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/3 6. 
 
 THE 
 
 MORAL FOR AUTHORS, 
 
 AS 
 
 CONTAINED IN THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 <& it x e k a , 
 
 A MANUSCRIPT NOVEL, 
 
 AND DISCOVERED 
 
 BY J. E. TUEL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE PROTEGE j" '' PRISONER OF PEROTE j" " A REVIEW OF THE 
 DIPLOMATIC POLICY OF THE MEXICAN WAR, -1 ETC. 
 
 ■' Si quid novisti rectius istis, 
 Candidus imperii. " — Horace. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 STRINGER & TOWNSEND, No. 222 BROADWAY. 
 
 ^C^^i^*^<L^O 
 
 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year IS 19, by 
 
 J. E. TUEL, 
 
 in the the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern District of New 
 
 York. 
 
 J. P. Prall, Printer, 
 
 9 Spruce-st. N. V. 
 
 • 
 
INTRODUCTION; 
 
 WHEREIN THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF. 
 
 In submitting this " Moral" to the reflection of the reader, a few- 
 words may not be inappropriate in explanation of its object, although 
 there is no absolute necessity of divulging it through the chapter of 
 apologies usually contained in an "Introduction." 
 
 There are so many intermediate points between a direct communi- 
 cation Avith the Public and myself — being an obscure bundle of Manu- 
 scripts without a name — that I deem it necessary to make a cross-cut 
 over those who intercept us — viz. : the Authors, the Critics, and the 
 Publishers — those three great subordinates upon the Railway of the 
 Intellect — the mighty Press ! 
 
 I am induced to adopt this plan, or take this route (somewhat out 01 
 the usual track), not from any hostility I bear this respectable monopoly. 
 but in consequence of the crowded state of the Intellectual Cars on 
 the different lines. 
 
 The locomotive power, rushing at such a desperate literary rate — ■ 
 throwing off so many thousand book-passengers in a day — and run- 
 ning over so many thousand Pedestrian readers in its speed — very 
 much to the detriment of their minds if not in imminent peril of their 
 lives — that I am admonished to adopt this precautionary method in 
 travelling into the affections of the Public — I mean that of running 
 over some of their old acquaintances, if not "accidentally killing" 
 some of their particular friends ! 
 
 If I have been over-zealous in sounding my rail-road whistle (other- 
 wise my trump of Fame), in solicitude for the safety of some of the 
 public's benefactors — the Publishers — to enable them to clear the track, 
 they must not esteem it too great an immunity from the " fatal acci- 
 dent" of being run over with some of their passengers. They must 
 
IV 
 
 remember that if they are occasionally spared the reprimand of a pub- 
 lic dinner for their discrimination in catering to the public taste, the 
 authors have been equally complimented by merited marks of public 
 chastisement for their stupidity in writing. In recording both com- 
 pliments together, it will not I hope be considered invidious by either. 
 
 While enumerating these testimonials of approbation, I must be per- 
 mitted, in justice to another worthy and much neglected subordinate 
 on this line, to award my testimony of his uniform courtesy, and his 
 amiable disposition to accommodate every one committed to his charge 
 — I mean the Porter — otherwise called the t; Critic." Having once en- 
 trusted his life to the Publisher, the author need have no fear of com- 
 mitting his reputation (that is his book baggage, liable to be stolen by 
 any literary thief around the intellectual depot) to the charge of the 
 •'critic;" and when he s once sent, " with the compliments of the 
 Publisher," to the care of the Public, under this critical porterage, he 
 may rest assured of being safely delivered, " this side up," and read 
 il with care." 
 
 But to drop the figure, instead of " going it," I must say, in as plain 
 language as the magnificence of the subject will admit, that I record 
 nothing in this " Autobiography" but what is intended for the bene- 
 fit of its class, and through it, to use a social expression, for the " gene- 
 ral good." In making this declaration I do not wish to be understood 
 as speaking in the confident tone of a Teacher — no ! but with the 
 timidity and caution of a hard though unrewarded student. 
 
 In this " Confidence" the disappointments of the efforts of early 
 struggles are endeavored to be suppressed, and not attempted to be 
 merged into a grievance with which the public should have any sympa- 
 thy. In treating them in a calmer moment with a deserved severity 
 by a rigid examination and self-chastisement, is perhaps the most hu- 
 miliating punishment they could receive for a sensitiveness wrought 
 upon by high anticipations of success and followed by repeated dis- 
 appointments. Their cold rejection by those upon whose sympathies 
 they could rest no claim in soul or mind is nothing. The author ot 
 my being has yet to boast of many failures, for he has manliness 
 ej oughto attempt to achieve many triumphs. 
 
 J. E. T. 
 
©\3&\L Oo 
 

 THE MORAL FOR AUTHORS ; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A MANUSCRIPT NOVEL. 
 
 MORAL I. 
 
 Born in an " attic''' — from an inkstand led, 
 On foolscap first I laid my infant head ; 
 Not having feet, like Poetry, to walk 
 My first Essay in Life was how to talk, 
 But this the fates denied me, so I sought 
 The public breast to wean myself from thought ! 
 
 This once determin'd, with a magic art 
 As black as Erebus I made a start, 
 And wander'd ebbing up and down the stream 
 Of struggling life, like Passion in a dream, 
 Until I came unto a giant wall 
 Whose massive gates of black were barr'd to all 
 Save those who call'd in awe a mystic name, 
 Whose sound was echo'd by the trump of Fame ! 
 
 Upon this portal huge with iron bars 
 Were written names of fire enshrin'd with stars ;- 
 
Some proudly bright — some fading fast away, 
 
 Some shedding lustre for a distant day — 
 
 Some look'd a nail within an iron gate, 
 
 Whose head was Genius strong impell'd by Fate ; 
 
 Some rusting in their strength — some breaking fast 
 
 Their rays of Glory from the fleeting Past ! 
 
 Some pointing to the future with a hand 
 
 That traced their glory built on grains of sand ! 
 
 Around these stars were circled in their right 
 The brilliant works which each had brought to light — 
 The triumphs of the Pen — the deeds that bind 
 The rolling ages to the God-like mind ! 
 
 I gazed enraptured on the brilliant throng — 
 Kings of Romance and Cavaliers of Song, 
 And as I trac'd the awful scroll of Fame, 
 I ask'd with trembling lips to write my name. 
 
 At this bold word a sprite with fearful hand 
 And awful body pointed to the band, 
 And open'd wide his dragon mouth to show 
 A set of shark-like teeth — a frightful row ; 
 Then utter'd with a solemn witty mien — 
 That those who enter'd last must first be seen, 
 And being seen, must afterwards (he said) 
 By those above in scrutiny be read. 
 
 I told the dragon bold I'd enter in — 
 (My faults were few in years — my body thin) 
 Without the awful gaze and look of those, 
 Who sleep in Poetry and dine on Prose — 
 That were I once to meet their dazzling sight 
 My brilliant thoughts of fire would change to night. 
 
 " It matter'd not — these men were tender all — 
 Some ' were younger once' and none would fall 
 
9 
 
 So far below the standard of their Fame 
 As to be jealous of another's name." 
 
 Persuaded by the Dragon's charms, I asked 
 The sum he'd pay me should my comet, bask'd 
 In the bright beams of this majestic sun, 
 Through the wide world of letters have " a run !" 
 
