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LEISURE HOURS, 
 
 JAMES r: M'CONOCHIE, M. D. 
 
 HONORARY MEMBER OF THE MEDICAL SOCIETY OF PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Non sibi sed patriae vixet. 
 
 LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 PRENTICE AND WEISSINGER 
 
 1846. 
 
T6 S.'i • ■' 
 
TO 
 
 CAPT. PHILIP SLAUGHTEE, 
 
 OF CULPEPER, VIRGINIA, 
 
 One of the few surviving Officers of the American Eevolntion, 
 
 NOT MORE VENERABLE BY HIS YEARS 
 
 THAN ESTIMABLE FOR HIS VIRTUES, 
 
 TKIS rilTTJLE TOIiUME 
 
 IS HE SPECTFULL r DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS AFFECTIONATE SON-IN-LAW, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Dedication, v 
 
 Preface, ix 
 
 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Canto I. — Introduction — Patrick Henry — Tobacco Cause — 
 
 Early Inspirations — American Scenery, 1 
 
 Canto 11. — The rising Sun — Surrender of York — The ad- 
 vent of Liberty — The French Revolution — American 
 Patriots — Changes introduced by the American Rev- 
 olution — Henry's Speech in the Convention — Amer- 
 ican Liberty contrasted with that introduced by the 
 French Revolution, 23 
 
 Canto III. — The River Potomac — City of "Washington — 
 The Temple of Liberty — Gen. Geo. Washington — 
 
 (Napoleon) Jefferson Madison Monroe La 
 
 Fayette — Franklin — Hamilton — Marshall — Patrick 
 Henry, &c. — Naval Heroes and Martyrs — Prepos- 
 terous Claims — Conclusion, 53 
 
 PROSAIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Recollections of Robert Burns, 131 
 
 Dr. Benjamin Rush, 157 
 
 John Hayes, 245 
 
 Surgical Cases vs. Intemperance, 261 
 
 1 * 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 
 
 Lament for the death of Maj. James Smiley, 87 
 
 On the death of Mrs. Gilly Eliza Bell, 91 
 
 Scottish Hospitality, 93 
 
 Verses on the death of Olivia Sti'other, 105 
 
 The Lost Child, 107 
 
 Letter from a Thompsonian Doctor, 121 
 
 Letter to Mr. John Coltart, 173 
 
 Letter to Philip Slaughter, Jr 177 
 
 To a Lady, 181 
 
 Verses wi-itten for the Murfreesboro Cornier, 185 
 
 Letter from Jonathan Jollybuck, Esq., giving an account of 
 
 the Jackson Dinner at Murfreesboro, Tenn 189 
 
 Second Letter from Jonathan Jollybuck, Esq., written from 
 
 Nashville, Tenn 199 
 
 Third Letter from Jonathan Jollybuck, Esq. — giving a de- 
 scription of Louisville, Ky 209 
 
 On the death of Mrs. Jane Muse, 219 
 
 Address written for the Bardstown Herald, 223 
 
 Second Address written for the Bardstown Herald, 229 
 
 A word to modern Freethinkers, 239 
 
 Columbia. — Abolition, 243 
 
 Verses on the death of Anna Gunn, 276 
 
PREFACE TO THE HENRIADE. 
 
 He who presents himself before the public as a 
 candidate for literary fame, has no just cause of com- 
 plaint if that tribunal, in the plentitude of its judicial 
 authority, awards him a place less elevated than that 
 to which self-love may whisper him he is entitled. 
 The author of the following effusion is sensible that it 
 is far from being perfect, and if, on a candid perusal, 
 its merits are found too light to weigh against its 
 blemishes, he will, without a murmur, aknowledge the 
 justice of that improbatory sentence which consigns 
 it to oblivion. 
 
 To a merit, however, independent of and superior 
 to the construction of its periods and the harmony of 
 its numbers, this little work, he flatters himself, may 
 advance a legitimate claim; had the author's ambition 
 halted here, it never should have seen the light; he 
 was governed less by the desire of doing something 
 splendid, than of doing something useful — something 
 that philanthropy might acknowledge and piety ap- 
 prove — and should he be denied the reputation of a 
 poet, he wall solace himself with having merited, by 
 his intentions at least, the less dazzling though more 
 useful and solid character of a patriot. 
 
 The history of the poem is soon told: it is the pro- 
 duction of a mind languishing under the infirmity of 
 
X PREFACE TO THE HENRIADEl. 
 
 bodily disease, and seeking refuge from its disquietude 
 in the propitiations of the Muse. Nor was the experi- 
 ment unsuccessful; before the genial influences of the 
 imagination, thus excited, the sorrows that oppressed 
 him were dispersed, like '-'•light clouds on a windy 
 daif — and now that Hygeia has restored him to more 
 active employments and more importunate concerns, 
 he looks back, even with regret, to that painful though 
 otherwise peaceful period of a few weeks, when, un- 
 able to sustain his part in the busy drama of life, he 
 was permitted to retire behind its many colored 
 scenes, and to hold undisturbed communion with the 
 fame of the living and of the illustrious dead. 
 
 The only books of authority, (and he may add, of 
 any other description,) whence he derived any assist- 
 ance in the task he had undertaken, were '^Wirt's 
 Sketches of the life of Henry" and '-Lee's Memoirs 
 of the War in the South." To a perusal of the for- 
 mer of these writings he is indebted not only for its 
 original conception but for reviving in his memory 
 what he had previously known of the biographical 
 matter interspersed (perhaps too sparingly with refer- 
 ence to the title) through the pages of this work. Be- 
 yond this, he has chosen rather to work out some of 
 his own suggestions respecting the formation of Hen- 
 ry's character, than to exhibit himself before the pub- 
 lic as the servile copyist and retailer of beauties, 
 which he may admire, but possesses no powers to 
 equal. 
 
 To celebrate the tumults of battle — the achieve- 
 ments of valor, and deeds of arms — has ever been the 
 
PREFACE TO THE HENRIADE. XI 
 
 proudest prerogative of the Muse. The greatest 
 poets have seemed only to breathe with freedom amid 
 the carnage and confusion of war, and the ivy has 
 shot forth into wildest luxuriance under the wide 
 spreading branches of the laurel. Had the present 
 writer, for the misplaced ambition of appearing in 
 such illustrious company, been content to incur the 
 humiliating compaiisons to which it would have sub- 
 jected him, he too might have ventured upon the 
 stormy element — he too might have selected some 
 ■laurelled chieftain — the idol of his country, and the 
 centre of her proudest hopes — clothed him with her 
 sword and buckler, and sent him forth to battle — fol- 
 lowing him through all the vicissitudes of fortune to 
 the proud period of her final emancipation and tri- 
 umph. Such might have been his hero, and, as an 
 American citizen, where should be found a name for 
 him more appropriate than that of Washington? But 
 he could not venture upon so perilous an arena — his 
 was not the spirit to ride upon the whirlwind and to 
 grapple with the storm! — and, as respects the dignity 
 of his subject, he shall stand confessedly but one step 
 lower, whilst enlisting his Muse in the service of 
 another, who flourished on a less tumultuous theatre 
 of action, and who stood only next to that illustrious 
 and true hero, in the confidence and afl?ection of his 
 country. 
 
 It is to be lamented that so few memorials of Mr. 
 Henry can at this day be collected, even by the in- 
 dustry of his ingenious biographer, Mr. Wirt; but from 
 what we do know of him — of his singular sagacity 
 
Xll PREFACE TO THE HENRIADE. 
 
 and fertility of expedient — his undaunted courage— 
 the vigor and originality of his mind — the overwhelm- 
 ing powers of his eloquence — and his unconquerable 
 love of liberty — we are assured that he will claim 
 the admiration of posterity as one of the most ex- 
 traordinary men of his own or any other age or na- 
 tion. Compared with the illustrious men who flour- 
 ished in the boisterous period of the revolution — a 
 period uncommonly productive of genius, both in the 
 cabinet and in the field — there is but one — one nev- 
 er-to-he-forgotten name! to whom Liberty owes greater 
 obligations — and he stands without a rival, if we 
 may confide in the testimony of his contemporaries, 
 in the singular glory of having given the first impulse 
 to that memorable contest, which terminated in the 
 final independence of his country — a consummation 
 that is cherished by the happiest recollections, and the 
 best hopes of humanity. 
 
 It was this happy melange of great and shining 
 qualities, that naturally pointed out Mr. Henry, as the 
 most efficient agent in the machinery of a poem, ex- 
 pressly illustrative of that liberty to which his whole 
 life manifested such unequivocal marks of unaltered 
 attachment, and toward the attainment of which he 
 bore so considerable a part — but, although from these 
 considerations the author was induced to make him 
 the principal personage of his drama, he has not failed 
 to do justice to the claims of others, who, in various 
 degrees and departments of public usefulness, are 
 pre-eminently entitled to rank with him as ^mmitive 
 apostles in the Temple of Liberty. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Such men are raised to station and command 
 When Providence means mercy to a land — 
 He speaks, and they appear — to him they owe 
 Skill to direct and sti'ength to strike the blow, 
 To manage with address, to seize with pow'r 
 The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
 
 In him Demosthenes was heard again; 
 Liberty taught him her Athenian strain — 
 She clothed him with authority and awe — 
 Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law; 
 No sycophant or slave that dared oppose 
 Her sacred cause but trembled as he rose; 
 And every venal stickler for the yoke 
 Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 
 
 CowPER. 
 
THE 
 
 H E N R I A D E ; 
 
 TEMPLE OF LIBERTY 
 
 CAIVTO I 
 
 Argument. — Introduction — Patrick Henry — The Tobacco Cause — 
 Early Inspirations — American Scenery. 
 
 Shall kings and conquerors aspire, 
 To boast the trophies of the lyre; 
 Shall ruthless tyrants grasp at fame, 
 And dying leave a deathless name; 
 Shall such, the scourges of their kind, 
 A host of venal flatterers find; 
 And not one Muse, to virtue true, 
 The tribute pay to Henry due? 
 — O shall no chaster Muse appear, 
 Where Freedom weeps o'er Henry's bier? 
 
2 THE HENRIAPE. 
 
 There sound aloud the requium knell, 
 And mourn him dead who lived so well; 
 All with the theme inspired, retrace 
 The glories of his useful race; 
 And bid his cherish'd fame, which long 
 Shall live in prose, — so live in song. 
 
 But who shall tempt the awful gloom, 
 That shrouds the dead, — and from the tomli 
 Of genius, — call its prey and give 
 Impression, — form, — and bid it live? 
 — Shall even an angel's minstrelsy. 
 Recall the lightning of the eye. 
 Or wake the magic of that tongue. 
 On which enraptured Senates hung? 
 — Then who, untouch'd with heavenly fire, 
 With impious hand, shall grasp the lyre^ 
 And bid its varying cadence flow, 
 In strains of joy, or notes of wo? 
 —Where shall the moral painter find, 
 The colors of that wond'rous mind? 
 What tints shall give, of meteor dye, 
 Its pictur'd form to Fancy's eye? 
 — What artist of the modern school. 
 By precepts form'd, and skilPd by rule, 
 A faithful likeness shall impart. 
 Of him who spurn'd the bounds of art? 
 Who all unform'd by learning's dint. 
 Was cast in Nature's spacious mint, 
 A bold impression, fair and free. 
 Its vignette — "Death or Liberty!" 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 How then shall one, bow'd by disease. 
 Whose ^Hvine of life is on the lees;'* 
 Whilst still Hygeia shuns his dooi\ 
 And Hope, the charmer, charms no more, 
 On Fancy's pinions, tempt the sky? 
 Too weak to stand — how hope to fly? 
 Shall Genius leave her mystic cell, 
 'Midst pharmaceutic forms to dwell: 
 Will the kind Muse to weakness deign 
 The aid, that strength besought in vaiiL, 
 And with reviving influence, spread 
 The ivy round his languid head; 
 — O might she to his pray'rs impart, 
 The mysteries of the heav'n-born art, 
 To Campbell^ Scotl^ and Byro7i known. 
 And bid him call, such pow'rs his own; 
 How should the votive strains go forth, 
 To genius and departed worth, 
 And Henry's mem'ry, triumph long, 
 Emblazon'd by immortal song! 
 
 In prouder measures form'd to live, 
 Departed excellence, forgive; 
 Forgive, the bootless numbers bland. 
 The tuneless voice, — the tremb'ling hand! 
 And tho' the wreath, not long may bloom. 
 Wrought by the Muse, around thy tomb; 
 Tho' in the bleak and sterile shade, 
 Of cold neglect, its flow'rs may fade; 
 Yet thou shalt live to fame, where'er 
 Talent is priz'd, or worth held dear, 
 
4 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Thro' endless time, or die alone, 
 With Liberty's expiring groan. 
 
 How little hope, — how little truth, 
 Dawn'd in the presage of thy youth ! 
 What seer, in heav'ns bright arch, might scan, 
 The honors of the future man? 
 What wizard dream, — what magic spell. 
 Thy transformation, fair, foretell? 
 
 Who might predict, in accents sooth, 
 Be}3t<^ld that graceless loit'ring youth. 
 Ere long, shall wing his flight on high. 
 Beyond the scan of mortal eye; 
 Shall at his outset, raise a name, 
 Unrivall'd in forensic fame ! 
 But thus it was. 
 
 The legal Hall, 
 Court, Clergy, Bar, — I see them all; 
 Justice her ready forms dispensing. 
 Order proclaimed, — the cause commencing; 
 Around the busy whisper borne, ■ 
 And looks, indicative of scorn. 
 As Henry in the grave divan. 
 Blushing and faltering began; 
 Around one giddy glance he cast. 
 One pause — one quicken'd pulse, 'tis past! 
 And well of learning, such array, 
 A vet'ran's bosom might dismay; 
 Then how much his, whose legal lore, 
 Was ne'er display'd, in courts before; 
 What could the Tyro hope for here ? 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 What rather had he not to fear? 
 
 All to his words attention lent; 
 Each rev'rend eye on him was bent, 
 Or only sidelong stole, to show, 
 Derision of the beardless foe; 
 — Short triumph theirs! his wounded pride, 
 Rous'd by the sight, their sneers implied, 
 With stern defiance, meted back 
 Their chalice, to the men in black; 
 — Then, first her young ally to claim, 
 Unhop'd — unbidden — Genius came! 
 O'er every rustic trace, inbred, 
 Her pure transforming spirit shed; 
 inspir'd his tongue- — flam'd in his eye, 
 His closeknit brow, up lifted high; 
 Instant, the timid |>ort he bore, 
 And all that mark'd the clown before, 
 Charm'd by her plastic touch, gave place 
 To wisdom, energy and grace! 
 — And now, by beautiful degrees, 
 From bland simplicity and ease. 
 His kindling energies, expand 
 To terrible! sublime and grand! 
 Still rising, and evolving more, 
 His boundless intellectual store. 
 He tasks his pow'rs, and at their height 
 Revels in unresisted might! 
 — The spirit of the storm is heard 
 Abroad! the flood gates are unbar'd! 
 And hii2;h the torrent swells, whose force 
 
6 thp: henria! k. 
 
 Whelms every land-mark in its course! 
 — Alone, one genius, voice and mein, 
 Prevails, — presides, — is felt, — is seen; 
 Entranc'd his breathless audience seem. 
 As by some sweetly, pleasing dream; 
 With energy, that mocks control, 
 One giant genius grasps the soul; 
 Impels the blood, from every part, 
 Wild! — bounding! — gushing to each heart! 
 — Pale, — speechless, — motionless, — intent, 
 Transfix'd, in rapturous wonderment, 
 They stand, as life had instant flown. 
 And left each form, a bust of stone! 
 Yet o'er the marble left behind, 
 The last, — hless\l^ impress of the mind. — 
 
 Not that this arch-enchanter's thrall. 
 Is dealt with equal power to all; 
 There are, whose varying looks confess, 
 Confusion mingled with distress; 
 Yet seek their tumults to constrain, 
 And writhe, and wince, and strive in vain: 
 — The plaintiffs, — they whose hopes that morn 
 Beat high, — now recreant and forlorn, 
 Recoil, astounded and amaz'd. 
 Before that spirit they had rais'd; 
 Like the poor red breast, that surveys, 
 The wily serpent's visual rays, 
 Alarm'd, yet wanting power to fly. 
 So look they on that fatal eye, 
 Which still to them, as fierce it burns. 
 
THE HENRIADE. / 
 
 Its with'ring indignation turns, 
 As from the socket if would start, 
 To dive into the trembling heart: 
 Scarce more appalling to their fears. 
 The voice that thunders in their ears; 
 Till at one overwhelming sweep, 
 Rapid and powerful, — ^loud and deep, 
 Along the vaulted roof that rung. 
 They fl}^, — beyond endurance stung. 
 Swift as the pinions of the wind. 
 Nor cast one lingering look behind. 
 
 Thus, in the distant verge we spy, 
 The darkling speck, with dubious eye; 
 But soon, the lurid sky o'er cast. 
 Portentous howls the surly blast; 
 Electric gleams the day deform, 
 As hastens on the gathring storm; 
 A sullen spirit wakes the breeze, 
 And sighs and murmurs through the trees; 
 Lowering, the angry tempest broods,* 
 With blackning horror o'er the woods; 
 The vocal choir, their throats restrain; 
 Th' affrighled cattle fly the plain; 
 Bursting his chains, the thunder rolls. 
 And the earth trembles to her poles: 
 At length with fury that appals 
 
 *This tornado is peculiar to tropical climates; it is much dreaded by 
 mariners, by whom il is called the bulls-eye; its appearance is at first in- 
 significant, bnt it rapidly progresses, and having involved the Heavens 
 in darkness, it, at length, bursts forth and falls to the earth, in a desola- 
 ting tempest. 
 
8 THE HENRIADK. 
 
 The desolating torrent falls. — 
 
 Presiding mid judicial seers, 
 A venerable form appears; 
 Whose down-cast eye, and devious sv^ray, 
 And agitated frame that day, 
 A parent's anxious heart betray; 
 But as night's vapours flee afar. 
 When Cynthia mounts her silver car; 
 Thus rising hope, his fears beguiling, 
 Upon his uprais'd brow sits smiling; 
 And the big drops his raptures speak, 
 That perish on his burning cheek. 
 
 O Sympathy! first born of Heav'n 
 Blest pow'r to genial natures given! 
 Whose ligaments bind soul to soul. 
 Between, tho' boundless oceans roll; 
 Some happier pen than mine, inspire, 
 To tell the feelings of that sire; 
 When all the hopes his bosom priz'd 
 Through years of care are realiz'd: 
 — Why does his recreant color fly. 
 And now resume the crimson dye? 
 Whence that tranfusive bliss, that stole 
 In shudd'ring tumult to his soul? 
 Fain would the muse attempt the strain, 
 It must not be! — she tries in vain! 
 No touch of homogenial fire. 
 Awakes, to ecstacy, the lyre ; 
 No sound of kindred rapture rings 
 Symphonious, from its torpid strings; 
 
THE HENRI ADE. 
 
 The dews and dumps of death have bound 
 Its power, and mar'd all genial sound. 
 
 Reader, a humble boon I claim, 
 Is thine a parent's honor'd name? 
 Shipwreck'd in life, had'st thou a son, 
 Ere well the voyage was begun; 
 A luckless, listless wight, misdeem'd, 
 Who through lifes earliest scenes had dream'd; 
 His time misspent, his business scorn'd, 
 Had'st thy paternal bosom mourn'd, 
 And o'er the desolation sigh'd, 
 Of hopes travers'd, and blighted pride: 
 — Then, had his genius, instant bom, 
 Scatter'd the clouds of rayless morn; 
 From embryon flames of mental light, 
 Burst like a Phoenix, on your sight, 
 And in one bound of loftiest aim, 
 Soar'd to the pinnacle of fame: 
 — Then by this test, the source you know, 
 Wlience aged Henry's transports flow: 
 To let imagination dwell 
 On scenes which language cannot tell. 
 
 But to the cause; — the cause is o'er. 
 That magic voice, is heard no more; 
 But still its sweet Athenian strains. 
 Transporting, vibrate through the veins; 
 The jury, by enchantment bound, 
 Stir'd not till they a verdict found; 
 Jury, — Court, — Bar, — the young, the old, 
 One impulse sway'd, one power control'd. 
 
10 THE HENRI ADfi. 
 
 And admiration, long suppress'd, 
 
 Pour'd from each tongue, and fill'd each breast: 
 
 Justice herself, — the truth to own, 
 
 Was seen to totter on her throne; 
 
 And being blind or so appearing. 
 
 Was vanquish'd through her sense of hearing: 
 
 Her wav'ring beam had lost its poise. 
 
 And eloquence bore oft' the prize; 
 
 *What culture best from learning's root, 
 Shall cause the tender twigs to shoot! 
 How are the elements combin'd, 
 Of that mysterious essence, — mind? 
 That elevation, what shall teach, 
 That all desire, — but few can reach? 
 There are, who ne'er o'erstep the span, 
 That marks the sphere of plodding man; 
 Like Vulcan's Cyclops, groping round 
 Their dismal caves bewild'ring bound, 
 Without one sparkle to illume, 
 The slavish souls Boeotian gloom, 
 To bustle and turmoil resign'd. 
 They yield, what might have been their mind; 
 And cherish cares, that bring to nought, 
 The loftier powers of genial thought, 
 
 *It is only necessary to mention here by way of explanation, that the 
 celebrated Tobacco or Parsons' cause, wherein Mr. Henry, as counsel 
 for the defendants, demonstrated the first evidences of his extraordina- 
 ry powers, was liied at the Court House of Hanover county, Virginia — 
 twenty Clergymen interested in its issue being present, the youthful or- 
 ator's own father presiding on the bench. It is acknowledged that the 
 verdict found by the jury was more consonant with their own excited 
 feelings than with the strict principles of law as applied to the case. 
 
THE HENRIADE. H 
 
 Like noxious weeds that choke the soil, 
 And mar the cultivator's toil. — 
 
 Ah how unlike^ and happier they. 
 Whom Mature rules with gentler sway 1 
 Who by that charm allur'd, that binds 
 To solitude, — superior minds ; 
 Far from the w^orld's deprav'd control. 
 Indulge the yearnings of the soul; 
 And seek the laptures of their hour, 
 Sublime, from her exhaustless power. 
 
 For few have liv'd whose names are known, 
 (Unblazon'd by memorial stone;) 
 Who have not pass'd their happiest hours. 
 In solitude's sequester'd bowers; 
 There, hoped a kind release to find, 
 From custom's fetters on the mind: 
 Whilst borne on fancy's volant wings. 
 Beyond the thrall of earthly things. 
 The soul by genius fir'd, hath flown 
 Through boundless space, to w^orlds unknown. 
 
 ^Nature, auspicious nurse to thee, 
 Smil'd, Henry, on thine infancy; 
 No scowling step dame's stern behest. 
 Thy youthful energies represt; 
 — She mark'd, with fost'ring pity kind. 
 
 *The biographer of Mr, Henry has mformed us of his passion for the 
 solitude of nature, and the sports of the field, but the inferences clearly 
 deducible from this trait in his character, are, (so far as we recollect from 
 a single and rather hasty perusal) no where insisted upon in his work. — 
 It is solitude, asthenurae of a great and independent mind, that is kept 
 in view in what follows. 
 
,12 THE HENRIAUE. 
 
 The aspirations of thy mind; 
 
 Nourish'd those blossoms that presage 
 
 Rich fruitage of maturer age; 
 
 — She led thee o'er her gay domain, 
 
 Where Flora decks the spangled plain ; 
 
 Display'd, before thine ardent eye, 
 
 Her wild, luxuriant scenery; 
 
 Beguil'd thy wand'ring footsteps o'er, 
 
 The lofty mountains summit hoar, 
 
 And woodland heights, harmonious made 
 
 By the lark's am'rous serenade; 
 
 — Brac'd thy young limbs, the leap to take, 
 
 Like mountain fawn o'er mountain brake, 
 
 Or like the stately swan, to glide 
 
 Through the smooth lake's translucid tide; 
 
 And with some mystic pledge unknown 
 
 Gifted and plighted thee her own. 
 
 Impassion'd now from day to day, 
 In solitude, thou lov'd'st to stray. 
 The haunts of Nature, to explore, 
 — To listen to her simple lore, 
 In lucid stream to mark her form, 
 Or trace her footsteps in the storm; 
 Or sunk'st supinely on her breast, 
 LuU'd by the bubbling brook to rest, 
 Till ev'ning's bird on wavering spray. 
 The descant trill'd, of closing day. 
 
 Such scenes, thy dawning genius courted, 
 And here thine infant years were sported; 
 Here nature with instruction bland, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 13 
 
 Her lessons taught, sublime and grand! 
 Taught thee such pleasures to forego, 
 From meaner, — muddier founts, that flow, 
 — Here were those elements combin'd, 
 Which form'd the ground-work of thy mind; 
 Its vigor, buoyancy, and force. 
 Were drawn from this exhaustless source. 
 — Here too, with independence bless'd. 
 The love of Freedom fir'd thy breast; 
 For wand'ring here, devoid of care, 
 With face begrim'd and tangled hair; 
 Escap'd from dolts, and those who teach 
 Their tongues to chime, eight parts of speech; 
 Regardless of the master's rule. 
 Who chides thy vacant seat at school; 
 With trophies of the chase around thee, 
 The genius of thy country, found thee. 
 
 Freedovi^ 'tis said, impeli'd by love, 
 Once left her native realms above, 
 On reconnoit'ring trip, to roam 
 O'er thislov'd soil, her destin'd home; 
 For threaten'd conflicts to prepare 
 This people, her peculiar care; 
 That far and wide she sped, untir'd, 
 And many noble breasts, inspir'd 
 Some gallant spirits, at their meeting, 
 Receiv'd her with a cordial greeting; 
 But some, who did her form survey, 
 With cold indift''i-encc, turn'd away; 
 Others, who from afar beheld her, 
 
14 THE HKNRIADE. 
 
 Would from the country have expelPd her: 
 
 For even celestial charms will fail. 
 
 O'er some rude natures to prevail: 
 
 — And v^as it she, of heav'nly guise, 
 
 That now before our hero's eyes. 
 
 In sudden light appear'd? — 'tis true, 
 
 She seem'd the same to transient view; 
 
 The same in majesty and grace. 
 
 In form resplendent, as in face. 
 
 — Transfix'd, in wond'ring attitude. 
 
 Awhile the heav'nly stranger stood. 
 
 As one who sees, with mark'd surprise, 
 
 Yet doubts the record of her eyes, 
 
 A deathless name in such unseemly guise; 
 
 — The graces, in her ebon hair 
 
 Had twin'd a wreath of wild flow'rs rare. 
 
 By Eros cull'd from FIojyi^s horn, 
 
 Fraught with the incense of the morn. 
 
 One tress alone escap'd its check, 
 
 Stray'd lightly o'er her marble neck, 
 
 Her form, a light transparent veil 
 
 Betray'd, — ^^and spurn'd the amorous gale; 
 
 A radiant cestus clasp'd her zone. 
 
 Where amethysts and rubies shone, 
 
 Like that rare girdle, which of yore, 
 
 The fam'd Idalian Goddess wore; 
 
 And fairer bosom than it press'd. 
 
 Nor Helen gracM, nor Paris blessed, — • 
 
 Model of symmetry and ease, 
 
 Like the fam'd statue, o'er the seas, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 1^ 
 
 She stood, in all her charms confess'd, 
 And thus the wond'ring youth address'd: 
 
 Immortal Boy! — to thee is giv'n, 
 The highest boon of gracious Heav'n; 
 The meed of eloquence is thine 
 Pathetic ! — vehement ! — sublime ! 
 Thy powers shall waken and control, 
 Each glorious impulse of the soul; 
 — Thy genius, unrestrain'd by art, 
 Shall seize and sway the captive heart! 
 — Shall Rage w^ith new incitement fire, 
 Till his red eyeballs, flash with ire, 
 Or bid his fury, that disdains 
 All feebler bonds, to wear thy chains; 
 Shall Hatred cause, thy gift to wear, 
 A wreath of adders in his hair; 
 Pity shall urge, — with drooping head, 
 Her tributary tears to shed; 
 Envy, to close her twinkling eye. 
 Dazzled, to cast its glance so high. 
 And Avarice, as thou shalt chide, 
 His pinch'd, ill favor'd face, to hide. 
 — The Passions thus, — whether they are 
 Of Love, — Aversion, — Hope, — Despair, 
 The blythe or dismal progeny. 
 Shall bend their stubborn necks to thee. 
 Whilst thou, prime mover of the whole. 
 Their powers discursive, shalt control, 
 Or usher forth the jarring troop, 
 With dire and desolating swoop. 
 
16 THE HKNRIADE. 
 
 — Whether thou soar'st on high amain, 
 
 Or saiPst profoundly near the plain, 
 
 The gift, — 'tis thine — a matchless grace to reach, 
 
 Which Athens, nor imperial Rome could teach. 
 
 Nor art thou gifted and endued 
 In vain, (the Goddess thus pursued,) 
 Shall heav'n such ample means bestow 
 For trivial ends, believe me, no! 
 Exalted worth and powers of mind, 
 To mortals rarely are assign'd, 
 And but in trust, for public need, 
 Some great and glorious cause to speed; 
 — Then, how is it, that thus I find thee, 
 With such transcendent powers assign'd thee. 
 To idleness a willing prey. 
 Casting the glorious boon away. 
 Even like that demi-god, estrang'd 
 Who for a toy, his club exchang'd ? 
 Whilst thy devoted country's voice, 
 Demands of thee a nobler choice? 
 Think'st thou, for such ignoble part, 
 That Heav'n hath made thee, what thou art? 
 Will future times believe the story? 
 Henry awake! — awake to glory! 
 O break the bonds that have enthrall'd thee; 
 Hark! 'twas thy sorrowing country call'd thee! 
 Columbia needs thy counsels, — hear! 
 Even now her groans come o'er the ear, 
 Like to a hollow, church-yard blast, 
 O'er tombs and sepulchres that pass'd; 
 
THE HENRIADE. 1 / 
 
 And shall she, deeply, thus complain 
 To her brave sons, yet plead in vain? 
 Her tumid and nutritious breast, "^ 
 Oft to a parent's cold lip press'd, 
 No more shall languid age supply, 
 Its sphere is shrunk, — its rill is dry. 
 
 With hair loose streaming on the blast, 
 And brow with anxious thought o'ercast, 
 And pallid cheek — and humid eye, 
 The image of despondency. 
 She sits, abandon'd and oppress'd. 
 By that stern parent's harsh behest. 
 
 Yet patience but a little while. 
 Those trembling lips shall learn to smile! 
 That cheek shall glow, — that eye shall shine, 
 With awful energy divine! 
 — The sighs that speak her inward woes. 
 Shall raise a tempest round her foes; 
 — Her spirit, tame as now 'tis found, 
 Bent yet not broken, — shall rebound, 
 And she, with power and vigor rife, 
 »Shall spring to renovated life, 
 
 * I need hardly inform the intelligent reader that this conception is 
 not original; it is derived from the inexhaustable mind of the celebrated 
 Edmund Burke.— In a speech on American aftairs, about the com- 
 mencement of the War, in the British House of Commons, and with 
 allusion to the aftectiug incident of the Grecian matron nourishing with 
 her bosom her aged and incarcerated parent, he says: (I quote from 
 memory;) "The scarcity that we have but just felt would have been a 
 desolating famuie, had not tliis child of our old age, with a true Roman 
 charity— with a true falial piety, applied the full breast of her youthful 
 exuberance to the mouth of her exhausted parent." The records of 
 Elocution of the four quarters of the globe furnish nothing for tender- 
 no:is, congruity, and pathos, that surpasses this." 
 B 2 
 
18 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 And stand in terrible array, 
 Like a young lioness at bay, 
 Prepar'd for strife! — and heav'n betide. 
 The chiefs and warriors at her side; 
 Both those who shall survive, and all 
 Who in her cause shall martyrs fall. 
 
 Nor deem their perils slight, the while. 
 Nor short, the period of their toil: 
 Tried, is the skill they must oppose. 
 And swift, the lightning of their foes, 
 And dire, the conflict they shall wage. 
 And loud, and long, the storm shall rage, 
 And sireless babes shall sigh full deep, 
 And Beauty's eyes shall wake to weep. 
 For thousands, mingled with the dead, 
 Who sleep on honor's gory bed, 
 Mark me! yon glorious orb on high. 
 Now riding down the Western sky, 
 Seven years shall rise o'er field and flood. 
 Strewn with the dead, and swoll'n with blood, 
 Ere War's red ensign shall be furl'd. 
 And Peace shall dawn upon the world, 
 And the long night, with storms o'ercast. 
 Shall end, in cloudless day at last. 
 
