, riding double, one must ride behind ; 
 And, peradventure, learn that Goldsmith's steed 
 But by a Goldsmith can be urg'd to speed. 
 
 A pause, — and Rufus croaks another air, 
 About a sprite that dwelleth every where :f 
 He's wrong; for 'Beauty's Spirit' never shines 
 Through the impervious dulness of his lines. 
 
 His last sheet printed, and his volume out. 
 Vainglorious Rufus anxious looks about, 
 
 * A scullion is, doubtless, a very useful and respectable person- 
 age in her sphere. Every one knows that; but it required a 
 Dawes to discover that " a saucepan is an instrument fit for the 
 music of tlie angelic choirs." 
 
 t " The Spirit of Beauty is every where." — Dawes. 
 
22 TRUTH. 
 
 Anticipates due praise, and quakes with fear 
 Lest justice should o'ertake his offspring- dear: 
 Superfluous care ! nor praise nor blame is heard, 
 Not even snarling Prentice growls a word. 
 Stung with the slight, resolv'd to rouse the pack, 
 On the whole town he pens a dire attack : 
 His Strokes and Strictures* meet with equal scorn, 
 And, like his poems, leave the press still-born. 
 
 The fount to which, in Boston's earlier day, 
 Men came to drink, and went refresh'd away — 
 The fane our pious pilgrim fathers sought. 
 To hear the Savior's vital precepts taught — 
 The church — is now the club-room of small wits ; 
 The desk's the nest where Dulness brooding sits, 
 And hatches chicks, in voice and mind her own. 
 Like Croswell, Ware, Peabody,f DeaneJ and Doane ; 
 Who thrive upon their mother's milk so well. 
 They chirp in numbers as they chip the shell. 
 
 * I ought to mention here, for the benefit of those who are so 
 unhappy as not to have seen the production, that a very kind and 
 gentle satire was pubhshed in Boston, entitled " Strokes and 
 Strictures." It was not puffed, even by the Traveller ! Since 
 the publication of the first edition of Truth, I have learned that 
 it preceded " The Valley of the Nashaway." The error, how- 
 ever, is not material — it was seen by very few persons. 
 fPeabody. Author of an unnatural " Hymn to Nature." 
 4: Mr Deane would not have been noticed but to make the rhyme. 
 His first acknowledged work was " The Populous Village," a 
 poem! May it be his last ! 
 
TRUTH. 23 
 
 Hark ! little wool, great cry ! that doleful whine 
 Is Pierpont's, chanting " Airs of Palestine :" 
 Prime parson, but poor poet ; sells, in short, 
 Soup for the alms-house at a cent a quart.* 
 His motive's good ; — and yet, I grieve to tell. 
 The crude concoction never would, will sell; 
 Scarce any food to Yankees comes amiss. 
 But saw-dust broth had pleas'd them nore than this. 
 Pierpont, a man may be of judgment clear. 
 Have taste, and talent, and a faultless ear, 
 
 * ' Airs of Palestine' was printed (perhaps written) for the 
 benefit of the poor in Baltimore. Their dividend of the profits, 
 unless I am misinformed, amounted to ^0. 
 
 Note to Second Edition. There is not a paragraph in this 
 work which I have not heard commended on the score of justice 
 by some, and condemned by others. To judge by the plurality of 
 voices, I have done Mr. Pierpont injustice. I would fain make 
 him the amende honorable, and am willing to say that no one 
 can respect his person, profession, character and talents more 
 than I do. However, when I read his " Portrait," and " Airs 
 of Palestine," I thought their chance for immortality very small, 
 and I have been confirmed in my opinion by seeing them praised 
 in the American Monthly, since defunct. My lines, thei-efore 
 shall stand, to bear witness against Mr. P. or myself, as the 
 public shall decide. 
 
 Mr. Pierpont's hymns and occasional pieces are really such 
 as he need not be ashamed of. If 1 have furmed a wrong es- 
 timate of his performances, I shall be glad to be informed 
 wherein my error consists, but I cannot acknowledge myself in 
 the wrong till convinced that I am so. 
 
24 TRUTH. 
 
 Yet be no poet: be advised by me ; 
 
 Stick to thy pulpit ; let the Muses be ; 
 
 Or try thy wings in flights of lesser length, 
 
 In height and distance suited to their strength : 
 
 Still let thy notes, like those of that sweet bird 
 
 That strew'd the babes with leaves, near home be 
 
 heard ; 
 Again if thou set'st out for Palestine, 
 The fate of Icarus, good man, is thine. 
 
 A sail, my muse ! Pursue in full career ; 
 Train our bow-chaser on this privateer ; 
 This pirate rather, for his flag is black — 
 Let's lay the whip upon his recreant back. 
 'Tis stupid Croswell, whose marauding sword 
 Has carv'd his verse from Wordsworth's,* word for 
 
 word. 
 I'll take his stolen goods, but harm hitn not ; 
 Poor Devil ! he's not worth another shot. 
 
 * One of Wordsworth's pieces, entitled " Sonnet Vindicato- 
 ry," was copied into the Episcopal Watchman, of which Cros- 
 well was editor, without credit, and in the manner in which his 
 editorial verses always appeared. This might have been acci- 
 dental, but the piece was afterwards published by Kettle as Cros- 
 well's. As its putative author took no pains to divest himself of 
 the borrowed feather, I consider the charge in the text establish- 
 ed. His lawful property nobody will take from him. 
 
TRUTH. 25 
 
 If clumsy Vulcan thrum Apollo's lyre 
 'Tis ten to one his fingers snap the wire — 
 Each to his trade — there's Edward,'^ learned, wise, 
 Great in the world's opinion, vainly tries 
 To climb Parnassus, makes his readers sick 
 (To use his own bad rhyme) of Alaric.f 
 The empty lines contain instruction yet ; 
 They prove '•^potta nascitur, nonJiV* 
 
 See, Doane,! with feeble foot, but front of brass. 
 Puts forth his foot from cloud to cloud to pass :§ 
 Why thus reluctant, Doane ? — I prithee, tell ? 
 He built the bridge, and knows its weakness well. 
 
 * Author of " The Dirge of Alaric the Goth." As Willis 
 has damned this poem, which he calls a ballad, by praising it in 
 the same number of his magazine which extols the Comic An- 
 nual, it is unnecessary to say more of it. 
 
 t This couplet, which violates sense as well as the rules of 
 rhythm, runs thus : 
 
 " And Roman hearts shall long be sick 
 When men shall think of Alaric." 
 
 X The Rev. Mr. Doane I threw into the line where he first ap- 
 peared as a make-weight, or rather as we take a glass of water, 
 in itself insipid, to wash the taste of three or four disagreeable 
 pills out of the mouth. He has written two or three good things, 
 which ought not, however, to excuse a cart load of trash. His 
 book is called " Songs by the Way." 
 
 § See one of Mr. Doane's pieces called " The Cloud Bridge," 
 or The Bridge in the Clouds : I forget which. 
 
 3 
 
2G TRUTH. 
 
 But hark ! he puts his raven voice in tune, 
 And chants a sonnet to " The Silent Moon :" 
 Would that he too were silent ! now he sings, 
 " O had I but a pair of pigeon's wings !" * 
 I would thou hadst, so high that thou raight'st soar 
 The ear of man should never hear thee more ! 
 
 Yet Doane with truth may boast of merits two ; 
 His paltry pieces are both short and few: 
 And still his book would be the more improv'd 
 The more the number of the lines remov'd. 
 
 To notice Doane and Croswell, Mister Ware, 
 And let thee pass unmark'd, were hardly fair ; 
 Thou stand'st, in truth, above these little men ; 
 So does the sparrow differ from the wren. 
 I've read thy verses, and if right I deem, 
 Thy " Vision"f was at best a nightmare dream : 
 Some heavy food that undigested lay 
 Upon thy organs, did thy wits bewray: 
 Not Liberty, but vile Rebellion came, 
 And set thee free from all restraint of shame, 
 
 * This morsel of melody has for its title, " O had I the Wings 
 of a Dove !" I hope Mr. Doane will excuse me for making an 
 iambus of an anapaest, especially as the alteration is so trivial. 
 I could not otherwise have introduced his line into my measure. 
 
 t Mr. Ware's longest piece of versification is entitled " A Vis- 
 ion of Liberty." 
 
TRUTH. 27 
 
 And sense ; but courage ! once thy brain begat 
 A good prize poem ; rest thy fame on that. 
 Of all the notes of all our cleric friends 
 We hear thine least — it therefore least offends. 
 
 O Death ! awhile thy vulgar aims give o'er ; 
 Scatter the seeds of cholera no more ; 
 Thy task of watching over beds of wo 
 Depute to tried physicians, sure, if slow : 
 If I last year did try my very best 
 To give thy charnel chaps a little rest ; 
 If I thy reaping-hook relentless bore, 
 And mow'd down reputations by the score; 
 If, butcher, thou hast not too much to do 
 In Poland and in plague-doom'd Russia too, 
 Leave riding on the whirlwind and the storm, 
 And come and help me work a grand reform. 
 Thou know'st how little mortal might avails 
 To still these cleric would-be nightingales ; 
 Then come, with twice the speed of seven-league 
 
 boots. 
 And grub up their pretensions by the roots : 
 I would not have thee touch their persons — no — 
 But pray, no mercy to their verses shew : 
 O haste ! in post haste, be this business sped ; 
 Before thou com'st their poems else are dead. 
 