 He shook his head — which seem'd to mean that tale 
 Of a new novel comet rhymes with " fail ;" 
 But soon recovering from his fit, he stept 
 Towards a shelf where divers authors slept, 
 And 'midst the number pointed to the fate 
 Of those who, never sleeping, rarely ate — 
 And said, as to a group he signal made, 
 " These are the authors who are richly paid." 
 *' But why so poor of head and limb so gaunt, 
 Their very presence seems the place to haunt, 
 Like ghosts that walk, like Hamlet's, in the night, 
 To tell their wrongs to some be-letter'd wight." 
 
 " This is the cause !" and here the Dragon took 
 Down from the shelf (or out the tomb) a book — 
 And op'ning wide its shroud, wherein was laid 
 In hot-press'd sheets the substance of a shade , 
 " Look here !" he cried ; " this is the cause of all — 
 The cause whereof great authors rise and fall : 
 This skull was stolen from a churchyard o'er 
 The waters deep on England's distant shore — 
 The brains cost nothing and the labor less, 
 And why we buy them Yankee you can guess" 
 
 Thus were exhum'd full many noble heads 
 That slumber'd softly, some on pine-board beds ; 
 And as I linger'd o'er these relics vast 
 
 I gave a critique passing on each pass'd. 
 2 
 
10 
 
 " Here is the Knight of Chivalry and Love, 
 The Saxon Harold — how he soars above 
 The tamer few in brilliant prose and verse, 
 The sparkling novel and the Epic terse ! — 
 Th' heroic age has found in his a pen 
 To paint its spirit bold and gallant men ! 
 The grace of beauty and the pomp of Life 
 In courtly arts and battle's deadly strife — 
 The lover's soul or woman's gentler heart 
 Have all in Harold play'd a master's part. 
 
 So skill'd is he in all the art to trace 
 An angel's features on a sinful face, 
 That while he gives to passion's inmost soul 
 The impulse high that brooks no tame control, 
 He stoops at times his own exalted power, 
 And gives to Vice what should be Virtue's dower." 
 
 But not alone in Cadmus' honor'd art 
 Have Vice and Virtue, borne an equal part. 
 
 There live of men some who have madly thrown 
 The brilliant gifts which nature hath bestown 
 In lavishness upon some dazzling sin 
 Whose glittering guilt their hearts' approval win ; 
 And all the efforts of a gifted mind, 
 With Genius' fire and Talent's depth combined, 
 Have been perverted to some evil end 
 With which a show of seeming good might blend. 
 
 The potent strength a Caesar's arm might wield 
 And from Destruction's host a Country shield, 
 Hath by the sway of stern Ambition's power 
 Obey'd its impulse in an evil hour. 
 
11 
 
 To win the semblance of a living name 
 To gain a niche upon the mount of Fame, 
 Some have rashly tho' it were of shame. 
 
 A spirit such as this the Youth inspir'd 
 When his hand the Ephesian Temple fir'd, 
 And sent his mem'ry with the brilliant crime 
 Ignobly in its flight to endless Time ! 
 
 While these reflections (somewhat out of place) 
 Were crowding on me, onward flew the race 
 Of struggling authprs battling for the mind, 
 (Some far ahead and others far behind, 
 Until at length the eye began to view 
 The many fall beneath the stronger few. 
 
 Of these, conspicuous in the mental fight 
 (I pray my Muses' pardon for this flight, 
 But metaphor in Poetry s like Life, 
 It rushes rapidly from race to strife), 
 Was one who fiercely stood the brunt of foes, 
 Who battled nobly and who parried blows 
 With human vices and for human woes ! 
 
 But with his strength to wound he lacked the skill 
 To make his Satire through his Malice kill, 
 For while it raised in him a deadly bile 
 It only serv'd to raise in us a smile. 
 
 Apart from this he had a pow'r to throw 
 The broadest Humor into deepest wo — 
 Pathetic wit and weeping laughter steer 
 Alternately between a sigh and tear — 
 
12 
 
 His manly Nickleby and dismal Rudge 
 Began a tale of wit to end in Fudge ! 
 
 So vers'd peculiar was his vein to start 
 The lips to smiling while it writh'd the heart — 
 To clothe in raiment sorrow stol'n from joy 
 Like gentle Florence in her dark decoy — 
 To make the beautious and the frightful join 
 In features same as portions of the loin, 
 That if his name was plac'd upon a tomb 
 ("Which God forbid should happen very soon) 
 And all his works in one deep coffin laid, 
 Which heaven grant may be in pity paid 
 Much more in Mercy there than shillings here 
 (For Mercy all we crave upon our bier), 
 Were this the case and all his works and name 
 In fun'ral rang'd and follow'd on by Fame, 
 And mourn'd by thousands whom he never knew 
 All bending o'er to take a last fond view 
 Of Dombey's Son and Captain Cuttle's hook 
 That held the end of Dickens' longest book — 
 They'd write and look in tears of sadness on't, 
 (While Captain Cuttle sure'd take a note on't, 
 This is our Master Dickens' epitaph'd 
 He wept o'er vices and at follies laugh'd. 
 
 While gazing thus upon this motley throng 
 Of visions strange — another pass'd along : 
 A horse it strode of black with whitish face, 
 That " ambled" gently at a gallop pace : 
 This vision gentle was of tender age 
 That rode the horse at ease throughout this page 
 
13 
 
 Some twenty years and two — perhaps some more — 
 Had flown above him — or some twenty-four — 
 (But certainly not more) and as he rode 
 (This man of twenty-four the beast he strode), 
 He met a maid escorted by a groom, 
 A bud of beauty op'ning just in bloom, 
 And just in time to make a heroine fair 
 With dark blue eyes and flowing chestnut hair, 
 And just immediately before the hour 
 The sun goes down behind a ruin'd tower ! 
 Beside the hero's youth and forehead fair 
 He had a slight moustache — or rather pair — 
 Which cmTd up at both ends like smoke in air ; 
 He had, beside the slight moustache, a form — 
 A form to which Adonis' had been shorn 
 Of all his beauty rare, had it not been 
 For shoulders wide and body somewhat thin. 
 
 Despite of these defects — this youth — this lass — 
 This ambling beast — this sun — and mountain pass — 
 Have found their fond adorers who admire 
 The sunny style devoid of force and fire ; [rains — 
 
 And wherefore not ? Since storms — and seas — and 
 And mucky clouds and youths with rattle brains 
 Have founded dismal schools and fearful sights, 
 Why should not they be read when Darnley writes ? 
 
 Next saunters by an exquisite of taste, 
 Of robust mind but somewhat run to waste ; 
 Who planted seeds of novelettes to show 
 What aged books from youthful efforts grow, 
 (And stem'd the tide of Eloquence to know 
 How vapid streams from bubbling fountains flow.) 
 
14 
 
 He soon discover'd by a brilliant hit 
 In Parliament, that tides are stem'd by wit ; 
 And that to ride the whirlwind of a storm 
 Sown in the Commons is to raise " Reform." 
 
 So after making a set speech he took 
 A Poet's pen to write a Statesman's book, 
 And gave his hero Premier such a mind 
 As one would almost in Lord Russell find ; 
 With deepest lore he made him vers'd in all 
 The arts to tell how Nations rise and fall — 
 And blended knowledge rare with startling fate 
 To rule o'er woman as he ruled in State ; 
 Thus showing plainly how each maiden age 
 Can well be govern'd by a beau-monde sage, 
 He strikes a rolling tide in Fashion's flood 
 And blends a Statesman with a dashing blood ; 
 In this career our Hero storms away, 
 Success to it — to him — and Vivian Gray ! 
 