 Columbia, ere that day shall be. 
 For aye, emancipate and free; 
 Hear what heav'ns Oracles declare: 
 — When the scath'd Lion, leaves his lair; 
 When rival hosts, in arms allied, 
 ShaU see the white flag waving wide. 
 
thp: henriade, 19 
 
 Where York's proud waters lash the shore, 
 Whilst hush'd shall be the cannon's roar, 
 And in the scabbard sleeps the sword, 
 — I swear, by my immortal word, 
 If in the God of hosts ye trust, 
 And to yourselves and country just, 
 Ye merit the reward it brings. 
 Again, with healing in my wings. 
 That glorious day I shall appear. 
 And fix my lasting empire here; 
 — 'Tis Heaven's immutable decree! 
 Till then farewell! — remember me! * 
 So spake the offspring of the sky, 
 Nor might the wond'ring youth reply; 
 For whilst, (through Heaven's high casements shed,) 
 A falling sun-beam, round her spread, 
 And veil'd her form in wreaths of light. 
 Inscrutable to mortal sight; 
 By this bright mandate from the skies, 
 Summon'd away to paradise, 
 With light wings spread upon the wind, 
 She leaves the less'ning world behind, 
 And passing fields of light and ether. 
 Where constellations roll beneath her, 
 She soars away, nor droops her pinions. 
 Till resting at Heaven's bright dominions, 
 
 * The sagacity here ascribed to Mr. Henry is not equivocal, had it, in 
 reality, been inspired by supernal and oracular communication, his pre- 
 dictions, not only of the result of the contest between the colonies and 
 the mother country, but of the means by which success was to be 
 effected, could not have been more literally verified by the event. 
 
20 
 
 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 There enters her serene abode, 
 Through paths, but by celestials trod. 
 
 The sun is hast'ning now to rest, 
 Beyond the barriers of the West, 
 And o'er their purple peaks, displays 
 The glory of his setting rays; 
 
 Serenely calm, at evening's close, 
 In Heaven and earth all seek repose, 
 Save from some covert, lone and still, 
 Is heard the plaintive whip-po-will, 
 Or from the dell, is pour'd along. 
 The merry mock-bird's mimic song. 
 The lofty fir-trees, o'er the glade. 
 Have cast a mellowing depth of shade. 
 
 The wizard stream, meand'ring speeds 
 Through brighter than Arcadian meads; 
 On either bank, so gay and green, 
 A wilderness of charms is seen; 
 —-The silver willow bends to lave, 
 Its tresses in the limpid wave;" 
 The birch o'erhangs its oozy bed; 
 The osier droops its slimy head. 
 Gigantic oaks, in sportive mood. 
 Lock their vast limbs athwart the flood; 
 The ivy and the grape, hard by. 
 Twining tlieir tortuous forms on high. 
 Thro' many a wild festoon, unfold 
 Their mingling hues of green and gold. 
 
 There, frightful rocks on rocks seem pif 
 By some terrene convulsion wild: 
 
THE HENRIADE. 21 
 
 — Some raw material, — when the earth 
 From chaos 'took its mighty birth, 
 Left all unfashion'd, bleak and bare, 
 In primitive confusion, there. 
 
 The goat, with nimble motion, strays, 
 On meagre herbs and shrubs to graze, 
 JLIgon its highest, shelving cliff, 
 And stops and gazes oft, as if 
 To catch, from its stupendous height, 
 The last departing gleam of light. 
 
 Upshooting, thro' a yawning cleft, 
 A fragment, near the base had left: 
 The dog-wood blooms, in vestal pride, 
 Like Beauty at a Giant's side. 
 And views, light waving o'er the steep. 
 Its chaster graces, in the deep. 
 
 Henry had tasted years of bliss. 
 At such an hour, mid scenes like this; 
 But scenes that charm'd his youth before. 
 Shall claim, unshar'd, his heart no more; 
 The velvet law^i, the sunny green. 
 Smile as before, — but smile unseen: 
 — No more his hounds and bugle-horn. 
 Announce the dawn of rosy morn; 
 No chattering squirrel, fearfully, 
 Espys him near his nut-brown tree, 
 Nor hare, wak'd by his early tread. 
 Leaps rustling, from her sergy bed; 
 Fearless, the fox forsakes the brake, 
 The wild-duck sips the glassy lake. 
 
22 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 The felon hawk stoops from the sky, 
 
 Sport undisturb'd the finny fry; 
 
 — His renovated soul on flame, 
 
 Expands and pants for nobler game; 
 
 — That heavenly vision, late which stood 
 
 Before him, by the gay green wood ; 
 
 That thrilling voice, — that seraph's mien, 
 
 Alone is heard, — alone is seen; 
 
 — Heard, felt, and seen, — beyond control 
 
 Her image fastens on his soul, 
 
 And Henry yields him from that hour, 
 
 Charm'd votary, of resistless power. 
 
 So, when those wond'rous powers of mind. 
 Long to the gloomy vale confined; 
 Transplanted, — in the sunny ray 
 Bloom'd forth, like the gay thorn in May, 
 'Twas this, — to Fame's Olympian seat. 
 That form'd a lamp, to guide his feet. 
 
 And when oppress'd by warlike foes. 
 To seek redress, Columbia rose. 
 This, was the sacred light to guide. 
 The first of patriots, to her side, 
 
 This^ was the Idol that he sought, 
 What time such miracles he wrought, 
 As gave to Eloquence to clann, 
 A western heritage and name. 
 
H E I RI A D E ; 
 
 TEMPLE OF LIBERTY 
 
 C A W T O II. 
 
 Argument. — The rising San — Surrender of York — The advent of 
 Liberty — The French revolution — American patriots — Changes in- 
 troduced by the American revohition — Henry's speech in the con- 
 vention — American Liberty contrasted with that introduced by the 
 revohition in France. 
 
 Effulgent tints, that in tlie east appear, 
 Announce the reign of day's bright charioteer; 
 And soon the light, disparting clouds, unfold 
 His orient mantle, fring'd with burnish'd gold; 
 In far perspective, opening to his gaze, 
 Columbia's forests, glitter in his rays, 
 But soon, by ([uick'ning impulse upward driven. 
 
24 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 His flying coursers, climb the steeps of heriven, 
 Nor check the ardour of their fleet career, 
 When far and wide, York's marshall'd plains appear: 
 — There, where the ensign of the proud allies, 
 Far o'er the bright'ning wold triumphant flies. 
 His glowing ray on casque and target gleam'd. 
 From corslet, spear and polish'd breastplate, beam'd, 
 Far flashing round, the giant form of War, 
 From toils reposing, — seam'd with many a scar; 
 — Whilst signs and shouts of victory, declare. 
 That those who late despair'd, now triumph there. 
 
 This glorious day, all big with destiny, 
 A gallant, virtuous nation, shall be free; 
 An Infant's hand hath crush'd the serpents; — lo: 
 Goliah reels and sickens with his blow! 
 Columbia's better genius rules the hour, 
 And breaks the galling bonds of foreign power, 
 Rises elate, and wreaks with terrors dread. 
 The Eagle's vengeance, on the Lion's head. 
 
 Tumult was quell'd, nor sleepless echo more, 
 Answer'd the deaf'ning bound of cannon's roar,. 
 Nor whizzing voUies, death comission'd, sped. 
 Nor pil'd in heaps, the dying with the dead: 
 — Still'd were the stormy passions of each breast,. 
 And nature, sympathetic, seem'd to rest 
 In breathless calm, save w^here the w^anton breeze 
 To gentle motion, stir'd the fading trees. 
 — Summon'd to bend before the Conqueror's car, 
 The want worn victims, of disastrous war, 
 Erst full of vigor, buoyant and elate. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 25 
 
 Yield to the pressure of their 'wayward fate, 
 And through the deep defiles, the marshall'd troops, 
 Leave the stern moclr'ry, of their ravish'd hopes; 
 — Flourish the bands a cheering native air. 
 But what shall cheer the sorrow^ of despair? 
 For ah! no unfurl'd banner streaming high, 
 Courts the glad tribute, of the Warrior's eye, 
 Nor proudly waves him on to victory; 
 — With sad and solemn motion they advance, 
 Till where our arms confront with those of France, 
 They, with a look that pity's bosom w^arms. 
 Halt, — wheel, — salute and bending, — ground their 
 arms ! ! 
 Th' assembled crowd, with soften'd aspect bland. 
 Respect the sorrows of the vanquish'd band; 
 No ribald gibes nor jests their tongues employ. 
 No mirth, ill-season'd, mars the genial joy. 
 But silence there with deathlike stillness reigns, 
 And binds all lips in adamantine chains: 
 — The hoary Chieftain resting on his blade. 
 War's quick mutations ponder'd and survey'd ; 
 The Soldiers too, who whilst the battle rav'd. 
 For death or victory its fury brav'd, 
 O blame them not ye noble breasts, if when 
 Their foes were at their feet, they felt like men. 
 Like men, w^ho might themselves in sorrow feel, 
 The dire reverse of Fortune's fickle wheel: 
 — Thine was the tribute, bless'd Humanity, 
 That dew'd the warrior's cheek, and dim'd his eye; 
 — Dear to the chasten'd heart, her honor'd claims, 
 
26 THE HKNRIADK. 
 
 Which recognise nor countries, creeds nor names, 
 
 But bring to her impartial, warm embrace, 
 
 Each hapless mourner of our hapless race; 
 
 — Dear to that heart, whose gentle impulse knows. 
 
 To feel the pungency of others woes, 
 
 That Godlike charity, to which belongs, 
 
 To spare th' oppressor, — yet repel his wrongs. — 
 
 Who fail'd the dark decrees of fate to tell. 
 When from his high career, Cornwallis fell; 
 Long had he claim'd the fortunes of the day. 
 Each land, — each clime, had own'd his conq'ring sway. 
 And every well fought field confer'd till now, 
 A sprig to swell the chaplet on his brow; 
 But blighted, by stern fate's relentless doom. 
 His with'ring laurels here, exhale their bloom; 
 — Could sage experience, — ardor unimpair'd, 
 Valor unchill'd, each high emprize that dar'd. 
 Have given this chief, the smiles of destiny, 
 York had not fallen, nor haply we been free. 
 
 Scap'd from the Lion's paws, the Eagle plies 
 Her callow pinions, in her native skies; 
 But ere she soar'd, she strain'd her swelling throat. 
 And dirg'd her late rude gaoler's funeral note, 
 Then sought the western forests, and on high, 
 Looks from her proud pavilion, in the sky, 
 Where tempest rock'd, her eyes of fire may roam 
 O'er roaring cataracts engulph'd in foam ; 
 Tremendous rocks, from their foundation torn. 
 And on the whirlwind's wings, like pebbles, borne, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 27 
 
 And sapless trunks, in dire disorder pil'd 
 In ruttiirc^sj^andcmonium in the wild. 
 
 On golden wings, heaven's portals open fly, 
 And light, celestial, dawns upon the eye; 
 On massive censers, fuming incense burns. 
 And nectrous dews distil from sacred urns; 
 Innumerous essences their sweets exhale, 
 And breathe their balmy fragrance, on the gale: 
 (^n the light ether, heavenly agents ply 
 Their cygnet pinions, through the glowing sky. 
 And pour from golden harps, when hovering near. 
 Seraphic anthems o'er the ravish'd ear: 
 — Assembled hosts, the glorious pageant see, 
 And chiefs and warriors join the revelry; 
 In joyous strains their hearts and voices blending, 
 Before a form of lights beheld descending: 
 — '^Breathe soft ye clarionets!" — ye feather'd throng, 
 Awake each drowsy echo with your song! 
 Shine! — shine ye western stars! — rejoice ye woods! 
 Tower hi^h ve heiHits! — roll on ve endless floods! 
 For lo! by all her attributes confessed. 
 She comes! — she comes! — the guardian of the west!! 
 
 Divinity all hail! of noblest mein, 
 Of aspect sweet, benignant and serene, 
 Sole majesty, w^hose empire we avow. 
 Before whose sceptre freemen deign to bow; 
 Low at thy shrine we bend the suppliant knee, 
 And next to heaven, inscribe ourselves to thee. 
 And may our vows be reojister'd on hidi. 
 With thee bless'd maid to live — or with thee to die: 
 
28 THE HENRIADK. 
 
 — Now, shall thy war-worn votaries rejoice, 
 And hail the long sought Idol of their choice ; 
 Well may they claim thy most auspicious smile! 
 Through woes unnumber'd, and through war's turmoil, 
 Through brake and brier, — -through forest, field and 
 
 flood, 
 Through gelid frosts, — trac'd b} their streaming blood. 
 Faint, — hopeless, — shelterless, — yet, still they sought 
 
 thee; 
 With tears and travail, — toil and treasure, bought thee; 
 Whilst oft ill omen'd vultures, in the air. 
 Would flap their sable wings, and croak despair; 
 — Then lingering hope would trace thy seraph form, 
 Would hail thy beck'ning figure, in the storm, 
 And oft thy dulcet voice, — to fancy's ear. 
 Borne on the gale, exclaim'd, O persevere! 
 And they did persevere — till here they found thee; 
 And now with boundless joy, they rally 'round thee. 
 
 Each warrior's sword was sheath'd, each flag was 
 furl'd. 
 And twilight had descended o'er the world. 
 From humid mists and vapours, thin and grey, 
 Condens'd to clouds upon the close of day, 
 Like mountains in the distance, crown'd with snows. 
 The full orb'd moon in silent beauty rose; 
 Transform'd to silv'ry streaks, with crimson blended, 
 These o'er the eastern horizon extended, 
 Save some white frothy flakes, by zephyrs driv'n, 
 That wander'd o'er the fair expanse of heav'n. 
 
 The firmament display'd light after light, 
 Till every lamp in Heav'ns blue arch burn'd bright, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 29 
 
 As if the constellated hosts shone forth, 
 To mark a glorious epoch of the earth. 
 
 In a soft, velvety cerulean flood. 
 The mellow moonlight settled o'er the wood; 
 And through its foliage, glittering with the dew, . 
 And ting'd with soher autumns russet hue, 
 Innumerable breaks and inlets found. 
 To fall in shapes, fantastic, to the ground. — 
 
 The brook, far wand'ring from its native source, 
 Enlarged by many a streamlet in its course; 
 From willow, birch and sycamore, that spread 
 Their dappled curtains o'er its tortuous bed. 
 Devolving, seem'd at intervals, afar. 
 Like a smooth mirror, bright from many a star. 
 
 No sound was in the air, nor living thing. 
 But swarms of twinkling fire flies on the wing. 
 That floating in the dewy air, display'd 
 Their microscopic flambeaux, in the shade. 
 
 The landscape was a most enchanting scene. 
 As redolent and lovely, — as serene. 
 As if grim war, had never rag'd for spoil. 
 Nor left his bloody foot prints on the soil. 
 But in the arms of peace, the infant nation 
 Through every change had slept since the creation. 
 
 It seem'd to the charm'd eye, and swelling iieart, 
 A blissful pledge and foretaste to impart. 
 Such in early days the patriarch knew, 
 When to the ark, the bird of promise flew. 
 It bore a type of happier days to conie, 
 
30 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 A rich inheritance, and peaceful home. 
 
 Now, from this day — that tunelessly I sing. 
 Time hath unwearied flown, on viewless wing; 
 And sixty times hath laughing Flora, round 
 The.brow of spring, her rosy garland bound ; 
 And sixty times, hath surly boreas rose, 
 Rav'd o'er the land, and swept the leafless boughs, 
 The mountains' summits, deck'd with wreaths of snow. 
 And bound in chains, the river gods below ; 
 Yet from these western realms, her peaceful home. 
 Hath liberty ne'er roam'd, nor sought to roniji. 
 — Short but eventful, has that period been; 
 What direful revolutions has it seen! 
 — Where liberty's ethereal, lambent light, 
 Flam'd on her western altars pure and bright, 
 That torch was kindled, which by faction fed, 
 Wide o'er devoted France, destruction spread; 
 That fire to more ungenial climate doom'd, 
 Nor warm'd but scorch'd, — not cherish'd but consLiin'd : 
 — Wildly difliis'd by faction, hellish brand, 
 In one wide spreading waste, it wrapp'd the land; 
 — The crackling flames involve the sinking throne, ' 
 Whose master bleeds for errors, not his own; 
 Freed by the coujj de grace, humanely given. 
 The offspring of St. Louis soars to Heaven: 
 — And she, of brighter days — the brightest geu), 
 That richest jewel of his diadem; 
 Despite those tears, most eloquent that speak 
 When glitt'ring seen on beauty's faded cheeky 
 
THE HENllIADE. SI 
 
 Despite those charms in natures loveliest guise, 
 By ruffian hands, reveaPd to ruffian eyes; 
 Despite that grief- worn form, — that bosom bare, 
 The thousand sacred woes that rankle there; 
 That gracious queen, — that brightest star that e'er 
 Unrivail'd shone in fashion's hemisphere; 
 That lost licart-hrokcn victim! meets her fate, 
 And joins in happier realms, her murder'd mate. 
 
 O Gallia! when that widow'd mourner bled 
 Whither, O whither, had thy glory fled? 
 Where was celestial mercy, that delights 
 To plead for lovely woman's sacred rights? 
 Mercy, at such a moment, must disown, 
 The self convicted — partner of a throne! 
 But, where was justice? — did she not appeal? 
 Appeal! — to ears of stone and hearts of steel! 
 — Justice, some happier region had explor'd, 
 And left with demons her avenging sword. 
 
 Illfated woman, bless her! bless her, heaven! 
 Whose aid to struggling liberty was given; 
 Ah little reck'd she, when her heroes fought. 
 That glorious field at York, what boon she sought: 
 — Shame on those blood-hounds, foul reproach of men, 
 Who growl'd and glar'd, in factions hideous den; 
 Shame on those murd'rous hands, in guilt embrued, 
 That spar'd not, helpless, — hopeless woman's blood; 
 That guiltless blood, at heaven's high bar shall plead, 
 And send down retribution for the deed; 
 For deeds like t/iis^ shall Gallia's troubles flow, 
 Thro' one long ni^rht of anarch v and woe. 
 
32 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Nor must the bard of freedom linger here, 
 O'er murder'd royalty, to drop a tear, 
 For hark! the censors voice, with thund'ring sound, 
 — '^Light should he tread, who treads forbidden ground 
 Beware! your boasted liberty, tis known. 
 Ne'er flourish'd nigh the purlieus of a throne;" 
 Agreed! — but must she therefore find her goal. 
 Beneath a furious mob's deprav'd control? 
 Is anarchy the empire she loves best? 
 Is blood her aliment? — let facts attest! 
 
 See Frenchmen, on the ruins of the throne, 
 Establish shrines and Idols of their own; 
 All checks remov'd, — despoil'd the regal rod. 
 The laws polluted, and renounc'd their God; 
 Reason hurl'd headlong from her judgment seat, 
 Mercy and truth, gagg'd, bleeding, at their feet; 
 Behold insensate monitor! — even ye 
 Who chide my lay, and speak, are Frenchmen free? 
 Yes, they are free from superstition's thrall, 
 And regal rule, — and well, if this were all! 
 — But free from all ihe moral checks that bind. 
 And all the virtues that exalt mankind. 
 And smooth life's rugged path; — O who Vv^ould dare 
 The impious wish, such liberty to share? 
 — Hence bloody Phantasmal nor firmer bind, 
 The fetters of oppression on mankind; 
 Tho' thousands to the bitter dregs have drain'd 
 Thy poison'd chalice, — what has freedom gain'd? 
 —Where are the demons, who usurj:)\i her na'ue, 
 
THE HKNRIADE. 33 
 
 DespoilM her shrine and triumph'd in her shame? 
 Gone to their doom! — by mad'ning frenzy fir'd, 
 In blood they revePd and in blood expir'd! 
 * — Where are these forious cannibals, who hurPd 
 The bolt of desolation o'er the world? 
 Who like a pestilence extended far, 
 '•Cried havoc and let slip the dogs of war;" 
 Whilst neither helpless infancy, nor age. 
 Wealth, rank, nor virtue, could escape their rage: 
 — Where is the wreath that deck'd the victors brow? 
 -What are his triumphs, — where his trophies now? 
 — They who shall take the sword, declares the Lord, 
 The Lord of hosts; — shall perish by the sword: 
 Behold the dread hand-writing on the wall; — 
 'Tis writ in blood that impious host shall fall! 
 Where are they now^? — their unannealed remains, 
 Manure the fields, and whiten on the plains! 
 
 Who then in Gath, or Askalon, shall tell 
 That halcyon liberty w^ill deign to dwell. 
 Where murder, treason, lust, and rapine, fill 
 The long, black catalogue of human ill; 
 — Ah no! dismay'd, to happier realms she flies, 
 WheYQ pure religion's holy altars rise; 
 Where order, mercy, truth and justice, reign 
 By laws protected, in her bright domain. 
 
 The muse, now turns her eyes, with crimes opprest, 
 
 *lVIadam Roland for moral and intellectual energy distinguished be- 
 yond her sex, when ordered by the revolutionary tribunal of France to 
 execution, bowing to the Statue of Liberty that she had to pass, ex- 
 claimed: — "O Liberty how many crimes have been committed in thy 
 name." O liberie combicu de crimes ont etc commis en ton nom. 
 
34 
 
 THE HENKfADK. 
 
 To freedom's day-star, glowing in the west: 
 
 Even thou Columbia, too, hast cause of woe; 
 
 Thy purest patriot blood, hath ceased to flow; 
 
 — The night of death, has clos'd upon their eyes, 
 
 Who saw o'er ransom'd York, that star arise; 
 
 The heroes of that day shall arm no more; 
 
 Their glass hath ebb'd, — their bright career is o'er: 
 
 — O'er many a moss-clad tomb, affection wee])s, 
 
 Where eloquence lies mute, or valor sleeps: 
 
 — That saviour of his counrty, w^here is he? 
 
 Who led thy gallant sons to victory; 
 
 Alas! he sleeps, — remov'd from earthly care, 
 
 Sad genius of Columbia! — tell me where? 
 
 — And he who won, — array'd in freedom's cause, 
 
 The well earn'd meed of popular applause; 
 
 The genius that so flam'd, — socharm'd, of yore. 
 
 That genius sleeps; — that tongue shall charm no more! 
 
 Ye illustrious dead, whose brave spirits have fled, 
 
 To the realms of the just in the skies; 
 Shall these grave mantling weeds, hide the fame of your 
 deeds, 
 
 From the scan of posterity's eyes; 
 Tho' your race ye have run, in the land ye have won, 
 
 Whilst the banners of freedom shall wave. 
 The renown of our sires, shall rekindle her fires, 
 
 In the filial breasts of the brave. 
 
 A memorial sublime, shall prevail o'er time, 
 The awards of your worth to renew; 
 
THE HENRFADE. 35 
 
 And the muse of the west, shall encircle its crest, 
 And the laurel shall smile through the yew: 
 
 And when centuries have sped, o'er its time stricken 
 head 
 Some grey pilgrim a relict shall save, 
 
 And the exile shall there, in the twilight repair, 
 To commune with the ghosts of the brave. 
 
 Then, ye sons of the west, list to freedom's behest. 
 
 Ere the flame on her altars expires; 
 When Bellona afar, blows the loud trump of war, 
 
 O think on the deeds of your sires! 
 And let Washington's name, be the watch- word to 
 fame, — 
 
 Where the ensigns of freedom shall wave. 
 Though that last fleeting breath, prove the passport to 
 death. 
 
 Ye shall fall — but to sleep with the brave! 
 
 But why stern death's bereavements should we 
 mourn, 
 ►Since all alike must seek his awful bourne, 
 And he, (unconscious of the theme ere long,) 
 Who wakes to Liberty, his vent'rous song. 
 Like them, must soon partake the general doom. 
 Nay more, — must find oblivion in the tomb; 
 — Unwarm'd by liberty's ethereal heat. 
 The heart to her inscrib'd must cease to beat! 
 That nerve so touch'd by wo, — by bliss so thrill'd, 
 By time's cold, with'ring hand, must soon be chill'd! 
 
36 THE HENRI APE. 
 
 Still hope survives, for in security, 
 These pledges of his love, he leaves them free: 
 For here the Goddess holds unrivall'd sway; 
 Reckless of death; — unconscious of decay. 
 
 Beneath her wings, with speed elsewhere unknown, 
 Columbia, hath to pow'r and vigor grown: 
 Where, trackless wilds, interminably spread, 
 Appall'd the eye, and fill'd the mind with dread, 
 A howling wilderness, — since time began. 
 The haunt of savage beast, and savage man; 
 Redeem'd from night, by patient industry, 
 A new creation brightens on the eye: 
 Far as the tide of emigration flows, 
 '^The forest smiles and blossoms, as the rose:" 
 And Ceres, scatters with redundant hand. 
 Her golden treasures, o'er a fruitful land. 
 Where late the lone, wayfaring man, survey'd 
 All round, one dark expanse of sylvan shade; 
 Returning twelve months thence, amaz'd he sees 
 The thriving village, glimm'ring through the trees; 
 A magic scene, wrought by a vig'rous brood, 
 By common wants connnun'd, for common good. 
 
 Where late the wretched wigwam, met the view. 
 And the fierce Indian steer'd his bark canoe; 
 Labor, his skillful avocation plies. 
 And taste, and elegance, and splendor rise. 
 And the stripM banner flutters in the gale, 
 And all the arts of social life, prevail. 
 
 Where slavish woman, fearfully obey'd 
 
THE HENRIADK. 
 
 Her savage lord, — too oft with stripes repaid, 
 ToiPd in his hut, or sunk upon the road, 
 Cheerless and faint, beneath her pond'rous load; 
 Sweet woman now, (created to that end,) 
 Becomes man's best companion, — surest friend; 
 Cheerful and bless'd, — through her extended days, 
 With pure fidelity his love repays; 
 Whilst cupid, waves his lambent torch on high, 
 And smiles upon her happier destiny: 
 
 Bless 'd land! where suff''ring man a refuge found, 
 In eloquence, nor less in arms, renown'd, 
 (Yet whatsoe'er of arts or arms we know, 
 To thee O Liberty! the meed we owe:) 
 Where such false honors ever are unknown 
 As talent may not claim, and virtue own. 
 But come what will, whatever chance befal, 
 The lot of rulers, is the lot of all; 
 And in conformity to nature's plan, 
 Man, still is found to fraternise with man. 
 To undisturb'd equality aspires, 
 And only yields that homage, he requires. 
 — Where no encroachments of the little great, 
 Shall make the peasant, curse his abject state, 
 Nor wake him from his dream of earthly bliss, 
 To ask omniscient wisdom, — why is this? 
 
 Where man, supported in the right, elects 
 What ruler, priest or creed, he most respects. 
 Nor is he by relentless statute driven 
 To tread this path to fame, nor that to heaven. 
 — No lawless powers the people overawe. 
 
38 THE HENRIADi:. 
 
 Where right is hberty, and reason law; 
 Where with the wealth that independence brings, 
 The peasant learns to scorn the pomp of king's; 
 Freed from that curse, to older nations known, 
 Where for the few that riot,— hundreds groan. 
 
 Behold yon yeoman, sovereign and self will'd^ 
 Who tills the freehold, that his father tilPd, 
 He asks no haughty lordling of the soil, 
 The right to breathe, — the privilege to toil; 
 Of courts, nor lords, nor parasites kens he, 
 But carols his rude air, ici'' mickle glee; 
 No Roman dainties smoke upon his board. 
 Nor such his palate craves, nor fields afford; 
 With viands that cloy not, beverage that ne-er fails. 
 His artless home-clad mate, her lord regales. 
 And bless'd with love, with simple plenty fed. 
 No palace charms him, like his log-built shed, 
 Nor weens he, that a happier, — greater reigns. 
 Than he, the monarch, whom that hut contains: 
 — What, though no eagles from his coffers fly, 
 To deck the sacred robes of royalty. 
 Nor are his means, with vain profusion spent, 
 His own, or others quarrels to foment; 
 No mitred prelate, to his sins is given. 
 To guide him in the golden path to heaven; 
 Nor tithe fed rector, on his substance thrives. 
 Guard of his flocks, grand caterer of his hives; 
 —What though to him the glorious right unknown, 
 To guard the princely Bourbons, on their throne, 
 Or with his arm or purse, support to give, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 39 
 
 To bid Iberias' holy dungeons live; 
 His lot, obscure, such lofty aims denies: 
 ^^If ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." 
 
 And this is Jonathan^ a lad of grace, 
 Though all unskilPd in gesture, or grimace; 
 To cringe or lawn untaught, — unpractised he 
 In empty forms of heartless courtesy; 
 But early vers'd, with faultless eye to drop 
 The climbing squirrel from the chestnut's top. 
 Or at th' athletic game of rough and roll 
 To clear the ring at muster, or the poll. 
 — By forms unfashion'd, — practically free, 
 Such are Columbia's hardy yeomanry; 
 Such are the strength and bulwark of the land; 
 And Liberty, shall aye, unbending stand, 
 Whilst firm in native hardiness of soul, 
 Such valiant hearts, such vig'rous hands control. 
 
 And I, who rais'd in Freedom's fost'ring arms, 
 Delight to eulogize my nurse's charms; 
 Shall I forget the time, as on we sped, 
 A stripling then, forth by the goddess led, 
 Far o'er Columbia's wilds, well pleas'd we stray'd, 
 And nature's vast magnificence survey'd, 
 — Or on the dizzy margin, breathless stood, 
 Whence thunders Niag'ra's impetuous flood; 
 Or where the Apalachian heights arise, 
 Hiding their grey crests in the azure skies. 
 Up to the highest desert peak we soar'd; 
 
40 THE HENRI APK. 
 
 By straggling hind nor huntsman e'er explord, 
 
 So high, the eagle^ in his giddiest flight, 
 
 Upon its scath'd pines scarcely dares to light; 
 
 Where Silence holds her court, — save from the plain 
 
 Some distant hugle note disturbs her reign. 
 
 Or wild brook gushing down the mountain side. 
 
 Of some wide, wand'ring stream the parent tide: 
 
 ■ — There pausM, and gazed with patriotic glow 
 
 Upon the sylvan world that wav'd below: 
 
 — What time the Su7i rode down the western sky; 
 
 From midland copse beheld with curious eye 
 
 The spiral smoke uprising o'er the trees, 
 
 Then calmly drifting on the evening breeze: 
 
 As if some giant form, the mountain sire, 
 
 Deep in his den had lit his sullen fire. 
 
 Some lazy mist, that hung its heavy wreath 
 On the bleak margin of the cliffs beneath, 
 Awaken'd by the orient tints of day. 
 To grey and silvery clouds dissolv'd away, 
 Mix'd with the breeze, and o'er the landscape cast 
 Their light and fleeting shadows as they pass'd. 
 
 Where trees, of every name and every dye, 
 Display their mingling foliage to the eye, 
 A few low roofs and smoking chimnies tell, 
 The quiet inmates of the hamlet dwell, 
 — There, the declining sun's prismatic rays, 
 Refracted bright, on the church-windows, blaze, 
 As if the lights, this simple people given. 
 Concentred there, and w^ere sent back to Heaven. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 41 
 
 The eye, assisted by the ray serene, 
 Roves freely o'er the brightly chequer'd scene, 
 Or dwells where Ceres crowns the lab'rer's toil, 
 And yellow harvests o'er the furrows smile; 
 Or wanders on, where still the dark copsewood 
 Maintains its mighty empire, unsubdued; 
 Further, till objects in the distant sphere 
 Now dimly blended seem, — now disappear, — 
 And the extreme horizon's hazy hue 
 Is mingled with the sky's celestial blue. 
 
 And here, I cried, Columbia's forests wave. 
 Which shade the free, which float beneath the brave; 
 Sole land, where, Freedom^ thou vouchsaf 'st to reign, 
 Which the sun visits in his w^de domain; 
 Sole land that gladdens in his vivid rays, < 
 
 Where man to thee his grateful homage pays: 
 — How many thousands to these realms belong. 
 Who raise to thee the tributary song! 
 To thee, how many myriads here below. 
 Heaven's first, best blessing, — every blessing owe? 
 
 Still may that bless of blessings here await 
 And shield her vot'ries from the shafts of fate; 
 O still may hoary time this people see, 
 True to their rights, and sternly, — proudly free: 
 May Plenty still, with no reluctant hand. 
 Pour forth her cornu copia o'er the land: 
 — Still may that hospitality abound. 
 Which groweth warmer as the glass flows round; 
 And whilst this genial virtue warms our hearts, 
 Which blesses in the blessings it imparts, 
 
 D 2 
 
42 
 
 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Still may the pledge that charms the social hour, 
 From peace derive its sorcery and power. 
 But should dire woes from future discord spring, — 
 Whilst the proud Eagle plumes her glossy wing, 
 And war's shrill blast is heard from shore to shore, 
 One other boon, just Heaven, I ask no more! 
 May future Washingtons defend our right, 
 And future Henrys rise, when — we must fight! 
 
 But grant that other patriots may arise. 
 As Washington renown'd, as Henry icise^ 
 Yet who on loftiest wing shall mount sublime, 
 With him, the Orator of olden time; 
 Who shall, Prometheus like, with him aspire 
 To catch from Heaven the all annealing fire; 
 — What hand like his shall wake the tocsin's 'lar'ms 
 To I'ouse his dormant countrymen to arms, 
 Or roll along th' impurpled surge of war: 
 Himself the first to mount Bellona's car. 
 
 How warm his eloquence, — how grand! how bold! 
 Is by a son of genius finely told; 
 Why should we, after Wirt^ a story tell, " 
 Whom few can equal, fewer can excel; 
 Why to unequal combat vainly press; 
 Why grapple for his club with Hercules^ 
 Unable, like Antoeus^ to arise, 
 — One single incident, then, must suffice: 
 
 *In full conventional debate, 
 
 *The second convention of delegates from the several counties and 
 corporations of Virginia, took place in the old church in the town of 
 Richmond, on the 20th March, 1775; and it was in the important de- 
 bate of the 23d, that he is admitted to have given the first impulse to 
 the revohiiion! 
 