28 TRUTH. 
 
 Here 's milk-and-water Mellen, just from Maine ; 
 His native fogs condens'd upon his brain. 
 Where gottest thou, O Mellen, so much brass, 
 To think thy farthings might for guineas pass ? 
 ' Sad Tales and Glad Tales' — very sad indeed ; — 
 Sad ' Dreams' and sadder ' Visions' next succeed ; 
 Saddest of all, — to make his foes rejoice, 
 In strain satiric last he lifts his voice ; 
 And, bent on taking common sense by storm. 
 Calls on his kindred dunces to reform ; 
 Vainglorious deeming, that to christian ears 
 His howl will seem the music of the spheres. 
 What time the brazen poet rav'd and sung. 
 Misusing shamefully the English tongue, 
 The only blows he ever made to tell, 
 On taste, and on his readers' patience fell. 
 
 When some sharp voice beyond its compass strains 
 And, knife-like, thrills through marrow, nerves, and 
 
 brains. 
 Then, reader, think on Mellen ; for a while 
 He sung and made th' indulgent public smile ; 
 But raise his voice so high! — his case is bad ; 
 Bring a straight jacket; sure, the man is mad; 
 He write a satire ! — he presume to call 
 (Himself the very longest ear'd of all) 
 
 * O medici, mediam pertundite venam ! — Juvenal, 
 
TRUTH. 29 
 
 His fellow asses ! — he presume to chide 
 
 At zanies ! — 'twas a downright fratricide. 
 
 His impudence, restricted to the bar, 
 
 Would push his fortune, heaven but knows how far. 
 
 " But is his work so very dull ?" you ask. 
 Go through the all-unutterable task 
 Of reading : if your judgments then disclose 
 Whether 'tis rhyme or blank, or verse or prose, 
 'Tis more than mine can, though I read it through : 
 You stare, — upon my sacred word 'tis true. 
 
 Unnatural Mellen, how, how didst thou dare 
 Fowls of thine own dull feather thus to tear ? 
 Were the same measure meted out to thee 
 How great, poor jack-daw, would thy sufferings be !* 
 
 Dismissing Mellen to the state of mist. 
 The name of Pauldingf next adorns the list; 
 A name well worthy of no second place 
 On the dark record of the land's disgrace. 
 
 * I trust I shall be pardoned for not treating Mellen with the 
 severity he deserves. It is true, kw American writers have 
 done, or continue to do, so much to degrade the literary reputa- 
 tion of the country, but no one of them sustains a better charac- 
 ter as a man. To this consideration he owes the indulgence 
 with which I treat him. 
 
 t Repeated failures have not convinced this man of his imbe- 
 •cility. He still continues to write, and may be considered in- 
 corrigible. 
 
 3* 
 
30 TRUTH. 
 
 When first ambitious hopes his heart inspirM, 
 
 The itch,* congenial theme, his fancy fired: 
 
 A theme that Nature did express devise. 
 
 To find his hand its proper exercise : 
 
 So well his pen the subject seem'd to match. 
 
 And brought his thoughts so promptly to the scratch, 
 
 That all who read, this common inference drew. 
 
 He wrote with feeling, and from knowledge too. 
 
 On mountain ridges, over stump and stone, 
 His coach poetic next goes jolting on,f 
 Until the passengers, with tears and groans. 
 Complain of aching heads and broken bones. 
 And swear, if once they reach the level plain. 
 Never to patronize that line again ; 
 But rather go on foot for all their lives 
 Than trust the coach that such a Jehu drives. 
 
 Then last, and worse by far than all the rest. 
 Stalks forth the blackguard " Lion of the West,"| 
 
 * The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, is a very miserable par- 
 ody. I read it about ten years ago, since which I have not seen 
 a copy. 
 
 t The Back JVoodsinan, a Poem. This is not like any work 
 of Homer, or Pope, or Dryden, or Byron. All that can be said 
 positively of it is, that many of the lines appear to have been in- 
 tended for pentameters. 
 
 t If a playright should take from Joe Miller all the blunders 
 ascribed to Irishmen, and put them into the mouth of a single 
 
TRUTH. 31 
 
 Hight Nimrod Wildfire, one to all intents 
 A libel on the land he represents : 
 Extravagance, vulgarity and rant. 
 The hackney'd gleanings of a hackney'd cant. 
 Make up his speech. — Ah ! Paulding, thou hadst best 
 Beware the vengeance of th' insulted West: 
 Shouldst thou beyond the Laurel Ridge appear, 
 Not Ashe or Fearon had such cause for fear. 
 
 Hast thou, my reader, felt the frowns of Fate ? 
 Hast lost thy purse, thy character, estate ? 
 Has ev'ry cherish'd hope thy breast forsook ? 
 Hast thou no trade ? — No matter — write a book. 
 Try prose — or, better still, poetic flights. 
 For Brother Jonathan in verse delights ; 
 So shall the papers all extol thy book, 
 And thou, in time, thyself a press o'erlook. 
 
 character, intended to represent the nation, that character would 
 be as much an Irishman as Nimrod Wildfire is a Kentuckian. 
 No such person as Nimrod Wildfire was ever seen on the Ohio 
 or Mississippi. He would be as ridiculous there as he is here. 
 His language was never the language of common parlance even 
 among the boatmen. 
 
 The " Lion of the West" is not exactly the last of Paulding's 
 works. There is also a novel called the " Dutchman's Fire 
 Side." If we were not told in the outset that the characters are 
 Dutch, we should never discover it from the text. Paulding's 
 Indians, too, are by no means like any Indians I have ever seen. 
 But enough ; I have wasted more words on the book than it is 
 worth. 
 
32 TRUTH. 
 
 What though on thee the Muses never smil'd, 
 
 Nor Alma Mater owns thee for her child ? 
 
 What though thy work be careless, flat and tame ? 
 
 To Yankee editors 'tis all the same ; 
 
 Fear not the whipping to thy folly due, 
 
 Some " damn'd good natur'd friend" shall help thee 
 
 through. 
 But if thou hast no editorial friend,^ 
 Straight to some well-known print a copy send ; 
 For that's the current value of a puff; 
 Then send a copy, and have praise enough, 
 Or what's a very common way to bribe, 
 Go to the printing-office — and subscribe. 
 Bribe, bribe the editor, and hear him swear 
 That Homer never cook'd a dish so rare. 
 
 To gain attention art thou doubtful still ? 
 Behold what piles of drugs the bookshops fill : 
 Here Wetmore stands ; Alonzo here is seen ; 
 There Willis, with his Monthly Magazine. 
 When these, and such as these, to publish dare, 
 Needst thou — need any one on earth— despair ? 
 
 But, if thy book be good, beware of spite ; 
 The dog that wags his tail for sops, can bite. 
 Does any critic view thee with distaste .^ 
 To stretch the hand of Friendship forth make haste. 
 
 * If editorial be not a good English word, it ought to be. 
 There is no other in the language that expresses the same ideas. 
 ' ■^•-''1. therefore, use it, though it has not the sanction of Johnson. 
 
TRUTH. 33 
 
 All provocation given straight recall, 
 Else shall thy first-born offspring pay for all. 
 Lo ! one, review'd himself, in turn reviews 
 Another, whom his outrag'd tailor sues, 
 Uncorks the vials of his wrath, and reaches 
 To pour them on the tailor's coats and breeches.* 
 These criticise from malice, these for pay, 
 And those for want of something else to say. 
 
 Muse, shall we not a few brief lines afford 
 
 To give poor Natty P. his meet reward ? 
 
 What has he done to be despised by all 
 Within whose hands his harmless scribblings fall ? 
 Why, as in band-box trimf he walks the streets, 
 Turns up the nose of every man he meets, 
 As if it scented carrion ? Why, of late, 
 Do all the critics claw his shallow pate ? 
 True, he's a fool ; — if that's a hanging thing. 
 Let Lewis, Mellen, Woodworth also swing. 
 
 Let but a school-boy pen a twaddling theme. 
 Ye Gods — how Pa exults ! — How Ma will scream ! 
 So Natty ,1 having with a world of pain 
 Transmuted sacred prose to verse profane, 
 
 * There is a merchant tailor and draper in Congress Street 
 who can bear witness of the truth of this couplet. 
 
 t Vanus et Euganea quantumvis mollior agna. — Juvenal. 
 
 X It is not ray wish to accoutre any person with a nick -name ; 
 but as it is impossible to reduce the name Nathaniel to any sort 
 
34 TRUTH. 
 
 Was petted, ftatter'd, sent forthwith to college, 
 To store his shallow skull with classic knowledge. 
 