 When Vivian fled another vision came, 
 Upon whose age his own hath stamp'd its name ; 
 But an enigma to all future time 
 No one can make it either prose or rhyme. 
 
 A Modern Thought set in Antique Style 
 Dug up from ages buried is Carlyle. 
 
 A stranger 'midst the throng who search'd of yore 
 For hidden treasures in the mystic ore, 
 He never cares to separate the bright 
 And worthless mental dross he brings to light, 
 But melts them all in one fantastic mould 
 Which forms a diamond rough set blunt in gold . 
 
15 
 
 But in despite of every crude defect 
 He cuts in Cameo each opposing sect — 
 Marks how the Christian and the Crusade fought 
 To root the creeds from Earth the Saviour taught ; 
 And after scanning each conflicting plan 
 That War has marr'd or Science taught for man, 
 He takes his ink of fire and pen of steel, 
 And draws a portrait on a chariot wheel. 
 
 Napoleon's brow — or Cromwell's lion heart 
 He breaks them both in two the giant's part, 
 And makes each limb, with Time, all bloody roll 
 Until, like Fate, they reach their destin'd goal ; 
 Then gathering up the fearful lightning's blast 
 He strikes the " Present" with the thunder " Past !" 
 
 Such is the " Hero" whom we worship now, 
 The bust without Minerva's classic brow — 
 The Metamorphose of a Heathen age, 
 One half a Poet — th' other half a Sage — 
 Part seer in vision — part in vista blind, 
 A Sybil peering through a Human mind ! 
 
 When this huge monster strange withdrew from sight 
 Another startling vision came to light — 
 It held a trump — the one great Tully says 
 On which the '" Roman" play'd his " Ancient Lays." 
 Resounding tttis, its notes in one deep blast 
 RecalPd the visions which had lately pass'd, 
 And in a still and solemn vaulting strain 
 Its voice address'd them in a martial vein — 
 So pompous was its air and measur'd gait, 
 It look'd like Genius dead laid out in state ! 
 
16 
 
 " Ho ! authors of Britannia ! Ho ! Legions firm and true, 
 Whose pens have ever stood by me as I have stood by you ! 
 Come listen to me while I sing a legend of the Day, 
 When all the writers of the League were marshaPd in 
 
 array ; 
 And there in all their majesty before the deadly feud 
 Of rival heroes fierce commenc'd were in re-verse ' Re- 
 
 view'd :' 
 There was Milton with his Cowley, and Byron with his 
 
 Moore, 
 And Southey with his Nelson bold to guide his ship 
 
 ashore ; . 
 There was Mills discussing logic, and Bentham chopping 
 
 him, 
 And there was patient Dumont's brain — the hat without 
 
 the brim ; 
 There was Gladstone with his Church built on his granite 
 
 State, 
 Succeeded by the Infidel Voltaire defying Fate ! 
 There was burly Johnson disputing on a learned joint 
 Of mutton rare — and Bacon asserting some bold point — 
 There was Boswell in his glory basking in the sun 
 Of his idol's witty repartees recording every one — 
 There was Burke upon his eloquence soaring to the sky, 
 And Sheridan upon his horse, rearing very high — 
 There was Comedv and Tragedy, of ev'ry age and clime, 
 Shakspeare in his words of fire — Pope in his stately 
 
 rhyme : 
 There was Tupper with his famous " Crock of California 
 
 gold," 
 And gems of precious proverbs rare — a mine of wealth 
 
 untold. 
 
17 
 
 There was Hunt, 'midst his Feasts of Song, and Shelly 
 
 in his pall, 
 And many other authors great, and many others small ! 
 These authors all unto a Chief presented him a book, 
 Who from each one a leaf or so without compunction 
 
 took ; 
 Then noting down each small defect, and praising high 
 
 some great, 
 He on the heads of all these men in solemn judgment 
 
 sate : 
 Posterity he quoted oft — a Law that's fram'd by time 
 To arbitrate the deeds of men before the Tribune Crime — 
 Cotemporary with the works of some he spoke the law, 
 And then to others he reveal'd a mystery or flaw — 
 These faults were all discovered by learning found or 
 
 knowledge lost 
 Beneath the ocean of the mind, where wrecks are nightly 
 
 toss'd ; 
 And this Chief he was a wrecker upon the midnight shore, 
 Who gather'd up the fragments of past ages' scatter'd lore, 
 But with these he built him such a ship as ages rarely find, 
 So richly was it laden with the gifts of every mind — 
 And so superbly did it ride upon the ocean's tide, 
 It was a glory to the sea, and to the world a pride ! 
 
 When this proud ship, which rules supremely o'er 
 Britannia's sea of knowledge, left the shore, 
 I found myself— so passing wild and strange 
 Was ev'ry scene within my vision's range — 
 Beneath its paper sails and letter'd deck, 
 From which the shore receded spec by spec ; 
 
18 
 
 At length we came within the vine-clad vale 
 Of sunny France, and furl'd our tatter'd sail, 
 Just as the storm of Freedom blew a gale ! 
 
 There we were moor'd — or rather there was I — 
 For now my Muse without a helm must ply, 
 And soar from inky oceans to the sky ! 
 In sunny France — the land of Wine and Blood, 
 Where Freedom stems with fire oppression's flood — 
 Which, spreading o'er the Nations, sweeps along, 
 Dethroning Monarchs with a whirlwind song ! 
 
 Behold the strength of Genius, and the hour 
 Which gave the fearless pen the sword's great pow'r, 
 And from the darken'd scabbard of its art 
 Drew the fierce steel to strike the tyrant heart ! 
 Behold the dark eternal mouth that throws 
 Its thunder peals amidst opinion's foes, 
 And, with the falchion's flash and cannon's roar, 
 Spreads fearless thought from distant shore to shore ! 
 Behold the engine of the soaring mind. 
 That draws from darkness light lo guide the mind — 
 That teaches reason to the trampled herd, 
 And makes the hand once chain'd in freedom fear'd ! 
 Behold the Press ! the bulwark of the free, 
 As strong on land as billows on the sea — 
 The stalwart weapon of the giant will 
 For good almighty — omnipotent for ill ! 
 
 And ye great vot'ries of the mystic art, 
 Whose daring pens have play'd the hero's part — 
 Ye ! who have made the Revolution world, 
 And from the People's height oppression hurl'd — 
 
19 
 
 Ye who have battled with the Tyrant throng, 
 With Reason's arm or Lyric's stirring song — 
 Ye men of Germany and sons of France, 
 A Nation hails thee in thy proud advance ! 
 
 May thy great work of Liberty and Right 
 Be strong to teach, without the pow'r to blight ! 
 Let its broad volume have each brilliant page 
 Of those who framed and bound it in the age — 
 Give it Arago's mind — Lamartine's soul 
 To watch the stars and sea of State control ; 
 But oh ! let not their hopes of glory high 
 Fall like a star from Freedom's dawning sky ! 
 In its strong lines Ber anger's beauty throw 
 To mingle strongest words with gentlest flow — 
 Give it the dazzling fire of brilliant Sue, 
 Without the lurid flames to glare the view — 
 The master pow'r, without the tedious length, 
 To blend with beauty Dumas' grace and strength. 
 And when it gains these features fair from France, 
 To fight the war of Truth with learning's lance, 
 Impart the German's with the Frenchman's tongue, 
 To mingle songs such as Freiugratii sung ; 
 But with the German's give it not the pow'r 
 To mar the Present with the Future hour — 
 Altho' in searching each strong Reason out, 
 To master Error give it right to Doubt ! 
 