THE HENRIADE. 43 
 
 Behold the worthies of the State! 
 The highest talents of the land 
 Distinguish that illustrious band; 
 Taste, wisdom, wit, and genius rare, 
 Their charms and treasures mingle there; 
 Bootless to sing each deathless name, 
 Already chronicled by fame. 
 Nor what of eloquent display 
 Dates proud existence from that day. 
 
 Swift flew the hours, and as they flew, 
 Warm and more warm discussion grew; 
 Urge they their bleeding country's cause, 
 'Gainst Britaiii^s wrongs and tyrant laws; 
 Discordant counsels sway the whole. 
 Who seek by different routes, the goal; 
 Some their unwillingness declare 
 To rouse the lion from his lair; 
 Some the bold policy disown. 
 Reckless to throw the gauntlet down; 
 Others advise, — yet spurn submission, 
 Further remonstrance and petition. 
 
 In this august conclave was seen, 
 Of humble guise and clownish mien, 
 A member^ whom capriciously 
 The Muse regards with partial eye, 
 Heaven-born the Muse, but that apart, 
 A very woman at her heart, 
 Speak but that patriot's much-lov'd name, 
 What passion trembles through her frame! 
 And then, her sighs and blushes, prove 
 
44 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 The chills and glows of hapless love. 
 
 Nor his the form nor gay attire, 
 The tender passion to inspire; 
 That gawky form ! what grace lurk'd there 
 T' attract the glance of modish fair? 
 What charm to glean love's sweet emprize 
 From beauty's lips or beauty's eyes? 
 
 His hardly garniture displays 
 The honors of departed days, 
 — His wig, — a veteran of its kind, 
 Curl'd at the ears and tied behind. 
 With attic pride, his temples crown'd, 
 And at shorn locks supremely frown'd; 
 His galligaskins had, I ween. 
 Some years of arduous service seen; 
 And if perchance, the well-worn leather 
 Yielded admittance to the weather; 
 Who has been found to disagree 
 With buckskin hospitality, 
 — His rusty cloak^ of scarlet hue, 
 Reach'd from his shoulder to his shoe. 
 And spoke its owner's dire intent, 
 On some avengeful purpose bent; 
 As some brave ship, too stout to lag. 
 Waves o'er her stern the bloody Jiag, 
 
 Such as he was, so lean, — so gaunt. 
 Of outward ornament so scant; 
 Fashion^ — tho' deified, who sees 
 No more than the superfices. 
 And, in her partial judgments, less 
 
THK HfiNRIADE. 45 
 
 Awards to merit than to dress; 
 Had pass'd him unregarded by, 
 Or only turn'd a sidelong eye, 
 To ask with supercilious air, 
 How he had found admittance there. 
 
 In rapt attention, as he sat, 
 A listener to the warm debate; 
 Whilst some unconscious inward feeling, 
 Across his sallow features stealing, 
 Awaken'd them to slight commotion, 
 Like the breeze rippling in the ocean; 
 To casual glance he seem'd outright, 
 Some strange, eccentric, wayward wight, 
 Some moody man, whose fitful ire 
 Was wak'd by recollections dire; 
 Or bard, to whose unearthly mind, 
 His wand'Hng muse had been unkind. 
 
 But one, who, with a keener scan. 
 Through every guize detects the man, 
 One who the heart's emotions spies. 
 As mantling on the face they rise. 
 One, by its lights, who surely tells 
 The fane where Genius works her spells. 
 Who look'd upon him might descry, 
 'Neath the dark pent-house of his eye, 
 A mightier aim, — a grasp of thought 
 Excursive and profound, — that brought 
 The scope of centuries at once 
 Before his intellectual glance, 
 — That through time's boundless vista scans. 
 
46 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Of P?^ovidence^ the gracious plans, 
 The changeful forms and secret springs, 
 Of other years and distant things; 
 And haply he had said, — behold ! 
 That friend by Liberty foretold. 
 Who should adorn, exalt, expand, 
 The glory of his native land; 
 — Behold a genius, unrepress'd, 
 By Nature^s genuine stamp confess'd, 
 A champion to his country given, 
 Commission'd with a power from Heaven, 
 An Atlas^ on whose shoulders, fate 
 Might rest the burthen of the State, 
 
 But, when that wondrous man arose, 
 Or mourn'd his bleeding country's woes, 
 Or freemen's charter'd rights explain'd, 
 — Such awful, death-like stillness reign'd, 
 That o'er the lofty turret's height, 
 You might have heard the sparrow's flight, 
 — Had but a leaf drop'd through the air. 
 Its fall had been distinguish'd there: 
 
 Emblem of Patriotism^ — he stood, 
 In Genius^ most prophetic mood. 
 Pregnant with that heroic fire. 
 That blazes still, in Homer's lyre. 
 And with a power, surpassing praise. 
 Unknown since classic Rome^s best days, 
 — He urg'd the nation's last appeal 
 To hearts of oak, and arms of steel ! 
 — His voice for war rose loud and deep, 
 
THE HENRIADE, 47 
 
 As the last trump to those that sleep, 
 When bursting from the graves' dark thrall, 
 All shadows from their eyes shall fall! 
 
 Lives there an artist^ whose unrival'd power 
 Might catch and group the figures of that hour? 
 Genius of Sully^ wherefore hast thou flown, 
 To distant climes, regardless of thine own; 
 O! let thy rich and mellow tints, display 
 The more than Roman grandeur of that day; 
 The instant seize to bid thy canvas live, 
 The gustl — the glow! — the fine impression give! 
 When Henry rais'd his awful, sprite-like form. 
 Sublimely calm amid the gath'ring storm. 
 His ample forehead and his arms elate, 
 He stood, the charter'd minister of fate, 
 And sent his soul full buoyant on his breath 
 With '-'•give me liberty or give me death /" 
 — Th' electric flash, each startled breast that warms, 
 As hovers on each lip, — to arms! — to arms! 
 — And let thy living pencil give to light 
 The mantling glow that echoed, — we will fight! 
 The flaming repercussion of each eye. 
 And the long throb of speechless ecstacy! 
 
 Prompt from these sacred walls the note rebounds, 
 Loud blows the trump, — the clang of arms resounds, 
 And o'er the uprous'd land, extend afar 
 The martial movements of incipient war. 
 
 'Twas thus, in Caledonia's days of yore. 
 When her bold chiefs the bloody Lion bore. 
 
48 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 On a bleak clifl' the champion Wallace stood, 
 Kiss'd from his blade his martyr'd Marion^ s blood; 
 Loose on the blast his plaid and tresses fly, 
 Heav'nward a moment gazed his fervid eye, 
 The next, his bugle wakes, with boundless swell, 
 The thousand tongues of dingle, cliff, and dell; 
 Rous'd by the welcome, but unwonted sound, 
 A hundred answering hills the notes rebound; 
 Whilst from their rugged fastnesses pour forth 
 The stern unconquer'd warriors of the north; 
 As from the heights, o'erswoUen floods descend, 
 And in the vale their noisy waters blend. 
 They come, and for their country seek relief 
 Beneath the banners of their gallant chief 
 — For prostrate Liberty, and lady slain, 
 A host of plaided warriors fill the plain. 
 And countless falchions flame, and bonnets fly, 
 Around the widow'd lord of Ellerslie. 
 
 These are thy trophies, matchless Liberty! 
 O! having known thee, who would not be free? 
 Whether in western realms thy banners fly, 
 Or 'neath the rigors of a northern sky, 
 Unchang'd by clime, thine incense still the same, 
 The loise, — the great, — the godlike, — hail thy name. 
 And deem thine acquisition countless gain. 
 Though bought with peerless blood or cureless pain. 
 
 But whilst. thine auspices 1 claim, lovM maid, 
 I bend before a substance, not a shade; 
 Thy Gallic namesake was an arrant shrew. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 41 
 
 And but in name, prof an'' d^ allied to you ; 
 
 Her's were the harlot's meretricious charms, 
 
 That wil'd unwary vot'ries to her arms; 
 
 Fair to deceive, and specious to beguile, 
 
 Perdition open'd in the syren's smile. 
 
 And such, who claim'd the pledge that smile display'd 
 
 Were, with a kiss, to wretchedness betray'd. 
 
 Yet was she once deem'd passing fair, — when young, 
 
 Her beauty wits emblazon'd, poets sung, 
 
 Who hourly saw imagin'd charms arise. 
 
 And hail'd her as an offspring of the skies. 
 
 But, skill'd in augury, some seers could spy 
 Fell discord lurking in her evil eye; 
 A fearful omen of internal ire. 
 Like the volcanoes deep concentric fire, 
 By the red vengeance of its mouth declar'd. 
 Before the thunder of its voice is heard. 
 
 Even some who sought assiduously to win her, 
 Soon found or fancied imperfections in her; 
 Too garrulous she seem'd, — replete with pride, 
 Too vaporing, — too free, — too Frenchified; 
 Nor stood these faults distinguish'd and alone. 
 The least were they for which she must atone; 
 Who knew her best, aver she could delight. 
 To blend the lights and shades of wrong and right. 
 To riot in the devious, wild misrule. 
 By Anarchy first taught in Faction\'i school; 
 With fiend-like zeal she rear'd that baneful tree. 
 That deadly Upas^ — infidelity; 
 Assail'd with sceptic sneers, the sacred voice, 
 
 E 
 
50 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 That bids the ^'mourner in his God rejoice ;'' 
 
 Her wretched vot'ries, held in mortal thrall, 
 
 Yet cried rejoice, — your jjresent is your all! 
 
 — Then why, deluded victim, didst thou weep? 
 
 The death she sent thee, — 'tis eternal sleep! 
 
 Let superstition hug a vain illusion, 
 
 Arrives to you no day of retribution; 
 
 No voice from Heaven shall come with power to save; 
 
 No hope shall light the gloom that shrouds the grave» 
 
 Such Gallic freedom was, in early days. 
 Whilst unimpair'd her charms, — unshorn her rays, 
 And still there are choice spirits, who incline 
 Angel to deem her, fallen, but still divine. 
 
 'Twas said she died, with terror and affright, 
 On that disastrous, memorable night, 
 When through her shroud, the moon, v/ith pallid hue, 
 GazM on th' ensanguin'd plains of Waterloo; 
 But others say she lives, yet shuns the light, 
 And like a spectre, tempts the gloom of night. 
 She lives, stern object of relentless hate, 
 To test the mutability of fate; 
 
 Forlorn she lives, and to her purpose true. 
 Laments past crimes even whilst devising new; 
 Nor bard nor wit his ready homage pays; 
 In solitary grief she wastes her days; 
 Whilst pains and spasms her vital powers consume, 
 And haste the lost degeii'rate to the tomb. 
 
 O from our happy land, kind Heaven, dismiss 
 Such hateful, spurious Liberty^ as this; 
 O let our cherish'd freedom still be free 
 
THE HENRIAPE. 5 1 
 
 From such viie garbage of philosophy! 
 
 We are not free to spurn ReUgion^s cause, 
 
 That bond of Liberty, cement of laws. 
 
 That shield of youth, — declining nature's prop, 
 
 That good man's best — the wretch's only hope, 
 
 — We are not U'ee^ with erring purpose blind, 
 
 To shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 
 
 To blast their hopes in Him who died to save: 
 
 Those last, best hopes, that bloom beyond the grave. 
 
 Jehovah reigns, nor delegates his power 
 To insect man, the flutterer of an hour: 
 He shall his will make manifest and clear, 
 God is^ — ^""and is his own interpreter." 
 
 O bless'd philosophy and eagle-eyed. 
 In which a Newton liv'd, a Bacon died; 
 Which MiUon''s muse embolden'd and sublim'd. 
 And analyz'd, with Locke^ the human mind, — 
 W^hich blooms in Addison'^s luxuriant page. 
 And Johnson form'd, the wonder of his age; 
 Which rear'd a Washington^ his country's shield. 
 In counsel wise, — resistless in the field; 
 Which matchless Henry's holy ardors fired, 
 His Heaven-born periods prompted and inspired. 
 — O bless'd philosophy! and from above. 
 Behest immortal of unbounded love; 
 Essence of wisdom, purity, and grace, 
 Form'd to redeem and save a ruin'd race; 
 No putrid gas, that from corruption springs. 
 Shall mar the action of thy volant wings, 
 As from the prison earth thou soar'st away, 
 To cloudless regions of unending day. 
 
52 THE HENKIADE. 
 
 — O bless'd philosophy, approved and tried; 
 Be thou my faithful monitor and guide; 
 Shield of my life, — sweet solace of mine age, 
 Companion through this weary pilgrimage. 
 
 And when on life's rough sea, with tempests tost. 
 The vessel rides, her chart and compass lost; 
 When passion's gusts, or pleasure's treacherous gales, 
 Shall strain her masts, and swell her veering sails; 
 Whilst terror reigns, — celestial guide, wilt thou 
 Arise, a beaming watchtower on the prow; 
 Thy lights alone shall save the flound'ring bark, 
 From whirlwinds dire, and breakers deep and dark: 
 And when the rough tempestuous voyage is past; 
 — In that dread hour, that Time shall count my last; 
 When but of life, — the moral shall remain. 
 To point, how fleet its joys, — its cares, how vain: 
 When all hope's castle-built creation flies, 
 And Reason holds her mirror to our eyes. 
 Wherein, by retrospection skill'd, we view 
 What shades we are, what shadows we pursue; 
 O! ere the spirit wings her flight sublime, 
 But trembling lingers on the brink of time ; 
 In that dread hour, to deep repentance given, 
 Allure the vital spark from earth to heaven. 
 Come, then, whilst friends their sorrowing vigils keep, 
 And round the death couch weep, — how vainly weep! 
 Come as thou art, all lovely and serene. 
 And calm the terrors of the final scene; 
 — Come habited in sweet simplicity, 
 As when affliction gave thee to mine eye; 
 O hover near and teach me how to die ! 
 
HENRIADE; 
 
 OR 
 
 TEMPLE OF LIBERTY 
 
 CANTO HI. 
 
 Argument.— The River Potomac— City of Washington— IVte Temple 
 of Liberty— Gen. Geo. Washington— (Napoleon)— JefFerson— Mad- 
 ison— I^Ionroe— La Fayette— Frankhn— Hamilton— Marshall— Pat- 
 rick Henry, «fcc. — Naval Heroes and Martyrs— Preposterous 
 Claims — C onclusion. 
 
 Her sylvan haunts the Muse forsakes and flies 
 Where brighter scenes in gay perspective rise; 
 Where the rich landscape spreads her bosom wide, 
 And dark Potomac rolls his eastern tide; 
 That tide Mount Vernon's shoals that eddies round, 
 Ling'ring to kiss the consecrated ground; 
 With dimpling wave explores the spreading bay, 
 And laves a thousand villas in the way. 
 E 2 
 
54 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Behold! where yon broad pennant is unfurlM; 
 The infant Queen of all this western world 
 There smiling sits, and with precocious powers 
 Displays her columns, palaces, and towers. 
 How chang'd the scene, nor are they yet grown old, 
 Whose sires, the time to memory true, have told, 
 When gloom} forests, sighing to the blast, 
 O'er all the site a shadowy wildness cast; 
 And the shrill war-whoop stunn'd the ear of Night, 
 Arousing wolves and tigers with affright; 
 As prowling on, more ruthless still than they, 
 The Indian warrior sought his trembling prey; 
 Sprung on his brother w^ith remorseless wile. 
 Or doom'd and dragg'd him to the kindling pile. 
 
 Such scenes have flown, yet memory loves to trace 
 The frightful orgies of that wretched race; 
 Nor vain the retrospect, — it may avail 
 Whilst happier days and brighter stars prevail; 
 Whilst learning opes her mystic portals wide. 
 And legislation's sovereign powers preside: 
 Whilst science, arts, and industry prevail. 
 And commerce spreads her canvas to the gale; 
 Whilst bounteous plenty spreads her ample hoard, 
 Where wit presides and beauty decks the board; 
 It may avail philosophy, to scan 
 The shades 'tween savage clans and social man. 
 
 Here, where the rising city lives to fame, 
 Illustrious in its founders deathless name; 
 Thy mystic temple^ Liberty^ shall rise 
 To matchless beauty and colossal size; 
 
THE HENRIADE. 55 
 
 A fine rotunda, perfect in its parts, 
 
 A chief d'oeuvre of the reviving arts;. 
 
 No prouder fane in classic Rome arose, 
 
 To fall at last beneath barbaric blows; 
 
 High in Heaven's azure shall its dome expand; 
 
 Its firm abutment deep in earth shall stand; 
 
 The furious elements shall urge, in vain. 
 
 Their ire against its adamantine chain; 
 
 Unconscious of the tempest's ruthful rage, 
 
 Triumphant it shall reign from age to age. 
 
 A cirque of massive pillars shall arise, 
 
 Oonjoin'd by cornice, archetrave and frieze; 
 
 Whose native marble, pure and stainless white, 
 
 Shall lift its sculptor'd domes stupendous height; 
 
 Time, swift to desolation as he flies. 
 
 Shall view these columns with despairing eyes! 
 
 As numerous they shall be, as the States are. 
 
 Whose powers they represent, whose names they share. 
 
 The Eagk on its glitt'ring spire shall rest. 
 Spread her light wings, and perk her glossy crest; 
 Survey the lightnings, which around her fly. 
 With plumes unruflled and undazzled eye; 
 Fate's feathered Mercury, beheld afar. 
 The fleet-wing'd herald of relentless war. 
 
 Without the court two sentinels shall wait. 
 To guard the passage through the portal gate; 
 Religion here her spotless robe unfolds; 
 Stern Justice there, her sword and balance holds. 
 
 The winding stairs, of polish VI granite made. 
 Ascending to the lofty colonade, 
 
56 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Lead to the high sanctorum of the place, 
 Which thou, with awful majesty shalt grace: 
 
 Rais'd, on an altar's elevated plain 
 That claims the centre of this holy fane, 
 The throne shall stand, whereon tfiou wilt recline^ 
 Array'd in all thy attributes divine. 
 
 Tiie drapery around thy limbs that flows 
 In mazy folds, whiter thin Alpine snows, 
 Nor with thy swelling bosom may compare. 
 Which boasts a texture more diviiielij fair. 
 
 Each di'mond, pearl, and oriental gem, 
 Clust'ring around thy regal diadem. 
 Beside thine eyes shall burn with feebler light, 
 Like pale stars twinkling round the queen of night. 
 
 Truth, Honor, Valor, Learning, Industry, 
 And Wisdom, thy state counsellors shall be; 
 And over all thy wide dominions, these 
 Shall minister and utter thy decrees. 
 
 Let Genius to his mighty task, for here 
 Thy p?'i??iitive Apostles shall appear; 
 The animated canvas, shall display 
 In glowing tints, and chivalric array. 
 The forms of those immortal men, — of those. 
 Whose valour hurl'd confusion on thy foes; 
 Who in thy battles fought, or martyrs fell, 
 Or still survive thine excellence to tell; 
 Great Souls, who living or in death, unite 
 To owe their splendor, to thy solar light. 
 
 Let him, the^r^^ in peace., ihejirst inwai\ 
 ReverencM at home, as fear'd and fam'd afar; 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 67 
 
 That man of seeming stern and lofty port, 
 
 Thy first design,— thy earliest eftbrt court, 
 
 That man to whom, (even next to heaven,) we owe. 
 
 That Liberty has resting place below. 
 
 Call'd by his country, in her gloomiest hour. 
 He takes the field, arm'd with unrivall'd power; 
 Thus arm'd, where mad ambition rears its crest 
 What woes arise, — let history attest! 
 Consult that land, imperial CcBsar sway'd. 
 And that, which crafty CromwelPs power obey 'd ; 
 Let Gallia too, recount her recent woes; 
 How the usurping Corsican arose, 
 Bade Freedom welcome, and her claims defended, 
 But staVd her^ as she to her throne ascended^ 
 Then mark Colitmhia's Chiefs as on he toil'd, 
 By power unawed, by flattery unspoil'd; 
 Do perfidy and want his troops assail. 
 His iEgis saves! — his energies prevail! 
 Do crowns and sceptres glide before his eyes, 
 And fell Ambition whisper, grasp the prize; 
 There was no charm in sovereign control. 
 To change the settled purpose of his soul; 
 In deeds alone, aspiring to be great. 
 He turns unsullied from the glittering bait. 
 And leaves for Liberty^ ^'•all meaner things 
 To low ambition, and the pride of Kings." 
 
 Sceptres he leaves to arms that strive to bear them, 
 And Crowns to fall on heads that ache to wear them; 
 His country's love, was not to be repaid, 
 By the stale farce of royal masquerade ; 
 
58 The henriadjiI. 
 
 Scylla's dark shelves the vessel had not past, 
 On black Chai^ybdis^ to be wrecked at last; 
 A wreath of blooming laurels, evergreen. 
 Where not one sear'd nor blighted leaf was seen, 
 This was his glorious diadem; — to reign, 
 Bless'd in his country's love, was his domain; 
 Monarchs might envy such enlarg'd renow^n, 
 So wide an empire, and so bright a crown. 
 
 Seven dismal years on heavy wings had sped, 
 Since the first blood for Liberty was shed. 
 And still this chief, his country's pride and boast, 
 Maintain'd the field, — was in the field a host: 
 Still forward to expose his useful life. 
 Through her long agony ^ — her mortal strife! ! 
 Still where relentless War his red arm bar'd, 
 His form was seen, or his command was heard: 
 Urg'd by an arm, to treble vengeance, steel'd. 
 With meteor light, his sword glanc'd o'er the field; 
 When first he drew it, in his country's aid, 
 He swore the scabbard ne'er should kiss the blade. 
 Until from hateful bonds and fetters, — she. 
 Whose trembling hand bestow'd it — should be free; 
 And trustier steel in Warrio7^''s hand ne'er gleam'd; 
 And ne'er was pledge more gallantly redeemed. 
 
 Soon as fair Freedom sought this Western soil, 
 And crown'd the Soldier's hopes, and clos'd his toil, 
 When War's last blast was blown, and the last wail 
 Spent for the dead, had pass'd upon the gale. 
 From the stern claims of onerous duty free, 
 That chief restores, Columbia^ to thee, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 59 
 
 The symbol of supreme command he bore, 
 To friend or foe, surrendered ne'er before: 
 And now, his glorious race of warfare run, 
 His Wisdom rules the land, his Valour won. 
 
 Some have been brave, liis brav'ry sav'd our land ; 
 Some wise, — his wisdom sav'd his patriot band ; 
 Some good, some great, but who with him shall claim, 
 A boundless, blameless, all-enduring fame? 
 Honor'd at home, in distant climes renown'd, 
 ^y Liberty acclaim'd, by (rZori/crown'd, 
 Yet Honor, Glory, Country, could not save 
 This first of men and patriots, from the grave. 
 
 Th' assembld hosts of Heav'n, beheld appalPd, 
 Such excellence in mortal frame enthrall'd; 
 Sent their dread Minister, in mild array. 
 To seek the couch, where low the Hero lay; 
 He came, and clos'd his earthly eyes in night. 
 Revived^ to open on celestial light; 
 To find that Freedom he was wont to prize. 
 Eternal and unbounded, in the skies. 
 
 Still undespoil'd, lives his overshadowing fame; 
 O need I speak the patriot, hero's name! 
 Bid yon obscure sarcophagus disclose 
 Whose consecrated relics there repose; 
 Tlien ask^ why lingers still, the sculptor's hand, 
 *To rear his monument on this fair strand! 
 O lost to glory! why such cold delay. 
 Sad presage of a nation's swift decay; 
 
 *This passage was written, before the late erection in Wasliington 
 
60 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 — Go ask the Soldier, wherefore does he roam, 
 
 From the allarmg blandishments of home; 
 
 Why barter plenty, — peace, — connubial love, 
 
 The perils of the tented field, to prove; 
 
 Why track the forest, — breast the angry flood, 
 
 Watch, — hunger, — toil, — why reckless of his blood. 
 
 Essay the deadly breach, — why dauntless face, 
 
 All horrors, — all disasters, hut disgrace; 
 
 Why thus devoted, does he give himself 
 
 To peril and turmoil; — is it for pelf? 
 
 Does lust of gold incite, — whose base control^ 
 
 Narrows, enslaves and immolates the soul; 
 
 — Ah no! he yields to higher, — holier laws^ 
 
 It is to serve his country's hallowed cause; 
 
 'Tis too, the secret hope, that when he dies-,, 
 
 That country may remember ivhsre he lies; 
 
 — 'Tis, with his sword, to clear his path to fame 5 
 
 To win his grateful nation's loud acclaim; 
 
 To carve his epitaph, upon that bust. 
 
 Which, when his arm has wither'd into dust, 
 
 To distant generations, shall declare. 
 
 Whose sacred, much lov'd relics, moulder there: 
 
 Whose bright armorial, — -cased in sable gloom, 
 
 Proclaims: — tread light, — behold a Warrior''s tomb! 
 
 No! rear no costly pageant to his fame ; 
 On brass nor marble, register his name; 
 The proudest Cenotaph, by genius wrought. 
 Before his worth, would dwindle into nought, 
 Who by a ladder, would aspire to gain 
 The summit of Mount Blanc^ would climb in vain: 
 
THE HENRIADE, 61 
 
 The perishable glory of a day, 
 
 May well require such gorgeous display; 
 
 But, vainly would sepulchral honors rise 
 
 To him, whose fame beams from a nation's eyes, 
 
 And vainly would the ^'storied urn," impart 
 
 What lives inscribed on every patriot's heart: 
 
 So let it live, with life's best feelings blending; 
 
 From sire to son, — through endless time descending. 
 
 O Gallia! had thy Chiefs in fortune's hour, 
 When saturate with incense, — gorg'd wMth pow'r, 
 When Coesar like^ he call'd the world his own, 
 And but one power was felt, one name was known; 
 Awed by that pow'r, w^hilst prostrate nations quail, 
 And sceptred tyrants at that name turn pale; 
 To real grandeur had he then aspir'd, 
 By Washington'' s example, form'd or fir'd; 
 O had he sought, in his eventful story. 
 The Heaven directed path of human glory, 
 Nor blinded by the glare of false renown. 
 Have barter'd Freedom, for an iron Crown; 
 Still had he liv'd to Gallia and to fame, 
 And grateful millions, would have bless'd his name. 
 — There was a time, perhaps, — before the chain 
 Was forg'd by Tyranny, for suff'ring Spain; 
 Even later, — ere his legions issued forth 
 To perish by the rigours of the North; 
 He might have sway'd all hearts, and held command, 
 The charter'd Sovereign, of a ransom'd land; 
 His lot forbade! — he sought too high to soar, 
 Caesar he might have been, — he would be more; 
 
 F 
 
62 
 
 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 He sought o'er Earth his empire to enlarge 
 
 And conquer'd Europe, at the '-'■pas de charged 
 
 — But who shall tempt the Gods! — the tempest sped 
 
 On Ruin's wings, and settled o'er his head, 
 
 It thicken'd! — blacken'd— smote him and he fell! 
 
 How great that fall, St. Helena can tell! 
 
 All sovereign power, that boreal is light, 
 
 So long pursued, evanish'd from his sight, 
 
 And left him dark, — stun'd with his recent shock, 
 
 In hopeless durance, on that barren rock, 
 
 Where fell Disease, and Insolence in power. 
 
 Too rudely shook the glass, and brought that hour, 
 
 When death unbar'd his prison door, and gave 
 
 The world's proud master, to an exile's grave. 
 
 'Twas by ambition, thus, as legends tell, 
 From high Olympus, — huge Briareus fell: 
 Arm'd with a hundred rocks, that Monster strove 
 Against the pow'r of all-subduing Jove: 
 Blindly he rushes onward to his fate. 
 And finds reflection and remorse, too late: 
 Bound to a rock, he clanks a hundred chains. 
 And wildly howling, to the winds complains. 
 
 A lofty theme, would now thy hand engage; 
 The striking form of Monticello's sage. 
 In philosophic attitude, appears 
 Most venerable, in the vale of years: 
 How long he served his country, and how well, 
 How lov'd, how honored, need that country tell? 
 — Tho' the long service of his day is o'er. 
 
THE HKNRIADE. ^3 
 
 And flown the charms of youth, to bloom no more; 
 Yet science, round the head,— that nobler part, 
 Its tenure holds, and warms the patriot's heart; 
 Despite Time's ruthless hand, and sable wing. 
 This, robes his features with the charms of Spring. 
 
 Thus the vast Oak, whose mighty form hath stood 
 Unnumber'd years, the monarch of the wood; 
 What tho' its time-worn trunk confess decay, 
 Whilst in its verdant crest, the sun-beams play; 
 Still shall it hold its high, unbending reign, 
 Nor heed the storm, that scours along the plain, 
 Uprooting those weak shrubs, that stunted grow, 
 With sicklier verdure, in the vale below. 
 
 Shall Madison, be silent in the page 
 Devoted to the patriot and the sage? 
 Shall worth, the echoes of the lyre, prolong, 
 And he be undistinguish'd in the song? 
 A song, (tho' pleas'd with popular regard,) 
 That courts no great man, for a great reward; 
 Sufficient boon to bid ambition smile. 
 If Beauty read, nor Wit disdain the while. 
 
 Friend of my country's weal, long tried and true, 
 The Muse delighted, wings her flight to you; 
 Seeks that sequester'd shade,— that sylvan seat, 
 Favor'd of Nature, — Learning's coy retreat. 
 Where the retiring statesman, woos repose, 
 And tastes the bliss from letter'd ease that flows; 
 Assur'd to meet, beneath thy fostering care, 
 The sciences, and sister Muses, there, 
 
64 THE HENRIADE, 
 
 Where oft times met, beneath Arcadian bowers, 
 They pass with thee, their friend, the swift wing'd hours, 
 
 Illustrious statesman! Fate assigned to thee, 
 
 To ride the billows of a stormy sea; 
 
 Whose counter currents, all conflicting ran. 
 
 And baffled oft each well digested plan; 
 
 What Heaven directed skill, could reach the goal, 
 
 Where all would govern — few could brook control? 
 
 Or, who has been so happy, as to find 
 
 The golden rule, to please all human kind? 
 What if tho' issued, in thy foteful reign. 
 
 The darkest page that shall our annals stain; 
 All guiltless thou; — the next is spotless seen, 
 A mezzotinto page of evergreen; 
 Tnscrib'd to Liberty and public weal; 
 Impressed with Jackson's name and signet seal. 
 
 The Cowards quail'd, or Traitors truck'd with power, 
 Thou, undismay'd in War's eventful hour, 
 Stood for thy country's honor, firm and fast, 
 Weather'd the storm, and triumph'd o'er the blast. 
 
 Stiird be the passions of those stormy days; 
 Whilst o'er our land. Peace sheds her genial rays, 
 Portray'd by matchless skill, in colors true, 
 The patriot and the sage shall rise to view; 
 And whilst the lineaments we pause to scan, 
 We'll hail the statesman, and revere the man. 
 
 Give him who fill'd the Presidential Chair, 
 An honest, — manly, — independent air; 
 
THE HENRIADE. 65 
 
 Let no gay trappings of European Court 
 
 Adorn the ground, or round his person sport; 
 
 Useless such supplements, the eye may trace 
 
 The diamond lustre, in the rudest case: 
 
 Merit is merit still, hovve'er array'd 
 
 In simple home-spun or in rich brocade; 
 
 Then let the manner, attitude and dress, 
 
 The plain, Virginia Gentleman, express; 
 
 — Give altitude and vigour to the form, 
 
 Of him, the Pilot that withstood the storm, 
 
 When pirates grappled, and when blasts assail'd, 
 
 And messmate's loyalty or courage fail'd, 
 
 Who grasp'd the helm, and to the wind close bore, 
 
 And brought the tempest-beaten ship, to shore: 
 
 Come artist then, so shall thy fame increase, 
 
 Give us a home-spun, democratic piece, 
 
 Nor slight the rules whereby all eyes may know, 
 
 The Pilot,— Patriot, — President Monroe. 
 
 Philosophy disdains all vain display; 
 But, chiefly. Freedom trembles to survey 
 The pageantry of courts, — a flimsy guise. 
 Power's cloven feet to hide from vulgar eyes; 
 The plaudits of the multitude to gain, 
 Whom worth and modesty might woo in vain: 
 Unconscious that the proud regalia bears 
 The stains of subjects' blood, and orphans' tears. 
 
 If regal states require such tinsel aid, 
 Their rickety deformity to shade, 
 Yet thou, Columbia! what hast thou to hide? 
 
 F 2 
 
QG THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Whom health, and youth, and virgin bloom betide; 
 No foreign aid she needs, nor foreign arts. 
 Whose native loveliness delights all hearts. 
 
 And he, who rules thy happy destiny. 
 Who governs freemen, should himself be free 
 From pride, — ambition, — pomp, — nor least of all 
 From tyrant Fashion's vain inglorious thrall: 
 And plain. Republican simplicity, 
 Should be an honor'd guest at his levee: 
 And Probity and Truth, — old fashion'd pair! 
 Banish'd from courts, should still be welcome there. 
 