 O what a tip-top tailor thus was spoil'd ! 
 Had he but sat cross-legg'd what Snip had moil'd 
 To so much purpose ? — He had cabbag'd then, 
 As now, and dipt the cloth of better men : 
 No goose had hiss'd like his ; his want of skill 
 Had made our coats and breeches look as ill 
 As now it does mere paper ; — then his shears 
 Had spar'd old authors, and his voice our ears. 
 
 Not quite a woman, by no means a man, 
 Escap'd from birch the joyful stripling ran. 
 In tuneful mood, with smutty rhymes to greet 
 The ear of ev'ry girl that walk'd the street ; 
 Rhymes that his pitying friends essay'd to hush ; 
 Rhymes that no woman read without a blush. 
 Awhile he graced the Statesman's ribald page 
 With the rank breathings of his prurient age ; 
 And told the world how many a half-bred miss, 
 Like Shakespeare's fairy, gave an ass a kiss : 
 Long did ho try the art of sinking on 
 The muddy pool he took for Helicon ; 
 
 of harmony, I am compelled to use the abbreviation Nat, or 
 Natty. This is countenanced by Persius, who, in the Kne below, 
 seems to have had a prophetic vision of this worthy. 
 
 Non Pudet ad morem discincti vivere Nattae 1 
 
TRUTH. 35 
 
 Long did he delve and grub, with fins of lead, 
 At its foul bottom for precarious bread. 
 Then kept the youth an inn, where each and all 
 Were serv'd with fragments from some musty stall. 
 
 At his own "Table," whence no hungry wretch 
 From June to May one wholesome crumb could catch ; 
 Where neither mental mutton, veal nor beef 
 To the mind's hunger gave the least relief; 
 Secure no law his monthly thefts could reach. 
 He sold his stolen goods to all and each. 
 
 Ah, Nat ! I've too much charity by half; — 
 I cannot slay and eat thee, though a calf. 
 Dishonest critic, and ungrateful friend,* 
 Still on a woman thy stale jokes expend; 
 Live — at thy meagre table still preside, 
 While foes commiserate, and friends deride ; 
 Yet live, thy wonted follies to repeat ; 
 Live till thy tailor's ruin is complete ; 
 Live, moral Atlas, be a world of scorn 
 For life, as now, upon thy shoulders borne ; 
 
 * " Dishonest Critic." It is well known that Willis abuses 
 the works of his personal enemies and praises those of his friends, 
 without regard to their actual merit, or rather to their want of 
 it. I forbear to explain the words *' ungrateful friend," from 
 regard to his feelings. 
 
36 TRUTH. 
 
 Yet strut thy fleeting hour upon the stage, 
 An "Awful Beacon" to the rising age.* 
 
 So much for scolding ; come now, Natty, come 
 To me, poor thing, and get a sugar plum; 
 The rod, I think, has made thy shoulders sore, 
 Thou writest so much better than before. 
 With father's love I've watch'd thy mind unfold. 
 And joy'd to see some spangles of pure gold : 
 Bright with intrinsic light "The Leper" glows, 
 "The Alchemist" no common talent shows. 
 Low though thy credit be, some hopes remain ; 
 Write more such verse, and see it rise again. 
 
 Alas, he's gone ! the land that gave him birth 
 Has lost a never-failing source of mirth. 
 Vex not his track, O Boreas, o'er the main ! 
 Fly, Time, and bring us back our butt again I 
 
 Since, Muse, a rest thy wearied pinions crave, 
 Alight, and weep on Brainard's early grave.f 
 
 * At pulchrum est, digito monstrari, et dicier. Hie est 1 — 
 
 Persius. 
 
 t If, in this paragraph, the appearance of an imitation of 
 Lord Byron's apostrophe to Kirke White should be discovered, 
 let it be remembered that the case of Brainard was similar to 
 that of White. It was very difficult to avoid copying. If I had 
 borrowed his idea, he did as much by Waller. 
 
 Brainard was far superior to Kirke White as a writer, and as 
 
TRUTH. 37 
 
 Lamented Brainard ! since no living line 
 Records thy worth, I'll make that merit mine : 
 Be mine the task to make fresh roses bloom, 
 And shed undying fragrance on thy tomb. 
 In thine own mind our cause of mourning grew — 
 The falchion's temper cut the scabbard through. 
 Hard, hard thy lot, and great tlie country's shame 
 That let such offspring die without his fame. 
 He pin'd to see the buds his brow that deck'd 
 Nipt by the bitter blight of cold neglect. 
 Torn from the tree, they perish'd, one by one, 
 Before their opening petals saw the sun : 
 While the same chilling blast that breath'd on them, 
 Froze the rich life-blood of the noble stem. 
 But not neglect, or sorrow's rankling smart, 
 Could sour the kindly current of his heart ; 
 
 a man was inferior to no one that ever breathed. He wrote un- 
 der every disadvantage ; and, as might be expected, the fauUs of 
 his writings were many. Mi the same time he had the stamina 
 of poetry. Had he received encom-agement sufficient to awaken 
 his energies, his name would have lived forever. He was wholly 
 unconscious of his own strength, and threw off* his best pieces 
 without hesitation or premeditation. To this carelessness his 
 literary faults must be attributed. In this, too, he is not alone 
 among the American poets, most of whom, it seems, write as 
 carelessly as Brainard. though by no means as well. I wish I 
 could mention three of them who equal Johti Gardiner Calkins 
 Brainard, or six who even approach his excellence. 
 
 4 
 
38 TRUTH. 
 
 And not the canker that consum'd his frame 
 Could, to the last, his eagle spirit tame ; 
 His master harp with falt'ring hand he strung", 
 And music echoed from his dying tongue. 
 Fair Cygnus thus, while life's last pulses roll. 
 Pours forth in melody his parting soul.* 
 
 Rest, Brainard! — though no sculptur'd column tell 
 Where sleeps the youth who lov'd our land so well. 
 Though not in graven brass thy praises shine, 
 A nobler epitaph, sweet bard, is thine : 
 Still be the sod where others moulder known 
 By such memorials — Brainard rear'd his own. 
 
 Sit down, good guests; the cloth again is spread: 
 Our bill of fare exhibits a calf's head ; 
 'Tis Lunt'sf — the brains I cannot give ; the lout 
 Long since on Byron's tombstone beat them out. 
 
 Lunt is no poet, he has no nretence 
 To taste or talent — scarce toWommon sense: 
 
 * This " vulgar" error belongs to the classic Ovid, and is here 
 rendered almost word for word 
 
 Sic, ubi fata vocant, udls abjectus in herbis 
 
 Ad vada Mieandri concinit albus olor. 
 
 I George Lunt is the author of " The Grave of Byron and Other 
 Poems." Neal treated Byron badly, but Lunt worse, inasmuch 
 as in the minds of his readers the name of the noble poet is associ- 
 ated with recollections of ineffable stupidity. 
 
TRUTH. 39 
 
 I searchM his scribblings for a painful hour, 
 To find some traces of the mighty power 
 Dunce Kettle'^ gives him ; deeper as I went 
 I found myself the farther ojff the scent ; 
 Then, wroth to be beguil'd of time by stuff 
 As stale, as worthless as a Traveller puff, 
 I tore the volume in resistless ire, 
 And put it where it should be — in the fire. 
 
 Lunt, bless thy great good luck ! My strain shall save 
 Thy else forgotten poems from the grave : 
 Hundreds shall be deterr'd by thy disgrace. 
 Hung in terrorem to the rhyming race. 
 The" Muse's mount thy figure shall adorn, 
 Plac'd like a scare-crow in a field of corn. 
 
 Arch demon-raiser of the realms of rhyme, 
 Great horror-monger of the eastern clime. 
 Monk Lewis, see thy devils, great and small. 
 By one of Yankee breed out-devil'd all: 
 Scatt'ring our babes and sucklings sans remorse. 
 Comes Dana, charging on his spectre horse, f 
 He lights, to let us know how Matthew Lee 
 His masters weasand slit, then went to sea, 
 
 * I spell this name as it is universally pronounced, and as I be- 
 lieve it was spelled by those who first imported it. 
 
 t It is really deplorable that Dana should choose such topics as 
 would disgrace the pages of a dream-book. His powers are really 
 very great, and should be better employed. 
 
40 TRUTH. 
 
 Turn'd pirate, burnt a ship, and, strange to tell, 
 By his own bonfire-light rode off to hell! 
 Classic the theme, and classic are the words 
 That leave the lips of Dana's gallows birds. 
 
 Ah ! Dana, on the seas no longer roam, 
 But ring ' Home Changes' quietly at home ; 
 Cut short, I pray thee, thy career of rhyme ; 
 The loathsome. Sir, is not the true sublime. 
 But if, resolved such pictures to exhibit. 
 Thou needs must steal thy subjects from the gibbet, 
 Select thy hero from the realms of evil, 
 To horse again, and gallop to the Devil. 
 