 When this is done, print on its youthful face 
 The soul to love, not to despise our race, — 
 The port of Freedom, with its strength and grace ! 
 
 May thy bold words, enkindled at the fire 
 Of Freedom's shrine, awake Hibernia's lyre 
 
20 
 
 Yes, strike its lyre in notes of swelling song, 
 To sing in tears the Era mark'd by wrong — 
 Give to their Prophet sons the voice to say 
 The hearts that set in night shall rise in day — 
 Adorn its passion, that its soul may sit 
 Upon a throne of Light adorn 'd with wit : 
 And then complete it with the spirit strong 
 That from Columbia's torrent sweeps along ! 
 
 Then will its margin leaves be cover'd o'er 
 With giant oaks, an emblem of our shore — 
 And notes of music filling all the air, 
 Will tell how many Poets linger there ; 
 Not " feathered songsters" of the wood and hill, 
 But birds who write their songs with their own bill, 
 (I would not have you think it a goose-quill !) 
 And whistle songs in " Independent" rhyme, 
 Like Edgar Poe's— Nat. Willis's— or Mine ! 
 Or like great " Yankee Doodle's," in the tide 
 Of song on which " John Bull" and th' " old Cow" died. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST MORAL. 
 
©K^L 00 
 
PART II. 
 
 MORAL II. 
 
 Oh ! " Yankee Doodle," at thy magic name 
 My muse is welcom'd back " tu hum" again — 
 Return'd from travel in a foreign strand, 
 It flaps its wings upon its native land — 
 Or " rayther" from the blue of other skies, 
 It now above its own horizon flies. 
 
 Behold what bards of Fame it greets to-night ! 
 Each one a star within its orb of light — 
 Reflecting glory on the tuneful Nine, 
 And on themselves and country when they shine ! 
 And, as I gaze on high (at them) below, 
 I see my work of wonder made a show ! 
 Where ev'ry scribe, well known or bad to Fame 
 Had claim'd the right to write his righteous name- 
 Behold the deed ! When I had hop'd to gaze 
 High up to Heav'n, and find my name a blaze — 
 A comet blaze — to find this dismal row 
 Of croaking authors dire, led on by Poe, 
 All pecking at my lean and hungry book, 
 Some with a pen, and others with a hook — 
 
24 
 
 The one. to bleed, should it be charg'd with blood, 
 Th' other to hang, should it be reckon'd good! 
 They all had " read it,'' as the Dragon said, 
 And " spun" their critic "yarn" out to a " thread :" 
 And as he told me this, he swiftly flew, 
 But in his flight, he left me this " Review :" 
 
 Plutonian Shore, 
 
 Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry 
 
 Before the Dismal Ages, A. D. 18 — . 
 
 "Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder'd weak and weary 
 Over many a weary volume of recent published lore — 
 While I nodded o'er ' The Sleeper J* suddenly I heard a creeper, 
 As of some one peering deeper — deeper in my chamber door ; 
 'Tis some author new, I mutter'd, or some other midnight bore ; 
 
 Only this, and nothing more ! 
 
 " Oh ! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn 
 And sleepy double column, as it fell upon the floor — 
 Eagerly I wish'd to borrow from' Cooper's last' of sorrow, 
 Or my own dark books of horror — horror for having more ! 
 A sure-cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o'er 
 
 My ' Dream? and nothing more ! 
 
 "And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover, 
 Chill'd me — filled me with fantastic poems, never penn'd be- 
 fore — 
 
 The name of one of Mr. P.'s poems. 
 
25 
 
 So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in, 
 I said, ' 'tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the 
 
 key-hole door ; 
 A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight " bust," or more, 
 
 Or else some other bore.' 
 
 " Presently my pen grew fiery — hesitating an inquiry, 
 
 6 Sir,' said I, (or Madman !) ' truly your late visit I deplore — 
 
 For the fact is, Fm inditing a piece of murky writing, 
 
 And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber 
 
 door, 
 Which was never done before' — here he bolted in the door, 
 
 And sat down upon the floor. 
 
 M Then this strange trick beguiling my phrenzy into smiling, 
 By the cool audacious impudence his brazen features wore — 
 Tho' thy hat is old and napless, thou, 1 said, art sure not sap- 
 less, 
 Young and tender in thy hapless wand'rings from thy mother's 
 
 shore ; 
 Tell me why thy business here is on this dark and dismal floor ? 
 
 Quoth the Author, ' Read this o'er.' 
 
 " Much I wonder d this ambitious youth to see an act so vicious, 
 Tho' its answer good deal meaning, I voted him a bore — 
 For we cannot help believing that no genius living grieving 
 Ever yet was blind in seeing a Manuscript read o'er 
 By the ' Reader' in a book-shop, or book-boy in a store, 
 
 Yet he cried on, ' Read it o'er !' 
 
 " Startled at the stillness broken by reply so greenly spoken, 
 Said I, ' Before like Poe you flutter you should like Bryant soar — 
 
26 
 
 FoFc'd from some disaster — perhaps you think to master 
 Something in the Markette faster — faster than was ever sold 
 
 before, 
 Till the bird-en of your hopes is ' Read it o'er — read it o'er.' 
 
 Quoth the Author, ' Nothing more !' 
 
 " But the Author still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I plac'd the faded Manuscript in front of Author, book 
 
 and door ; 
 Then into its beauties sinking, I betook myself to thinking 
 What this young aspiring Author with his Manuscript, and 
 
 more ; 
 What this bold, presumptuous Youth, with his head bor'd 
 
 through a bore, 
 
 Meant in saying, 'Read it o'er !' 
 
 " Thus I sat, engaged in reading, but no syllable revealing, 
 To the Youth, whose fiery eyes roll'd a fiery phrenzy o'er, 
 And o'er its pages turning, with thoughts of mystic learning, 
 I began a critique burning on its Mathews style and more, 
 When coming to a Chapter, which I heartily did deplore, 
 
 Cried the author, ' Read it o'er.' 
 
 " Then methought the style grew duller, and the hero rather 
 
 fuller 
 Of thoughts which even Blue-pard never gloated o'er — 
 ' Man,' I cried, ' thy brain has turn'd thee — by this chapter I 
 
 have learn'd thee ; 
 'Re-write — re- write — and re-pen thee these pages blotted o'er — 
 Take — oh ! take it, and re-pen-t thee — and correct these pages 
 
 more : 
 
 Cried the author, ' Read it o'er., 
 
27 
 
 " « Author !' said I, ' Imp of Evil — Author great, or Good or Devil, 
 Whether Putnam sent or Harper toss'd thee here ashore, 
 Dull and stupid yet undaunted — on this sheet romantic wasted — 
 On this floor by volumes haunted — tell me plainly, I implore, 
 Is there — is there sense in this I tell me, tell me, I implore. 
 
 Quoth the Author, f Read it o'er !' 
 
 " ' Author !' said I, ' thing of peril — of paper, ink and ferrel, 
 By that Public which looks over us — by that Fame we both 
 
 adore, 
 Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en, 
 It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o'er, 
 And yet the chorus of your melody is " Read it o'er — read it o'er." 
 
 Quoth the Author, ' Nothing more !' 
 
 " ' Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend,' I shrieked, 
 
 upstarting, 
 , Get thee back unto the Harpers on Cliff Street's Plutonian 
 
 shore, 
 [.cave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has 
 
 spoken, 
 Leave my murky thoughts unbroken — quit the threshold of my 
 
 door — 
 Take thy Manuscript " out" with thee and take thyself from out 
 
 my door.' 
 