 With no European cabinets in league; 
 Above domestic faction and intrigue; 
 Just to enforce, — obedient to the laws, 
 Firm and devoted, in his country's cause. 
 Prompt to discharge his trust at every call, 
 Sway'd by no party, — ^just alike to all, 
 In worth and talent, — ""conscious and erect:" 
 O may such Presidents our rights protect; 
 Beneath whose happy auspices, this land. 
 To wealth and power unrivall'd, must expand. 
 
 Amongst the wonders of our happy land, 
 Franklin might claim Apollo's master hand, 
 And Freedom he was thine, but 'tis confess'd, 
 Another shar'd thy empire in his breast: 
 In bright Philosophy's enchanted bound. 
 Her magic circle, — charm'd the sage was found 
 Viewing the gems that in her dark hair cluster, 
 Or drinking from her eyes, their living lustre; 
 
THE HENRIADE. ; ' 67 
 
 — He saw the Priestess, in her holy shrine, 
 Fill'd with the myst'ry of her rites divine; 
 Confess'd her power, — her inspiration felt, 
 And like an eastern Bramin, gazed and knelt; 
 Till catching from divine Philosophy 
 Her tireless pinions, and her eagle eye, 
 And with the pure and mingling spirits, fir'd, 
 Of that celestial Pair, he most admir'd, 
 Leaving the grov'Uing things of earth behind, 
 His genius soar'd, and mov'd upon the wind, 
 O'er the expanse of heaven's blue vault above; 
 Chain'd the red thunderbolts of cloud-cap'd Jove; 
 Rang'd unconfin'd, 'mid elemental wars; ■ 
 Measurd the spheres, and dwelt among the stars. 
 
 Such was thy Rival, — worthy such to be, 
 First in my song, — celestial maid to thee; 
 And surely thou could'st nothing deem amiss 
 Of one so pure, — one so divine as this; 
 No! to celestial minds, and such alone, 
 No cold distrust, nor jealousy is known: 
 Nay, as this pair each other's merits traced, 
 They first endur'd! — esteem'd! — belov'd! — embraced! 
 Till in indissoluble bonds united. 
 Each fair, for self-defence, her faith hath plighted, 
 To aid the mutual cause in years to come, 
 Or fall a victim on the other's tomb. 
 
 Philosophy and Freedom, thus maintain 
 The throne, and with united empire reign; 
 And still, that mild and virtuous sage, they view, 
 Who first the cords of love, between them drew; .^ 
 
68 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Immortal Franklin they behold afar, 
 
 In Heaven's clear brow, translated to a star. 
 
 That smiles upon their union from above, 
 
 (Or is it fancy, or the dream of love?) 
 
 Tae brightest star that mildly sheds, on high, 
 
 Its steady lustre from the Western sky. 
 
 Here Hamilton, a name to Freedom dear, 
 Breath'd v^rith a sigh — recorded with a tear! 
 To hell's black code — of God and men accurs'd, 
 He fell a sacrifice, — and since the first 
 Dark homicide, up-raised his arm to slay. 
 The grave hath ne'er engorg'd a nobler prey : 
 
 By Nature's prodigality endued, 
 (And sure she form'd him in her happiest mood) 
 With gifts so various and so vast, — none knew 
 To which the highest palm of praise was due; 
 His was the talent, at a glance, to seize, 
 What other minds work out by slow degrees; 
 With all a soldier's craft, he grasp'd the blade. 
 As if from camps his thoughts had never stray'd; 
 With equal ease, he plied the pen again, 
 As if Apollo had inspir'd the strain: 
 — Whether he look'd through science, recondite. 
 And brought her hidden stores of wealth to light, 
 Or with a keen and piercing eye, he saw 
 Through the long, winding, labyrinths of law; 
 — Whether his genius swept, (by Momus smit,) 
 O'er the bright. Fairy-peopled realms of wit. 
 Or careless stray'd o'er Fancy's gay parterre. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 69 
 
 And rifled every flow'r, that flourished there; 
 III him the scholar, statesman, patriot shone, 
 And Freedom long hath claimed him as her own. 
 
 Marshall! who serv'd his country in his youth, 
 With honest zeal, fidelity and truth, 
 And when no longer she required his sword. 
 Just as he fought, her hist'ry he explor'd: 
 Chief of the props that to the laws belong, 
 Of Doric mould — -not beautiful, but strong! 
 
 In this star-lighted firmament, sublime, 
 A brilliant meteor shall our Henry shine, 
 Or, satellite, whose wild reflected rays. 
 Obey the laws of Freedom's central blaze: 
 
 Here painter, make thy most auspicious stand; 
 Let this be the chef cCeuvi^e of thy hand; 
 The first of Orators, in tints should live. 
 Which thou Apollo's darling son can'st give: 
 What subject more august, — what prouder theme 
 Shall waft thy fame along time's darkling stream? 
 Come then Pygmalion-like, with genius rife. 
 And let the glowing portrait — start to life! 
 
 The canvas must exhibit to the eye, 
 A slight and bony form near six feet high; 
 Arrayed in his black velvet suit, well known, 
 And be his scarlet cloak around him thrown 
 As when he filled Virginia's chair of state. 
 First time so fiU'd — her free chief magistrate. 
 
 Now let thine umbrous pencil truly speak, 
 The bloodless texture of his hollow cheek, 
 
70 THK HKNRIADE. 
 
 Which soft'ning, blending downward, seems to sip 
 The sweet carnation of his Hybla lip, 
 Mantling and dimpling in that lip, the while, 
 Sport the slight semblance of a playful smile. 
 Somewhat of doubt, archly that smile confess'd, 
 By complaisance attempered, not repress'd. 
 
 But pause, presumptuous artist, ere you try 
 Your daring hand on his mysterious eye; 
 That magic talisman, — whose piercing ken, 
 Held secret converse with the souls of men; 
 That traced with faultless and unerring art. 
 Each dark recess and labyrinth of the heart; 
 Before whose scathing glances Avarice fled, 
 Crime stood appall'd, — Corruption hung his head, 
 But cheer'd and strengthened by its mellower light 
 Merit look'd up, and Justice claim'd her right. 
 
 No hoarding amateur of books was he, 
 He valued only one authority; 
 In Nature's works — around him widely spread 
 He sought for wisdom, — at the fountain head 
 He drank her limpid waters, and he drew 
 From her divine prelections all he knew; 
 — But lawyers must have books for use or show, 
 So on some neighboring shelf or niche, bestow 
 Some few light duodecimos, or better. 
 Some dusty folios, frowning in black letter. 
 On Coke on Littleton, — Virginia's laws, 
 Neat bound and gilt, the curious eye may pause: 
 'Tis young ambition's ladder, and the same 
 
THE HENRIADE. 71 
 
 *By Henry climb'd, to reach the goal of fame. 
 
 His scarlet cloak! what conscious feelings rise, 
 
 Swell at our hearts and moisten in our eyes; 
 
 Could but a shred be found, it should remain, 
 
 With Washington's hand-sword, and Franklin's cane, 
 
 Sacred memorials these of early times 
 
 When infant Freedom sought these western climes, 
 
 Our forefathers by this, the Seer could tell 
 
 Ere from his lips, her sacred counsels fell; 
 
 And not more surely Putnam was descried, 
 
 Who fell'd the wolf and wore his shaggy hide; 
 
 Nor Park,! who having traversed Afric' thro'. 
 
 Warmed in the beasts rough mantle that he slew. 
 
 Thus finish'd off, shall Patrick Henry grace, 
 The treasur'd archives of this hallo wd place; 
 Whilst young Virginians, with pride elate. 
 Shall hail this favor'd nursling of their State; 
 
 *For the study of a profession, which is said to require the lucubra- 
 tions of twenty years, Mr, Henry devoted not more than six weeks, 
 so says Mr. Jefferson, and Judge Winston; Mr. Pope says nine months 
 — Judge Tyler one month; and he adds, "this I had from his own lips." 
 In this time he read Coke upon Littleton and the Virginia laws. — Note 
 to WirVs Lift of Henry. 
 
 tMungo Park, the celebrated African traveller, was born 1771, at 
 Fowlshiels, near Selkirk in Scotland, and was brought up to the Med- 
 ical profession. After returning from his first voyage to the coast of 
 Africa, he was known in the streets of London by wearing a surtout, 
 made from the skin of a lion vvhichhe had killed with his own hands in 
 the howling wilderness. Sir Walter Scott gives an interesting ac- 
 count of his last interview with Park, upon his departure a second time 
 to Africa, from whence he never returned. It is said that he again 
 reached the Niger and embarked upon it at Bammakaou, but waa 
 attacked by the Natives and drowned in his voyage to Houssa. 
 
72 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 With generous ardour shall defend his name. 
 And emulate his high forensic fame. 
 
 When other hands, the Masters shall inspire, 
 When other lights shall kindle at his fire, 
 Then too, the vivid canvas shall confess 
 The war-worn form of Green, (Ajax the less,) 
 Whose pure devotion and achievements bold, 
 Would fill a Canto, yet remain untold. 
 Lincoln shall then receive a patriot's right. 
 And valiant Knox, who thunder'd in the fight; 
 Chivalrous Marion, and undaunted Wayne, 
 Morgan the bold, and Schuyler the humane; 
 Nor Stevens be forgot, whose faithful sword 
 Was ne'er found sheath'd, when fighting was the word 
 First to declare in council, for the field, 
 And to superior art, the last to yield. 
 Here Carrington, and Laurens, known to fame, 
 And Washington, who well deserv'd his name; 
 Here Pickens, Parker, Sumpter and Moultrie, 
 Slaughter, and Long, and Harrison, and Lee, 
 The same who, like the Trojan Chief, declar'd, 
 *The perils that himself had seen and shar'd 
 Here Porterfield, spard, in his country's aid, 
 Again to try the metal of iiis blade: 
 In wolf's skin mantled, Putnam here shall stand: 
 Rush, the Machaon of the war-like band 
 And Sullivan, Stark, Stirling and St. Clair, 
 
 *Q,useque ipse miserrima vide, et quorum pars magna fui. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 73 
 
 Shall the like merited distinction share. 
 
 Columbia mourns her gallant Warren still, 
 Slain in the deadly strife at Bunker's Hill: 
 Another tale of woe Quebec can tell, 
 Where brave Montgom'ry, her adopted, fell: 
 Mercer, at Princeton, bleeding, pale and ghast, 
 In glory's circling arms, breath'd out his last: 
 Wooster, at Ridgefield, found a gory bed: 
 At Germantown, Nash slumber'd with the dead, 
 Nor singly fell, — for, (no inglorious mate.) 
 Young Witherspoon that day, bow'd to his fate: 
 Williams, was destined at King's Mount to fall; 
 Vict'ry, with cypress wreath'd, droop'd o'er his pall I 
 Death, on a noble victim, sought to fix. 
 And Armstrong, felt his shaft, at ninety-six; 
 Bold Henderson submits to nature's law. 
 And Campbell, meets his summons, at Eutaw: 
 By freedom call'd, Pulaski cross'd the flood, 
 And tested his devotion with his blood: 
 DeKalb, at Camden, mar'd wqth many a wound, 
 A quivering corpse, roll'd on the battle ground: 
 Brave Porterfield, in the same mortal strife, 
 For his devoted country, gave his life. 
 — Such, are a few whose sprinkled blood was given 
 To earthly altars, and exhaled to Heaven! 
 And, (martyrs in her cause,) their names belong, 
 To Freedom's household and her poet's song. 
 
 In modern warfare, Jackson, Scott and Brown, 
 Macomb and Gaines, have won the laurel crown, 
 
74 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 Nor must we slight Columbia's gallant tars, 
 For Neptune will not strike his flag to Mars; 
 The heroes of Lakes Erie and Champlain, 
 Decatur, Rogers, Hull, shall here remain, 
 Bainbridge, and he the bravest of the brave, 
 That ever perish'd on the salt sea wave, 
 Whose ruling passion quiver'd on his lip 
 In its last accent, — ''Don't give up the Shipf 
 And still the star-flag flew, till Glory found him 
 In Death's cold grasp, and shed a halo round him, 
 That flag then struck, to glory still allied. 
 Wrapt his stifl?" limbs, and drank life's ebbing tide; 
 They liv'd triumphant, and in dire defeat. 
 The flag, became the hero's winding sheet. 
 
 How many, still unnumber'd, here may claim 
 A lasting habitation and a name! 
 Few are the names recorded here, then, who 
 May give them all, and give to each his due? 
 This arduous task, to one must be resign'd. 
 With greater leisure blest, and powers of mind, 
 Who loves to muse by Valour's hallow'd bust, 
 And finds attractions, in the patriot dust; 
 We, whom no holy inspirations fire. 
 Know, from the effort, only to retire. 
 
 Yet, ere the ling'ring Muse* sighs out adieu, — 
 
 *The Muso, like other well bred fem.iles, is too sensitive and delicate, 
 to engage in political dissensions and disquisitions; besides, the more 
 recent events of America, and the character of her modern great men, 
 are all too new to be placed in numbers; they must therefore (for the 
 present) remain untold. Like the apples of Atalanta, they might di- 
 vert her from her course, which she must state here, (if the reader has 
 iiot already made the discovery,) is purely disinterested and impartial. 
 
THE HENRIADK. 75 
 
 An offering she would bring, to Merit due,— 
 
 The offering of her audience of leave. 
 
 That she may make, and Virtue may receive. 
 
 — Amongst our foreign friends, for valour fam'd, 
 
 DeKalb and bold Pulaski have been nam'd; 
 
 Brave Kosciusko, proud Veomenel, 
 
 And Rochambeau, the catalogue must swell; 
 
 But there is one renown'd above the rest, 
 
 To whom this heart-felt tribute is address'd: 
 
 Of those ruthless despoilers, no more, 
 
 That Freedom renounces — nor speak 
 Of their triumphs of rapine and gore, 
 
 That wither the rose on her cheek; 
 But breathe the lov'd name of a chief, 
 
 Whose brow wears her green coronet; 
 And that magic shall charm away giief, 
 
 As she thinks on hev loved Lafayette. "" 
 
 From his country and dwelling, which Beauty, 
 
 Love, Science and Fortune, had bless'd 
 Impell'd by devotion and duty. 
 
 He hied to the land of the West; 
 And the claims of Columbia defended, 
 
 AVith ardour she ne'er can forget, 
 Till Freedom in glory descended 
 
 And crown'd her young chief Lafayette. 
 
 With a smile, she a Chaplet display'd, 
 
 By Virtue's fair fingers combin'd, 
 And wear thou this — Liberty said, 
 
 ■ In his hair, as its tendrils she twin'd; 
 And its evergreen leaves still expand^ 
 
 With ambrosia fragrant and wet, 
 
70 THE HENRI ADK. 
 
 As it pass'd from the Goddess's hand 
 To the brow of the brave Lafayette- 
 
 In his France — whilst wild Anarchy reign'd. 
 
 Where the props of her empire had stoodt 
 And the Throne and the Altar profan'd, 
 
 With sacrilege, treason and blood; 
 Who that saw — to those turbulent times 
 
 Can look back without shame and regret 
 
 Unsullied with folly or crimes? 
 
 'Tis the mild and the good Lafayette. 
 
 •No symbol that tyranny bore, 
 
 Could claim his allegiance — he ow'd it 
 To the proud badge of honor he wore, 
 
 And the power so divine that bestow'd it: 
 Insatiate Ambition could ne'er 
 
 His sword for the sacrifice whet, 
 *Twas inscrib'd with a name ever dear 
 
 To the heart of the firm Lafayette. 
 
 But no merit suspicion can blind; 
 
 The demon of Tyranny shuts 
 The friend of his country and kind. 
 
 In the loathsome depot at Olmutz; 
 Where, his tedious confinement to share. 
 
 In his cell the divinities met, 
 Both f Venus and Pallas were there 
 
 And dwelt with their friend Lafayette. 
 
 But from wisdom and virtue he drew. 
 The truths by their oracles taught; 
 
 ^Neither the Sw^nrd nor the Sceptre of the Tyrant. 
 
 t Virginia and Carolina, two daughters of Lafayette, the one most 
 distinguished for the charms ol her person, and the other for the en- 
 dowments of her mind, who voluntarily [shared the captivity of their 
 illustrious parent, in the castle of Olmutz. 
 
THE HENRIADK. 77 
 
 And misfortune can seldom subdue, 
 
 The soul with such principles fraught; 
 Like gold in the furnace refin'd, 
 
 He came forth from his dungeon of jet; 
 Unalloy'd both in heart and in mind, 
 
 The pm-e and unchanged Lafayette. 
 
 Now to Freedom, to pay his devotion, 
 
 (Ere the race of his glory is run) 
 The hero recrosses the Ocean, 
 
 To the land, where his laurels were won; 
 Where chiefs the '-'■hald Sexton'''' hath spar'd, 
 
 Shall shoulder their crutches, yet. 
 Proudly talk of the triumphs they shar'd. 
 
 With the youthful and brave Lafayette. 
 
 Then pass the bright goblet around; 
 
 We will drink — the illustrious stranger. 
 Who true to our country was found. 
 
 In her dark hour of trial and danger; 
 Whilst the cannon's hoarse throat shall resound. 
 
 Breathing flames from the rude parapet. 
 To welcome the Chief so renown'd, 
 
 The good and the true Lafayette. 
 
 Columbia no patents employs, 
 
 No medals, nor garters, nor stars; 
 As rewards to the brave and the wise, 
 
 Renown'd in her Councils or wars; 
 But more dear is that holy oblation, 
 
 Of love and affection — the debt 
 Pour'd out from the hearts of a Nation, 
 
 To a guest, hke her own Lafayette. 
 
 In our Temple the Chief shall abide. 
 
 With the pride and the flower of the land: 
 
 ©2 
 
78 THE HENRIAPE. 
 
 He battled at Washington's side. 
 
 And next to that warrior shall stand; 
 And should Freedom to darkness descend, 
 
 The last of her Stars that shall set; 
 Shall be Washington, and his lov'd friend, 
 
 The illustrious and brave Lafayette. 
 
 Such are a few of Freedom's gallant train, 
 In this her Areopagus who remain; 
 To such, her favors she will e'er dispense, 
 For lives and fortunes pledg'd in her defence; 
 Not o'er the bowl to talk, and fight, and bleed, 
 But in her service, and with act and deed; 
 O'er such, with fost'ring love, she spreads her wings; 
 Chiefs of her body-guard, to such she clings 
 With most maternal care — through weal and scaith, 
 Through good and evil hap, through life, — in death; 
 To her they owe their place in the world's eye, 
 Almost they share her immortality: 
 Yet in this Temple, sacred to her fame. 
 Some higher, — some a lower place must claim, 
 As wisdom, valor, constancy, devotion. 
 Shall mark the dignity of their promotion; 
 Nor shall we here invidiously contrast 
 These claims with those, — the present with the past; 
 If few, who lit her altars up, survive, 
 Enough remain to keep the flame alive: 
 Of heroes, — patriots, — chiefs, — they err who think 
 The race (diminish'd though it be) extinct; 
 If not so great, yet these may serve their turn, 
 If not so pure her lights, — still pure they burn. 
 
THE HENRIADE. 79 
 
 Thus o*er the sunny landscape we have stray'd, 
 And marvePd at the beauties it displayed; 
 Wander'd where hyacinths and roses bloom, 
 Regaling on their splendor and perfume. 
 But where sweet flowers arise, the teeming earth 
 Yields to excrescent growth prolific bn'th; 
 So let us now with culturing hand proceed, 
 Our garden from obnoxious things to weed. 
 
 To drop the figure, — let us now prepare 
 To mark a blot or two where much is fair: 
 We fly to pay the meed to virtue due. 
 But we can move (though slow) to censure too. 
 We would not, with overweening fondness, claim. 
 The privilege to praise and not to blame. 
 And scorn the popularity that rises 
 From flatt'ring follies, or approving vices; 
 A worthless boon, a breath hath won or lost. 
 Which, when retain'd, will scarce repay the cost. 
 
 The surgeon, anxious for his patient's weal. 
 Lops off' a gangrene that the part may heal; 
 So likewise will the moral patriot strive 
 Vice to destroy that virtue may survive: 
 Judicious censure, properly applied, 
 He does not dread, who has no faults to hide, 
 But those of tender reputation, are 
 By much too sensitive the probe to bear. 
 
 The claims to public confidence should be 
 Exalted talents, — stern integrity: 
 If disunited, still the public voice 
 Should claim the latter as the better choice : 
 
80 THE HENHIADE. 
 
 In Freedom's councils no one should be found 
 
 Of specious talents, not by virtue crown'd: 
 
 Should one so rich, so poor, before ye stand, 
 
 Ye independent voters of this land; 
 
 Who genius deems the pearl of matchless price, 
 
 Which may, despite of vulgar prejudice, 
 
 Full amply compensate for all he wants, 
 
 As some chaste dame this single virtue vaunts; 
 
 Who rais'd on stilts, can scarce vouchsafe to greet 
 
 Plain plodding men who walk upon their feet; 
 
 And, in his altitudes, with scorn can smile 
 
 Alike at drones who think and fools who toil: 
 
 Beware such talents! wanting moral worth 
 
 He will not serve your purpose, — cast him forth! 
 
 A patriot of another kind attend; 
 Of all mankind the most obliging friend; 
 The courteous patriot, — Freedom's train who graces, 
 Fond of her — pensions, perquisites, and places; 
 But one idea his, and that a wrong one, 
 That party to support which is the strong one; 
 Who in his supple trade of favor-wooing, 
 Succeeds, like good Sir Pertinax, by booing; 
 With smiles and graces varnish'd, — but, alas! 
 Defective at the core, — he must not pass! 
 
 The flaming patriot comes! — your votes prepare, 
 How voluble his tongue! — how stern his air! 
 He struts and stares around, as if indeed 
 He said, 'behold! ye little men, take heed!' 
 Reason he conquers by a '^coujj de mahi^" 
 And prostrate truth appeals to him, — in vain! 
 
THE HENRI ADK. 81 
 
 Why should he such appeals be bound to hear? 
 
 He only is a party pioneer! 
 
 'Tis his vocation, Hal! to him is given 
 
 A legislative patent-right from Heaven; 
 
 So highly gifted, well may he dispense 
 
 With that poor, tame appendage, — common sense. 
 
 This is his party, and in terms most civil, 
 
 He loudly sends all others to the d — 1. 
 
 (As the same hand, in lands we have explor'd, 
 
 Both rings the bell, and ties the fatal cord.) 
 
 No middle course, forever in extremes. 
 
 A mammoth or a mouse each object seems: 
 
 — The feebly skill'd in anecdote or story, 
 
 With mousing Boswell to contend for glory, 
 
 He loves to tell that pleasant tale, about 
 
 A tub to catch the whale: — shut him, too, out! 
 
 The ruin'd spendthrift next appears, — now view 
 One who has turn'd his coat to get a new; 
 Who having turn'd and turn'd, in each condition 
 Hopes to get on by turning politician: 
 We scorn not honest poverty, — but none, 
 By thrifdess prodigality undone. 
 Can serve the public interest, who has shewn 
 Too litle wisdom to protect his own: 
 Shut to your doors, — let him without remain; 
 In need, his old coat might be turn'd again. 
 
 When men like these your suffrages may claim, 
 Trust me, of rights ye only have the name; 
 The vapid code, — the body cold and dead^ 
 Of which the vital principle is fled: 
 
82 THE HENRIADE. 
 
 — AchievM by wisdom, but by folly sold: 
 Your freedom is — a story that is told! 
 
 Who ai^e the portraits like? — let others hit them, 
 We can't make caps, and then find heads to fit them; 
 And yet we know that recreants may be found, 
 Who most profanely tread on holy ground; 
 Thriftless despoilers, who profusely waste 
 The waters of that fount they will not taste; 
 Bankrupts in fortune and in reputation, 
 Gamblers and cheats, — the exuvias of the nation; 
 Oily tongued sycophants, array 'd in smiles, 
 Distinguish'd, like the serpent, by its wiles; 
 Wolves, clad like sheep, who, whilst the shepherds slept, 
 With stealthy pace unto the fold have crept; 
 And trust by suppleness, to reimburse 
 Their wasted coffers from the public purse. 
 A vaunt! ye reckless and rapacious crew: 
 What would celestial Liberty with you? 
 Would ye in this bright galaxy appear? 
 There is no light in you! — what would ye here? 
 ConceivM by Folly, and by Vice begot, 
 Disclaim'd by Honor, — Freedom knows ye not! 
 None so corrupt shall here admittance gain; 
 Away! her gates are shut, — ye knock in vain! 
 
 What shall we say of that degraded race. 
 From whom the goddess hides her blushing face; 
 Who, persecuted by the adverse Fates, 
 Daily ma-y view, but may not pass her gates? 
 — O Freedom! we have mark'd thy dewy eyes, 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 83 
 
 When happiest seeming, we have heard thy sighs; 
 
 Upon thy vestal robe a blot remains. 
 
 The darker for the purity it stains. 
 
 — O could'st thou, Goddess, be celestial quite! 
 
 That stain accurs'd ! — if tears could wash it white, 
 
 The Muse, transform'd like Niobe,^would give her 
 
 Tears, — in fountain streams, — to flow forever! 
 
 Whence and by whom ingrafted we could tell, 
 
 But let that record pass, — ^for thee, — 'tis well, 
 
 Though taught the painful lesson to endure, 
 
 Thou neither mad'st the evil, nor can'st cure. 
 
 — Nor yet, to black despondency give way; 
 
 Long is the night that never ends in day; 
 
 All deep are not immedicable wounds; 
 
 The most protracted evils have their bounds; 
 
 Time, as he flies, with healing in his wing, 
 
 A sanative for this shall also bring: 
 
 Till then, oh spare those beings placed in thrall, 
 
 Ye who have power, — God overlooks us all!! 
 
 Thus, having shewn our penance and our pride, 
 And scann'd the medal o'er on either side; 
 From the thick woody maze, that hath perplexed u^ 
 Where tangling thorns and briers gall'd and vex'd us, 
 We hasten to regain the flow'ry road 
 That leads to Freedom, in her lov'd abode. 
 
 History shall here unfold her ample page. 
 Rich with the treasures of the golden age; 
 To future times with faithful tongue shall tell 
 Where that chief triumph'd or ihat martyr fell; 
 
84 THE HJENRIADE. 
 
 What counsel'd he whose sapient word was fate. 
 Or how that pilot sway'd the hehii of state; 
 And patriots, — heroes, — sages, — shall appear, 
 And pause and muse, admire and linger here. 
 
 Thus, Nature shall her powerful aid impart, 
 And add new treasures to the hoards of art; 
 And thus thy Temple, Liberty, shall stand, 
 The boast and admiration of the land; 
 Whilst the lorn victims of despotic power. 
 Leaving their joyless homes, in blissful hour, 
 Shall cast their sorrows and their cares behind, 
 And on the loosen'd pinions of the wind, 
 Fly o'er the wat'ry waste, in blest crusade. 
 To pay new honors to the Heaven-born Maid. 
 
 But should, (oh God avert the awful doom, 
 Or let the bard first seek the welcome tomb,) 
 Should frowning heaven, to scourge us for our crimes. 
 Avert its face from these degenerate climes: 
 Should our bless'd sun, that rose so bright and fair. 
 Go down in blood, in darkness, and despair: 
 — Should fell Ambition mount his blood-stain'd throne, 
 And prostrate millions 'neath his sceptre groan: 
 Should arm'd battalions darken o'er the land, 
 And stern excisemen, a licentious band, 
 With callous visage hover round each door. 
 To gripe their hard-earn'd pittance from the poor. 
 Whilst musqueteers, with death-directed aim. 
 Stand by to urge the unrequited claim, 
 A claim, not urg'd to serve the public good. 
 But riot to maintain, and hellish feud: 
 
THE HENRIADE. 
 
 85 
 
 — Should pamper'd placemen fatten on the spoil 
 
 Of hardy enterprize and san-burnt toil: 
 
 Should such, so gall'd, in their allegiance fail, 
 
 And doff their homespun suits for coats of mail: 
 
 — Should tything priests ascend the sacred goal, 
 
 And filch the pocket whilst they starve the soul: 
 
 Should mushroom nobles gasconade and swell 
 
 Where only Gods, or men like Gods, should dwell. 
 
 Should e'er Potomac's dark indignant waves, 
 
 Reflect the forms of parasites and slaves: 
 
 — Ah, then, empyrean Liberty, farewell! ! 
 
 Where now thy charms, or bard, those charms to tell? 
 
 FalPn from thy height, by tyranny accurs'd. 
 
 Insulted, spurn'd, and trampled in the dust; 
 
 Whilst robb'd of thy primeval solar light, 
 
 Each fading star exhales in rayless night; 
 
 The pillars of thy rocking Temple, — a//. 
 
 In that demoniac Samson's grasp, shall fall ! 
 
 Rent to its base, that structure on the plain 
 
 In dire dilapidation shall remain. 
 
 By all forsaken, or shall serve, at best. 
 
 The scoft' of slaves, — a sceptred tyrant's jest! 
 
 Yet haply, whilst its mouldr'ing columns grey, 
 In shapeless ruin hasten to decay, 
 Some Marius, guiltless of his country's thrall. 
 Who worshiped in that shrine, may mourn its fall; 
 In mental desolation, may contrast 
 Its present gloom with all its splendor past; 
 Passing the iron reign of groans and tears. 
 May lose himself in dreams of other years; 
 
86 THE HENRIADK. 
 
 As forms long vanished move and breathe again, 
 Reviv'd in faithful mem'ry's pensive train; 
 Till starting from his trance, he wakes to know 
 The sad reality of present woe; 
 Whilst o'er the pile, the shad'wy Queen of night 
 Sheds from her crest a dim portentous light; 
 And the bleak westwind murmurs long and loud, 
 Like Freedom's ghost, awaking from her shroud, 
 Mourning amid the silence of her bourne. 
 Departed days! — days never to return! 
 
LAMENT 
 
 FOR THE DEATH OF 
 
 MAJOR JAMES SMILEY 
 
 Let Bardstown mourn wi' dool and care 
 His loss whom weel she could na spare, 
 And mony a frien' for him may wear 
 
 The sable weed; 
 For weel I wot we'll miss him sair, 
 
 James Smiley deed. 
 
 In Erin born, he *coost his tether, 
 
 And o'er the braid seas wander'd hither, 
 
 He liked his gude adopted mither, 
 
 Weel they agreed, 
 And fifty years they held thegither, 
 
 But noo he's deed. 
 
 'He coost his tether" — he threw his allegiance to his native country. 
 
88 LAMENT. 
 
 When foreign faes cam to enslave her, 
 And frae his horn Mars blew a staver, 
 He drew his sword to help to save her 
 
 In her warst need; 
 She had nae baulder son nor braver 
 
 Than vSmiley deed. 
 
 The social band he took delight in, 
 Where Bacchus spreads his board inviting, 
 The sparkling cup or banquet slighting 
 
 Was ne'er his creed; 
 There was nae cauld nor selfish blight in 
 
 Our neighbor deed. 
 
 What tongue his wee bit fauts shall tell. 
 They ne'er hurt ony but himseP, 
 His virtues a lang list wad swell. 
 
 And 'tis agreed 
 Lang here his memory green shall dwell 
 
 Although he's deed. 
 
 Through a' his veins mild pity ran, 
 This gave ''ere charity began," 
 He was in the Creator's plan. 
 
 By a' agreed, 
 God's noblest work, an honest man 
 
 Was Smiley deed. 
 
 His numerous friends — the stranger too, 
 His hospitable mansion knew, 
 
LAMENT. 89 
 
 'Mangst a' the generous men and true 
 
 He took the lead, 
 Around the door the grass ne'er grew* 
 
 O' Smiiey deed. 
 
 Still he increased^ frae year to 3'ear, 
 In wardly plenishin' and gear, 
 (Sure Fortune was a goddess here,) 
 
 And ye might read 
 Gentleman, written ftiir and clear. 
 
 In Smiley deed. 
 
 Death, when he cam', cam unprepar'd. 
 The general sympathy he shar'd. 
 His spectrous arm and shaft he bared. 
 
 Then hung his head, 
 TouchVl but ae side — the lave lang spar'dt - 
 
 O' Smiley deed. 
 
 Let auld Kentucky o'er his grave 
 Her tatter'd blood-sprent banner wave, 
 And wi' wet een blaw out a stave 
 
 On lier aik reed. 
 For her adopted and her brave 
 
 James Smiley deed. 
 
 *"Aronnd the dt)or the grass ne'er grew." — The Irish curse is, "may 
 the grass grow around your door/' (i. e.) may the world desert you — 
 may no one visit you. 
 
 t ''Touch'dbut fflc side — the lave lang spared." — jMajor Smiley was 
 seized with hermiplegia or palsy of one side, and died some months 
 afterwards. 
 
 h2 
 
90 LAMENT. 
 
 And let her loud and mouiiiful shell 
 
 Our Nelson's woods and mountains swell, 
 
 Till ilka echo hears the knell 
 
 Her requiem meed 
 For him the frien' she loo'd sae well, 
 ^ Her Smiley deed. 
 