 As when a rocket climbs the vault of night. 
 And briefly falters in its fiery flight, 
 Yet starts again, as it begins to fail. 
 Upborne by bursting blasts beneath its tail, 
 So over-rated Sprague is seen to rise, 
 PufTd by the papers to the very skies. 
 His is the sterling bullion, thrice refin'd, 
 Right from the rich exchequer* of his mind. 
 
 * All the standard old English authors bear me out in this con- 
 Btructioii of the word cxchecquer. For example — 
 
 " Rob me the king's exchecquer, the first thing thou dost." 
 
 Henry IV, 
 " The king's exchecquer. 
 And all his wealthy Indies could not draw me," &c. 
 
 The Chances. 
 
TRUTH. 41 
 
 Sense, strength, and classic purity combine 
 With genius in his almost faultless line ; 
 Train'd in the olden school, his tide of song 
 Bears truth and judgment on its breast along. 
 Bright, yet not dazzling, burns his steady flame ; 
 Great is his merit — greater still his fame. 
 
 Forbid it Justice, this brave bard should lie 
 On the same coals that cook'd the smaller fry; 
 Yet to the tainted plague-spots on his hide 
 The friendly caustic needs must be applied. 
 My heart sweats blood, that he, so priz'd by all, 
 Should only string his harp at Mammon's call.* 
 'Tis clear his bank accounts and studios clash ; 
 He counts his numbers as he counts his cash. 
 Too plain his verses show the marks of toil, 
 And each and every distich smells of oil.f 
 Stern Truth declares that his is not the art 
 To rouse the fancy or to touch the heart. 
 Dead on the ear his accents often fall ; 
 Though just, yet harsh, and something dull withal. 
 
 * He writes only for prizes and on public occasions. 
 
 •f Lamp-oil is undoubtedly an essential ingredient in the compo- 
 sition of a poem; but the author should not show it like a lamp- 
 lighter. Few of our songsters can be accused of this fault. 
 However, it is better to be as redolent of oil asSprague, than to 
 grate on the ear for the want of it. He and Mr. Halleck run 
 into opposite extremes; and both are capable of amendment. 
 Together, they would produce a faultless poem. 
 
 4* 
 
42 TRUTH. 
 
 Stoop very low, my muse, apply the lash 
 To J. O. Rockwell,'^ author of such trash 
 As, in this age of trash, is seldom seen — 
 Not even in the Monthly Magazine : 
 Rockwell, who somewhat conscious he's a bore, 
 Signs, very properly, his pieces J. O. R :f 
 Rockwell, who sometimes hammers out a line, ' 
 Perhaps by accident, that's really fine. 
 That Rockwell ever writes is strange indeed — 
 Stranger that any can be found to read : 
 Yet those whose time the Statesman serves to kill. 
 May, with a relish, bolt this smaller pill. 
 
 'Tis plain that Portland, in the state of Maine, 
 Can boast no hospital for folk insane : 
 The fact is prov'd, by this, beyond a doubt; 
 John Neal and Mellen run at large about ! 
 When the moon waxes, plaintive Mellen howls, 
 But Johnny, like a bull-dog, snaps and growls ; 
 Or strikes his brother poetasters mute. 
 With harsh vibrations of his three stringed lute. 
 * Grant me, O Lord!' Neal's anxious father prayed, 
 ' To see my son an ornament to trade. 
 
 * Mr. Rockwell was the author of a poem beginning— 
 " When life is gone, death hastens on." 
 
 He has died within the year. I cannot conscientiously retract 
 any thing I have said of him, but I will cheerfully add that he was 
 an industrious young man. 
 
 t Query. J awl 
 
TRUTH. 43 
 
 Grant him to run the race his father ran, 
 A noted, useful, and respected man.' 
 Noted he is — for so much of the prayer 
 Was heard, the rest was lost in empty air. 
 
 Then, in a notion shop, did Johnny find 
 Employ precisely fitted to his mind. 
 Had one mischance not happ'd, one grievous ill, 
 He there might sell soft soap and ' sodder''^ still. 
 
 What time red Sirius rules th' autumnal sky, 
 Then in their pans the brains of poets fry. 
 'Twas then, while on his master's errands flown. 
 Full on Neal's skull the raging dog-star shone : 
 Adieu the shop — he took to Baltimore 
 No jot of that small sense he had before. 
 From his fond parent's eye a tear-drop fell — 
 His guardian angel sigh'd a last farewell. 
 
 Then, breaking bounds, behold the youth appear 
 Critic, and novelist, and sonnetteer. 
 Such novels ! They deserve the name^ at least; 
 Their like was never seen in west or east. 
 Such criticisms! His victims all to kill 
 The critic lack'd the power, though not the will ; 
 
 * Soft sodder. According to Neal, there are tin pots and 
 pans which drop in pieces when warm water is poured into them. 
 The composition with which they are cemented he calls " soft 
 sodder." 
 
44 TRUTH. 
 
 He found his blows, though thick and fast applied, 
 
 Too light to penetrate each ass's hide. 
 
 As brazen implements are ever found, 
 
 And empty casks, to yield the greatest sound, 
 
 So, louder than the rest our hero roar'd, 
 
 And over lesser owls superior soar'd. 
 
 O for a tongue ! to tell how critic Neal 
 
 Broke common decency upon the wheel ; 
 
 What notoriety he gain'd — what fame — 
 
 The pillory and gibbet give the same ; 
 
 Till not the western hemisphere at length 
 
 Gave scope sufficient to his clumsy strength. 
 
 Then, ' for his country's good,' he cross'd the tide : 
 
 ' Good bye, good riddance John,' his country cried. 
 
 A raving lunatic he cross'd the main, 
 A raging madman he returns again. 
 Spasmodic energy, galvanic starts. 
 Make the sum total of his wit and parts. 
 Look at his poems, where each ray of light 
 Is by a veil of tinsel hid from sight ; 
 Where staring nominatives strain their eyes, 
 And call for verbs — in vain, no verb replies ;* 
 
 * I have not mentioned all, or Isalf of Neal's violations of gram- 
 mar. As to sense, there is little or none in his poetic effusions. 
 There is one piece, especially, (in which an eagle rising from 
 his nest is compared to " a rank of young war-horses terribly 
 bright,") which sets gravity at defiance. We may, in forming 
 
TRUTH. 45 
 
 Where every line and every word we scan 
 Cries ' I am Ego Neal's ; beat me who can!' 
 Yet, let me do the bilious bard no wrong — 
 No pilfer'd harp was his, no borrow'd song ; 
 His freaks and pranks were his, and his alone; 
 His faults were infinite, but all his own: 
 Still, as his blund'ring fingers swept the lyre, 
 Amidst much smoke were seen some sparks of fire. 
 
 Than I've endur'd — to read thy own vile verse. 
 I pray the powers to patch thy mental flaw. 
 Or send thee kindest keepers and clean straw. 
 
 This much I'll say for L-gg-t,* — he's not rude ; 
 His muse begs pardon — hopes she don't intrude ;f 
 And begs her youth may be her pardon's plea 
 For hours unprofitably spent at sea : 
 To praise her song though rigid Truth denies, 
 The modest shall find favor in my eyes. 
 
 an estimate of his handiwork, derive some assistance from his 
 own words. " It is,' says he, "either poetry or downright non- 
 sense." Poetry it certainly is not. I am the less inclined to 
 admit this offender to benefit of clergy, that he does not himself 
 carry on war according to the laws of nations. Whatever pris- 
 oners have fallen into his critical hands, he has uniformly treated 
 with more than savage barbarity. H(bc satis ad juvenem. 
 
 * The author of " Leisure Hours at sea." 
 
 t Metuens ne crimen poena sequatur. 
 
46 TRUTH. 
 
 A glorious planet in the zenith beams ; 
 From north to south its golden radiance streams : 
 'Tis one whose merit Yankee songsters feel 
 And imitate — but English scribblers steal : 
 'Tis one'whose accents, whether grave or gay, 
 Like flames electric on the heart-strings play. 
 'Tis one who stands among the highest high, 
 ' One of the few who are not born to die ;'* 
 'Tis he whose strong-wing'd genius never halts : 
 We love him better for his very faults : 
 For faults in Halleck's glowing measure run ;f 
 So spots obscure the surface of the sun. 
 Still the hot spirit, the pervading soul, 
 Breathes through each number, and redeems the whole. 
 The careless poet has inscrib'd a name 
 Not to be blotted from the book of fame ; 
 A name that Yankees to be born shall view, 
 And boast that Ilalleck was a Yankee too. 
 
 Dear Halleck, wither'd be the hands that dare 
 One laurel from thy noble brow to tear : 
 
 * I trust Mr. Halleck will excuse me for altering and using 
 two of his noble lines. As the English journals attempted to 
 purloin the whole piece from him, I hope he will pardon a smaller 
 freedom in his fellow countryman. 
 
 t Mr. Halleck evidently writes carelessly. Scarce one of his 
 lines is constructed according to the rules of rhythm ; but, in 
 him, this is a trifling fault. If this man studied like Sprague 
 what might we not expect from him 1 Agnosco procerem! 
 