 Quoth the Author, ' Read it o'er !' 
 
 " And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door ; 
 And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teemin°" 
 And the smoke that's from it streaming throws his shadow on 
 the floor 
 
28 
 
 And the only words this engine repeats is ' Read it o'er, Read 
 it o'er,' 
 
 And nothing more." 
 
 Like Portia's lover I at random run 
 And take from the casket jewels one by one ! 
 So if my luck in choosing Fame should strike 
 A Poet's vein whose gold you do not like, 
 Ascribe the error to my Dragon muse, 
 Who gave me jewels to at random choose. 
 
 Book-dom, Vol. 6, 
 
 Before the Opera Age, A. D. fy 
 Verse. 
 
 " What dost thou read fair one ? 
 Is it a book of Poetry, or Love, or Plates, 
 Cut out by Fashion's matchless art ? What color 
 Is its hue ? Is it of lemon, of crimson bright, 
 Or purple blue 1 or, combining all in one, 
 Does it present a front like to a vest 
 Of gorgeous pattern — or of neckerchief ? 
 
 " Who is the author dear, 
 Some one abroad, or some one living here ?" 
 
 " Anonymous !" &c., &c, &c. 
 
 " Soul enlivening thought ! 
 Some great incog, or princely exile sought 
 Our distant shore — where opera's — the play, 
 And all things gentle have their brilliant day ! 
 
 Ah ! me, I have its brilliances found — read on ! 
 
29 
 
 " No lady fair I'm sure 
 Indited those strong manly lines — nor delicate 
 Fibred child of melody with sunny eyes, 
 Drinking in Nectar, from Parnassus' fount — 
 No soft-head youth, I wean, living on air, 
 And Shrewsbury's wanton Naiads* and breathing 
 Fragrance from Japonicadom ! Oh ! take 
 It hence. Were it a girl, fair hair'd and mild, 
 A Fanny Forester or Greenwood's Grace, 
 Or any other fairy nymph, that roams 
 The thorny woods of verdant Literature, 
 I would pronounce or make it passing fair — 
 Or were it something from Count D'Orsey's pen s 
 Cut out in that exquisite letter'd garb — ■ 
 Or something in the muslin line, or silk 
 Of Lady Blessington's, I'd give it go ! 
 
 Sure 'tis as well to see a well-bred book, 
 As well-bred man or lady — a distingud 
 Air in Prose or Verse — a sauntering, jaunty. 
 Dilly-dally tone ; — withal a pride of port, 
 Bespeaking lady fair or gentleman of Tort — 
 So when it serves its day and generation 
 (Should it survive a maiden debutante) 
 In Book-dom's elite and select circles, 
 It'll do for ' Belles of our Time" to curl 
 Their raven-hair and tresses on — a fine exit 
 For debutantes who make a dashing hit ! 
 
 * Literally rendered oysters I 
 
30 
 
 Banks of the Merry-mack, 
 Torrent-viUe, Billow the 09th. 
 
 " Give me my Quaker hat and coat, instead of Fashion's cut ; 
 
 I want no ' castles in the air,' build me a Freeman's hut ; 
 
 Give me my brogans and my cane — my cane of giant height ; 
 
 Let me be panoplied to-day in mail of steel to write ; 
 
 Give me my spectacles of green — my saddle strong and wide, 
 
 I will upon a war-horse fierce to Mount Parnassus ride ; 
 
 Give me the strength of Freeman's lungs, no lady's gentle song 
 
 Is mine to-day — a manly note— a note that's wild and strong ! 
 " The wide-chapeau was given him — by Quaker hatter made, 
 
 The long-boots nail'd in ev'ry point by bold St. Crispin's trade ; 
 
 No palace built in air was his — his very smoke was fire, 
 And ev'ry cloud that turn'd to air made the skies a story high'r ; 
 
 His spectacles of green were brought — through which he com- 
 
 pass'd all ; 
 The days of War and Pestilence through Time from Adam's 
 
 fall- 
 He did upon a fierce war-horse ride to Parnassus' height, 
 And found its glory there obscur'd by this new-fangled wight — 
 New fangled wight of no degree, of no bold creed or school — 
 The veriest thing that e'er was penn'd by Infidel or Fool. 
 
 I have you on the hip' my man, — now you must fall or I ; 
 For on this issue you must yield or by it I must die ! 
 Have your new 'Novel' introduced— your country and its throng 
 Of brilliant writers all eclips'd in Venal tales and song ! 
 No ! never let so foul a stain on our Escutcheon fall ; 
 Ye men of Letters and ye sons of Liberty, and all 
 Who stand up for our tamest prose and sickly season'd rhyme, 
 Let not this foul attempt of his be printed in our time." 
 
31 
 
 Cooper's Novels, 
 
 Vol. 1, Page last- 
 
 * 'Tis .sometime since I wrote in measured pace- 
 My pen and wanderings have been in the trace — 
 The one almost a jaded, jolted thing; 
 The other something like the ' Wing and Wing ;' 
 But as you ask me to give you a word 
 Or something else about this gosling bird 
 Which has just lit upon your nestling shelf, 
 I'll try the task without a word of self ! 
 
 " Most odd it opens ! with a chapter blunt — 
 A Page like this should never be in front — 
 A Pelham hero of the Bulwer school ; 
 Why not begin with Leather Stocking's rule, 
 And give us something in the strong-hose line, 
 Or Indian warrior dressed in leggings fine ? 
 Why open with the sun — why not the storm ? 
 A sailor hero with a stalwart form ! 
 
 " Do you expect a book like this ' to take V 
 Why James or I a thousand such could make — 
 Oh ! faulty pen, to write such stuff as this, 
 As if all characters were made of bliss 
 Within the world, and not a soul was here 
 To rouse the feelings or bring forth a tear ! 
 Oh ! tame and shallow thing, why not create 
 An ocean deep to dip out depths of Fate ? 
 Why not have hero's of the sea-gull style 
 To gull the Public while they please the while 1 
 Why not instead of lady's fine at ease 
 Have squaws in blankets red the men to please ! 
 
32 
 
 Instead of carriages and horses fine 
 
 "Why not have harness'd up ships of the line, 
 
 And drive them through two shallow volumes space^ 
 
 Apollo running with the sun a race ! 
 
 " Oh ! cruel days that ever should descend 
 Upon this nation great the taste to mend — 
 Oh ! that a golden age would come around 
 When Irving mirCd and Paulding gold-dust found. 
 Oh ! that the days of Halleck and the hour 
 When Genius found its soul o'erthrown with pow'r, 
 And ' pocket full of rocks' would fly along, 
 And stone these Moderns from our ancient throng. 
 
 " Would that these Goths and Vandals who have come 
 Upon our quiet days would wander home 
 Unto their native wilds, and humbly reap 
 Their harvest green and in the backwoods keep, 
 And not fall rushing on us in our time 
 With savage prose and crude barbarian rhyme : 
 Oh ! that the days when Yankee-dom was young, 
 And ' Freedom shrieked 1 when Joel Barlow sung — - 
 When all the great and little .fishes in 
 The sea of letters dipp'd their tiny fin, 
 Or rather when the eagle and the wren, 
 ' Of feathered songsters' pick'd each other's pen — 
 O ! that these days we could in ' marble bind' 
 A monument to each gigantic mind — 
 But, alas ! these (p)ages all have fled, 
 And nothing now remains but columns dead." 
 