 Now let us fill up to the brim, 
 
 And MUTE and standing think o' him, 
 
 Gane wi' the King o' Terrors grim, 
 
 Beyond remeed. 
 Whilst our red een wi' saut tears swim 
 
 For Smiley deed. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 MRS. GILLY ELIZA BELL, 
 
 WIFE OF MR. JOHN BELL, OF NELSON COUNTY, AND YOUNGEST 
 DAUGHTER OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 No withe r'd form — no hoary head, 
 Death with unerring shaft laid low: 
 
 Nor middle age had o'er her fled, 
 When dear Eliza met the blow. 
 
 A dim eclipse of visual sense, 
 
 Erratic pains assail'd her head; 
 She sought her couch — was moved not thence 
 
 Till she was numbered with the dead. 
 
 One other child her parents bless'd, 
 
 Early a sister's love she found, 
 Her surest friend — the fastest link 
 
 That Fate had with her being bound. 
 
 Such love as springs from guileless hearts 
 Was theirs — no cankering care they knew, 
 
 The peace which innocence imparts. 
 Like cherries on one stem they grew. 
 
 Till unto woman's stature grown, 
 
 (As Time, with measur'd stride, swept past,) 
 A wife — a mother's name they own. 
 
 In different lands their lot was cast. 
 
92 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BELL. 
 
 And whilst they thus far distant dwelt, 
 (Sole objects of a parent's care,) 
 
 Were no fond ling'ring wishes felt 
 A sister's lov'd embrace to share? 
 
 Once more to talk of early days, 
 
 (Treasur'd on memory's faithful chart,) 
 
 Their loves — their hopes — their infant plays. 
 When truth came freshly from the heart. 
 
 Eight years had pass'd — when Margaret sought 
 
 Fruition of this long desire: 
 Nor came alone — she with her brought 
 
 Her dearest children and their sire. 
 
 With all her early love possess'd, 
 And transport beaming in her eye; 
 
 She caught her sister to her breast. 
 She came — she came to see her die! 
 
 An only parent's love they shar'd, 
 
 (The other long had known her doom,) 
 
 O could the} not have both been spar'd 
 To lay that parent in the tomb? 
 
 Yet 1, that aged sire, live on, 
 
 (A useless loit'rer on the stage,) 
 Whilst she — the precious one — is gone, 
 
 Unscath'd by time — unchill'd by age. 
 
 Her faith was strong — her choice was made, 
 She trod the narrow path through this. 
 
 To meet her mother's sainted shade, 
 A seraph in the realms of bliss! 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY 
 
 John Dobbs, the hero of our tale, 
 
 Sold goods in Glasgow by wholesale; 
 
 Without much tact, as if by stealth, 
 
 He baulk'd and blunder'd into wealth. 
 
 An iron chest well cramm'd had he, 
 
 Tall warehouses and ships at sea; 
 
 These acquisitions were the plan 
 
 On change — where money makes the man. 
 
 John with the ladies was a shy man, 
 
 He ne'er had sacrificed to Hymen; 
 
 Now at the age of fifty-five, 
 
 He thought he was too old to wive. 
 
 He was commission'd by the crown 
 
 A Bailie of his native town — 
 
 His paunch, that every year grew bigger, 
 
 Prov'd no advantage to his figure: 
 
 But such upon the bench you find 
 
 With venison and '^capon lined." 
 
 John in his own house ate and slept: 
 A buggy and two bays he kept. 
 Of servitors he had but four, 
 Two of each sex, he wish'd no more. 
 The members of this menial tribe 
 We pause a moment to describe : 
 
94 SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 The first, a Highlander by birth, 
 Was fam'd for trustfulness and worth; 
 Staunch as a blood-hound, and as true, 
 His name, in brief, was Andrew Drew. 
 Virtue before, (it is confess'd,) 
 Ne'er sought in such a shrine to rest, 
 More than six feet his stature rose; 
 One squinting eye look'd to his nose; 
 He was in-kneed, but said with pride, 
 If so, 'twas only on one side: 
 This thrawart limb prov'd in his gait 
 Striking attachment to its mate. 
 When at conventicles he sang 
 His voice sent forth a nasal twang: 
 For Drew was one of the elect, 
 And of the Carrier onian sect. 
 
 The other male in this employ 
 Was but a dirty stable-boy, 
 Who daily litter'd, rubb'd, and fed, 
 And to the water rode or led 
 The 'foresaid nags, which led, I'm sure, 
 A rack and manger sinecure. 
 Up in the hayloft, overhead. 
 This stalwart stripling found his bed; 
 Except when Dobbs prepar'd to dine 
 His friends, and let them taste his wine. 
 Some dozen times a year, and then. 
 Drew dragg'd him from his murky den, 
 And made the pump send forth its tide, 
 And mopp'd and scrubb'd his din^y hide; 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 95 
 
 And kempt the bur-caps from his pate, 
 
 Until he shone like Dobbs' plate: 
 
 And made him stand, in whitewash'd pride, 
 
 A liveried menial by his side; 
 
 With sullen mien and rueful look, 
 
 Restless as catfish on the hook. 
 
 Next on the list comes Mistress Brooks, 
 The choice of widows and of cooks: 
 To work, she said, was no disgrace, 
 So took the earliest thriving place; 
 She said, I'll do the best I can 
 To please the Bailie, honest man! 
 The sequel is too rarely heard, 
 She liv'd content and kept her word. 
 — Just like an epicure's repast, 
 We keep the sweetest to the last; 
 A gentler subject we shall treat. 
 And then our menage is complete: 
 'Tis household Betty, (if you please,) 
 Who makes the beds and keeps the keys; 
 Of Celtic birth — the country's pride. 
 Like daisy on the mountain side 
 She grew; but ah! the storm swept o'er. 
 Her parents died — -the girl was poor; 
 To town the helpless orphan fled. 
 At service to obtain her bread: 
 Misfortunes sometimes blessings send, 
 She in her master found a friend; 
 — Some gossips, who had scanned her face. 
 And mark'd her form, replete with grace, 
 
96 ' SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 Who slight their own sins, that their neighbors 
 
 May profit by their godly labors, 
 
 Have wonder'd what the squire could mean, 
 
 To harbor such a tawdry quean. 
 
 Dobbs, though a dull man, was not blind; 
 
 The inuendo was unkind: 
 
 But yet it fail'd to raise his bile, 
 
 He heard it only with a smile: 
 
 With worth allied to the sublime, 
 
 He scorn'd the slander and the crime! 
 
 — Though John in this was just and mild, 
 
 And sorrow'd for the mountain child, 
 
 By stern misfortune's bitter blast 
 
 Upon his kind protection cast: 
 
 Of other faults he had his share, 
 
 Which we, with sorrow, must declare. 
 
 One day Dobbs had the luck to meet 
 A former comrade in the street; 
 After a warm embrace or so. 
 Said John "we meet most appropos: 
 To-morrow you must dine with me. 
 No words I beg, I dine at three." 
 
 "Friend," said the man addressed, "I pray 
 You lend an ear to what I say: 
 With you I would drink aquafortis. 
 And others slight whose beverage port is; 
 But I have heard that in your house 
 Your parties end in a carouse, 
 Till ev'ry guest is borne to bed! 
 Your strong potations rack my head; 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 97 
 
 My feeble health won't stand abuse; 
 Let this, my friend, be my excuse." 
 ^^Is it at that," said John, "you patter? 
 Why this is no such weighty matter. 
 Come with my other friends and dine, 
 And, should you choose to baulk your wine, 
 Have by you, as the bright toast passes, 
 Some water color'd with molasses: 
 Keep the decanter near your hand, 
 And give my friends to understand, 
 'Tis wine of a particular zest, 
 That suits your taste and stomach best; 
 Few will suspect — none will dilate 
 On that which none would imitate." 
 This notion hits the others taste, 
 And is, at once, with joy embrac'd; 
 'Twas like a plank cast in the wave 
 A struggling mariner to save, 
 He clasp'd his hand — "my friend," said he, 
 "To-morrow, I'll be there at three." 
 This plan negotiated, they 
 Took leave, and each pursu'd his way. 
 
 Up rose the Sun, and shed his fires 
 On Tron and Andrew's gothic spires; 
 But few dwell there, who are so wise 
 To see this glorious orb arise. 
 Some nightly watchmen homeward plod. 
 And yield them to the drowsy god; 
 Street-cleaners shoulder broom and shovel. 
 
98 SCOTTISH HOSPITALITT. 
 
 And creep to some suburban hovel; 
 Out start the Fly and Southern post, 
 And in the distance soon are lost; 
 Some early brasier's hammer clear 
 Comes sharply tinkling o'er the ear. 
 
 Little beyond such forms you meet, 
 At early morn in square or street — 
 The drowsy Scotchman is unblest 
 Unless he claim ten hours of rest; 
 But later yet some hours must run, 
 Before this northern Babylon 
 Pours forth her hives — then v^'arm and rife. 
 The mighty city teems with life. 
 Wealth meets them from the winding Clyde, 
 Learning her portals opens wide; 
 Here every art and craft survives, 
 By which man lives, or fashion thrives; 
 Chiefly the sound of labor booms 
 From fifty thousand working looms; 
 Such enterprise — such ceaseless toil. 
 Grafts splendor on a meagre soil; 
 — The high church tolls — the heavy chime, 
 Proclaims the ruthless flight of time: 
 Each satellite the note resounds. 
 Even to the city's utmost bounds: 
 — 'Tis three o'clock. Our theme pursuing: 
 What are John Dobbs & Co. a-doing? 
 To put the answer in our power. 
 We'll play Asmodeus for an hour. 
 Put his oblivious mantle on, 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPlTALITr. 99 
 
 And what we shall descry make known. 
 
 We'll to the kitchen first, and there 
 
 Survey friend Dobbs* bill of fare: 
 
 — Here, first, the cook her form displays; 
 
 Bustling in petticoats and stays; 
 
 Red as a lobster, o'er the fire, 
 
 Brimful of business and of ire; 
 
 Whilst housemaid Betty aids her wishes, 
 
 To place the viands in the dishes. 
 
 We see the hostler out of place, 
 
 Having put on his Sunday face, 
 
 Deep in the chimney-corner sit, 
 
 Giving the last turn to the spit. 
 
 Above, the Bailie treats his guests 
 With toddy, anecdotes, and jests; 
 Some dozen had arrived, no more, 
 (Drew waits, as porter, at the door.) 
 When last the knocker sounds, the fare 
 Shall from the kitchen mount the stair. 
 — At length the company have met. 
 Truly they are a jovial set. 
 The dinner smokes upon the board, 
 A moment's silence is restor'd, 
 Just till the Bailie bless the meat. 
 Each hungry Scot then takes his seat: 
 Hurry succeeds, until each guest 
 Is serv'd to that he likes the best. 
 For a brief space few words are used, 
 Our eaters are too well amused. 
 Anon discourse spreads round the table. 
 
100 SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 Such patois had confounded Babel. 
 — We have no tact — we have no wish, 
 To scan the feast — to name each dish: 
 It might have serv'd Lord Mayor and all 
 The Aldermen, met at Guildhall. 
 We also hold it doubtful breeding 
 To mark the jolly dogs whilst feeding; 
 'Tis nature's law, reveal'd on high, 
 The order is — man, eat or die! 
 
 But yet we do not thus incline 
 To slight our party at their wine: 
 Lisbon, Madeira, Port, Tokay, 
 Their various powers and tints display. 
 Friend Dobbs, with magisterial air. 
 Appears presiding in the chair. 
 — After a space, the Bailie rose; 
 My friends, said he, I will propose 
 A name to all your hearts most dear, 
 (I will allow no flinching here,) 
 My friends, I drink her Most Serene 
 And Gracious Majesty, the Queen! 
 Scarce was she nam'd, when from his seat 
 Each loyal Scot sprang to his feet, 
 And drank the toast with three times three; 
 Feet and hands beat a reveille: 
 Their sovereign Lady, fair and young, 
 Loosen'd the hinges of each tongue: 
 They shouted out, huzza'd and skirl'd. 
 Till windows crack'd and rafters dirPd: 
 Tables and chairs, too, out of hand, 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPITALITT. 101 
 
 Danc'd forth a merry saraband. 
 
 Then follow'd quick, in rosy wine, 
 
 Each member of the royal line. 
 
 — The croupier mark'd the wild disorder, 
 
 And caird repeatedly to order; 
 
 He was a man on change well known, 
 
 Who call'd a hundred looms his own: 
 
 Glasgoav, the thriving wabster said. 
 
 Her manufactures and her trade, 
 
 Follow'd, our friends across the deep, 
 
 Where Washington and Franklin sleep. 
 
 Then came, to Erin and her cause. 
 
 Community of rights and laws. 
 
 The Kirk of Scotland as it stands, 
 
 Untouch'd by sacriligious hands. 
 
 We give these merely as a sample; 
 The toasts were orthodox and ample. 
 And each, it must not be disguised. 
 In brimming bumpers was baptized. 
 
 The day closed in without a cloud. 
 The silver moon burst fi'om her shroud. 
 And wading calmly through the sky. 
 Survey 'd the group with wondering eye; 
 And still our gay gallants were found' 
 Circling the purple vintage round; 
 The watch cried twelve, and chanticleer, 
 Pour'd his shrill note upon the ear. 
 
 The hour of midnight, sooth to tell. 
 Came cow'ring o'er them like a spell: 
 No more the joke— the catch— the song, 
 
102 SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 Their wild festivity prolong; 
 
 Our gallant company and host, 
 
 Pow'rless to hiccup out a toast, 
 
 Bow'd to their friends, who were not slack. 
 
 With nodding heads to answer back. 
 
 At length with one the game was o'er. 
 His form was measur'd on the floor; 
 Devoid of sense he fell, as dead 
 And heavy as a pig of lead. 
 
 The old domestic, Andrew Drew, 
 ^ Stood major-domo over two 
 
 Acquaintance lads of servile mould. 
 Who sought to touch the Bailie's gold; 
 These at the suburbs he had hir'd. 
 And in cast livery attir'd. 
 These boys were honest, they had learn'd 
 Not to eat bread they had not earn'd. 
 And brisk as catchpole at a gripe. 
 Hawks with their prey, or cats with tripe, 
 A handbarrow ihey quickly brought, 
 'Twas near, it had not to be sought. 
 In this they pack'd the fall'n wight. 
 And bore him off, clean out of sight. 
 Another soon became unsteady. 
 Our watchful boys were ever ready ! 
 After some heavy lurches, he 
 Went over like a ship at sea: 
 The floor received the fall, and straight 
 The handbarrow took in its freight. 
 Why should we dwell? — each had his fall: 
 
SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 103 
 
 The handbaiTow serv'd nearly all; 
 
 Mine host was off, and twenty guests 
 
 Lay snugly burrow'd in their nests. 
 
 One friend, one only, now remain'd 
 
 His equipoise and chair retain'd; 
 
 — -Our water and molasses squire, 
 
 Calm and erect as Nelson's spire. 
 
 But not so high — with grief survey'd 
 
 The havoc alcohol had made ; 
 
 (So Marius sat, amid the gloom 
 
 Of fall'n towers, and mourn'd their doom;) 
 
 At length he turn'd his optics full 
 
 On Drew- — said Andrew, "what's your wall?" 
 
 "I would to bed," the friend replied, 
 
 "But need a taper and a guide." 
 
 "•Get in the handbarrow," Drew said, 
 
 "And we'll soon trot you off to bed." 
 
 "Friend, I will use my legs to-night, 
 
 But need a servant with a light" 
 
 "It is against all rule," replied 
 
 The man nam'd Andrew, "ye maun ride." 
 
 "'Tis useless, friend, to longer talk, 
 
 To bed I surely mean to walk." 
 
 But finding that he had to do 
 
 With no great mental power, in Drew, 
 
 He stoop'd a moment from his rank, 
 
 Stepp'd out and nimbly walk'd a plank! 
 
 At this, good Andrew raised his eyes 
 
 With speechless wonder and surprise! 
 
 Then to an angle fairly bow'd 
 
104 SCOTTISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 His upper man, and said aloud: 
 "■I wish in a' things to be ceevil — 
 Hold ye nae compact wi' the deevil! 
 Your pardon, sir, I fain wad beg;" 
 Then made, with Highland grace, a leg: 
 *^ You're no of Lanarkshire, I'm thinking? 
 Faigs, but you bang'd them a' a-drinking: 
 Yet cool and sober, there you stand, 
 Wi' a' your senses at command. 
 As if nae drap had pass'd your throttle; 
 As clear as ony empty bottle. 
 8ir, I hae wi' his honor dwalt 
 (Kind man, he has ae only fault,) 
 Since the third Geordie sought the tomb, 
 And mony guests hae fiU'd this room: 
 Here such carousals I hae known, 
 (I whiles was drunk by looking on;) 
 But from this board, I'm bold to say, 
 I ne'er saw mortal walk away. 
 Except yoursel' — na', in the end. 
 The handbarrow aye prov'd their friend: 
 Else they had wallow'd, drunk with wine, 
 Amid their mire, like David's swine. 
 Weel, sir, I winna fash you mair; 
 Just gang wi' me up the back stair. 
 Then softly o'er the carpet creep — 
 Ye e'en maun wi' the Bailie sleep." 
 
VERSES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF OLIVIA, 
 
 DAUGHTER OF JAMES W. AND MARGARET PATTERSON STROTH- 
 ER, AN INFANT OF UNCOMMON INTEREST, AGED TWO YEARS, 
 WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THREE MONTHS AFTER THE AR- 
 RIVAL OF THE FAMILY IN TENNESSEE, DESIGNED TO 
 
 REPRESENT THE FEELINGS OF THE AFFLICTED MOTHER. 
 
 From friends and relations, endearing and kind, 
 From the land of my birth I sigh'd not to depart; 
 
 A country and home amongst strangers to find, 
 For Olivia was with me — the child of my heart! 
 
 And strangers received us with courtesy kind, 
 And I found that respect and uibanity bland. 
 
 And minds that are liberal and manners refin'd, 
 Are not solely confin'd to my dear native land. 
 
 But short was the sunshine that gleaniM in my breast, 
 And deep was the gloom that succeeded its ray! 
 
 For scarce had Content, found my home in the west. 
 Ere she pass'd, like a meteor, in darkness away. 
 
106 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF OLIVIA. 
 
 For the jewel I prized beyond kindred and wealth, 
 That I wore next my heart with affection and pride, 
 
 Ere three months elaps'd, lost her spirits and health, 
 She faded — she droop'd like a lilly — and died! 
 
 The darling that climb'd to my knees, and essay'd 
 The song — the caress — and the prattle and charm; 
 
 How I feel the last smile o'er her features that play'd! 
 The last touch of her lip on my cheek yet is warm! 
 
 Religion! oh give me thy spirit to share. 
 
 To thy mandates mysterious assist me to kneel; 
 
 O teach me this fatal bereavement to bear; 
 
 The power that afflicts us — afflicts but to heal. 
 
 But spare me these sighs from my bosom that steal, 
 
 And the tears from my eyes that unconsciously start; 
 Though a christian may strive, a fond mother must feel! 
 
 I HAVE LOST MY OlIVIA THE CHILD OF MY HEART ! 
 
THE LOST CHILD 
 
 (a tale of truth.) 
 
 "Something I'm sure has happen'd wrang, 
 My bairn ne'er stayed frae hame sae lang," 
 "Tibby," the wretched mother cried, 
 "Could he have strayed toward the Clyde?" 
 This fancy seized her madd'ning brain, 
 Her child she ne'er should clasp again, 
 Upon the beach she thought she stood 
 And saw his corpse dragg'd frae the flood, 
 The blood her ashy cheeks forsook, 
 And like an aspen leaf she shook, 
 Then clutch'd a bed-post as she found 
 Herself fast sinking to the ground. 
 
 The friendly neighbors strove to learn 
 What had gone with the helples bairn ; 
 At every house inquiries made, 
 Where he with other bairns had played, 
 Then down to Lucky Bones they strolled, 
 (The wife that cakes and candy sold,) 
 Print shops, alike, inspection shared, 
 
108 THE LOST CHILD, 
 
 Where his bawbee was sometimes wair'd; 
 
 In every known frequented spot 
 
 They sought the child, but found him not. 
 
 Nor slighted was the bell-man's aid, 
 Who public proclamation made, 
 Describ'd the child, his age, his size, 
 The color of his hair and eyes. 
 The fashion of the clothes he wore, 
 His ruffled sark — his pinafore; 
 Vainly the Clinkumbell went round. 
 For no such child was to be found. 
 
 And minutes into hours had passed. 
 
 Each hour more hopeless than the last — 
 
 And still the child whose loss they mourned, 
 
 Had not cast up — had not returned. 
 
 The child had left his home that day, 
 
 To join with other boys in play; 
 
 His comrades were more stout and tall, 
 
 Had strength to urge the flying ball. 
 
 But still the sport he kept in view, 
 
 And mingled with the noisy crew. 
 
 Then came the tuhie fierce and dun. 
 
 The game — it was unfairly won, 
 
 A buzz of jarring tongues arose, 
 
 Hard names were called, were struck some blows; 
 
 When one cried out, to raise a laugh, 
 
 ^^Here's the Bumbaillie with his staff;" 
 
THE LOST CHILD. 109 
 
 This office feared and dreaded most, 
 As by the Thane was Banquo's ghost, 
 Sent to each heart a sudden fright; 
 By every path they urge their flight, 
 No matter where — they onward bound 
 Wherever safety may be found; 
 Nor stole forth till the sun's last ray 
 On Glasgow's steeples past away. 
 
 The child had still remained in sight, 
 Had seen the conflict and the flight. 
 And wondered what it might portend, 
 Then turned his homeward way to wend, 
 But now he first began to doubt 
 Which was his proper homeward route; 
 And then with numerous streets in sight 
 He took the wrong and left the right. 
 The child ran on — he almost flew — 
 (All objects that he saw were new,) 
 Passed down one street, another crossed; 
 He toiled in vain — the child was lost. 
 
 And with a bosom choked with care 
 He sauntered now — he knew not where, 
 And on the multitude that passed, 
 A vain and furtive glance he cast. 
 To catch some sunny face he knew: 
 And now he knew not what to do; 
 Despair o'er all his members crept, 
 He sat down on a stone — and wept! 
 
ttO THE LOST GUILD. 
 
 Near stood a pump — its silver tide 
 Forth from a lion's mouth did glide: 
 Transparent as that living well, 
 When Moses smote the rock, it fell; 
 Here from a rill that never fails, 
 The servant lasses fill their pails: 
 Some w^ho were present heard his wail, 
 And learnt from quivering lips, his tale. 
 They could no more with tearful eye, 
 Than say — '-Hohist hinney^ dinna cry." 
 
 "Where live ye?" — asked a brawny Scot, 
 Alas! the child remembered not. 
 The name o' the street, he could na ca' it; 
 But he would ken it if he saw it; 
 "What do they ca' ye?" asked the same 
 Bluff voice — the lost one told his name. 
 His simple speech perhaps might cause, 
 A highland gentleman to pause. 
 His arms were muscular and long, 
 His nether limbs were bow'd but strong, 
 These from the hose to kilt were bare, 
 But covered thick with shaggy hair, 
 His plaid was o'er one shoulder fiung, 
 A stout claymore beneath it hung. 
 His snaggled teeth — in numbers scant. 
 Were stained with the Virginia plant; 
 And o'er his grizzled beard, unshorn. 
 His nose drooped like a powder horn. 
 
THE LOST CHILD. Ill 
 
 But nature, cunning at her trade, 
 (But could na mend what she had made;) 
 Had gaen the carl o' grace sae scant, 
 What many, more imposing, want; 
 Her hand at canny wo:k, the best, 
 Placed a warm heart within his breast, 
 And for the child his sympathy 
 Was now seen twinkling in his ee, 
 
 "My bonny man — ye've tint your gaet, 
 The day is cauld— it's wearing late, 
 Gang wi' me to the Argyle's Head, 
 And get your supper and a bed. 
 The morn's a day that ne'er was here, 
 We'll up and for your father speer." 
 The child was ready to obey. 
 He took his hand who led the way, 
 They tramped a Scottish mile or more. 
 At length they stood before the door. 
 
 A Campbell born — a clansman bred, 
 The landlord of the Argyle's Head, 
 Chose in his youth — whilst free to choose, 
 And doff'd the tartan for the trews. 
 To aid him 'midst the cares of life, 
 He took one Janet Graham to wife, 
 Both born among the blooming heather 
 They lived and gathered gear together. 
 For Campbell loved the sheenies best; 
 Next to the woman he caress'd. 
 
il3 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 He gained and treasured what he got, 
 (Nothing uncommon to a Scot,) 
 Upon a main street he abode, 
 That led forth to the Highland road, 
 And knowing neighbors judged him hence 
 Upon the right side of the fence. 
 
 His sign — the gude Maccalamore — 
 What Highlandman could pass his door? 
 Few days past by — but you might look 
 On Cadgers warming in the neuk, 
 The toiling Chapman too was there, 
 Disburdened from his pond'rous ware. 
 Few of the genuine lowland breeding 
 Chose Campbell's house to sleep or feed in; 
 But tartar kilts and bonnets blue, 
 My certie! but they were na few! 
 His sign had been long time in use, 
 ^Twas once Montrose, the Wallace, Bruce, 
 The Mansfield, and the Robert Burns — 
 All these had figured there by turns, 
 Then at a sale — it was pulled down. 
 And rouped and bought for half a crown. 
 
 Its present claimant chose, (in brief,) 
 The patronymic of his chief, 
 But still the figure was the same. 
 Unchanged by every changing name; 
 ^^For," said our thrifty landlord, '•'-Jenny^ 
 We need not weir the siller penny ^ 
 
THE LOST CHlLa 113 
 
 That painter loons the goio'd 7tiay shar^e^ 
 When ither things are wanted mair^'''' 
 So 'tween the twa' it was agreed, 
 His grace should wear the same auld heed. 
 The house was thranged baith hut and ben 
 Wi' many bearded, breekless men, 
 
 ^^How's a wi', Donald?" said, aloud, 
 Some voices from the motley crowd, 
 With deviltry the rafters rung — 
 Gaelic was spouted — sangs were sung — 
 Het whiskey punch that circled round, 
 Improved the^^a^ozs and the sound; 
 The landlord came at every call. 
 And had a ready smile for all. 
 And thus the merry moments fled, 
 'Till some went off — some stalked to bed; 
 The supper placed, each guest sat doon, 
 And frae his wallet whipped his spoon, 
 And on the crowdie fell to work. 
 With power and vigor, — a la Turque. 
 
 At top a haggis took the lead, 
 Hard by it girn'd a cauld sheep's heed, 
 Part of a buck — a neat surloin 
 Shot on the borders o' Loch Fine; 
 The board with farls of oaten bread. 
 And new milk cheese was also spread; 
 Tea to the few was handed up, 
 Who chose on luxuries to sup, 
 
 J 2 
 
114 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 But Highland stomachs well can spare 
 All such outlandish traishtrie fare. 
 
 The boy near Donald had his seat, 
 His heart was full — he could not eat, 
 'Midst all this din and Highland splore, 
 His eyes with tears were brimming o'er; 
 This Donald saw — experience weel 
 Had taught him for the bairn to feel; 
 He rose — he took his hand and led 
 Into another room or shed. 
 It was no more, but here the pair 
 Might undisturbed communion share. 
 
 A fire upon the hearth burned bright. 
 And Donald called for candle-light. 
 It came, and with it (not unsought,) 
 A bowl of whiskey -punch was brought, 
 Then Donald filled him up a horn, 
 Cried, ^'success to our search the morn," 
 Then to the brim he filled the cup. 
 And press'd the boy to quaff it up, 
 '^Drink, drink," said he, 'Hhis will impart, 
 Fresh gladness to your sinking heart." 
 
 And Donald drank, and crack'd and smiled, 
 Was half seas o'er — ditto the child. 
 The last, to such sensations new. 
 Found all that Donald said was true, 
 He was relieved of half his trouble, 
 
THE LOST CHILD. 115 
 
 But to his eyes the light burn'd double. 
 The shed spun. round — he left his seat, 
 But scarcely could he keep his feet, 
 Somehow to Donald's side he stray'd, 
 And with his dirk and wallet play'd. 
 He climbed his knee — he stood upon it, 
 And tried to catch his auld blue bonnet. 
 Rubbed till it bled his tender skin. 
 Upon the bristles of his chin, 
 Nor was that member which projected 
 Forth from his visage more respected, 
 Up to its height his form he drew, 
 Saying '^Donald, I'm as big as you." 
 
 What further freaks and cantraips wild. 
 
 Had passed between the man and child, 
 
 'Tween this debut and dawning morn, 
 
 Assisted by John Barleycorn, 
 
 In truth, can never be declared. 
 
 For now a voice out doors is heard; 
 
 'Twas Campbell spoke, and held a light— 
 
 '•'Take heed the step — haud to the right,'' 
 
 Of opening latch there was a din, 
 
 And straight the Reverend Sire steptin. 
 
 Pleasure was glistening in his eyes. 
 
 Contending with extreme surprise; 
 
 ^'James," said he, in a tone severe, 
 
 "•Where have you been?— what do you here?" 
 
 The boy towards his father flew, 
 
 And clasped his knees, and there he grew, 
 
1 1 6 THE LOST CHILD, 
 
 'Till raised up with a fathers joy, 
 Who fondly press'd his truant boy. 
 
 ''•Ye see, sir," Donald thus began, 
 "'Twas I that found the little man. 
 He tint his gaet — his toddling feet, 
 Had wandered mony a weary street. 
 And though he trudged another mile, 
 I brought him here to the Argyle; 
 The bairn is safe and sound, and well, 
 As truly ye may see yoursel." 
 
 This explanation true but brief. 
 
 Gave to the father's heart relief. 
 
 He crossed the floor and warmly pressed 
 
 The aged clansman to his breast. 
 
 Then shook his hand with warmth and glee, 
 
 "Accept a father's thanks," said he, 
 
 "And may your heart ne'er know the blight, 
 
 Your kindness has relieved this night." 
 
 Then Donald mournful hung his head, 
 A tear drop swam on either lid ; — 
 "I had a callan o' my ain — 
 (Here Donald fetched a heavy grane,) 
 He was our only one^'' he cried — 
 ''Alas! he sickened — drooped — and died. 
 And since they laid him in the ground, 
 Nae peace, nor joy has Donald found; 
 My wife, that wi' a mother's pride, 
 
THE LOST CHILD. 117 
 
 Blythely her busy needle plied, 
 Now o'er her wark in silence, stray 
 Her drapping tears — they seem to say — 
 ^Wha is there left, that I should sew 
 My fingers to the bane for noo?' 
 The owlet on some neighb'ring tree, 
 Wi' fearful bodings, wakens me. 
 The chirping crickets a' hae gane, 
 Awa frae my unbless'd hearth-stane,* 
 To me nor kith nor kin are known, 
 In this wide world I stand alone. 
 There's none to whom I can confide 
 My worldly griefs since Hamish died. 
 
 I like this callen weel, and fain 
 Wad busk and tend him as my ain, 
 And oh ! were the bit bairnie free, 
 To range the heather hills wi' me. 
 To woo contentment back — to bide 
 Her am pet lamb by Cathleen's side; 
 And when frae earth we disappear 
 Beneath the clod — to baud the gear; 
 What say ye frien?— ye hae the claim. 
 Belike ye hae mair bairns at hame." 
 
 The pathos of this Nature's child. 
 The parent of some tears beguiled. 
 One rising sob or two confessed. 
 The passion lab'ring at his breast. 
 To keep his child, he formed a plan. 
 
 "^Highland superstitions. 
 
Il6 THK LOST CHILD. 
 
 Yet not to wound the honest man, 
 He wiped the moisture from his cheek, 
 And strove, but vainly strove to speak. 
 
 At length with harsh and husky voice, 
 ^'The boy," he said, ^'must have his choice, 
 This does his weal or woe regard, 
 His also should be the award;" 
 Nature he knew, beyond a doubt, 
 Within his bosom would speak out, 
 "You hear what your friend Donald says, 
 Will you go to the heather braes. 
 And bide with him, and hunt the deer; 
 Or choose you still to sojourn here?" 
 A startled ear the youngster lent, 
 He wondered what his father meant, 
 His changeful color witness bore, 
 To hopes and fears ne'er known before; 
 With trembling heart and streaming eye, 
 "•Oh! take me hame," exclaimed the boy, 
 ''I'll bide with you and with no other. 
 Oh! take me, take me to my mother." 
 
 A debt had yet remained unpaid, 
 
 Which graver matters had delayed. 
 
 Some words were dropped that might regard. 
 
 Services rendered, and reward; 
 
 Some sheenies from his slender hoard 
 
 He took and placed them on the board. 
 
THE LOST CHILD. t 1 9 
 
 The honest Highlandman ('twas plain,) 
 Beheld this with supreme disdain, 
 His native pride was sorely stung, 
 He checked it ere it found a tongue; 
 ^^Na, na, lad put the siller back, 
 I wad be laith to touch a plack, 
 I hae eneugh at hame, wi' care 
 To last my time, and some to spare, 
 'Twere vanity for more to yearn, 
 Eneugh, that you have found your bairn. 
 
 We read a wise apostle hath 
 Found care and travail in man's path. 
 Why should I hope then to be free 
 From this sad lot, this stern decree; 
 And since the bairnie does na care. 
 My cot and humble means to share, 
 Aweel, aweel, nae mair I'll say; 
 But bear the dool as best I may." 
 