TRUTH. 47 
 
 Accept the tribute of a muse inclin'd 
 
 To bow to nothing, save the power of mind. 
 
 Bard of Bozzaris, shall thy native shore 
 
 List to thy harp and mellow voice no more ? 
 
 Shall we, with skill like thine so nigh at hand, 
 
 Import our music from a foreign land ? 
 
 While Mirror Morris chants in whimpering note, 
 
 And croaking Dana strains his screech-owl throat; 
 
 While crazy Neal to metre shakes his chains. 
 
 And fools are found to listen to his strains; 
 
 While Brooks,'^ and Sands,f and Smith, and either Clark 
 
 In chase of Phoebus, howl, and yelp, and bark. 
 
 Wilt thou be silent? Wake, O Ilalleck, wake! 
 
 Thine and thy country's honor are at stake : 
 
 Wake, and redeem the pledge ; thy vantag-e keep ; 
 
 While Paulding wakes and writes, shall Halleck sleep ? 
 
 When, bent on sport, I took my rifle gun. 
 And dunces were the game I warr'd upon, 
 How came I to o'erlook among the brood 
 An eyesore of such startling magnitude 
 As Master Sumner Lincoln Fairfield ; one 
 Who tried all arts and trades — prov'd good at none. 
 
 * Brooks. An inveterate scribbler for the New York pa- 
 pers; — himself a conductor of a newspaper. 
 
 t Sands. Half author of a deceased poem called Yamoyden. 
 I may say of him that, plus lactis habet quam sanguinis. 
 The others will be noticed in their proper place. 
 
48 TRUTH. 
 
 Hiss'd from the stage, his coat so oft he turn'd, 
 
 His bread in such mysterious ways he earn'd, 
 
 And still such tokens of full feeding gave, 
 
 That some, uncharitably, call'd him knave. 
 
 Their thoughts have chang'd, his poems came in vogue, 
 
 And prov'd that Fairfield could not be a rogue. 
 
 In aid of Science, to extend her lore, 
 To let in light where all was dark before, 
 To hasten Freedom struggling into birth. 
 To sound the trump of reason through the earth. 
 To raise the lowly, was the Press designed — 
 Bright emanation of the Godhead's mind ! 
 Whose silent, but not less resistless sway, 
 All mortals, even Yankees, must obey. 
 In this free land the engine's mighty use 
 Is fully equalled by its foul abuse. 
 We trust a steam-boat to her engineers 
 Alone ; a tailor only, wields the shears 
 That shape our garments, but that grand machine 
 In hands not fit to turn a crank is seen. 
 Does some smart cobbler to the winds disperse 
 His ends, and, like his shoe soles, creak in verse. 
 Some printer's devil throw away his stick, 
 Bit by poetic maggot to the quick. 
 Forthwith Sir Oracle is seen to squint 
 At the poor public through some paltry print. 
 
TRUTH. 49 
 
 The wax still sticking to his fingers' ends, 
 The upstart Whittier, for example, lends 
 The world important aid to understand 
 What's said, and sung, and printed in the land. 
 Uncheck'd by modesty, our Johnny Raw 
 Instructs his elders, and expounds the law ; 
 Pronounces, ex cathedra, on the worth 
 Of poems, novels, annuals, and so forth ; 
 And, with God-only-knows-how-gotten light, 
 Informs the nation what is wrong or right. 
 On men and things alike his strictures fall, 
 The self-appointed judge decides on all. 
 Proud of some scores of barely decent lines. 
 Heavens, how he swells ! how bright his genius shines '. 
 Rich in a wisdom never learn'd at school, 
 To him the son of Sirach was a fool. 
 The cushion of an editorial chair 
 Must, sure, inclose some spell of virtue rare ! 
 Like Whittier, hosts, and each self-deem'd a sage. 
 Corrupt the taste and judgment of the age : 
 But, as a cure for scorpion stings is found 
 In crushing other scorpions on the wound, 
 Whatever dirt one zany's sheets display. 
 Some rival zany wipes, in part, away.* 
 
 Audis, 
 
 Jupiter, hgec, nee labra moves, quura mittere vocetn 
 Debueras, vel marmoreus vel aeneusl — Juvenal. 
 5 
 
50 TRUTH. 
 
 When, Whittier, with a six knot breeze astern, 
 Thy cock-boat from the harbor thou didst turn, 
 I did not deem so soon to see thee sink, 
 Brought to, all standing-, in the sea of ink : 
 For thee a life more private had been best ; 
 JVe sutor ultra — prithee guess the rest.'^ 
 
 Wit, like a red hot rapier, hurts two ways ; 
 It cuts the foe and burns the hand that sways : 
 
 t I allude here to Whittier's occupation, not as a matter of re- 
 proach, but to exemplify the manner in which the press is, in ma- 
 ny instances, conducted. An artisan's shop is a nursery of use- 
 ful citizens, seldom of scholars and critics, and not often of poets. 
 He, the best years of whose life are dedicated to the acquisition 
 of manual dexterity, has no time to learn to judge of art, science 
 and literature. If, however, a handicraffeman chooses to tread the 
 paths of learning, modesty is his best policy ; but neither Whitti- 
 er, nor other editors of his stamp, are ever heard to make this 
 admission, " I do not know." The great mechanic Franklin, 
 when he was editor of a paper, confined his remarks to subjects 
 he understood. May Whittier, and others like him, profit by this 
 illustrious example. Noscenda est mensura sui. Much more 
 I could say to editors of this description : 
 
 Sed quid opus teneras mordaci radere vero 
 Auriculas 1 
 
 Note to the Second Edition. — There are some who see in the 
 above note an expression of disrespect, nay, contempt, for me- 
 chanics. I certainly meant no such thing, and it seems to me 
 that their optics are so sharp as to see " what is not to be seen.'* 
 I sprung from a family of mechanics, and it would ill become me 
 to despise my origin. There are tradesmen whose friendship is 
 my pride. 
 
TRUTH. 51 
 
 I ask if Henry Finn's obtrusive wit 
 
 Has e'er drawn blood, or scorch'd his fingers yet? 
 
 In conversation, o'er the cheerful glass, 
 A happy, quick-imagin'd pun may pass : 
 But puns premeditated — set to time — 
 And strung, like onions on a rope, in rhyme, 
 Though puff 'd by all the editorial crew, 
 And sung by Henry Finn, will never do.''^ | 
 
 Yet gains he the applauses of the press ; 
 For fashion rules in letters as in dress. 
 Sam Johnson said (I half believe 'tis true) 
 Who makes a pun would pick a pocket too. 
 Finn's hand, though not in picking pockets vers'd, 
 Writes " Comic Annuals" — Reader, which is worst? 
 
 One fool makes many — even timid sheep 
 Where the bell-wether sprang will also leap ; 
 When one hound yelps, the others all give tongue ; 
 Had Hood ne'er chanted, Finn had never sung. 
 Hood on a vicious charger bravely rides ; 
 His mimic, Finn, a sorry ass bestrides. 
 Heaven help the grammar ! He assaults the verbs, 
 I And conqu'ring on, the A, B, C, disturbs ; 
 
 * Alluding to certain hard-studied convivial effusions, I know 
 •not how they were received when spoken or sung, but when they 
 appeared in print no one laughed. 
 
52 TRUTH. 
 
 Puts adverbs, nouns, and adjectives to rout, 
 And turns the tripes of syntax inside out. 
 Help all good men, to put the parts of speech 
 Safe from his mangling poniard, out of reach. 
 
 ' Not laugh at Finn !' exclaim the critic crew ; 
 * Or at ms book!' Indeed, my friends, I do. 
 In every self-styled Comic page, I meet 
 |Some thrice told tale, stale joke, or low conceit. 
 I find his Attic salt, by every test. 
 Base Glauber, or but Epsom at the best. 
 O for some plaintive interjection! fit 
 To tell my pity for his hard bound wit.''^ 
 Straight in the fire, good Finn, thine Annual cast, 
 Let this, emphatically, be thy 'last.'f 
 
 Alas, that good advice in vain should be !| 
 There's no fool like the old fool yet, I see. 
 'Tis well that Johnston's burin to thy style 
 Gives zest, and shews thy readers where to smile ; 
 
 * Of all the failures of the American press, none are so la- 
 mentable as the Comic Annual — unless, indeed, the official com- 
 munications of the late cabinet be adduced. Comic, indeed ! 
 
 t Finn's miserable jests were often given in the newspapers as 
 "Finn's last." 
 
 X The public has a second number of the Comic Annual to en- 
 dure; no slight infliction, judging from the last. Two dollars 
 per page have been offered to writers. Were the editor as wise 
 as he indisputably is well meaning, he would have declined a 
 second literary encounter with public opinion. 
 
TRUTH. 53 
 
 'Tis well thy wealth suffices to engage 
 To pay for wit at dollars two per page. 
 O, hadst thou hit on that device before — 
 'Tis what no mortal ever needed more ! — 
 
 Not only Boston, mother of the north, 
 
 Her hordes of letter'd Vandals vomits forth f 
 
 But senior sister Salem too, can boast 
 
 She adds at least one champion to the host. M 
 
 As in the field a cumbrous twenty-four 
 
 Above less noisy twelves is heard to roar, 
 
 So pond'rous Pickering'^ sways the northern flank, 
 
 And belches volumes of undoubted blank. 
 