 When this " lament," borne on the wings of Time, 
 From Cooper's age to our degenerate time, 
 Had died away, another caught the strain, 
 And struck his harp in this " autumnal" vein : 
 
33 
 
 " Before the age when Letters took a flight, 
 And with their ' Raven' pinions set in night — 
 Before the sunny hour ' Young Alpine's Muse 
 Threw flakes of song to melt before his ' views,' 
 Before the day that Lowell rose incog. 
 And with a ' Fable' set the town agog — 
 Before the ages past and longer days, 
 Longfellow's lines began to lengthen lays — 
 Before the taste arose to linger o'er 
 
 The words Na-than-i-cally strung and more 
 
 Before my own strong muse was forc'd to bend 
 Its soaring pinions and to earth descend, 
 Confirming in its own immortal birth, 
 How true it is ' Earth's children cling to Earth !' 
 Before the ' market' and the mental stock 
 Arose inflated with a roaring flock 
 Of ' bulls' and ' bears' that asked the shamble price, 
 To slaughter taste and cater vile to vice- 
 Before the age of ' Mysteries' and crime, 
 That springs from Genius curs'd before its time- 
 Before the Molochs of the ' Trade' had sway 
 To sacrifice the human mind to pay, 
 And spurn the offer of each effort bold, 
 
 Whose road to sin had not been strewn by gold 
 
 Before the day that all the fearful crew 
 Of ' Mysteries' on wings of poison flew, 
 From England's shores and France's fever'd land, 
 To teach us morals with a sinful hand — 
 Before they came like mental paupers o'er, 
 And threw their vice in genius on our shore ! 
 Before they ruined youth and gave to shame 
 A virgin's face to mask a wanton's name — 
 
34 
 
 Before they threw o'er ' Fashion' a disguise, 
 To cover frailties from a husband's eyes — 
 Before they o'er our manners wrought control, 
 That spoke the noble in the manly soul — 
 Before these ' evil days' had fallen dark, 
 This bird of passage might have found an ark !" 
 
 Here Bryant fell like his own forest oak, 
 His pen was not his woodman's axe's stroke — 
 He took a draft from out his " Fountain" brook, 
 And then a " snooze" from his own " Dream" he took ; 
 And while he there was sleeping, on him crept 
 Old Rip Van Winkle who had soundly slept 
 Some twenty-years, until our Putnam's name 
 Brought him to life and back again to Fame. 
 Old Rip he took the axe which Bryant held, 
 And with one stroke the giant oak was fell'd — 
 Then making it into a giant pen, 
 He roam'd the wilds of Literature again — 
 Turn'd Bryant's " Fountain" into pools of ink, 
 And thus enchained the " Mountain" link by link. 
 
 Sleepy Hollow, 
 
 Sketch, the Broken Heart, 
 
 Page the Millionth. 
 
 " But let it pass, the flood that sweeps the land, 
 Shall wash the diamonds from the golden sand ! 
 The sun will rise again and shining o'er 
 This world of Letters all its radiance pour — 
 The mind triumphant from its dark abyss 
 Will like the Mountain oaks the Heavens kiss. 
 
35 
 
 And spurn the foul embrace of earth and throw 
 Light from the Gods on kindred souls below — 
 Let those who wield a pen or voice of power 
 Arouse their spirits to the coming hour ! 
 Let not the manly in the timid heart 
 Be cow'd in fear to take a Freeman's part ; 
 Let all our souls arous'd in this great cause, 
 Be strong to make for Mind, as matter, laws ! 
 
 "Are we too feeble in our strength to wield 
 A steel of fire, that we must tamely yield ? 
 Are we so slavish that our minds will rise, 
 And, spurning earth in scorn, will dare the skies, 
 And yet be bound in chains by slavish men — 
 Who, crouching— dreading— yet enslave the pen f 
 Shall we for man and not our children speak, 
 In Freedom's cause be strong, our own be weak — 
 Shall ev'ry trade have laws to guard its right 
 Except the writer's, who has none to write ? 
 Shall we be bound Prometheus-like in chains, 
 With hordes of vultures feeding on our brains ? 
 A curse pronounced by earth and man more dread 
 Than that of Heaven upon the Heathen's head, 
 Which taking bowels in mercy spar'd the head ! 
 
 " But modern vultures have an antique taste, 
 They never thoughts of fire on stomachs waste ; 
 The only thing which troubles them or pains 
 Is whether stomachs empty are well fill'd with brains. 
 
 Here ceas'd in epigram " Old Rip's" lament — 
 Wit folio w'd pathos with a natural bent ; 
 Just as he ended Thanatopsis woke, 
 In time to relish " Rip Van Winkle's" joke, 
 
36 
 
 Indulging which they both together start, 
 
 Like two fine volumes bound in one good heart ; 
 
 When I had read these great " opinions" o'er, 
 
 I found some half a dozen left or more — 
 
 They were from ' ; Critics," Readers, " Notes of Books," 
 
 A " writing class" who're " hangers-on" to " hooks," 
 
 Who learn the pot-hook style and "hangers" in 
 
 The art of writing bad, and then begin 
 
 To teach the art to others from the school, 
 
 Where they were taught to play the ape or fool — 
 
 Men who have tried their wit to raise a laugh, 
 
 In heavy column or light paragraph, 
 
 But fall in pathos under their great load, 
 
 Bleeding themselves while they would others goad. 
 
 It was not short enough for Paragraph, 
 It should be short, like his own Epitaph : 
 " In scalping authors in a cutting note, 
 The knife it madly slipp'd and cut his throat." 
 
 It was not long enough for " Reader" bright, 
 His ears of length uprising at the sight — 
 A book that's small in size is sure to fail — 
 I'd rather plot destroy than cut the tail. 
 
 It is not bright enough for " Critic" fine, 
 Whose feathers gay through peacock plumage shine ; 
 This book to take with me or drones of ease, 
 Should bore with lore and not with passion please. 
 
 Big-e-Loiv-ell, 
 
 Paper 1, Fable, 1849. 
 
 " Now march'd in procession some writers I claim, 
 Whose title to greatness has written them Fame — 
 
And because they come last it is not I am sure, 
 
 They are less than the first or more of a bore. 
 
 I beg-in at the beg-ia-ing and that is myself, 
 
 Who have written a book sure not laid on the shelf, 
 
 But which I believe, in the nature of things, 
 
 Will put some people there and upset some kings, 
 
 Whose thrones have been tott'ring for some length of time. 
 
 On volumes of prose and tyrannical rhyme — 
 
 I'll give them a thrust in the Wit-tier rib, 
 
 And make them remember the edge of my ' glib' — 
 
 I'm a mere volunteer in Reforms of the day, 
 
 I've nothing to ask and but little to say, 
 
 Unless it is this — and that is The Truth, 
 
 Tho' my rhyme be at fault and my language uncouth ; 
 
 I care not for rival be he king or a fool, 
 
 If his palace is sloth or his mind a footstool — 
 
 I'll have him to know, tho' it should not be said, 
 
 That the pen that's kill'd thousands itself can be slay'd — ■ 
 
 The man who in war has set armies to flight, 
 
 Can be kill'd by a man who has ne'er seen a fight ! 
 
 These truths we should learn, be they pleasant or sad, 
 
 Our deeds are all worse when our reason is bad." 
 
 Headley's Sermons, 
 
 Text, Battle of the Cow-(pms,) 
 
 Verse, Washington and his Generals. 
 
 I. 
 