 But time will part the kindest men. 
 The Glasgow clocks were chappin ten. 
 The father gave him his address, 
 "I trust," said he, '•^I need not press. 
 Since now my whereabout is known, 
 That you will make my house your own." 
 
 Donald the invitation heard. 
 
 And to embrace it pledged his word. 
 
120 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 Nay, more, when town he next should reach, 
 To gang to kh'k, and hear him preach. 
 
 They rose and for a moment stood, 
 For Donald in a pleasant mood, 
 ••^You shall not stir to-night," said he, 
 "Until you taste the Barleybree;" 
 This done, a kind farewell was taken. 
 And hands again were warmly shaken; 
 He waited on them to the door. 
 They ne'er saw honest Donald more! 
 
A LETTER 
 
 FROM A 
 
 THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR, 
 
 TO J. ROSS BROWN, 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS CONFESSIONS OF A QUACK, &C. 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 This Letter comes from one unknown, 
 Its drift, is in the sequel shown: — 
 Fm one, who have for many a year. 
 Practiced Thompsonian physic here, — 
 Who stand convicted, one of those. 
 Whom your book threatens to expose. 
 
 Your sentiments, I own, are fine: 
 Now prithee, brother, list to mine, — 
 For by your verbiage, sir, I see. 
 You are a sprig of the same tree. 
 
 Much merit in your work I trace, 
 But 'tis in physic, out of place. 
 An Indian or a German quack, 
 Will shew you, sir, on the wrong tact. 
 
122 LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 
 
 And tho', my friend, you claim the bays, 
 We get the money — you the praise. 
 
 You cure your patient — very well; 
 Who cares the expected feat to tell. 
 But a Thompsonian's cure is rung 
 From hearth to hearth, from tongue to tongue; 
 For human nature will not change 
 Its love for marvellous and strange: 
 'Tis so in this, our western clime; 
 'Twas so in great Sangrado's time. 
 The people hold those Doctors fools, 
 Whose genius need the aid of schools; 
 They will not from the point be driven, 
 That Doctors are the gift of Heaven. 
 Quackery will hence its ground maintain, 
 Whilst it secures its votaries gain. 
 We hand out drugs — whilst, for the trash, 
 Our simple patients give the cash. 
 
 1 ask you, sir, to lend your ear, 
 ril make a bold proposal here. 
 You are in years but young, I'm told. 
 In wisdom only you are old. 
 Why should you waste your precious youth 
 In arts and sciences uncouth? 
 Till but of life the dregs remains, 
 Nor spare your health nor count your gains. 
 
 This little book, which boasts the claim 
 Of great professor Thompson's name, 
 
LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. J 23 
 
 Your competence through life secures, 
 For twenty dollars it is yours. 
 The license, too, it will secure, 
 To kill your patients or to cure. 
 
 Our number six, and one, two, three. 
 Are drugs of sovereign potency. 
 They cure complaints of every name — 
 At least we say so — 'tis the same; 
 The grave will not disgorge its dead. 
 To chase our slumbers from our bed. 
 
 Our Legislators, it w^ould seem. 
 Are friendly to the power of steam; 
 Else for their good, who do elect them, 
 They from their folly w-ould protect them. 
 
 Did leisure serve, it might be shown 
 Men are mere children overgrown. 
 And may be caught, when angling wand 
 Is put into a dext'rous hand. 
 For this we flattery impart: 
 This key unlocks the inmost heart; 
 Add money to the printer's store. 
 Our graceless puffs will bring us more; . 
 Shew promptitude to every call. 
 Be all things to all men, saith Paul. 
 
 That you our schemes may understand. 
 In gamester's phrase, I'll shew my hand, 
 
124 LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 
 
 Hoping that by such friendly aid, 
 You may be mov'd to join the trade. 
 Thus, from your scientific dream, 
 I rouse you by the power of steam. 
 That T/i*****?i was an ass is plain, 
 For crafty knaves to curb and rein, 
 Who, with nose prone toward the ground, 
 Some useless herb or two hath found. 
 By botanists long since made known. 
 And out of modern practice thrown. 
 He had no science, it is true, 
 But what is that to me or you? 
 Unblushingly we dare to claim 
 More than attach'd to Cullin's name; 
 Fearless the case and cure make out, 
 Where Rush would pause and Physic doubt; 
 And cure — no! — keep the patient ill! 
 Marking gradations by our bill. 
 
 I own that quack'ry is the pest. 
 The Upas, of this far-famed West; 
 Call not our practice, hence, absurd, 
 The people take us at our word: 
 They call, where'er there is to sell 
 Our panaceas^ mark'd '-Hook well^''^ 
 Our pills to purge the patient's purse, 
 Our drops to make his tooth-ache worse. 
 Nor blame if we amongst us share 
 That which the simpletons can spare; 
 Thus said the Dane — there might be worse 
 
LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 125 
 
 Advice — ^'put money in your purse." 
 To make our system yet more clear, 
 We add a few instructions here ; 
 This VADE-MECUM is au aid 
 To our young men beginning trade, 
 To such as fame and fortune seek; 
 Thus, like an oracle, we speak: 
 
 If with your patient you should see 
 Some hateful phantom — dubb'd M. D. — 
 Presumption here will sometimes fail. 
 But pow^der well, and do not quail; 
 Pause till the Doctor turns his back, 
 Insidiously make your attack. 
 Some well turn'd hints will shew your sense 
 And shake the patient's confidence. 
 
 If some indignant surly boor 
 Should kick you from your patient's door. 
 Such casualties will sometimes be! 
 But go not till you get your fee! 
 Try the back door, and make a rout — 
 Here impudence must bring you out. 
 
 This anecdote my words will aid, 
 That quack'ry is a gainful trade. 
 Perhaps the story is not new. 
 It has this merit — it is true 
 As that the world wheels on its axis, 
 Or that we die or pay our taxes. 
 
 K 2 
 
126 LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 
 
 In that great Babylonian mart, 
 Nam'd London on the British chart, 
 Two MEDiciNERs chanc'd to meet 
 One morning, in the public street. 
 One form supported both at school, 
 Under one village teacher's rule. 
 Friendship, in childhood thus began, 
 FaiPd not when each became a man; 
 But, journeying through life's dreary waste, 
 Their fortune varied and their taste. 
 
 'Twas Hkberden's to quaff his fill 
 At fam'd Castalia's limpid rill; 
 He caught from bright Philosophy 
 Her soaring wing and eagle eye; 
 In Edin's* halls, where science dwelt. 
 He, like a dervise, gaz'd and knelt. 
 Three winters here his powers he plies, 
 In medicine grown early wise. 
 And claim'd the parchment as his prize. 
 
 Such was young Heberden. But Hill 
 Was a tame floundering blockhead still; 
 Proud, vulgar, ignorant, and vain, 
 In short, a very quack in grain; 
 No knee of his he dar'd recline. 
 Except at Mammon's sordid shrine. 
 He was to no profession bred. 
 But was of quacks the potent head. 
 
 * Edinburgh's. 
 
tETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. I 27 
 
 Said Heberdon, ^'before we part, 
 Tell me the secret of your art; 
 Urg'd by no feelings to explore 
 The sacred tomes of classic lore, 
 Careless in manners and address, 
 Whence comes your wonderful success? 
 For, like that fabled king of old, 
 Whate'er you touch is turn'd to gold." 
 The fellow smil'd as thus he spoke, 
 (He, next to money, lov'd a joke:) 
 '^How many persons, think you, may 
 Have pass'd us since we met to-day?" 
 Musing — his friend replied at last, 
 '^Perhaps a hundred may have pass'd." 
 ^'' Again — how many of that throng 
 Are skill 'd to judge the right from wrong? 
 I mean, how many of that crowd 
 Has God with common sense endow'd?" 
 "Why, two, perhaps, or thereabout." 
 "Just so, said Hill, "the thing's made out: 
 The ninety-eight are mine — the two — 
 They are your right — they go to you." 
 
 For us, new countries are the best, 
 Hence we perch down in this far West; 
 This is, despite of your attacks, 
 A famous stamping-ground for quacks. 
 Empiricism here takes root. 
 And soon becomes a thriving shoot — 
 And, warm'd by public favor, throws 
 Abroad its foliage and its boughs. 
 
128 LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 
 
 But quack'ry is not, to my mind, 
 Alone to medicine confin'd; 
 Though this can boast, warm and alive, 
 The busiest swarm, the fullest hive. 
 In other useful arts we find 
 Much ignorance with craft combin'd. 
 
 One had a patent-right to sell — 
 No matter what — the thing work*d well. 
 One of the thousand — it was rated — 
 Wherewith the West is inundated. 
 It seem'd to be the fellow's wish, 
 To sell quick — who cries stinking fish — 
 Not he — he prais'd with wily art 
 The whole machine, and now each part; 
 The sharper even was heard to say, 
 Nothing like this since Fulton's day. 
 An aged bye-stander, who had 
 Seen cogs and wheels run round like mad, 
 And heard the fellow strain his throat, 
 But judg'd his ware not worth a groat. 
 Fair, to the man of whirls thus spoke, 
 Fearful his anger to provoke: 
 Hf to advise you, friend, I dare. 
 To Europe take your precious ware — 
 Let cocknies, and Parisians too. 
 Your wonderful invention view; 
 Before such connoisseurs display'd. 
 Your name is up — your fortune's made." 
 The man display'd a lengthen'd phiz. 
 
LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 1 29 
 
 Thinking this hint conceal'd a quiz. 
 '^Friend, your adyice is good," said he, 
 "And yet, I fear to cross the sea; 
 And my machine, I guess ^ works best 
 With our own people in the West. 
 
 On thousands now we might remark 
 Jostling and stumbhng in the dark 
 Immedicable ails — who say 
 They cure at sight — no cure, no pay. 
 Some, like foul insects, buzz and sting, 
 Then straight are lost upon the wing. 
 
 Of that vain host who court inspection. 
 One will suffice for our dissection; 
 The last but not the least of those 
 Who kindly seek to interpose 
 'Tween man and his morbific ills. 
 Is B******"**", and his purging pills. 
 By sleight of hand, the Doctor!! puts 
 All human ailments in the g — ts. 
 That we may crave his aid, no doubt. 
 To work the rabid monster out. 
 Well, let it pass — we would not hit 
 The wight who only begs a bit. 
 We would not charge a blunderbus 
 To fright or harm the mountain mus. 
 As means of cure, we dare to say, 
 Pills are the folly of the day. 
 
1 30 LETTER FROM A THOMPSONIAN DOCTOR. 
 
 That purgatives are good, we hold, 
 As Hamilton* hath wisely told: 
 In skillful hands they may be made 
 Other, more powerful, means to aid; 
 But yet, the leech's skill must find 
 The where — the when — and of what kind. 
 
 From this small fry — who wield their scath 
 In aid of the stern tyrant, Death, 
 Who, with a bold, and reckless hand, 
 Seize life's brief glass and shake the sand, 
 To Europe now we turn our eyes, 
 Where vaster human monsters rise. 
 Messmer and Perkins could not last. 
 Their game is play 'd— their day is past: 
 The first appears in bold relief, 
 The prince of CharJatcuns, and chief; 
 The great — the learn'd — the grave — the gay, 
 Flock'd to his rooms, and own'd his sway; 
 With nobles he in splendor vied: 
 Swindled— gain'd stores of wealth— and died. 
 The tractors^ too, not worth a groat. 
 Per pair, five guineas, sterling, brought, 
 Sleep with their vender in the tomb, 
 For Thompson's system to make room, 
 Which — like its forerunners — alas! 
 Must, one day, to oblivion pass. 
 But, with bold front, and steady nerves. 
 We'll 'Hake the current whilst it serves^ 
 
 *Dr. Hamilton, of Edinburgh. 
 
A BOY'S EECOLLECTIONS 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 That men of talent and genius have larger heads 
 and a further development of its organs than individ- 
 uals differently constructed," is an opinion which phre- 
 nologists have announced to the world; and we have 
 nothing to offer in opposition, as the doctrine is- sup- 
 ported by internal evidence, and by a reference to 
 many analogies that we meet with in animated nature. 
 But after admitting this system to be true, the mystery 
 is, that men so highly and eminently endowed with 
 mental power and energy, should possess no capabili- 
 ties to ensure their own temporal welfare and happi- 
 ness, beyond the commonest peasant, or the most un- 
 cultivated boor; this is a fact that would humble the 
 pride, as it would startle the credulity of mankind, did 
 not a.lmost daily observation furnish the most conclu- 
 sive affirmation of its truth. One would naturally sup- 
 pose, that the first and highest effort of intellectual 
 power would be to secure its own repose; to ward off 
 
132 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 the covert attacks of petty intrigue and cunning; to 
 render itself invulnerable to folly and malice; to neu- 
 tralize, or render abortive, the hostile attacks of rival 
 ambition; to smooth av^ay annoyances and incumbran- 
 ces from its path, and to place itself in an envied and 
 elevated situation amongst men. But how does the 
 case actually stand? We need hardly refer here to 
 the numerous publications that have detailed the mis- 
 eries and afflictions of that unhappy class of men 
 called authors^ to put the question at rest. Every 
 man of observation can look abroad upon the world, 
 and judge for himself. 
 
 The case of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire plough- 
 man, is very strikingly in point. I need not say who 
 or what the subject of this article was. Few writers 
 are better known to the world than our author, and 
 few biographies are better understood and recollected 
 than his. Claiming no higher origin than that of a 
 peasant^ and but little indebted to education, by the 
 mere dint of original talent, he entered the lists and 
 bore off the highest honors, in a country very remark- 
 able for illustrious men. Amongst the distinguished 
 writers of Scotland, Burns alone, comparing his oppor- 
 tunities with his acquirements, was considered a prod- 
 igy. But let us look at the reverse of the medal: 
 here nature, as if she regretted the prodigality of her 
 hand, made him proud, irascible, and melancholy — '•^a 
 man of sorrows^ and acquainted ivith grief.'''' Misera- 
 ble in life, and predestined to a premature death. 
 
 That Burns was unfortunate, is a fact known to 
 most men who lived in Scotland in his day; but it is 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 133 
 
 very uncharitable, as well as unjust, to ascribe the 
 fault to his own misconduct. Burns did not make the 
 circumstances of his life — he was their victim. Amongst 
 other ungrounded charges against the poet, I have 
 heard it stated, both before and since his death, that 
 his disposition was remarkably profuse — that he would 
 scatter money from his hand like chaff before the 
 wind; but such an opinion is altogether gratuitous — 
 alas! poor Burns never had it in his power to make 
 the experiment. 
 
 Tbat tide which, in the language of Shakspeare, 
 comes to most men, never set in to him. His whole 
 life was ^^bound in shallows and in misery^ Having 
 known this celebrated but unfortunate man in my ear- 
 liest childhood, and being assisted by a memory none 
 of the worst, I am enabled at this distant day to record 
 the following facts, many of which came under my 
 own personal observation, and for some of the others 
 I am of course indebted to tradition. 
 
 Burns was born in the year 1759, near the town of 
 Ayr, in Scotland. In his infancy he was subjected to 
 all the privations incident to his humble situation in 
 life. In his celebrated poem of the '-'Cotter's Saturday 
 Night," which first introduced him to the notice of 
 Mrs. Dunlap, we are made acquainted with the vener- 
 able author of his being, from whom it is impossible to 
 withhold our affection, for he is described as a hus- 
 bandman, a patriarch, and a christian. In his earliest 
 years he worked with this parent, who was a small 
 farmer and gardener; but every moment not thus em- 
 ployed, was devoted to books. In this time, he read 
 
 L 
 
134 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 some of the best English poets, for which he was in* 
 debted to some of the neighboring gentry. His taste 
 for poetry, we may reasonably conclude, was formed 
 at this early period of his life. At one time, he in- 
 forms us, he was working on the farm, and a '''•bonnie 
 lass," the daughter of a neighboring peasant, assisted 
 him in getting in the hay harvest. Burns labored with 
 a sturdy arm, but at the same time his eye was not 
 idle. The charms of his rustic co-laborer made a deep 
 impression on his heart; and at the same moment, says 
 he, '^I became a lover and a poet. His address to a 
 mouse, upon turning one up with his plough, written 
 about the same time, is another proof of his early de- 
 votion to the Muse. 
 
 He received the merest elements of a scholastic ed- 
 ucation from a respectable Scotch teacher, Mr. Mur- 
 doch; and in acknowledging this, he discharges all 
 the obligations that he ever owed to schools or peda- 
 gogues. One of his juvenile poems makes each verse 
 to end with '-^and PR to my Latin again^^ but we are 
 warranted in saying that he never made much hand 
 of it. He might have progressed as far as the verb 
 amo. In his after life he certainly played upon all the 
 inflections of this verb; and he says himself -^all the 
 /a^m 1 know amounts to '•Omnia vincit amor.'''''' He 
 had also acquired a smattering of French, and with 
 this he sometimes played the pedant amongst his rustic 
 companions, and even in higher society. It is curious 
 to mark the workings of ambition, in the bosom of 
 young genius. Upon these stilts Burns was wont to 
 elevate himself, until passion and poesy asserted their 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OK ROBERT BURNS. 135 
 
 abiding empire in his soul. He then cast them from 
 him, and walked forth in the majesty of his own na- 
 tive strength. 
 
 But poverty, ^Hhat hungry^ meagre fiend ivas at his 
 heels. ''^ With all the industry and economy that could 
 be used, his fathers means were found to be inadequate 
 to the support of his family; and, in a short time, we 
 find our poet engaged as a flax dresser at Irvine. Not 
 only was he so employed, but he was also his own 
 purveyor and cook: for we find him upon one occa- 
 sion writing to his father, "my meal is almost out.*' 
 Most men would consider this a siuation of real and 
 substantial misery; but poverty seems at that time to 
 have made little impression on the heart of Burns — it 
 was his birthright. He utters no complaint — and we 
 find him taxing his very limited means to contribute a 
 small sum to organize a circulating library; and he 
 relates, as a strong proof of the taste of the Scottish 
 peasantry, that the books purchased were all of the 
 most select kind; he particularly mentioned Gold- 
 smith's works, and Mackenzie's Man of Feeling, and 
 Mirror. But from this situation, whatever might have 
 been its joys or its sorrows, he was driven by a fire, 
 that totally destroyed his property. He now engaged, 
 in conjunction with his younger brother, in the culti- 
 vation of a small farm; but in this enterprize, also, he 
 was unsuccessful. 
 
 So miserable, so utterly hopeless, was the poverty 
 of Burns at this period, that a female, for whom he 
 had formed a real and lasting affection, was refused to 
 him by her father, (himself a tailor, in very humble cir- 
 
136 RECOLLfiCTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 cumstances,) so that he had now to add the affliction 
 of disappointed love to the other frowns of fortune. 
 In the midst of these disastrous circumstances, he 
 sought to emigrate to the West Indies, where the situ- 
 ation of an under overseer could be obtained for him; 
 he had actually engaged his passage, when a letter ar- 
 rived to him from Dr. Blacklock, which removed all 
 ideas of leaving his native country. This urged him 
 immediately to go to the Scottish Metropolis, and 
 there to publish an edition of his works. The Kilmar- 
 nock edition of his poems had preceded the arrival of 
 the poet in Edinburgh, and he himself was received 
 with a true highland welcome. A Scottish Bard! the 
 only one who had appeared since the days of Ramsay 
 and Ferguson — but how much greater than these! 
 He was followed, and his sobriquet pronounced by the 
 rabble in the street. But how^ much more flattering 
 was his reception in the highest circles of fashion. 
 Here he was courted, flattered, and honored; he was 
 patronized by the great, and caressed by the fair. For 
 twelve months his life passed in a continual round of 
 amusement, pleasure, and dissipation. Well might his 
 native muse have said to him at this time — 
 
 I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play, 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
 Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 
 
 And passion driven; 
 But still the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven. 
 
 But life cannot all be spent in one continued round 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 137 
 
 of dissipation and pleasure. He felt that he had some- 
 thing more to do with his existence, besides merely to 
 enjoy it. With this reflection, he aroused himself 
 from his apathy, and with the remains of £500 ster- 
 ling in his pocket, which the Edinburgh edition of his 
 poems netted him, he turned his back upon his beloved 
 auld Reeky^ where, in truth, he could have been con- 
 tent to have remained forever. 
 
 Burns had never before been master of so large a 
 sum of money. His fame was also now loudly trum- 
 peted abroad. The proud and surly tailor, who had 
 formerly rejected an alliance with one so poor and desti- 
 tute, now testified his w^illingness to receive him as his 
 son-in-law. To this he might have been incited by 
 the increasing prosperity of the poet; but it is more 
 reasonable to suppose that he was brought to it by the 
 situation of his daughter, who had loved "not wisely 
 but too well." They were married, and Burns took 
 to his bosom the mother of his infant, under the sanc- 
 tioned and sanctified name of Mrs. Burns. His 
 country had lauded him as a genius and a poet. It 
 depended upon himself to earn the more solid and sub- 
 stantial reputation of an honest man^ and he cheerfully 
 paid the price. 
 
 Mrs. Burns' youthful indiscretion was her last, was 
 her only one; in the sequel, she proved herself to be 
 the most admirable of wives, the most affectionate and 
 judicious of mothers; her really handsome and youth- 
 ful husband ever lorded it supremely over her heart; 
 it was he who commanded its pulses to play freely, or 
 to retard their motion. She felt to him eternal grati- 
 L 2 
 
138 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tude, who had possessed the magnanimity to repose 
 unwavering confidence in her honor — who had re- 
 moved her from her forlorn and trying situation, aad 
 given her a name and standing among the respectable 
 of her own sex. She was not only legally his wife, 
 but by affection his guide, his counsellor, and friend. 
 To this beloved woman he would freely lay open all 
 the avenues of his heart; to her he confessed its weak- 
 nesses, its wanderings, and its depravity — his prone- 
 ness to ebriety, and what is more difficult for a woman 
 to forgive, his lapses in conjugal fidelity. From her 
 eyes the tears of bitter sorrow would fall in silence 
 and in secret: but, smiling through her tears, she nev- 
 er failed to utter words of compassion and forgiveness 
 to her despairing and penitent husband. 
 
 But it was necessary that he should be finally set- 
 tled in life, and that he should make provision for a 
 young and increasing family. He therefore took a 
 lease upon a small farm, six miles from Dumfries, on 
 the south of the river Nith, called Ellsland; and thither 
 he removed his family and effects. Here he was to 
 be often found, between the handles of his plough, 
 turning up the moorland glebe, or with a lusty arm 
 gathering in or stacking his harvest. He was, in short, 
 '•'-good easy man^ full surely^ Here, for a time, life 
 glided on smoothly enough. He would crack his joke 
 wi' a neebor — canter upon his auld meer Maggy — 
 would croon over his song, '-I hae a wife o' my ain" — 
 would cast his line into the purling brook, and draw 
 from thence the silver trout — and, most delightful of 
 all, would often be found intriguing with his Muse 
 
^ 
 
 aECOLLECTIONS of ROBERT BURNS. 139 
 
 But, whatever was the cause, nothmg ever long suc- 
 ceeded with Burns. .We find him, in his letters to 
 'Mrs. Dunlop and his brother Gilbert, expressing thus 
 the bitterness ot his heart — '-were this d — d farm once 
 off my hands; could I get clear of this cursed lease" — 
 in short, after endeavoring, without success, to sup- 
 port his family, for three years and a half, by agriculture, 
 he found means to give his farm up to its proprietor; 
 and in that act he resigned his patrimonial inheri- 
 tance of the plough forever! With no other depend- 
 ance^but his recently obtained office ofGuager, which 
 yielded him a miserable pittance of some £40 or £50 
 per annum, he removed to the neighboring town of 
 Dumfries, where he rented a small two story house, at 
 the foot of what was then caUed the Sfiort Venal^ and 
 here he exercised the truly incompatible employments 
 of poet and subaltern exciseman. And here we must 
 express our utter astonishment, that such an office 
 should have been given to such a man. Could no better 
 employment be found for the greatest genius in Scot-*"" 
 land — for the poet of nature and of the heart — than 
 that of ivatching stills and hunting smugglei^s? Did 
 none of his great friends suggest to the poet the per- 
 fect discrepancy attached to this? The poet himself 
 felt sensible of the disgrace which devolved upon him 
 by his office. In a letter to Dr. Blacklock, he thus ex- 
 presses himself: 
 
 But what d'ye think, my trusty fier? 
 I am turned a Guager, (peace be here!) 
 Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 
 
 Ye'll now disdain me! 
 And then my fifty pounds a year 
 Will little gain me. 
 
140 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns was now, by his duties as a Guager, placed 
 in daily association with the fraternity of excisemen, 
 a class that has at no time been remarkably distin- 
 guished for moral honesty. It has ever been the poli- 
 cy of the British government to select the members 
 of the excise from each of the three sister kingdoms, 
 in order that they might be a check, one upon the 
 other. But although each member retained, in per- 
 fection, the prejudices of the country where he was 
 born, in one thing they all agreed, and that was, to 
 set their wits in full operation to cheat his Royal Ma- 
 jesty, the King. Burns, although he was never known 
 to participate with them in their malpractices, had yet 
 sagacity enough to penetrate fully into the character 
 of others; and sometimes, when he was the "-'war o' 
 drink," he would give them intimation that he knew 
 his men: by such means he had brought upon himself 
 the sobriquet of ''•Johnny Peep." 
 
 Mr. Alexander Affleck, a celebrated performer on 
 the violin, and. like myself, a native of Dumfries, but 
 now residing iu Louisville, Ky., has furnished me with 
 the two following anecdotes of the subject of this ar- 
 ticle, which are so characteristic, that I cannot resist 
 the pleasure of giving them a place here. I am not 
 aware that either of them has ever before been in 
 print. I cannot improve upon the style of Mr. Af- 
 fleck, and therefore give them to my readers in his 
 own language. 
 
 ••'Rab (says my informant) was ae day sauntering 
 doon the Short Venal, and was met by three o' his 
 brither excisemen. Ane o' them was an Englisher 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 141 
 
 and a poet. A proposal was made, and met with nae 
 dissenting voice, that they should repair to a public 
 hoose, and there partake o' a drap o' the peetreek; 
 nae sooner said than done. Here their potations soon 
 becam sae deep, that nane o' them could hae tald the 
 reek o* his mithers lum. Their reckoning amounted 
 to seven and six pence, or three half croons. Ane 
 o' them made a proposal, that wha'e'er should come 
 afTwi' the best verse o' poetry, appropriate to the 
 occasion, should gang clear o' the score. Rab was 
 far gane. Johnny Peep had nae peepers left — 
 he was totally blin' — his heed had lost its perpen- 
 deecular, and was every noo and then seeking a bet- 
 ter acquaintance wi' his knees. Yet, wi' some inter- 
 ruptions o' voice, he delivered the following, whilk 
 shows that poetry in him was no an art, but a gift o' 
 nature : 
 
 I, Johnny Peep, saw three sheep, 
 
 And the three sheep saw me; 
 
 Half a croon a-piece will pay for the fleece; 
 
 And I, Johnny Peep go free. 
 
 ^'Aweel!" says Mr. Affleck, "sin' we are on the sub- 
 ject, I'll e'en gie 3^e anither: 
 
 "Robin had ae day risen frae his bed afflicted wi' 
 the blue deevils. To drive them aff, he just strolled 
 across the auld brig, as far as the brig end; when 
 there, finding himsel' nae better, he keepit doon the 
 ither side o' the Nith, as far as the village o' Troquoer. 
 In the kirk-yard he saw his auld acquaintance. Jemmy 
 Todd, digging oot a fresh grave. 'Jemmy,' said 
 
142 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Rabin, '-dinna ye think yeM handle that spade better 
 gin ye had a glass o' brandy?' Jetnmy said that he 
 did nae doot that he wad. The preliminaries thus set- 
 .tled, they I'epaired into the village tavern, and called 
 for a stoop, whilk was soon followed by ithers, until 
 they baith gat roaring fu'. ^Jenimy,'at last said our poet, 
 ^had ye nae better gang aw^a and finish that grave?' 
 ^Aye,' said his companion, ^I maun do that' When 
 they gat again into the kirk-yard. Jemmy was entirely 
 helpless. His legs refused to gie him support, and he 
 measured his length close by a tomb-stane. This ac- 
 cident pat into Rab's heed anither whigmeleerie. Wi' 
 some little trouble, he couped Jemmy o'er beneath the 
 head-stane, and taking a bit o' chalk whilk he found in 
 his pouch, he wrote upon the grave-stane — 
 
 Here lies Jemmy Todd — 
 
 Not deed — but drunk, by G — d!" 
 
 The funeral procession arrived some little time af- 
 terwards, and they were extremely shocked and sur- 
 prised to find the grave unfinished. But their lugubri- 
 ous faces were changed to a grin, in spite of the so- 
 lemnity of the occasion, when they discovered the 
 grave-digger under the tomb-stone, and read the in- 
 scription which revealed the mystery. 
 
 Dumfries is a royal burg, and is the chief town of 
 the county of the same name. It is seated on the 
 east bank of the river Nith. The pleasantness of its 
 locality renders it the centre of fashion and gaiety for 
 all the south west part of Scotland. In this town, the 
 writer of this article was born, and here it was that 
 he first formed an acquaintance with the celebrated 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 143 
 
 man some particulars of whose unfortunate life he 
 briefly traces. A strange acquaintance truly it may 
 be called; but such an one as a mere child, some six 
 or seven years of age, may be supposed, under favor- 
 able circumstances, to form with a man at least five 
 and twenty years his senior. It was fashionable in 
 Dumfries for the gentlemen to spend their evenings at 
 the dock, playing at the game of gowff on golf . The 
 dock is an oblong green on the banks of the river Nith, 
 which is not only used as a fashionable promenade, 
 but as a place where '^bonny lasses bleach their claes." 
 When the school boys heard ihe welcome words from 
 their master '-you may go," they usually made either 
 to the Nith, where they were immediately immersed 
 to the neck in water, or would choose the dock, to run 
 after the balls of those who were engaged in the game. 
 It was here I first saw Burns, who was pointed out to 
 me by a school-mate. Shortly after this, the poet en- 
 tered his eldest son, Robert, as a pupil at our school, 
 in the kirk-gate, under the direction of my father, the 
 Rev. Mr. M'Conochie, who w^as a minister upon the 
 Scotch establishment^ and a licentiate of the Presby- 
 tery of Edinburgh. It is to this pupil, and this pre- 
 ceptor, that the poet alludes in a letter to his constant 
 friend, Mrs. Dunlop, where he says: '•^Robert is in- 
 deed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw; he has 
 a most surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his 
 instructor." The poet here forms no very exaggerated 
 estimate of the virtues of his child. He was in truth 
 a remarkably quiet, docile, and goodnatured boy. 
 During the time that we sat upon the same form, al- 
 
144 RECOLLFX'TIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 though he was often reprimanded for idleness,! do not 
 recollect that he ever received the taws. Should his 
 eye ever rest upon these pages, he W\\\ probably re- 
 collect the wee callan who sometimes assisted him in 
 his task; and if his heart is still as good as at that time 
 it promised to be, he will feel gratified that there is 
 yet another who sympathises with him in the same 
 grateful recollections. 
 
 At what time the muse of Caledonia, Caoli by name, 
 visited our poet, he has failed to inform us; but as he 
 derived inspiration from her visit, it must have been at 
 an early period of his life; probably whilst he inhabit- 
 ed his paternal domicil, near the town of Ayr; and a 
 bold and confident muse she was. I question wheth- 
 er any muse of the present day, especially any of the 
 American divinities, would venture her foot across 
 the doorsill of a poet so wretchedly lodged; for the 
 bard himself, who has the best right to know, informs 
 us that it was an auld clay biggin^ addicted to smoking 
 and infested with rats. But our Caledonian immor- 
 tal is not troubled with squeamishness. She boldly 
 ventures in, without the ceremony of knocking, be- 
 cause the door, knowing that she was something 
 better than common, opened at her approach. But 
 let the poet tell his own story: 
 
 There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
 That fill'd wi' host-provoking smeek 
 
 The auld clay biggin; 
 An' lieard the restless rattans squeak 
 
 About the riggin. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 145 
 
 In defiance of the smoky atmosphere which she could 
 only have tolerated by having been long accustomed 
 to Scotch kitchens and shealings, she goes on and 
 holds a long confabulation with the poet, which we 
 have not room here to insert, and, at length comes 
 to the subject of her mission: 
 
 "Andtcear thou this!" — she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round ray head; 
 The polish'd leaves and berries red 
 
 Did rustling play; 
 And like a passing thought she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
 The auld clay biggin! Yes — the auld clay higgin ! — 
 that the genius of Burns has consecrated — has ren- 
 dered a place o{ pilgrimage in Caledonia! — where is 
 the Scotchmen who does not feel prouder for having 
 stood on the spot where the poet of his country first 
 saw the light of day? 
 