 Ye Salemites, my friendly counsel take — 
 
 Plant not for him the gibbet or the stake ; 
 
 V 
 Let not the fear of witchcraft shake your souls, h. 
 
 To roast your poet, were a waste of coals — 
 
 He is no wizard. Not the less a sin 
 
 It were to hang or burn the bard of Lynn.f 
 
 * Since the above was written, Mr, P. has published a poem en- 
 titled "The Buck-wheat Cake," whiclihas proved that his comic 
 powers are not to be despised, whatever his demerits as a seri- 
 ous writer may be. The Buck-wheat Cake is a very excellent 
 imitation of Philip's Splendid ShilHng, and will not suffer by a 
 comparison with Barlow's Hasty Pudding. 
 
 t Alonzo Lewis is the father of a puling babe, the name of 
 which I have forgotten, though I have seen it. It is now, I be- 
 lieve, defunct. As the annalist of Lynn, the bereaved parent 
 Jieed not blush. 
 
 Note to Second Edition. He redeemed his character and — 
 lost it again, by a second volume of poems. 
 5* 
 
54 TRUTH. 
 
 Lynn, once renown'd for rocks and works in leather. 
 
 Has now an awl to peg them fast together ; 
 
 A bard, to chant her tides and wond'rous things, 
 
 In lines as rugged as the soil he sings. 
 
 Why should not Lewis write ? We daily see 
 
 Whole tBoops who write as ill, almost, as he. 
 
 His were the follies of a tender age, 
 
 As proves his ev'ry line — his ev'ry page. 
 
 At last he wisely stays his mad career, 
 
 And moves with credit in an humbler sphere. 
 
 There's balm in Gilead, Lewis, for thy case ; 
 I'll treat thee well — repentance merits grace : 
 The Lord forbid that I should treat as crimes 
 Regretted faults — I mean thy school-boy rhymes. 
 Not born to reach the ladder's topmost round, ^^ 
 
 To know it, proves at least thy judgment sound. 
 Now, having given ambitious clamb'ring o'er, 
 Farwell, good Lewis ; — go and sin no more. 
 
 We read, Pelides, elsewhere proof to steel, 
 Had yet a tender spot upon his heel: 
 Though ho Achilles, Lewis, thou hast full 
 As soft a spot — nay, softer, — in thy skull : 
 I shew'd thee this — in vain — thy hand, instead 
 Of helmet, put a fool's cap on thy head. 
 Thy harness yet is incomplete ; provide 
 Forthwith apparel of rhinoceros' hide ; 
 
TRUTH. 55 
 
 'Twill serve a double purpose ; to adorn 
 
 Thy limbs, and shield thee from the shafts of scorn. 
 
 Shakspeare could weekly serve a drama up, 
 Yet never find a vacuum in his cup ; 
 Could well afford, from his exhaustless mine, 
 To fling a handful of his gold to swine : 
 But such a mover of the mind appears 
 On earth but once in twice three thousand years. 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, and Ben 
 Still wrote and burnt, and wrote and burnt again, 
 A hundred times, and plied the painful file. 
 Before they deem'd their pieces worth the while. 
 Our Yankee play-wrights Avrite like Shakspeare, fast; 
 But that's the first resemblance, and the last : 
 There's Stone, for instance, with his Indian king ; 
 By aid of clap-traps, makes the boxes ring, 
 Throws mother Nature into ague fits, 
 And for his pains five hundred dollars gets ; 
 Then, conscience smitten, for forgiveness prays, — 
 His work, he says, but cost him forty days.'^ 
 What's done in hurry ill is ever done ; 
 So says the adage, and 'tis prov'd by Stone. 
 Five hundred dollars! — he deserves the rack; 
 At least the law of Moses on his back. 
 
 * ■ Die, O vanissime, quis te 
 
 Festiriare jubet^ 
 
56 TRUTH. 
 
 O sun ! O moon ! O stars ! Shall Europe see 
 Our country's intellectual poverty? 
 What ! shall the Drama to the world appear 
 Envelop'd in Cimmerian darkness here ? 
 Shall Barker, Stone, and Smith, and Morris stand 
 To represent the talent of the land ? 
 Forbid it, Gods ! Rise, classic Hillhouse, rise ; 
 Mix in the contest, and bear off the prize : 
 True, thou hast faults — what gem did ever shine 
 Free from the stains of earth, in any mine ? 
 Rise in thy strength, let step-dame Britain find 
 Herself o'ertaken in the march of mind : 
 Cast all her bards, but Shakspeare, into shade — 
 Thy country asks it; be her voice obey'd: — 
 Rise in thy riper age, with taste mature — 
 Give us one play, forever shall endure : 
 Write not for "stars," for Forrest or for Kean ; 
 Try not thy pinion in a flight so mean. 
 What though her modest bard Columbia slights. 
 While Metamora runs for twenty nights ?f 
 Not thine, but ours, O Hillhouse, is the shame — 
 Our children's sons shall glory in thy name. 
 
 In times of old, imperial Rome, we read, 
 Was doomed by three sharp swords at once to bleed. 
 
 t Populi frons diirior linjus, 
 Qui sedet et spectat. — Juvenal. 
 
TRUTH. 57 
 
 ■s 
 
 We too, if I may name small things with great, 
 Are trebly curst in a triumvirate ; 
 For Prentice, Morris, and the blockhead Clark, 
 Like poachers' dogs, in yelping concert bark 
 At honest men. Bestow on one a kick, 
 The others join, and bite you to the quick. 
 Whatever counterfeit is coined by one, 
 The others stamp the current mark upon. 
 Offend the one — the fellow, wrong or right, 
 Secure of backers, scruples not to fight* 
 
 Behold the bully butcher Prentice stand. 
 With ready cleaver lifted in his hand ; 
 And, save his kindred crew, the world must feel 
 The ragged edge of that all smiting steel. 
 Does a poor author win some small renown? 
 With brutal fury Prentice knocks him down. 
 Stabs him — and still insatiate, turns around 
 His rusty knife within the victim's wound. 
 Just or unjust, to him 'tis all the same ; 
 No worth, no talent, his blind rage can tame. 
 On filthy chopping-block with murd'rous axe. 
 Many a better than himself he hacks 
 
 * The papers conducted by these worthies form, or rather 
 formed a kind of Unholy Alliance, into which several minor 
 powers were occasionaly admitted. I believe that Morris lately 
 seceded from the league, and Prentice has abdicated. 
 
58 TRUTH. 
 
 Detested wretch, surcharg'd with spite and spleen, 
 Curst critic, literary Sawney Bean,f 
 Hast thou so long on human offal fed, 
 Slander'd and rail'd unchalleng'd for thy bread, 
 To think that none dare meet thee, eye to eye ? 
 I'll teach thee better, sirrah, by and by. 
 Back to thy shambles, and with Clark renew 
 Thine intercourse, with Mirror Morris too ; 
 Praise and be praised by these and o-ther bards. 
 As sharpers help each other cheat at cards : 
 Think not to office 'tis the certain way, 
 To soil the noble name of Henry Clay: 
 Go, seek a patron more upon thy level ; 
 Go, plaster Andrew Jackson, — or the Devil ; 
 
 t Sawney Bean was a Scotch robber and murderer, who fed- 
 on the bodies of his victims. 
 
 * Aude ahquid brevibus Gyaris et carcere dignum, 
 Si vis esse aliquis. — Juvenal. 
 
 This may seem harsh, nay, personnl. I grant it so; but let 
 the reader turn to a file of the New England Review, and if he 
 has an appetite for garbage, he will therein find wherewith to 
 gratify it. He will find rancor, indiscriminate abuse and black- 
 guardism, by wholesale. I refer only to the time when Prentice 
 conducted it. He will see not only Willis, but all his assistants, 
 pursued for a whole year with the most bitter hostility. If he 
 does not find enough in a single number to justify every word in 
 the text, I will consent to stand reproved, now and forever. 
 
 This man has gone to Kentucky, aiwi New-England is happily 
 rid of him. It is said that he intends to write the life of Henry 
 Clay, which may Heaven in its mercy forefend ! 
 
 Note to Second Edition. He has written and published it. 
 
TRUTH. 59 
 
 Go, curry favor -with the sire of crime, 
 Sure of the benefit some future time.* 
 
 The chief thus sped, his men shall share his fate ; 
 I'll throw my gauntlet at the second rate, 
 Port Folio Clark — but no — the game's too small ; 
 'Twill make him vain to mention him at all. 
 
 Now turn to Mirror Morris — he whose head 
 Is as the Fever River rich in lead : 
 Bear witness Brier Cliff, his paltry play, 
 His little " Mirror's" false reflected ray, 
 His verse, in which so little sense is seen, 
 That e'en the author asks " What can it mean ?"* 
 It means his voice, if fit for any thing, 
 Is fit to cry lost children, not to sing. 
 