 " The slight allusion to the fight, 
 
 Brought out the Rev. Marshal Headley — 
 
 Who disliking ev'ry thing in peace, 
 Is very fond of things most deadly ; 
 
38 
 
 So mounting one of his war-horsss, 
 
 He made a tilt at Mr. Fable, 
 Who, with one of his long-rhyming tosses, 
 
 Sent him back into the stable. 
 
 ii. 
 "But Marshal H. was not to be 
 
 So easily plac'd hors du combat ; 
 So mounting straight another steed, 
 
 He look'd a soldier a la sombre ; 
 That is, he wore a Marshal suit 
 
 Of black, with jReo--imental collar, 
 And for a pul-pit us'd a horse, 
 
 And made a flock of soldiers follow. 
 
 hi. 
 a He always rode the same war-horse, 
 
 Whether he preach'd at Bunker Hill, or 
 Fought a sermon on The Mount, 
 
 With Marshal Ney or Marshal Murat \ 
 Napoleon fierce at Waterloo, 
 
 Or Washington in any battle, 
 Is just the same with Marshal H., 
 
 He always sounds the same war rattle I 
 
 IV. 
 
 " But this is like ' ye Reverend men,' 
 
 Who preach one text on every sermon — 
 
 You never change the tone, much less 
 The language, be it French or German — ■ 
 
 The sermon same that's preach'd to-day, 
 Will answer for the coming Sunday's, 
 
39 
 
 Whether it be a text from Ney, 
 
 Or from the, Lane that's Scott's and Lundy's. 
 
 v. 
 " But, ne'ertheless, he is a man 
 
 Of nature pure — ambition noble — 
 He merely gets upon these steeds 
 
 Of fancy high to ride a foible — 
 His books they're read — (what's more they pay), 
 
 And this small pass he can afford, 
 So here's my hand, my Reverend friend, 
 
 Or here's my pistol or my sword 1" 
 
 I would with Headley end this war of ink, 
 Were it not that others form a martial link 
 Within this chain of Empire — and to name 
 Their works with his will be Napoleon's fame ! 
 
 Who comes next ? Alfieri ? Dante ? No ! 
 
 But some one in the Italian school of Woe, 
 
 Or Love — or War — or something mad or great, 
 
 Or something else in Church, in Court, or State — 
 
 Who 's 't ? Columbus ? No ! Who then — Petrarch ? 
 
 No ! not so high, but yet a soaring lark, 
 
 Who's plac'd before the world in statue high, 
 
 The names of men all towering to the sky — 
 
 But not content with letting them alone, 
 
 He's tried his hand from ink to work in stone ! 
 
 Yes, taken down Alfieri from his bust 
 
 Of Parian art, and brush'd away the dust 
 
 Of Italy's bright age, and caught the high, 
 
 Exalted notes that swell beneath her sky : 
 
40 
 
 Yes, he hath caught— the bard I speak of now— 
 
 Th' Italian's fire, and press'd it on the brow, 
 
 The cold, calm brow, of great Columbia's shore, 
 
 To melt in lava words its frigid lore. 
 
 But not alone in these our bard has sung, 
 
 Italia's beauties with our English tongue — 
 
 (I call him bard, altho' he never rhymes, 
 
 Yet sings a song in metres like the chimes 
 
 Of Trinity's great church-bell which, away 
 
 Up in the Heavens, sounds its sonorous lay — 
 
 The greatest bard in all of Gotham's throng, 
 
 That preaches sermons while it sings a song), 
 
 And Lester wound up to his steeple's height, 
 
 Sounds his loud bell and takes his pen to write ; 
 
 A great adorer of all soaring things, 
 
 From steeples high, to bards with pigeon wings ; 
 
 Whose warmth of feeling cairies to excess 
 
 The Statesman's daring faults, and Sculptors less— 
 
 A man of impulse as his works will show, 
 
 Too quick to reason cool, or measure slow 
 
 The deeds of tamer natures, less controll'd 
 
 By impulse strong to strengthen actions bold. 
 
 Oh ! Italy, what wrongs of thine are told 
 By aged bards and Statesmen trebly bold ! 
 What waves of Time have roll'd upon thy shore, 
 And wash'd the blood commingling with thy gore ! 
 What rays of Hope have not thy skies difFus'd, 
 When other Nations o'er thy ruins mus'd ! 
 Thou did'st the buried urn and sculptor'd bust 
 Of Freedom's ashes raise from out the dust, 
 
41 
 
 And consecrated to the age which gave 
 The pious hero of thy land to save ! 
 
 What was the spell which o'er thy altar threw 
 A " living witness" to the " trembling few ?" 
 Was it the host of God — or God of Host, 
 That rous'd thy spirit — or sent forth thy ghost 
 To wander 'midst the shades of haunted Rome, 
 To find again with thee a living home. 
 
 Was't from the Cesar's to the Pontiff's hand 
 The sword was giv'n to rule the blessed land — 
 Or was the consecrated wafer laid, 
 On thy pale lips to mock thine ancient shade, 
 Re-kindling life within thy sacred heart, 
 And make thee buried act a living part ? 
 The poet sung of thee and hail'd the day, 
 When thou should'st rise to life in " Virgil's lay, 
 And Livy's pictur'd page,"* all else should stand, 
 A monument to thy devoted land — 
 But Liberty had taken life again, 
 And from her Roman lyre had caught a strain 
 That echoed o'er the seas, and rais'd the crest 
 Of fallen Freedom in the Gallic breast ! 
 
 What Reformation hast thou witness'd here, 
 The Pope turn'd mourner at thy funeral bier ! 
 The Politician in the sacred vest, 
 The cross of Freedom surpliod on the breast — 
 What Luther wrought for Church, Pius for State, 
 Hath dar'd the curse from his own Papal gate ! 
 
 * Lord Byron. 
 
42 
 
 Saint Peter ! what an act to look upon 
 From thy high seat on thy degenerate son ! — 
 What transubstantiation of thy power, 
 To yield thy keys in this unhallow'd hour — 
 Oh ! modern Romans what a curse hast thou 
 Incurr'd in wrath upon thine ancient brow ! 
 Ye who were nestled as the pure elect, 
 Whose rights of man should stand despite of sect, 
 For you to turn — ye traitors ! to your creed — 
 And smite the hand that bless'd and gave the deed — 
 The deed of grace ! — for all thy sins of earth, 
 Since Freedom nurlur'd on thy soil had birth ! 
 Where wilt thou look for absolution — when 
 Receive forgiveness from the hands of men ? 
 Or has the Pope turn'd traitor to thy state, 
 And left thee bleeding — struggling to thy fate ? 
 Is it for sins pontifically done, 
 That thou has made him from his Pope-dom run, 
 And sent him weeping to that sinful spot, 
 Where trampled freemen find a place to rot ? — 
 That worse than purgatory of the Free 
 Where proud Napoii bends her bleeding knee — 
 The realm of Ferdinand, to suffer there, 
 Until thy acts are all absolv'd by pray'r. 
 
 Ho ! what is here 1 Ye Gods and little men, 
 A critique short from Doctor Griswold's pen ; 
 Look out ! ye locomotive train, or I 
 Will "blow you up" wi^i this some volumes high. 
 