 Burns' method of composing was altogether singu- 
 lar and extraordinary. Most writers have their reg- 
 ular and appropriate studio — where the arm-chair, 
 the ink-stand, and the port-folio, are always ready, 
 when they are disposed to pour forth the overflow- 
 ings of their mind upon the unstained sheet. It was 
 not so with Burns. He was the poet of nature — 
 and his genius was not to be cramped within the 
 compass of four stone walls. In peregrinating, with 
 his hands behind him, in his back yard; in his soli- 
 tary rambles on the banks of the winding Nith; in 
 his piscatory adventures — his head comfortably cased 
 in a fur cap, seated on a stone, and casting an oc- 
 
146 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 casional eye to the evolutions of his cork; in scam- 
 pering upon his shelty amongst the hills — his inkhorn 
 dangling from a button — measuring casks and barrels, 
 in his profession of a guager: it was in these and 
 similar exercises, that the happiest effusions of his 
 muse were presented to his mind. These he pon- 
 dered, revolved, and cogitated, and wrought the sub- 
 ject to its present perfection; so that, on arriving at 
 home, he had only to commit his thoughts to paper, 
 ready for the printer's ink to confer upon them im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Mrs. Burns has, upon one occasion, alluded to 
 this peculiar mode of study in her husband. He 
 was wanted and diligently sought, upon some partic- 
 ular occasion; at length he was seen in the fields, 
 some distance from the house, walking back and 
 forward with eager and rapid strides, so intently 
 concentrated as for some time to be insensible to 
 repeated calls. The subject that so entirely engrossed 
 him, was the following lines in the immortal poem of 
 "Tam O'Shanter" — a brain-birth of the last few min- 
 utes, which he repeated to his wife as an apology 
 for his absence of mind: 
 
 Now Tam, oh Tatn, had they been queens, 
 A' plump and strapping, in their 'teens; 
 Their sarlis, instead o' creeshie flanneu, 
 Been snaw-white seventeen hunder Unen! 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
 That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,. 
 I wad hae gi'en them afF my hurdies 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 147 
 
 Burns had one of the finest eyes that was ever 
 placed in a human head — it could have belonged 
 to no other person but Burns. It was a dark, full, 
 flashing eye, that gave full power to the predomin- 
 ant passion before he opened his lips. This was sur- 
 mounted by a forehead of great compass and height, 
 partly shaded by a profuse suit of black hair, which 
 must have curled in his childhood. His upper lip 
 was somewhat long, and marked by a fissure in the 
 middle. He had also the slight semblance of a dim- 
 ple on his chin, as if nature had attempted to touch 
 it with her finger, whilst the clay was soft, but drawn 
 back before the impression was complete. His height 
 was five feet ten inches, appearing rather less by a 
 stoop in his shoulders. For some years preceding 
 his death, he had become thin, and his complexion 
 was remarkably sallow. From home he generally 
 dressed well, and had the appearance of a substan- 
 tial Scotch country gentleman. 
 
 But all the exalted qualities of the mind, all the 
 acknowledged attractions of his person, were entire- 
 ly lost to their possessor by one fatal propensity, 
 which had marred all his worldly prospects, and even 
 shortened his passage to the grave. His friends had 
 long beheld with sorrow his habits of intemperate 
 conviviality, which, having been indulged for many 
 years, had now fixed itself upon his character wdth 
 the iron grasp of habit. He saw the ruin to which 
 he hastened; the dreadful impression was never long 
 absent from his mind — but he served a tyrant that 
 
148 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 would not set him free, and he must descend the de- 
 clivity, although he had a clear view of the gulf that 
 yawned at its bottom, which was to entomb him. His 
 conscience was deeply smitten; to the wife of his bos- 
 om he applied for consolation, and this excellent wom- 
 an mollified the wounds she knew to be incurable — 
 again he sinned, again to be forgiven. This was her 
 wisest course; she would not willingly exasperate a 
 disease which she sought out every means to cure. 
 
 Burns had for some years been the great lion of 
 Scotland, which every man who could afford a trip to 
 Dumfries must see. His own humble domicil, in the 
 Short Venal^ was not calculated, as may well be sup- 
 posed, for the reception of such promiscuous guests. 
 He was, therefore, usually invited by a polite note to 
 spend the evening at the George Inn or the King's 
 Arms, with Mr. so-and-so. Long after he had been 
 worn down and reduced by languor, disappointment, 
 and disease, he had not the fortitude to resist the se- 
 ductions of such invitations; and he has been often 
 known to stagger home in a state of dreadful intoxica- 
 tion, much after the hour of midnight, through the drift 
 or the snow, to his desolate wife, whose arms were 
 ever extended to receive him. His physicians beheld 
 with real alarm the ravages which his habits were 
 every day making more and more visible upon his 
 health; and as a last resource, they urged him to have 
 recourse to sea-bathing. In a few weeks he returned 
 from the sea-side, more exhausted than ever — -scarce- 
 ly, with the assistance of his weeping family, had he 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 149 
 
 Strength to ascend his stairs, and to cast himself upon 
 his bed, from which he was destined never more to 
 arise. Even to his last hour, the muse of Caledonia, 
 which constituted the solace and comfort of many a 
 bitter hour, had not forsaken him. To his weeping 
 wife, who sat in utter abandonment by his bedside, he 
 repeated, co?i ajnore^ the beautiful ballad, (remembered 
 no doubt by many of my readers,) which, coming from 
 a dying man, is inexpressibly touching and pathetic. 
 We have only room here for a few lines: 
 
 Fm wearing awa, Jean, 
 
 Like snaw wreath in thaw, Jean, 
 
 I'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn is there, Jean, 
 She was baWh gude and fair, Jean, 
 And we grudged her sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Dry your gushing ee, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels beckon me 
 
 To the laud o' the leal. 
 There's uae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's neither cold nor care, Jean, 
 The day's aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 For some days previous to the death of Burns, we 
 are told that Dumfries had the appearance of a be- 
 sieged town — a number of the stores were shut up, 
 and all business was suspended. In many places 
 might be seen groups of the inhabitants in serious and 
 earnest conversation, the engrossing subject being 
 
 M 2 
 
150 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 their unhappy townsman languishing upon the bed of 
 death, in the Short Venal. 
 
 "John," said the poet, to a friend who sat weeping 
 by his bed-side, the night before he died, '■'•dinna let the 
 'awkward squad' fire over me." These were nearly 
 his last words. He died on the 26th of July, 1796, at 
 the age of 37 years. His name will be enrolled for- 
 ever on the records of fame, with those of Chatterton, 
 White, and Byron, illustrious instances of premature 
 and precocious genius — poets who had gathered the 
 greenest and most blooming sprigs of ivy with a 
 youthful hand. He was buried in the cemetery of the 
 old church of Dumfries. What the poet had dreaded 
 actually happened: the Dumfries volunteers^ of which 
 he was a member, fired three irregular and scattering 
 vollies over his grave. A beautiful young creature 
 of fifteen, a daughter of Mrs. Dunlop, and a lineal de- 
 scendant of Scotland's champion, the great Sir William 
 Wallace, scattered roses from a basket upon his tomb. 
 We are fond of funereal honors — they mark, in a very 
 great degree, the moral standing of a nation. But we 
 look with a suspicious eye upon them in the present in- 
 stance — they seem, in some sort, intended to propitiate 
 the manes of one who, whilst living, had been but too 
 much neglected. Oh, ye great, and oh, ye little, of 
 ancient Caledonia! ye have been charged with hav- 
 ing withheld the hand of an adequate encouragement 
 from '•'the sweetest bard that ever breathed the soothing 
 strain''^ — a bard whose hopes, and joys, and loves, and 
 pleasures, were interminably interwoven with his dear, 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 151 
 
 native, romantic Scotland; who had no higher delight 
 than to wander amongst her frightful precipices — her 
 gloomy wastes — her smiling landscapes, and upon the 
 banks of her immortal streams; who poured forth his 
 ^^wood notes wild''' in the midst of her druidical monu- 
 ments, her baronial ruins, and the still regal turrets of 
 her ancient kings. A bard, it is most melancholy to 
 add, whom the coldness and parsimony of his native 
 country (it has been thought) hastened prematurely to 
 the tomb. 
 
 There was one idea that poisoned the tranquility of 
 Burns, even to his dying hour. His poor, helpless, de- 
 pendent family, what would become of them, after the 
 grave had closed upon his mortal remains? This 
 thought was gall and wormwood to his soul. It drove 
 him often into company, and occasioned many of the 
 excesses that shadowed his latter days. Happily, his 
 gloomiest anticipations were disappointed. His eldest 
 son, Robert, who had been destined to the humble oc- 
 cupation of a weaver, was, in some shape or other, 
 patronised by the Prince Regent, afterwards George 
 the Fourth. For several years he was a writer in one 
 of the offices in London; and is now, I am informed, 
 living in Dumfries. His second son, James Glencairn, 
 returned, some years ago, from India, laden with wealth, 
 and poured the golden stream into the lap of his ven- 
 erable and widowed mother. Mrs. Burns had for 
 some years received an annuity of a hundred pounds 
 sterling, from one of Scotland's and nature's proudest 
 nobles — one who understood the true use of riches. 
 With an independence that was worthy the widow of 
 
152 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns, upon this happy and unexpected tide in her af- 
 fairs, she wrote to her generous benefactress, and in the 
 most grateful terms requested a discontinuance of her 
 bounty, which was now unnecessary. 
 
 ••^He is a man of a very fine imagination." It is 
 thus that the world unceremoniously dismisses the 
 claims of a poet. Imagination! — and is that all? Is 
 it not true that all imagination must rest upon the su- 
 perstructure of judgment? Were Homei\ and Virgil^ 
 and Milton less distinguished, in their day, for the 
 power, and vigor, and originality of their minds, than 
 they were for its elegant fertility? As well might we 
 expect the cupola to support itself in the air without 
 the building, of which it is only an ornament. Is 
 not a well balanced mind that in which all the finer 
 faculties are developed, and is not such a mind neces- 
 sary to a poet? In the case of Burns, the matter 
 is not left to conjecture. Phrenology has demonstra 
 ted that Burns had one of the best developed heads 
 and it speaks truly. No man ever passed a social 
 hour in the company of Burns, and listened to his 
 bitter, biting, caustic Scotch humor — his treasures of 
 anecdote — the original power and singular combina- 
 tion of his thoughts — who lid not forget, for the time, 
 that he had ever written poetry. One of his biogra- 
 phers, Dr. Currie, says of him, '"-it has been my for- 
 tune to have been thrown, in the course of my life, 
 amongst some men who had gained celebrity for tal- 
 ents and literature: but never have I seen one who 
 so stf'ongly impressed me, even at first sights with the 
 power and vigor of his mind." A testimony more in 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. \bS 
 
 point, is that of Mrs. Riddle, herself a very fine writer, 
 and it will surprise, all those who have considered 
 Burns merely as a man of very fine imagination^ (i. e. 
 a poet) — 'Hhe truth is," says this lady, '-'-poetry was 
 really not Burns^ forte; in conversation he had no 
 rival; no man ever took me so completely off my feet 
 as Burns." If any further proof is necessary, I would 
 refer to his letters; a finer correspondence is no where 
 to be found than is furnished by the letters of Burns. 
 
 What might the poet have been under more 
 auspicious circumstances? The question has been 
 asked, but never, to my knowledge, answered. A 
 collegiate education might have added to his tenuity, 
 but would have imparted little to his strength. If he 
 had gained in refinem3nt, polish, and delicacy, he 
 would have lost in raciness, originality, and power. 
 Under such culture, he might have become one of 
 those writers, who, in his own admirable language, 
 draw their thread so fine that it is unfit for either weft 
 or woof. 
 
 In the midst of the most cheerless poverty, he ever 
 gave the most incontestible evidences of a kind and 
 generous heart. He invariably refused all compensa- 
 tion, although it was often urged upon him, for the 
 immortal lyrics furnished to Mr. George Thomson, 
 that first appeared in the Musical Miscellany of Edin- 
 burgh, which made a fortune for its editor. Will 
 my readers believe it! — this generous man, at the very 
 moment when he makes such sacrifices of personal 
 interest, is himself in want of a guinea! This fact 
 
154 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 we learn from the following lines, sent to Mr. Mitchell, 
 his superior in the excise, requesting a small anticipa- 
 tion of his quarter's salary: 
 
 Most modestly I fain wad hint it, 
 That one pound one I sairly want it, 
 If by the hizzy doon ye sent it, 
 
 It wad be kind; 
 And while my heart wi' life blood duuted, 
 
 I'd bear 't in mind. 
 
 It is difficult to restrain our tears, when we read so 
 humble a petition from so proud a spirit. 
 
 Notwithstanding the unfavorable opinion of the poet 
 Wordsworth and Mrs. Felicia Hemans, I believe that 
 Burns is destined to immortality. He has been a great 
 and unrequited benefactor to Scotland. Her peasant- 
 ry are particularly indebted to him for a large fund of 
 innocent amusement, in his admirable songs, which 
 have kept them lilting ever since they appeared. He 
 has renewed and perpetuated the Scottish dialect, 
 which, when he appeared, was on the decline. Had 
 he lived, his works would undoubtedly have been 
 greatly multiplied; as it is, he has done enough to ren- 
 der him dear to every Scottish heart. But it is not 
 alone by Scotchmen that he is beloved — he is an uni- 
 versal favorite. I have seen Americans weep when 
 Burns and his works were the subject of conversation. 
 Since the days of Shakspeare^ no poet has ever been 
 closer to nature — so perfectly true is every line that 
 he has written, as to awaken a corresponding echo in 
 every heart. His head^ whothpr it is examined by the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 155 
 
 Phrenologist, the Moralist, or the Metaphysician, will 
 be. pronounced a faultless piece of work. His heart 
 was flowing with one continuous stream of kindness 
 and affection. His works are the united progeny of 
 both. Such a character will always interest humanity, 
 It will be dear to every unsophisticated bosom, until 
 the fountains of nature are dried up, and truth shall 
 pass amongst mankind, as a mere hoUoiv empty sound. 
 
 The writer of this article must not omii to mention, 
 for the honor of his countrymen, that some years ago 
 a splendid monument was erected, in the old church- 
 yard of St. Michael, Dumfries, over the mouldering 
 ashes of Burns. It originally stood with no other in- 
 scription than that of his name: ^'•Burnsv" Some 
 poetical visiter to his tomb — with a rough hand, which 
 held a piece of black lead or other similar substance — 
 wrote, underneath, the following impromptu: 
 
 No epitaph is here required to scan 
 The mighty genius of the wondrous man — 
 "Burns" is enough, and if you want the rest, 
 You'll find it stamped in every Scottish breast. 
 
 Since that time a Latin inscription has been placed 
 upon the monument. 
 
 The author has many of his own relations moul- 
 dering into dust near to the last bourne of Robert 
 Burns, and on the same consecrated spot of earth. 
 He will here only mention Convenor, or Bailie John 
 Patterson and his wife, who were his maternal grand- 
 
156 RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 father and grandmother — several uncles, aunts, and 
 cousins, and five brothers and sisters. Should he ev^r 
 re-visit his native country, one great motive w^ould be 
 to pay his devotion at their tombs; but so many years 
 have passed over his head, '-'•far from the land where 
 his forefathers dwelt ^^"^ that this hardly deserves to be 
 named amongst probable events. 
 
DE. BEIJAMIN RUSH. 
 
 The subject of the following brief memoir, was 
 born on the 24th of December, 1745, on a small estate 
 belonging to his father, on Poquestion Creek, 12 miles 
 distant from Philadelphia. He received the elements 
 of his education from a preceptor by whom he was 
 greatly beloved, the Rev. Dr. John Finley. To this 
 distinguished teacher, America is indebted for one of 
 her most eminent physicians. It was in accordance 
 with his advice that young Rush abandoned the study 
 of law, in which he had been embarked a few w^eeks, 
 and commenced the study of that profession of which 
 he was destined to become one of the most distin- 
 guished ornaments. He was still young when he com- 
 menced his medical career with Dr. John Redman, of 
 Philadelphia, with whom he remained six years. In 
 the summer of 1766 he sailed for Europe, and re- 
 mained two years in the metropolis of Scotland, pros- 
 ecuting his medical studies; with what success, his nu- 
 merous publications bear ample and honorable testi- 
 mony. The Edinhurgh school possessed, at that time, 
 the ablest professors in Europe, of which the reader 
 may be convinced, who knows any thing of the rep- 
 
158 DR. BENJAMIN RUSM. 
 
 utation of Monroe^ Cullin^ Duncan, Gregory, and 
 Black. Under such favorable auspices, it cannot be 
 doubted that the eager and excursive mind of Rush 
 found ample range for its highest and brightest ener- 
 gies. 
 
 But a new era was silently effecting in Medicine, 
 and the elements of Brown, (the Ekmenta Medicine 
 Brunonis,) were ushered to the light. Rush, with 
 the exclamation nunc lux refulget upon his lips, hailed 
 the dawn of more correct principles in his art, of 
 which this system w^as the prototype and forerunner, 
 with propitiatory and grateful emotions. Regardless 
 who was his leader, whilst truth was blazoned upon 
 the banners, he was amongst the first in whom the 
 merits of this work found a ready and willing advo- 
 cate; and it is not the lightest of his praise, that, 
 whilst he invariably condemned the pernicious prac- 
 tice recommended by the system of Brown, he had 
 sufficient candor to acknowledge himself indebted for 
 some of his leading principles in the sanative art, 
 to its great but ill-fated author; an author, it may 
 be added, who, amidst the rancor of party jealousy, 
 the persecution of his enemies, and, finally, the 
 gloom of a jail, with that heroic confidence in his 
 strength which none but great minds can feel, nobly 
 defended the superiority of his system, and braved 
 the ingratitude of mankind. 
 
 Having received his medical degree. Rush spent 
 the succeeding winter in London. In the spring of 
 1769, he went to Paris, and returned to America in 
 the summer of the same vear. 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 159 
 
 The infant Medical School of Philadelphia, was at 
 this time struggling into a rickety existence, supported 
 by the extraordinary efforts of its founders and pro- 
 fessors, Drs. Shipping and Kuhn. The chair of Ma- 
 teria Medica was immediately offered to him and ac- 
 cepted; and here he lectured with great ability to his 
 little class, until the declining health and increasing 
 infirmities of Dr. Kuhn compelled him to resign his 
 professorship of the Theory and Practice of Medicine. 
 Dr. Rush was appointed to the vacant chair — and he 
 continued to labor diligently and profitably in it, both 
 whilst it remained a separate establishment, and after 
 it became attached to the University of Pennsylvania, 
 even to the winter preceding his death. Of Rush's 
 course I will not speak, for I could not do it justice; 
 it has been thought the best system of instruction in 
 pathology that could be acquired by a student who in- 
 tended to practice his profession within the limits of 
 America. It was amusing, instructive, and popular; 
 it abounded in useful illustrations and entertaining 
 facts. His intimacy with some of the most illustrious 
 of his own countrymen, left him never at a loss for 
 embellishments; and he never himself claimed that 
 credit which was due to another. "-This," he would 
 say, '•'I received from my friend. Dr. Franklin, in 
 whose company I am sometimes a profitable listener: 
 in truth, I may say, I never spent half an hour in his 
 company without bringing away something useful;" 
 or this other anecdote, was communicated to me by 
 my friend Thomas- Jefferson, or Dr. Ewing. 
 
 We have heard much of the humor and versatility 
 
160 t)R. BENJAMIN RUSH. 
 
 of the late celebrated John Abernethy, in his ^^Even- 
 ings at Home;" but surely no humor of his could ex- 
 ceed that of our professor, when he took it upon him- 
 self to be facetious. It was a high entertainment, 
 which suddenly chased away from the features of his 
 young auditory all marks of seriousness and decorum. 
 I once heard a student of Medicine declare, with some- 
 thing of his sectional hrusquerie^ '•^by G-d, I would 
 rather listen to a lecture from Rush, than go to a 
 play." But this was its lighter part; the inexhausti- 
 ble resources of his mind, both derived from observa- 
 tion and reading, made him a very ready and compe- 
 tent lecturer. He was a great collector of facts: 
 ••'father has only found a fact," said Miss Rush to her 
 mamma, one day when the Doctor suddenly returned 
 from a consultation to which he had been called, and 
 demanded the key of his secretary. He has often 
 been known to rise from his bed at midnight, to pour 
 out the overflowings of his brain into his note-book. 
 In short, he sought to gain knowledge from every 
 quarter, chiefly that it might be interwoven into the 
 tissue of his lectures. The highest faculties of the 
 mind, enlarged bj education, and liberalized by travel, 
 thus steadily and industriously concentrated, and de- 
 voted to one grand favorite object, could not be, with- 
 out producing corresponding effects. 
 
 Thus we find the Medical School of Philadelphia, 
 moved by the impetus communicated by one great 
 mind, suddenly bursting into full grown reputation and 
 fame. Young Americans no longer go abroad for ed- 
 ucation, but take their degrees in the rapidly augment- 
 ing school of their native country. From every part of 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 161 
 
 this vast republic, they are annually seen gathering 
 into this, their alma matei\ to glean wisdom from the 
 prelections of her great professor. 
 
 O rare Dr. Finley! it was thy sagacity that discov- 
 ered the liberality and benevolence of the disposition 
 that was placed under thy culture. 
 
 Since the days of the celebrated philanthropist, John 
 Howard, no man ever discovered a greater sympathy 
 for the distresses of his species, than the subject of 
 this memoir. ''Gentlemen," he would sometimes say 
 to his class, "you ought ever to be ready to wait upon 
 the poor, without hopes of any fee, for God is their 
 paymaster." This liberality of Dr. Rush brought upon 
 him the ridicule of some of his brother practitioners 
 in Philadelphia, who, when called upon to visit the 
 poor, and told that God would reward them, would 
 sometimes make the remark, ''oh, you must go to Dr. 
 Rush, he is God Ahnightys doctor." But such pas- 
 quinades were as the idle winds to Dr. Rush. He 
 ever considered benevolence to the poor as one of the 
 cardinal virtues of a physician. He had heard the 
 voice of the Master that he served, saying to him, "/ 
 loas sick and ye visited me," and the praise or censure 
 of man was alike indifferent to him in the discharge of 
 this great duty. No hovel was too cheerless, no pov- 
 erty too squalid, no disease too malignant for him to 
 approach and handle. 
 
 In misery's darkest caverns known, 
 
 His useful care was ever nigh, 
 Where hopeless anguish pours his groan, 
 
 And lonely want retir'd to die. 
 No summons niock'd by chill delay. 
 N 2 
 
162 DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 
 
 Nor was fortune niggardly in enabling him to carry- 
 out to the desired extent, his benevolent views. At 
 the time I knew him, he was considered one of the 
 rich men in the city where he lived. He occupied 
 his own house — a splendid mansion in Philadelphia. 
 He had also his farm, a few miles from town — though 
 he seldom had leisure to visit it. His practice was 
 very extensive — he received, annually, a large amount 
 in fees from his students. He possessed, also, the 
 profitable appointment of Treasurer to the Mint. He 
 could, therefore, well afford to be generous. 
 
 Dr. Rush inherited from his parents a very delicate 
 constitution. I have heard him say, that during the 
 war of the revolution, in which he was engaged as 
 Physician-General to the American troops, you might, 
 have traced him by the blood spit out of his mouth 
 upon the snow. He always believed that he should 
 not live to a great age. He was, during his whole 
 life, threatened with pulmonary consumption — and he 
 attributed his escape from it only to the most rigid ab- 
 stemiousness; he kept the disease at bay, by living 
 below the point at which it attacks. 
 
 During the repeated visitations of the yellow fever^ 
 his diet consisted wholly of a cup of tea, a little weak 
 chicken broth, and a cracker soaked in water. He 
 drank neither spirits nor wine, and yet, in his ordi- 
 nary life, he was not what is called a tee-to-tallei\ 
 When called from his bed at night to visit a patient, 
 or when exposed to a shower of rain, he would drink 
 half a glass of spirits without, water. This, he said, 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 163 
 
 improved his feelings, and, he thought, sometimes 
 warded off the attacks of disease. By such means 
 he attained the respectable age of sixty-eight; and no 
 man ever employed the like space of time more busily 
 nor more usefully. His health, to all appearance, was 
 generally good, and his spirits never failed him. He 
 conversed a great deal, and was, without exception, 
 the best talker I ever heard. By his fellow citizens, 
 and by the Medical faculty, he was thought to be un- 
 fduly wedded to the depleting system, and that he used 
 tthe lancet with a degree of rigor which could not be 
 ^justified. Rochefoucault has said, '-'-hs esprits mediocres 
 ^condamnant d'ordinaire tout ce qui passe Jeur portee^ 
 "JNTo one who thoroughly understood his principles ever 
 anade such a reproach. The thousands that he saved 
 from the grave, surely ought not to quarrel with the 
 means employed. But it is commonl} , although erro- 
 neously believed, that when the physician has received 
 his fee, all obligation is liquidated. As a judge of the 
 situation of his patient by the state of his pulse, he 
 had no living superior. The plan he pursued, and 
 recommended to his students, in feeling the pulse ^ was 
 to close his eyes, and to keep his /owr fingers stead- 
 ily upon the patient's wrist for four or five minutes. 
 By this means his sagacity was minutely informed of 
 every morbid movement that was passing within, and 
 he bled only until the morbid excitement was removed. 
 That this report injured his usefulness, with the igno- 
 rant, and even with some minds that were more high- 
 ly improved, I can readily believe. 1 will give an in- 
 stance which came under. my own observation. Du- 
 
164 DR. BENJAMIN RUSH, 
 
 ring my first winter, my room-mate, Mr. John Towle^^, 
 afterwards Dr. Towles, of Point Coupee and Attaka- 
 pas, in Mississippi, was seized with the measles, at that 
 time epidemic in the city, and requested me, late one 
 night, to call upon Dr. Rush and request his immediate as- 
 sistance. The Doctor, clad in his flannel nightgown, and 
 slippers, his spectacles raised upon his brow, attended the 
 summons of the bell. He declined visiting my friend that 
 night, on account of fatigue, occasioned by having 
 had many consultations during the day in the city; 
 but said he would see him at nine o'clock the following 
 morning. '^Go home," said he, ''and take a pint of 
 blood from Mr. Towles' arm, and give him a light 
 purge." When this answer was announced to my 
 room-mate, the warmth of his Virginian constitution 
 boiled over in sundry remarks, which 1 shall not here 
 repeat, but in which the Doctor's name received its 
 due quantum of honor. The next morning, as Peale's 
 clock struck nine, the Doctor's foot was upon the stairs, 
 and he entered our room with that grace and amenity 
 which never left him. "A very bounding pulse," said 
 he, -'indeed; pray, sir, did you bleed your friend, as I 
 last night directed?" My friend himself, by a nod of 
 his head, assented to this. "Well, sir," said he, "you 
 must draw another pint," and after some desultory ob- 
 servations, he took leave. At his visit, the following 
 morning, "it appears very difficult," said he, "to sub- 
 due the activity of this pulse; you must again have 
 recourse to the lancet." In short, at each subsequent 
 visit he made the same complaint, and prescribed the 
 same remedy, until at last, conjecturing that his direc" 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 165 
 
 tions had not been complied with, he ordered two 
 pints to be drawn, and remained in the room until he 
 saw it done. Some few minutes afterwards he exam- 
 ined the pulse again: ^'ah," said he, "this will do — your 
 pulse speaks a different language." This was not all; 
 he extracted from Mr. Towles a confession that his 
 prejudices against the lancet, had prevented him from 
 using it to the prescribed extent — and that he had 
 been bled to-day only for the second time. 
 
 Dr. Rush paid to the world the penalty which it 
 ever exacts from high talent and pre-eminent virtue; 
 that is to say, he was slandered, abused, and misrep- 
 resented. Since the Saviour of the world appeared 
 upon earth, perhaps no one was ever more wantonly 
 or more undeservedly persecuted. At one period of 
 his life, every physician in Philadelphia, with some few 
 memorable exceptions, was arrayed against him. The 
 question at issue between himself and his medical 
 brethren, were some points at that time little under- 
 stood, in the history of yellow fever. The Doctor 
 was among the first, if not the very first, of American 
 physicians who insisted upon the domestic origin and 
 non-contagiousness of this formidable disease. His 
 enemies arrayed ♦hemselves on the other side of the 
 question. It pleased the Divine Disposer of events, to 
 extend the life of this eminent man, to see the com- 
 plete and perfect triumph of his principles. Not only 
 in matters so vitally essential to human life, but in 
 others, where the purity of his motives were not and 
 could not be suspected, was he denounced by his fel- 
 low citizens. Hewas one day called to visit a patient 
 
166 DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 
 
 in the Pennsylvania Hospital, whom he found ill of the 
 (old so called) typhus fever. The man was in articulo 
 mortis^ so that to wait for the operation of a blister, 
 which the case indicated, were to put a seal, imme- 
 diately upon his fate. True to his principles, wdiich 
 were to '-'■take the last bloiv at death^^ the Doctor picked 
 up the shovel, half filled it with hot embers, and held it 
 over the pained part until it vesicated. Prudence 
 would have required that the Doctor, before proceed- 
 ing to so unusual an expedient, should have been sure 
 of his patient's recovery; in that case it would have 
 told greatly in his favor. On the contrary, the patient 
 died, and the Doctor's popularity sunk with him. For 
 some months subsequent to this event, when it was 
 proposed to bring Dr. Rush into any consultation in 
 the city, some one would exclaim, ^'what! the monster 
 that burnt a man to death in the hospital the other 
 day? — no! no!" This fact I had from his own lips, 
 and heard him afterwards relate it to his class. 
 
 That Dr. Rush, exasperated by the virulent and un- 
 reasonable opposition of his enemies, who ever sought 
 to push a simple difference of opinion into a state of 
 open warfare, might, on some occasions, have carried 
 his system of depletion too far, I am not prepared ab- 
 solutely to deny; but if such a verdict, after a careful 
 and unbiased review of the documents, should be ad- 
 judged against him, Humanity will drop a tear and 
 blot out the sentence. It was the fault more of hu- 
 man nature than of the man. 
 
 It might appear invidious, were I to fail to mention 
 some of his co-laborers in the work of sustaining the 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 167 
 
 reputation of the Philadelphia School at this period. 
 Dr. Caspar Wistar was amongst the first of anatomists 
 and physiologists that the world has produced. He it 
 was who mainly sustained the institution from going 
 down, upon the death of Rush. He has left behind 
 him two volumes upon his favorite subject, anatomy. 
 Dr. Benjamin Smith Barton, a philosopher, and great 
 medical botanist. His most valuable work is a treatise 
 upon the indiginous plants of the United States. Dr. 
 Nathaniel Chapman, who now fills the chair of Prac- 
 tice — a noble Virginian, generous, high minded, and 
 liberal as a prince, an able lecturer, and a wit without 
 malignit\^ His great work on Therapeutics, in two 
 volumes, entitles him to rank in the first class of medi- 
 cal philosophers. These two latter gentlemen allowed 
 me tlie honor to rank them with my personal friends. 
 
 But to return to the immediate subject of this me- 
 !Doir. Amongst the improvements introduced by our 
 Professor into his course, was one which he always 
 regarded with peculiar complacency; it was, indeed, 
 the favorite offspring of his brain. It consisted in re- 
 pudiating entirely the old system of Nosology intro- 
 duced by Savages and Cullin, and substituting a less 
 embarrassing and m.ore simple system of his own. 
 This made all disease to be a unit, and debility to be 
 its predisposing cause. For this improvement, he may 
 justly claim the gratitude of every Aaierican physi- 
 cian. But simple and beautiful as this innovation was, 
 it continued not long to be the pride of the Philadel- 
 phia School. 
 
168 DR. BENJAMIN RUSM. 
 
 Dr. Benjamin Smith Barton was, by the visiters of 
 the University, transferred from the chair of Botany 
 and Materia Medioa, which no man in America was so 
 loell qualified to fill^ and he became immediate succes- 
 sor to the chair vacated by the death of Dr. Rush. 
 The v^^riter of this article left his practice in Virginia, 
 and went to Philadelphia, to attend this the first course 
 in pathology by Dr. Barton; so that what he has fur- 
 ther to say on this branch of his subject, may be con- 
 sidered testimonium facti. These two distinguished 
 men, Rush and Barton, were too nearly sillied in men- 
 tal calibre, (though in nothing else,) ever to have been 
 cordial friends. Such, unhappily, is the condition of 
 society, from which genius itself is not always exempt. 
 For some years a coldness subsisted between them^ 
 which at last was carried so far that the commore 
 courtesies of life ceased to be interchanged. Bartors 
 was too highly distinguished for gentlemanly deport- 
 ment, ever to have indulged in vulgar vituperation 
 against his venerable predecessor; but he did what 
 was infinitely more injurious to his fame: he changed 
 ah initio his whole plan of instruction, substituting, as 
 the basis of his own, the old worn out system of Noso- 
 logical arrangement, rejected by Rush as a useless 
 and cumbersome thing. From this fact, added to the 
 known reputation of our Professor as a rigorous and 
 unsparing advocate of the lancet, we may, in some 
 measure, account for the oblivion which has hitherto 
 obscured his posthumous fame. But we can go a little 
 further than this; it is a fact well known to medical 
 men that the diseases of our country have undergone 
 
DR. BENJAMIN RUSH. 169 
 
 a very remarkable change. The winter preceding the 
 death of Rush, which took place A. D. 1813, was the 
 period when the first cases of that disease called the 
 typhus fever {perepneumonia notha typhoides) were 
 known to exist amongst us. This disease, which pre- 
 vailed chiefly amongst the blacks, exhibited an entirely 
 new class of phenomena to any hitherto known. 
 Bleeding was absolutely prohibited, except at its very 
 commencement — insomuch, that a physician who had to 
 ride a few miles to see his patient arrived too late to 
 use the lancet. 
 