 One bard there is I almost fear to name. 
 As doubting whether to applaud or blame. 
 In Percival'sf productions chaff and wheat, 
 Mix'd half and half, in just proportion meet; 
 
 * One of Morris's pieces, which has had a wider circulation 
 than the rest, has for its title and burthen these words, — " What 
 can it mean 1 what can it mean 1" 
 
 t I believe that Mr. Percival's want of popularity is owing, in 
 a great measure, to his poetic pride, which will not allow him 
 to descend to cater for the prevailing taste. He will not devi- 
 ate from his own standard of excellence, and what is worse, will 
 bestow no care on his pieces. He ought to cultivate his talents. 
 
60 TRUTH. 
 
 But, duly bolted in my poem-mill,* 
 
 I find the better part is wholesome still. 
 
 Diffuse, wind-broken, feeble, out of joint, 
 
 Full half his lines have neither edge nor point; 
 
 The rest for many a mortal sin atone ; 
 
 Such, even Bryant might be proud to own. 
 
 No more — unjust neglect has quench'd his fires, 
 
 And cank'ring rust corrodes his silent wires ; 
 
 Alike unmindful now of praise or blame, 
 
 'He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame.'f 
 
 When Mediocrity his claims displays. 
 And frontless grasps at profit and at praise ; 
 When critics join his praises to rehearse. 
 And pay him fifty dollars for his verse ; 
 Such verse, as judging by the gaps and rents 
 In sense and sound, were dear at fifty cents ; 
 To say which merits pity most is hard — J 
 The paying critics or receiving bard. 
 
 * We hear of grist-mills, saw-mills, &c. — Why should not this 
 work be called a poet, or poem-miin It would, perhaps, be 
 more proper to call it a dunce-mill, but that would not suit the 
 metre. 
 
 t Since I wrote the above, I have heard (with great pleasure) 
 that Messrs. Percival and Bryant are about to collect and pub- 
 lish their several poems. 
 
 t Prosper Wetmore is the author of a volume of poems, of 
 which " Lexington" is the principal. Lexington was pronoun- 
 ced the best of a number which were written for a prize of fifty 
 dollars. What must the worst have been 1 
 
TRUTH. 61 
 
 Undaunted Wetmore, what I most admire 
 In thee, is not thy fancy or thy fire ; 
 On these thy qualities I need not touch ; 
 Bryant and Halleck have, perhaps, as much : 
 No, 'tis thy matchless courage, that could squint 
 Twice at thy sheets, and yet resolve to print : 
 Of triple brass or steel thy nerves must be ; 
 Certain damnation wakes no awe in thee."^ 
 What though our fathers beat the British sore ? 
 Beneath thy hand they suffer ten times more. 
 Alas! that same all mangling hand bestows 
 Upon our buried sires its random blows : 
 No British bullet made their marrow thrill. 
 As does, though cas'd in mould, great Wetmore's quill. 
 
 It gives me Prosper Wetmore, small delight. 
 To pull thus rudely down thy little kite : 
 But, like a mad dog's bite, thine ill, I'm sure 
 The actual cautery alone can cure : 
 The doctor, therefore, mindful of thy youth,f 
 Administers a dose of wholesome truth : 
 He tells thee, Prosper, that the laurel tree 
 Is yet a seed that bears one leaf for thee ; 
 
 * Credite, me vobis folium recitare Sibyllas. 
 
 t Though Prosper Wetmore is in the decline of life, this does 
 not kinder him from being a very young poet, and that in more 
 senses than one. 
 
 6 
 
62 TRUTH. 
 
 And bids thee, like thy namesake in the play, 
 To break thy staff, and fling thy book away. 
 
 Ye master tradesmen, to my words give heed ; 
 I'll give ye counsel that ye greatly need ; 
 Does any prentice take it in his head 
 To pen a stanza ? — see him blister'd, bled, 
 If that wo'nt answer, turn him straight away, 
 Without twice thinking — he would never stay : 
 Or, to your tender feelings give the reins — 
 Do him an alms-deed, and beat out his brains. 
 Ye prentice boys, who one day would be men, 
 Stick to your handy-work — eschew the pen. 
 What sad exposure, and what bitter wo 
 Bad verses cause, shall Sammy Woodworth shew. 
 He too, like you, once earn'd his daily bread, 
 No matter how — it was not with his head ; 
 Till blinded by some Jack o' Lanthorn sprite 
 He took for Phoebus, he resolv'd to write. 
 One splended lyric to the future past, 
 His first thing excellent, as well as lasf^ 
 From that bright haystack fire no phoenix rose; 
 A goose its cinders merely did compose ; 
 
 * The Bucket, did Woodworth credit. His novel and other 
 subsequent productions I will not offend myself by naming. 
 Thirty years of disappointment have not taught this unhappy 
 person discretion. Even now a volume of his is announced as 
 being in the press. Is it published'? 
 
TRUTH. 63 
 
 Whose eggs, tho' hatch'd with patient care and pain, 
 Brought neither empty praise nor solid gain : 
 And yet, untaught by many a pinching fast, 
 The foolish fowl will cackle to the last. 
 
 Woodworth is friendless, or, 'tis very clear 
 Advice had sav'd him from a notice here. 
 Chop wood, O Woodworth, make the anvil ring, 
 Dig mud, pick oakum, any thing but sing ! 
 Ye, who to soar on paper wings prepare. 
 Be warn'd by Woodworth's fall — in time beware. 
 
 Fresh lots of fools our markets yearly yield. 
 Whole cohorts from Manhattoes take the field ; 
 As many more does Philadelphia rear ; 
 Vide the pages of her Souvenir. 
 Time was when quite another race of men 
 Abode within the town of William Penn. 
 A broad brimm'd hat ensconc'd each careful head, 
 George Fox and Bunyan were the books they read ; 
 Their strict economy and sterling sense 
 Gave no encouragement to fond pretence. 
 The times are chang'd— M'Henry, Smith, M'Call,-^ 
 And twenty more, like cats on house tops squall ; 
 
 * M'Call is the author of a composition entitled ' The Trou- 
 badour.' He writes merely for amusement, and has it all to 
 himself. 
 
64 TRUTH. 
 
 Nay, even Barker in the lists appears, 
 
 And yiel(Js the tribute of his " Smiles, and Tears,"* 
 
 In kind, with interest, I pay his toils, 
 
 Tears for his rashness, for his folly, smiles: 
 
 And when I listen as the tuneful dolt 
 
 Sings how a beast a little maid did bolt, 
 
 And gravely draws this moral from his song. 
 
 That maids to talk with beasts do very wrong, 
 
 I quite forget that now I rank with men. 
 
 And think I'm in my granny's arms again. 
 
 Still Philadelphia some taste betrays ; 
 She damns his poems, as she damn'd his plays ; 
 But bred to stand the brunt of steel and fire. 
 He laughs to scorn the critic's harmless ire.f 
 
 O miracle ! What next ! The greatest owl 
 Alive, salutes us with an Irish howl ; 
 And with a screech of horrible distress 
 Proclaims the wonders of the ' Wilderness.' 
 
 * The person here commemorated is the author of several 
 plays, of which ' Smiles and Tears' is one. His poetic per- 
 formances would be worse, were that possible, than his dramat- 
 ic attempts. The thing (I call it so, for want of a term suffi- 
 ciently contemptuous) mentioned in the text, is called ' Little Red 
 Riding Hood.' 
 
 t Mr. Barker was once a brave soldier, and since, an alder- 
 man ; now he is a poet. 
 
 Illuc lieu ! miseri traducimur. 
 
TRUTH. 65 
 
 Cease, cease, M'Henry,* cease, for heaven's dear sake, 
 Thy other drugs are bad enough to take : 
 Think of the infamy thy novels gain'd ; 
 Think of the name of Washington profan'd: 
 Proceed not thus, still adding crime to crime — 
 What, what the Devil prompted thee to rhyme ? 
 Wast ever where the fashion was in vogue 
 To woo the Muses in the Munster brogue ? 
 Put by the pen — enough is given to fame I 
 Or rather, sooth to speak. Big O, to shame. 
 
 Purvey two broken stools, at trifling cost, 
 And one supplies the leg the other lost. 
 I'll sell, dog-cheap, two men ; (I won't say fools) 
 Who buys, may treat them as he'd treat the stools. 
 Both are imperfect ; yet if pains you take 
 The twain one perfect piece, perhaps, may make. 
 One's not so wholly useless as the other,f 
 And therefore will I make him sell his brother, 
 Thompson is bad at sonnets, Smith at verse,J 
 As bad at prose, and at the Drama worse. 
 
 * Peregrina est bellua. This fellow is an Irishman and a 
 physician. In one of his novels (The Wilderness) he brings 
 George Washington on his knees before his heroine ! " Think 
 of that Master Brook !" He has lately sinned in another sort; 
 videlidet, in rhyme. 
 
 t Query. Whichi 
 
 t Thompson is a poet merely ; Smith is a poet and play- 
 wright also. The principal of his abortions is entitled Caius 
 Marius. 
 