 " I want admittance !'' " Where ?" — ' ; Why in your book 
 Of Poetry or Prose !" " There 's not a nook, 
 
43 
 
 Nor corner left !" " No Poets new, nor works 
 
 Of fiction bad within my Parish lurks — 
 
 I've not a pew to rent — the last I gave 
 
 In charity to one I wish'd to save 
 
 From this dark world's abiding sense of shame, 
 
 And so prepar'd it for the world of Fame." 
 
 u There's Hillhouse's place — you can safely give 
 Me his abode, I'm sure he does not live?" 
 u But then he wants a resting-place when dead !" 
 " That's very true — but why not lay his head 
 Where Willis' lies — I think he's living yet V 
 " Why, to be sure — the darling poet's pet !" 
 
 " What is this book of your's, my Doctor, dear V* 
 " A book of native Poets — all who're here 
 Have had a day of song — of sinful song, 
 And I the sinners have redeem'd from wrong — 
 Many are sinners of the darkest dye. 
 There's Morris now (this is 'tween you and I), 
 The ' gay Lothario' of Anacreon's Muse ; 
 Tom Moore in dumps, and ' Cupid' in the blues !" 
 
 " Of Halleck what think you ?" " Of Halleck ?— why, 
 A loving bard between a chill and sigh — 
 Modest at first, but give him once a start, 
 His arrow barb'd with soul strikes to the heart !" 
 
 " How's't with Bryant — all up with him I fear, 
 A lingering autumn o'er a dying ear — 
 The soul wrapp'd up in shrouds of fading leaves, 
 That moans through woods and o'er the city grieves." 
 So on — so on — I cannot follow through 
 The length of half the Doctor's sinful crew. 
 
44 
 
 Then came the " Female Poets" of the Land — 
 " Doctor," said I, " here is a better band — 
 How would it do for one unknown to sin, 
 To ask these ' gentle ones' to take me in ?" 
 " You !" " I'm but a Manuscript all unknown — 
 A Helicon* to Fame — not yet full grown — 
 Why put me down — you cannot find a place 
 Among the men to show my ' artless' face ? 
 Among the ladies fair — perhaps I'd take — 
 With brilliant ones who have light books to make." 
 " For neither you will do," the Doctor said ; 
 " How would you look in prose with poets wed ?" 
 
 " There's Miss F., who makes great minds her pets — 
 A man in thought dress'd up in pantalettes." 
 
 "And L. H. S. the 'Belle of our Time,' 
 In purest thought and gentle swelling rhyme." 
 
 "And she the Clio of the patriot age. 
 That nerv'd the woman as it tried the sagef — 
 The fair historian of the darksome hour, 
 Has blended grace with woman's nervous pow'r — 
 That hour that prov'd the mother's love the same 
 As when she watch'd beside the flick'ring flame, 
 And pray'd to God to guard the youthful hand, 
 That grasp'd the sword for Freedom's cause and land !" 
 
 Like the soft breast that breathes above the heart 
 Of sleeping beauty is the Poet's art, 
 When it receives a touch from Woman's hand, 
 To sway the Minstrel's with a fairy's wand ! 
 
 * The " artless HelicanT boast is youth." See Critique criticised in " English 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
 
 t Mrs. Ellet's Women of the Revolution. 
 
45 
 
 Not slumbering deep, like Man's impassion'd soul. 
 That writhes in anguish strong nor brooks control, 
 But gently slumbers, and in sighs reveals, 
 The burning pangs the heart consuming feels — 
 No thought impure — but virgin-like it flies 
 With angel-wings above the star-lit skies, 
 And as a pray'r that's breath'd from sinful earth, 
 Tho' " born of woman" claims immortal birth ! 
 
 Here goes a shot — a " Field Sport," scattering fire 
 Upon some others of the " feather'd choir ;" 
 Here's Forrester (not Fanny) but the Frank 
 Who hunts and writes on bright passaic's bank — 
 He's not Diana — tho' he loves the chase, 
 And " runs off a book" as he would run a race. 
 
 When ask'd a Frank opinion of my book — 
 He from his hunting belt an inkhorn took — 
 And blowing it, like Fame, with thund'ring sound, 
 A pack of author hounds came at a bound, 
 All ready for the chase — the game was scar'd, 
 And "high" and "low," "shag-tail'd" and " glossy ear'd," 
 Were there in numbers set upon the train, 
 All wagging like their tails — all pleas'd to pain ! 
 
 Grey Sleyer was there — a graceful forest hound, 
 On whose blood neck Charles Hoffman's name was found 
 It had " stray'd away" from Classic Fenno, who 
 Has advertis'd it in some volumes two. 
 
46 
 
 Frank whistled shrill, and up jump'd, with a yell, 
 A blood-hound fierce, whose name I cannot tell ; 
 But if you'd know to whom this hound belongs, 
 Just let his teeth once clutch your tales or songs — 
 A " cross" of wit, of taste, of spleen, of rigs 
 Is Harry Franco, Pepper, and Tom Br gs. 
 
 There was Fanny Forrester, like a fawn, 
 To trip o'er "Author Land" through wood or lawn ; 
 Who had from Mrs. Chubbuck stray'd away, 
 And then by Willis caught in verse one day ; 
 And then by Herbert stol'n — (a deed of shame !) 
 To which amend she chang'd her maiden name.* 
 
 There was Grace Greenwood fair — the gentle Grace- 
 (Her collar wrought with silk inlaid with lace !) 
 But who's the owner of this precious pet 
 I cannot say — not having seen her yet ; 
 All these were in the chase — and I was run 
 Down like a stag — with hound, and steed, and gun ! 
 
 Since Forrester has turn'd a hunter bold, 
 He has to " Sportsmen" all his " Novels" sold, 
 Who, melting down the heavy parts to shot, 
 Have made the powder from the flinty plot ! 
 
 The "Poet's chase" being o'er, a brilliant row 
 Of volumes fair came tripping in, " in Co.," 
 
 * /. e. sot married. 
 
47 
 
 The firm of Mrs. Letters, with their sign 
 
 Of Magazines, and tales in ev'ry line; 
 
 (Tis strange, but shows the female muse in teens, 
 
 In christ'ning baby-things in Maggy-zines), 
 
 The Godmammas of all the suckling throng, 
 
 In infant prattling prose, and lisping song— 
 
 The hush-a-by-baby-on-the-tea-top- vein, 
 
 Thebug-a-boo style, and the riding-hood strain— 
 
 With pretty little feet, and pinafore, 
 
 In learning how to walk, if nothing more. 
 
 After the infants of the little frock, 
 Then came " opinions" from a kindred flock— 
 The A's— the B's— the J. E. T.'s, andD's, 
 The Alphabet all taught to tease and please, 
 In Rudiments the first of Poetry, 
 Before it spell'd in syllables of three ! 
 
 Amidst this throng were many, if not more, 
 As great in strength as bardlings hatch'd before ; 
 The soaring thought breath'd through the modest name. 
 The unfledg'd Eagle yet unus'd to Fame ! 
 And yet like " city snobs" who shoot the best 
 Of breeding game ere it is hatch'd from nest ; 
 The critic " snob," with " ill-bred gun and dog," 
 Will kill these bantlings as they would a frog ! 
 
 There should a law—" a game law,"— stern and strong 
 Be made to guard these goslings green from harm. 
 
 Now to conclude: Should I again let fall 
 In prose — in poetry— in Manuscript — or all, 
 
48 
 
 A Novel startling, or a Poem tame, 
 You must not scorn it on the score of Fame ! 
 Remember me until I come in length, 
 Grown up like Mathews' and in Cooper's strength- 
 Till then I throw this to the heedless throng, 
 " To jioint a Moral, or adorn a song" 
 
 THE END. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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