 6* 
 
66 TRUTH. 
 
 Who offers ninepence ? — fourpence shall I say? 
 Take them for nothing, and with thanks away. 
 
 Unhappy Carolina ; from thy birth 
 Afflicted more than any state on earth ; 
 Curst in thy statesmen, in thy temper curst, 
 Curst in the helots whom thy swamps have nurs'd, 
 Curst in thy pepper politics, thy clime. 
 Thou art, to cap the climax, curst in rhyme ! 
 
 To pluck the comet Glory* from its sphere, 
 A Pillar did Stylites Holland rear, 
 Compos'd of bulky words, big sounding strains, 
 Cemented loosely with his sodden brains. 
 Perch'd on the top, his eyes with tears ran o'er 
 To find his mark as distant as before ; 
 And, giddy with the unexpected check. 
 He fell, and broke his reputation's neck. 
 
 Then Allston took the field, resolv'd to do 
 Great things on canvass, and on paper too. 
 Four forms on foolscap straight the youth portray'd, 
 Like nothing our creator ever made, 
 And, puzzled much to give his work a name. 
 With desp'rate hand scrawl'd " Sylphs"f beneath the 
 
 * Edwin Holland is the author of the " Pillar of Glory," 
 and other poems. His Pillar proved a post on which he was 
 picqueted. 
 
 t Allston is the author of a work called " The Sylphs of the 
 
TRUTH. 6t 
 
 List, northern bards, a bilious critic's mouth 
 Gapes, like an ogre's, in the distant South : 
 He bids ye "with a grateful heart to God, 
 Devour each day your pudding and your cod ;" 
 He threatens, if ye heed him not, to do 
 The worst his feeble brain can prompt him to ; 
 And "having purged his choler, spilt his gall," 
 Informs ye that "he does despise ye all." 
 Strange, strange, that such should feel contempt ! per- 
 chance 
 He means retaliation in advance. 
 
 Well dost thou, J. L. M.* to hide thy name, 
 And let three capitals bespeak thy shame. 
 'Tis not, poor thing, thy fancied fire and strength ; 
 Thy tedious, weary, lazy, leaden, lumbering length ; 
 'Tis not the scurril coarseness of thy line 
 Draws on thy nothingness rebuke of mine : 
 
 Seasons." It would be hard to speak as ill of it as it deserves, 
 but this gentleman has risen in public estimation as a painter, in 
 proportion as he has fallen as a poet. The artist, therefore, shall 
 excuse the bard. 
 
 Carolina has produced several more rhymers, not worth nam- 
 ing. 
 
 * "Native Bards, a Satirical Effusion; by J. L M." made 
 its appearance last summer. I do not speak of this affair as a 
 critic, for it is beneath criticism — beneath contempt — but as a 
 man who cannot see such an ebullition of utter spite without dis- 
 gust and horror. Native Bards dates from Philadelphia, but con- 
 tains intrinsic evidence of a more southern origin. 
 
68 TRUTH. 
 
 The sputt'ring spite that fills thy pin's-head heart, 
 Compels my notice, cypher as thou art. 
 I know not what unhappy spot of earth 
 Claims the dishonor of thy parts and birth; 
 But leave it, wheresoe'er it be ; repair 
 To dens where copper-heads, thy kindred, are : 
 Come never hither, lest we grant thy wish, 
 And serve thy calf's — no — cod's head in a dish. 
 
 Off hats, off hats ! for lo ! upon the stage 
 The Aristarchus of this scribbling age : 
 A man who knows that heated steel is hot. 
 That ice is cold — ye gods ! what knows he not ? 
 Art, science, metaphysics, and all that. 
 And the nine muses, strut beneath his hat : 
 Critiques dogmatic in his brain are bred ; 
 O happy hat, to cover such a head! 
 
 'Is Walsh,'* you cry, ' with inspiration big? 
 As well an elephant might dance a jig.' 
 
 * This critic is a striking vertfication of the adage, " the great- 
 est clerks are not the wisest men." In the multiplicity of his 
 interminable scribblings, I defy his admirers to point out a single 
 original thought, or one line of inspiration. He has not even 
 gained a place in Pierpont's common-place books. Still he writes 
 on, 
 
 Et quodcunque semel chartis illeverit, omnes 
 Gestiet a furno rediuntes scire lacuque, 
 
 Et pueros et anus. Horace. 
 
TRUTH. 69 
 
 Alas! he writes no verses now ; but once, 
 Before the gen'ral voice proclaim'd him dunce, 
 Such fruits of toil his sullied sheets confess'd, 
 As not e'en Kettle's stomach could digest. 
 No room the worthy trash-collector found 
 For Robert's poems in that burial-ground. 
 His book; but Robert, in his next review, 
 Set down poor Kettle for a blockhead too.''^ 
 A negro thus, whose shins his comrade hurts, 
 Their common color to reproach converts. 
 
 Stop Time, and though, perhaps, thy pinions ache, 
 A small addition to thy burthen take : 
 Take Bailey up, a worthy load, the same 
 Who made, long since, one happy snatch at fame ; 
 Take Thatcher up, and give Longfellow place ; 
 Let Hannah Gould thy Avorld-broad shoulders grace: 
 If she among the greatest and the best 
 May find no vacant place, set down the rest : 
 
 * In damning Kettle's book, Walsh says, " We too have 
 written poems," or words to that effect; and it seems from the 
 tone of the article, that the insertion of Walsh's lines among the 
 " Specimens" would have had an important influence on the crit- 
 ic's opinions. Perhaps I should not call the said book a burial 
 ground. If Kettle buried some, he certainly performed the office 
 of resurrection man for others. 
 
 Note extra, for the especial benefit of Mr. Walsh. The 
 christian uame of Bishop Porteus was Bielby, and not " Belly," 
 as the critic calls it in his edition of the British Poets. 
 
70 TRUTH. 
 
 Give Holmes a ride, the muses' youngest son, 
 Equall'd by few, surpass'd by none, not one — 
 A dawn of worth, in whose meridian blaze 
 Bryant with effort shall retain his bays. 
 Take .these, and bear them down to future years ; 
 If thus increas'd, thy load too great appears. 
 If easily thou couldst contrive to set 
 The hero and his whilome cabinet 
 Adrift, just so far on their downward road 
 As where John Milton's hero makes abode ; 
 A nation's gratitude, O Time, were thine. 
 And nobly settled were these fares of mine. 
 
 The roll is call'd, my work is almost done — 
 The last and greatest name remains alone : 
 But ill the censor's public debt were paid 
 To slight the mighty master of the trade. 
 Seach the rich stores of Greek and Roman lore, 
 Or turn the page of modern letters o'er ; 
 But look for nothing better, in its kind, 
 Than that which bears the impress of the mind 
 Of Bryant f he who shines without a peer, 
 The brightest star that lights our hemisphere: 
 Clear, smooth, and strong, with classic beauty grac'd, 
 He writes no line his friends could wish effac'd ; 
 
 * Ingenium cui sit, cui mens dlvinior atque 03 
 Magna sonaturura, des nominis hujus honorem. 
 
TRUTH. 71 
 
 And, like a certain potentate of old, 
 Whate'er he touches he converts to gold. 
 Few are his gems, but worth a mighty sum ; — 
 None but Pitt diamonds from his work-shop come. 
 
 Write, Bryant, write ; the land's reproach redeem ; 
 Exalt tliy country in the world's esteem. 
 Whatever theme inspires, I'm sure of this. 
 That if thou wouldst, thou canst not write amiss. 
 
 Now have I thump'd each lout I meant to thump. 
 And my worn pen exhibits but a stump ; 
 Now have I shot my shafts at beast and brute. 
 And trampled reptiles with my spurning foot: 
 Many have sufFer'd, many gone scot-free, — 
 As all unworthy of a shot from me. 
 Let those who deem their laurels still unshorn. 
 For such forbearance thank my utter scorn ; 
 And those to whose reform my censures tend, 
 Bow to the staff in sorrow, and amend. 
 I've driven the scalpel deeply, to be sure ; 
 But desp'rate means a desp'rate ill must cure. 
 Let Candor judge what motive nerv'd my arm. 
 And if I meant my country good, or harm ; 
 For the bought suffrage of a venal press, 
 I prize it little, and I fear it less. 
 
 For ye whose backs, and sides, and shoulders still 
 Twinge with my blows, and, may be, ever will ; 
 
72 TRUTH. 
 
 Whose yard-long ears my honest muse offends, 
 I'll tell ye, dunces, how to get amends: 
 To my poor lines be just such treatment shown 
 {For that's your Avorst) as each has given his own. 
 
 To those who listen to my humble lay, 
 Untouch'd and unattempted, let me say ; 
 No private malice on my course propell'd, 
 No anger spurr'd me, and no fear withheld ; 
 In these my strictures on my fellow men. 
 Truth held the light, and conscience drove the pen. 
 
 FINIS, 
 
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