 The Asiatic Cholera, which, like the avenging angel 
 of death, ravaged our continent from one extremity 
 to the other, equally forbid all depletion by the lancet. 
 It became evident to the most superficial observer, 
 that our diseases had undergone a remarkable change 
 in their type, and that depletion by the lancet must be 
 resorted to with a measured and sparing hand. 
 
 A young physician, therefore, who takes up any of 
 the labored writings of Rush — for instance, his great 
 work on the yellow fever of 1793 — might be induced 
 to throw it from his hand as a useless if not a perni- 
 cious work. But this would be the result of preju- 
 dice, begotten upon the hot-bed of ignorance! Rush 
 prescribed for diseases as they prevailed in his own 
 day, modified by atmospherical and other influences. 
 ''''T lie condition of the system''^ was his only guide. He 
 prescribed with his hand upon that never-failing ba- 
 rometer, the pulse, of which he was, perhaps, the best 
 judge living. He prescribed intrepidly and fearlessly, 
 in spite of all prejudice and interference, from a cer- 
 
 o 
 
170 DR; BENJAMIN RUStt. 
 
 tain conviction that he was not deceived, and the 
 result of his cases very commonly confirmed his 
 hopes. 
 
 It is melancholy to reflect upon the uncertain tenure 
 of human genius. Rush must secretly have sometimes 
 indulged the hope that the four letters which compose 
 his name should be syllabled by the future philosophers 
 and physicians of America. But^ jam tempus veniet — 
 the time will come — is coming, when all the jarring 
 and discordant elements of his time shall be forgotten, 
 and when he shall stand forth before the eyes of his 
 admiring countrymen in his genuine characteristics. 
 Then will they acknowledge him, with a united voice, 
 to be a proud patriot, an active philanthropist, a pro- 
 found philosopher, and the most consummate and ac- 
 complished physician *of his country and age. 
 
 In the winter of 18 — , business of a pressing nature 
 required my presence in Philadelphia. In the course 
 of a morning's excursion through that city, my 
 attention was attracted by the unusual appearance of a 
 group of young men who with eager and anxious steps 
 were hastening toward a splendid building at a little 
 distance in view. It was the new edifice dedicated to 
 medical science. Prompted by curiosity, I entered, 
 and the impressive and interesting figure, who the 
 next moment riveted my eye, was the High Priest of 
 the Temple ! — it was Rush himself. Since I had known 
 him in my boyhood, some alterations had taken place 
 in his person and costume. His hair, braided and se- 
 cured behind with a black ribbon, was now silver 
 white, and the invidious artist, Time, had been silent- 
 
rm. BENJAMIN RUSH. I "7 I 
 
 ly busy on his temples. The wonted glow of benev- 
 olence still mantled his features, and his penetrating 
 grey eye continued to emit the living lustre, the mens 
 divina of genius. His slender but most venerable 
 form might be, perhaps, a shade slighter, but the sim- 
 ple suit of hodden grey in which it was arrayed, was 
 identically, positively, the same. From the vast re- 
 pository of his capacious mind, fraught with the spoil 
 of ages, he was unlocking the rich treasures of an- 
 tiquity, and scattering the luxuriance of modern im- 
 provement. 
 
 The lecture which he was delivering was introduc- 
 tory to his annual course; it was "on the opinions and 
 modes of practice of Hippocrates." I shall not pause 
 to investigate its merits as an abstract medical disser- 
 tation, but shall simply advert to the high and com- 
 manding eloquence which its progress evolved; and 
 such was the effect of this that my mind was impe- 
 riously hurried back to the days of ancient Greece; 
 through the dim vista of more than two thousand 
 years, I beheld the father of physic, the illustrious 
 Hippocrates; mild in his appearance and dignified in 
 his deportment, arrayed in all the exquisite simplicity 
 of his character, that divine old man arose to my 
 view; a sun-beam of holy inspiration played amongst 
 the grey locks that thinly waved adown his shoulders; 
 I)ale — contemplative — abstracted— he appeared as when 
 calculating the critical days of fever, or investigating 
 the doctrine of the temperaments. The vision was 
 complete, but fleeting — every artery of my heart re- 
 sponded to its impression; I was suffocated with emo- 
 
172 DR. BENJAMIN RUSH, 
 
 tion! I cast an anxious and appealing glance at the 
 speaker — but, alas! my sensations, intense as they 
 were, were but a feeble echo of his who had awa- 
 kened them — he was chain bound in the spell of enthu- 
 siasm!! — transfixed, agitated, absorbed, lost in the va- 
 riety, and overwhelmed by the intensity of his emo- 
 tions, the Hippocrates of America stood before me! — 
 his lofty and upraised brow was deeply impressed 
 with the seal and signet royal of unbought nobility. 
 His eye was illumined by a holy and fervid de- 
 votion. A thrilling agitation, a supernatural vivida 
 vis animi^ gleamed in his features, and darted through 
 his frame — every lineament spoke and every muscle 
 uttered wisdom. The effect was awfully sublime — 
 powerfully, painfully impressive — it resembled the fa- 
 bled operations of invisible a3rial spirits. It filled me 
 with tumultuary and superstitious eniotion. I was on 
 enchanted ground, and my friend was the great magi- 
 cian who animated and governed and directed the sor- 
 cery of the scene. 
 
 Such was Rush the last time I ever beheld him. 
 The images of this day are yet deep graven on the 
 tablet of my memory. They will remain there until 
 the hand that inscribes this feeble tribute to his genius 
 and worth is cold and exanimate as himself. 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO MR. JOHN COLTART, 
 
 (A NATIVE or SCOTLAND, NOW IN TENNESSEE.) 
 
 My Frien': 
 
 I ken'd ye wad nae fail, 
 The Dumfries papers cam by mail; 
 And though the print is sma', my een 
 No just sae gude as they hae been, 
 I read them o'er and o'er again. 
 And, wow, but I was wondrous fain. 
 
 I thought, (the truth ye wonna blame,) 
 Ance mair I was transported hame, 
 A luckless callan o* thirteen, 
 Forgat the forty years atween, 
 Whilk- bating three, ye'U understan', 
 I've journeyed in this distant land. 
 
 My native breezes gae me pith, 
 I heard the vara sugh o' Nith; 
 Ance mair I felt the teacher's taws, 
 O' truant played, and gathered haws; 
 
 o 2 
 
174 TO MR. JOHN COLT ART. 
 
 To catch the rainbow clamb the brae, 
 Or gather'd gowans on the way; 
 At night on milk and porridge fed, 
 Then said my prayers and crept to bed. 
 
 Noo, maister Coltart, sin ye speer 
 How I gat hame — weel, ye sal hear: 
 Arrived at Ashport, (no to tire 
 Your patience oot,) through mud and mire, 
 I found nae boat cam near this shore. 
 So hired a skiff that put us o'er; 
 Here to nae hut could entrance gain — 
 The night was dark, and threatened rain. 
 In desolation here I stood, 
 Like Selkirk in his solitude. 
 I took a pinch, and looked on high, 
 Nae star, that night, blinked i' the sky. 
 Avaunt, despair! for even here 
 The voice o' succor reached mine ear. 
 
 Twa auld maids, and a youngish man, 
 Four ithers, maist as black 's japan, 
 Upon a pious journey bent, 
 Had halted here and raised their tent. 
 I was invited, Lord be thanket, 
 To share their bed — to share their blanket— 
 Weel hapit up frae wind and rain — 
 God bless auld maids — amen! — amen!! 
 
 I see ye smile, and shake your heed; 
 Na', there ye wrang me, frien', indeed: 
 
TO MR.. JOHN COLTART. 175 
 
 I wad hae been a vara deevil, 
 
 To think o' ony thing unceevil. 
 
 I thought on kindness sae uncommon, 
 
 O' Ledyard, and his praise o' woman, 
 
 I thought — but hark! it is nae dream, 
 
 It is the puffing oot o' steam. 
 
 All hands are up, baith black and white. 
 
 Fires kindled up to mak a light — 
 
 "Steam boat, ahoy!" — the steamer came — 
 
 In five days mair I was at hame. 
 
 The blackamoors, and the white trio, 
 
 It seems, were destined to Ohio. 
 
 I wrung their hands, and leaped on shore. 
 
 Perhaps to meet my friends no more. 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO 
 
 PHILIP SLAUGHTEE, JR., 
 
 (of kentuc k y.) 
 
 To greet ye wi' a rhyming letter, 
 Though prose, perhaps, wad please ye better, 
 I tak up stumpy, wi' a caper, 
 And doon I sit to blot some paper; 
 For weel I ken, my bucksome Philly, 
 To join a laugh ye are right willy; 
 Not one of those so short and snappy, 
 Wha learn a' arts but to be happy — 
 Else I could gie ye doleful prose, 
 As sour as vinegar, or sloes, 
 Wad mak saut tears stream o'er your nose. 
 
 Wi' joy I learn ye've had the luck, 
 Quite safe and sound, to reach Kentuck': 
 And that you've 'scaped the numerous ills 
 That fill mortality's sad bills: 
 
178 TO PHILIP SLAUGHTER, JR. 
 
 As fevers, rheums, and dislocations, 
 
 Sliarp appetites and scanty rations, 
 
 Marasmus, atrophy, lumbago, 
 
 Nightmare, St. Vitus' dance, and ague, 
 
 And broken shins, and broken rest, 
 
 Frae falls, or insects in your nest; 
 
 And cruse and couthy wi' your lammie. 
 
 You're moor'd lang side your gude auld mammy. 
 
 I'm o'er my fall, and unco vantie, 
 And a' your friens are weel and cantie — 
 A' but the parson* — he, poor fellow, 
 Is meagre, thin, and desperate sallow, 
 Yet still he warstles wi' the de'il. 
 Though forced to bid his school fareweel. 
 
 Now Philly, lad, let's aft hear frae ye, 
 And tell us how the warld wags wi' ye. 
 For me, sic toiling late and air'. 
 Astride my trusty gude auld mare — 
 Poor jade, she's neither blate nor lazy, 
 Though now grown auld and somewhat crazy — 
 Fevers and fluxes sae prevailing. 
 Some desperate sick, and some less ailing; 
 Sae occupied, I've hardly time 
 To weave a shred o' hamespun rhyme — 
 I've hardly time — I'll tak my aith — 
 To sup my brose or blaw my breath. 
 
 •The Rev. Samuel D. Hoge, at that time a resident in Culpep- 
 per, Virginia. 
 
TO PHILIP SLAUGHTER, JR. 179 
 
 Yet will I sometimes ride Pegassus, 
 And tell ye a' the news that passes: 
 Wha's deed — wha's married, and the game up — 
 What luckless lass has gat her wame up. 
 But if the muse incline to dose it, 
 If verse won't flow — by Jove Til prose it. 
 
 And noo, my frien, may God be with ye, 
 As for auld Nick, he dare na scaith ye, 
 May peace and hope possess your breast, 
 Be yours a' bounties o' the West; 
 Be yours a weel- stocked handsome farm, 
 Which ne'er did man nor woman harm; 
 May Providence aye to ye send, 
 A haunch and cup to treat a friend; 
 An ambling pad be ever ready 
 To carry ye to kirk or smiddy; 
 And be it your propitious lot, 
 To claim a fruitful shady grot; 
 To fill your kegs and barrels yearly, 
 Wi' that whilk maks gude fellows cheerly; 
 Whilk bears them o'er life's ills victorious. 
 Like gallant Shanter, great and glorious. 
 
 But ere I close, I just maun rally 
 Your wife, my leesome sister Sally. 
 I see her yet, the sonsie queen. 
 Her ruby lips, her pauky een; 
 Her form, for symmetry and ease. 
 Like the famed statue o'er the seas. 
 
180 TO PHILIP SLAUGHTER, JR. 
 
 Whilk connoisseurs bestow sic praise on, 
 
 And a' the warld wi' wonder gaze on. 
 
 Weel may she be, as weel as bonny, 
 
 And may her words, whilk flow like honey, 
 
 And musical as harp or fiddle, 
 
 Aye mak your heart to dance and diddle. 
 
 And may she gie ye, ance a year, 
 
 That whilk surpasses wardly gear; 
 
 A bonny lass or bouncing laddie. 
 
 To climb your knees, and ca' ye daddy — 
 
 Until o' heeds they count a dozen — 
 
 So prays your faithful 
 
 FRIEN' AND COUSIN. 
 
TO A LADY, 
 
 Who, at Harrodsburgh vSprings, remarked to the author that, had she 
 been married to Lord Byron, she would not have known what 
 course to have adopted. 
 
 Fair Lady, thoa didst speak of late — 
 And the congenial subject graced thee — 
 
 How thou hadst acted, if thy fate 
 
 Had by the side of Byron placed thee. 
 
 That noble Byron stands above 
 All modern poets, is confessed; 
 
 And he, bless'd with thy nuptial love, 
 Had added happiest to his best. 
 
 She failed — she whom he called his own — 
 His youthful passion to imbibe; 
 
 And from her reckless hand was thrown 
 A pearl more rich than all her tribe. 
 
 The triumph of a letter'd heart 
 
 She might have held by choice and right; 
 Then why does he so soon depart, 
 
 And bid his native land '\good night?" 
 
182 TO A LADT. 
 
 He left his home of vanished bliss, 
 
 His honeymoon had waned and passed; 
 
 But when her cold cheek met his kiss, 
 
 She recked not, dreamed not, Hwas his last! 
 
 Away, away, before the wind. 
 
 Wife, country, station, altars, laws, 
 
 Madd'ning with thought, he leaves behind. 
 And perished in a foreign cause. 
 
 Which party does the guiltier seem: 
 The husband who his vows forgot, 
 
 Or wife — (let others hold the beam) — 
 Whose pride and scorn forgave him not. 
 
 We blame not — but a different wife 
 Had held the wandering poet long: 
 
 The world been spared his useful life, 
 And we still listened to his song. 
 
 Had Byron called thee his fair G — — n, 
 Thy noble form, thy beauty glowing. 
 
 His cup of earthly bliss had been 
 Full to the brim, and overflowing. 
 
 Upon thy husband's late repentance. 
 Thou no relentless judge hadst been: 
 
 But smiled, through tears, a gentle sentence, 
 Like Burns' mate, his bonnv Jean. 
 
LADT. 
 
 183 
 
 Thou wouldst have made the man thou loved, 
 
 The finest model of his age, 
 The foibles of his life removed, 
 
 And purified his erring page. 
 
 Then had no loose descriptions fed 
 The appetite depraved and w^eak; 
 
 No Julias nor Hidees had spread 
 
 The blush of shame on virtue's cheek. 
 
 Ambitious love incites me here, 
 
 In votive strains I would beseech thee: 
 
 Whispers should waft them to thine ear, 
 But whispers, fairest, would not reach thee. 
 
 We murmur not at Heaven^s behest; 
 
 Thy lord since Byron could not be: 
 Lady, forgive the bold request — 
 
 And take a humbler bard — in me. 
 
VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE MURFREESBORO COURIER. 
 
 The Editors of the Murfreesboro Courier, have received their 
 long expected fout of new type; and their paper, consequently^ ap- 
 pears in a dress entirely new. They hope that none of their friends 
 will be displeased to meet an old friend with a new face. 
 
 From the flames of its parent's funereal pyre 
 The Phoenix springs up, we have heard: 
 
 And the Courier to-day, from the death of its sire, 
 Comes out Hke that wonderful bird. 
 
 'Tis as proud as a turtle-fed cit at a feast, 
 
 A boarding-school miss at a ball; 
 A bashaw with three tails, a rosy-gilled priest, 
 
 Or a doctor of Trinity hall. 
 
 'Tis as fine as a laird of the Highlands appears. 
 With his phillibeg, bonnet, and sash on; 
 
 Or a dandy, rigged out by the needle and shears 
 Of the trimmers and moulders of iashion. 
 
 p 2 
 
^186 VERSES. 
 
 But holdl — a bad hit! — we a simile lacked, 
 
 And found one of ambiguous use; 
 For our verse hath of buckram and stay-tape oft smack'd, 
 
 And our prose borne the marks of the goose. 
 
 But we hope, with a new font of type to bestow 
 More attention and power to our press; 
 
 And in this to succeed like the fortunate beau, 
 Whose language improved with his dress.* 
 
 In marriages, casualties, deaths, and bon-mots, 
 
 Our columns may hope to excel; 
 Advertisements — essays, in verse or in prose, 
 
 Or speeches of Grundy or Bell. 
 
 Our creed is well known — therefore to what end 
 Should we pause here to make protestation; 
 
 Our faith is in Jackson — our neighbor and friend — 
 His cause is the cause of the nation. 
 
 But our verse-men, and prose-men, and press-men, in 
 truth, 
 
 And the devil himself, all declare, 
 A bad habit of eating they learnt in their youth, 
 
 And that news is but very scant fare. 
 
 To our patrons and friends, then, we make this report, 
 
 (Our case needs no other physician,) 
 And to make it read well, we have chosen to resort 
 
 To the form of an humble petition. 
 
 '* The Abbe de BufFon, who, it is said, always wrote best when 
 in full dress. 
 
VERSES. 1 87 
 
 We give you new paper and type of the best; 
 
 And we pray you, for fear of disasters — 
 Since new things you like, and old things you detest — 
 
 To pay up old scores, our good masters. 
 
 Should you aid us, your healths shall be drank by the 
 corps, 
 In our holiday cups once a year: 
 Even the devil shall duck, shake his hide, grin and 
 roar. 
 And gulp down your names with his beer. 
 
COPY OF A LETTER 
 
 FROM 
 
 JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 (a travelling merchant,) 
 
 To his friend in Connecticut, giving an account of the Jackson Dinner 
 at Murfreesboro, Tenn. 
 
 I WRITE you here from Tennessee, 
 Beneath the shade of the "Green Tree," 
 A house by one James Irwin kept, 
 Where, for a week, I've ate and slept; 
 The landlord gives me satisfaction, 
 He is of Irish Scotch distraction; 
 Has every thing to season life. 
 Of household comforts, but a wife: 
 And I have wished that he could spy 
 Our cousin Clara's roguish eye — 
 So black and bright — by gum, I know 
 She'd quickly change his bread to dough. 
 
 This is a pleasant town to view, 
 Well stocked with merchants — healthy too. 
 As even the doctors shops might shew. 
 Some half a dozen in a row. 
 
190 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 People are here, as I have found, 
 From every point the compass round. 
 The nacive sons of every state; 
 The German, plodding and sedate; 
 The Welchman here turned out to graze; 
 The Scot, who pudding loves and praise; 
 A few of Erin's generous race — 
 In Murfreesboro you may see, 
 Mixt up most heterogeneously; 
 As one may sapiently remark, 
 Like the strange guests in Noah's Ark. 
 
 But I have tidings to declare, 
 Which well I know will make you stare. 
 You've heard of Andrew Jackson's fame? 
 Yes! — all the world have done the same; 
 How at Orleans he made a stand, 
 And saved the honor of the land; 
 He gave the British ^'beauty" there, 
 Although he had not much to spare: 
 And ''booty," too — yes, by my trouth^ 
 They had it at the cannon's mouth; 
 Destruction through their ranks he hurled, 
 And beat those who had beat the world. 
 
 The people of this pretty town 
 Despatched a deputation down — 
 Who willingly themselves engage 
 To travel to the Hermitage, 
 (So called, as well the name attests, 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLTBUCK, ES^. 191 
 
 Because 'tis always filled with guests) — 
 To ask the Hero up to dine 
 And drink a glass or tw^o of wine, . 
 On the FIFTEENTH, for, by the way, 
 That was his sixty-first birth-day. 
 
 To see this chief, my hopes were raised, 
 So much bespattered and be praised. 
 His genuine character to trace 
 Upon his ell or two of face. 
 But when he came — there was a rout. 
 Like pandemonium just broke out. 
 Such shouting, ringing, and aspiring. 
 Such marching, fihng off, and firing: 
 I never saw the like before, 
 Since De La Fayette came on shore. 
 The ladies, too, the charming creatures — 
 All animation in their features — 
 Stretched forth their necks from casements high, 
 To see the Chief as he passed by. 
 And being, as you know, unwed. 
 Each beautiful projecting head 
 My optics h\id a double tax on. 
 One eye for them, and one for Jackson. 
 
 The General, now, with ease and grace, 
 Alighted at his resting place. 
 And stood above the eager press, 
 To hear and answer the address. 
 But, as his warm emotions rise, 
 
192 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 He faulter'd thrice and wiped his eyes; 
 And then with energy declared 
 Feelings which all who heard him shared. 
 The tears that fall from warriors' eyes 
 Are nature's genuine sacrifice. 
 I felt it— Yankee though I be, 
 The sacred power of sympathy — 
 That Liberty might safely place 
 Her fragile form in his embrace; 
 And that he would protect and aid, 
 With life's last drops, the Heavenly maid. 
 
 I cannot now minutely tell 
 All that subsequently befel; 
 For, wearied out, towards the last, 
 I neither saw nor heard what passed. 
 Until the marshall came, bare pated, 
 To tell the Chief that dinner waited; 
 This roused me quite, for, tired with greeting, 
 1 felt a strong penchant for eating. 
 
 Around the festive board see, then. 
 Our HERO and three hundred men. 
 Who thundered up to this repast. 
 Pell-mell, and ^^devil take the last." 
 A heartier corps, at warmer work. 
 On plate ne'er rattled knife and fork. 
 It seemed around the Senate hall, 
 Like some high Roman carnival; 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ,. 193 
 
 Or when, Lent o'er, each famished priest 
 Neglects awhile his beads to feast. 
 Such ruin wrought — such havoc made — 
 Industry ne'er before displayed; 
 Before the guests, as if by spell, 
 Domes, pyramids, and castles fell: 
 Nor floating islands lagged behind. 
 But passed, like dust before the wind. 
 
 I ne'er, on such occasions, eat 
 Your German loads of butcher's meat; 
 Nor is your bacon to my mind — 
 I'm not carnivorously inclined. 
 So forth I stretched my hand to take 
 A pound or two — it was pound-cake: 
 This, with some damson tarts and pies, 
 Were liors de comhat in a trice. 
 For much I feared lest indigestion 
 Should bring my politics in question ; 
 So, hard I labored to attest 
 As much devotion as the rest, ' 
 
 And as much ardor to display, 
 On this, the Hero's natal day. 
 
 Bat, to the most superb repast, 
 Satiety arrives at last; 
 And some, whose industry and wind, 
 Left competition far behind. 
 And, 'midst the carnage and the rout, 
 
194 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 Held most heroically out, 
 
 From sheer fatigue the toil gave o'er — 
 
 Their patriotism could no more. 
 
 The glasses now, a glittering hoard, 
 In double rows, adorned the board. 
 And by the toasts — a mighty sweep — 
 I saw that patriots must drink deep. 
 And, being an adept in wine. 
 This was my time, I thought, to shine; 
 For does not the old proverb say 
 That ^^every dog must have his day?" 
 The wine-glass briskly o'er my thumb 
 Each round I turned — nor was I dumb: 
 I shouted out, huzza'd and skirled, 
 Till windows cracked and rafters dirled: 
 And gained distinction in the crowd, 
 By drinking deep and bawling loud. 
 My feet, too, beat a reveille. 
 And went as merry and as free 
 As when at Uncle Sam's, that night 
 I danced the Hays with Peggy White. 
 
 Some hoary veterans 1 could see 
 Turn their admiring eyes on me. 
 And judge me, by their winks and lau'ter, 
 A patriot of the purest water. 
 
 Thus, long we passed the sparkling cup, 
 Laughed and huzza'd, and kept it up — 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ.. 195 
 
 Until the figures on the wall* 
 
 Were dancing. reels around the hall: 
 
 These were by one St. Leger painted — 
 
 I wonder where this Saint was sainted? 
 
 I've seen priests, of devotion true: 
 
 Some with no more than I or you: 
 
 But ne'er beheld, I'm bold to say, 
 
 A downright Saint before to-day. 
 
 He look'd as hollow and as thin 
 
 As a stuffed alligator's skin; 
 
 Which shews that watching, praying, fasting, 
 
 Are wasting labors, and exhausting. 
 
 But what surprised me, was to see 
 
 His meagre saintship — a Paris — 
 
 Do such good duty at the dinner. 
 
 And guzzle wine like any sinner! 
 
 For which, no doubt, his beads he'll tell, 
 
 One gloomy twelvemonth, in his cell. 
 
 Old Hickory was the first that rose — 
 Who ne'er turned back on friends nor foes — 
 And from this warm and bloodless fray, 
 By gum I he fairly ran away. 
 
 This was a signal to retreat. 
 To all that still could use their feet — 
 
 * Mr. St. Leger permitted Mr. Irvin to have the use of many 
 of his splendid paintings, a part of the Nashville Museum, to or- 
 nament the walls of his dining room, on this occasion. It was 
 these that attracted the doubtful vision of our friend, Mr. JoUybuck. 
 at this time. 
 
196 LETTKRS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 But two or three brave lads, and I, 
 Remained another bout to try; 
 And to the bottle still stuck fast — 
 And nailed our colors to the mast. 
 
 This morn — I found myself in bed, 
 With throbbing pulse, and aching head. 
 How I got home, may I be cursed — 
 Or whether head or feet went first — 
 If I can tell. But here are we, 
 Safe moored again at the ^'Green Tree.** 
 My friends dropt in — a doctor came, 
 Of some curs'd, crampish, highland name, 
 Who, from his size, might not appear 
 An enemy to festive cheer. 
 He made me swallow down a pill. 
 Which served to swell the general bill; 
 But did it cure me? — no such thing: 
 I owed that to a pint of sling. 
 
 Amidst these doings and commotions, 
 I've vended off a power of notions; 
 I've traded off my Jersey cart. 
 And ta'en a sorrel nag in part, 
 Which I design, when I get back. 
 To be aunt Grizzle's Sunday hack; 
 He is, at first, a trifle shy, 
 And has, like Grizzy, but one eye: 
 
SECOND LETTEH 
 
 FROM 
 
 JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND IN CONNECTICUT. 
 
 You did not look to hear from me, 
 At this late day from Temiessee; 
 I own to you, friend, best and strongest, 
 My sojourn here is of the longest; 
 Albeit, recent letters tell 
 That I'm in health, and doing well. 
 Now, Nashville on the map trace out, 
 And then you know my whereabout. 
 
 At twelve, one day, I took a notion 
 To put my wheels and nags in motion; 
 So keeping on a steady gait, 
 I reached the Mansion House, though late; 
 My dearborn shoved beneath a shed, 
 My horses littered and well fed, 
 I supped, and took me off to bed. 
 This night I slept so 'tarnal well. 
 Nought roused me but the breakfast bell ; 
 Then came the rush, the struggle sore, 
 
200 tETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLTBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 Of fifty famished guests or more; 
 Though anxious as themselves to eat, 
 1 could not find a vacant seat. 
 A nankeen colored lad perceived, 
 And with a bow^ my want relieved. 
 I thought it wise my tongue to bridle, 
 Although my jaws were never idle. 
 A pullet, with a steak and toast, 
 Seven new laid eggs, or eight at most, 
 Coflfee and ham, a loaf of bread: 
 These were discussed — and I was fed. 
 
 Having slipt on my suit of brown, 
 I sallied out to see the town. 
 'Tis built upon a lime-stone bluff. 
 Which makes the streets a little rough; 
 And many deem the rocks a bore, 
 But I'd have just as many more; 
 According to the Irish rule — 
 An anecdote I heard at school: 
 
 ''What a vile hilly land," thus cried 
 A traveller to his Irish guide, 
 '^Is this of yours, my worthy laddy." 
 "There are not hills enough," said Paddy, 
 "•Had we as many more, it follows. 
 We then could fill up all the hollows." 
 
 The public square attracted most, 
 (Each western town a square can boast,) 
 All is packed in the public square, 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, EStt. 197 
 
 But Still she may in safety ride, 
 For his'n is on her dark side. 
 
 I hope by June, if I have luck, 
 To see ye all in Saguatuck. 
 Meanwhile, I am, until life end, 
 Dear Dick, your faithful 
 
 COZ AND FRIEND. 
 
 To Mr. Richard Cavendish, 
 
 - Grocer and Cheesemonger, 
 
 Saguatuck, Ct. 
 
 q2 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 201 
 
 Ground being scarce and high elsewhere. 
 The capital — a .late erection — 
 Stands like a tower, and courts inspection; 
 The market house, from side to side, 
 Opens each day its portals wide, 
 Redolent with beef and mutton, 
 Most venerated by the glutton; 
 These useful domes — in western pride — 
 In this same square stand side by side. 
 The members, midst their annual labor. 
 Can look to this, their bounteous neighbor, 
 And think of the roast, fry, and boil, 
 Which will reward the patriot's toil; 
 The vapors, too, borne on the wind, 
 Greatly assists the play of mind: 
 Who contradicts it is no sage, 
 To him I freely throw my gage. 
 
 Next morning, having well kept lent, 
 With staff in hand, to church I went: 
 For this was, as the learned say 
 Of college, the commencement day. 
 There's wisdom in the Scottish creed, 
 "The more you haste, the worse you speed." 
 The doors were open, in I went. 
 And here, alone, one hour I spent; 
 At ten, the audience yet was thin. 
 Some twenty stragglers had dropt in; 
 At twelve, just as I thought of going, 
 The church filled up to overflowing. 
 A stage beneath a daiz was reared, 
 
202 LKTTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 Whereon successively appeared 
 
 Some dozen youngsters, who made claim 
 
 To juvenile forensic flime; 
 
 No classic star shed forth its light, 
 
 The last that spoke seemed still most bright 
 
 Some incense was, by all, addressed 
 
 To him, their most distinguished guest, 
 
 Who, to the people, soon, 'twas known, 
 
 Would mount the Presidential throne. 
 
 Only one person present named me, 
 And for an old acquaintance claimed me: 
 
 This was a Mr. T 1, 
 
 A man of learning, taste, and skill. 
 Who had, with much acumen, writ 
 A pond'rous book, and published it: 
 Which is an intellectual feast, 
 So critics say toward the east. 
 He is a clever little man, 
 With a complexion pale and wan: 
 And well he may be wan and spare, 
 P'or lately I heard one declare — 
 (And this he did without a smile) — 
 That he consumes the midnight oil. 
 If this be so, beyond all doubt, 
 As Hicks would say, the murder's out; 
 For oil, I hold, let who will try it, 
 Is a curs'd nauseous, meagre diet. 
 At midnight, too, when, so to speak, 
 Digestion is so low and weak; 
 Much do I wonder he should be 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYHUCK, ESQ. 203 
 
 Such a confirmed felo-de-se. 
 
 I had not time to sympathise, 
 
 For now there was a general rise. 
 
 The exhibition being o'er, 
 
 I gained the Mansion House by four; " 
 
 And, as the dinner could not stop, 
 
 I feasted on a mutton-chop. 
 
 This day's adventures, though 'twas late, 
 Were not here doomed to terminate. 
 I heard that at the City Hall, 
 There was a great commencement ball. 
 So, with my Teneriffe untasted, 
 I furbished up, and off I hasted. 
 
 Money is easily here gotten. 
 Because as how it comes from cotton; 
 But we New^ Englanders who gain it. 
 Must by much harder means obtain it. 
 Fve danced, at Uncle Sam's, till day. 
 And had but fifty cents to pay; 
 But here five eagles flew before 
 Cerberus would let me pass the door. 
 From this good sum, then, did I part, 
 Lest any should suspect the cart; 
 As if I scorned to think the trash on — 
 I can put on the man of fashion — 
 Though in my secret soul I thought 
 My pleasure would be dearly bought. 
 
204 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ,. 
 
 So giving Cerberus his sop, 
 I entered like a city fop. 
 
 But what a sudden blaze of light 
 Met my enchanted gaze that night. 
 I've danced with laughing girls at Bruno's, 
 And thought them Venuses and Junos: 
 But here where wealth and taste resort, 
 Sure Beauty holds her mystic court. 
 Ten thousand gems, of various dyes. 
 Were blanched to death by brighter eyes; 
 What pretty little Chinese feet 
 Peeped modestly from their retreat; 
 What lovely hands — how white and small ; 
 What forms — scarce any waists at all. 
 Oh, charming Peggy White, I cried, 
 My long-loved, my affianced bride: 
 Before such figures and such faces, 
 Your empire tottering to its base is. 
 
 Let others, in heroics prize 
 Diviner natures of the skies. 
 Praise angel's forms and angel's faces, 
 And dream of goddesses and graces: 
 I would not vainly here condemn 
 That which appears the best to them: 
 But truth to speak I maist be free. 
 Women are good enough for me. 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ,, 205 
 
 Two Governors were here, full dressed, 
 Squires — Generals — Colonels — all the rest; 
 Another step, thought I, 'tis odds, 
 I'll find myself amongst the gods. 
 But that which most my pride offended, 
 No complaisance was here extended. 
 No pleasing sounds of "my dear duck, 
 This is— a— Mr. Jollybuck." 
 Nor these — "to-morrow, just at three. 
 Friend Jonathan, you'll dine with me." 
 I thought some d — d good natured meddler 
 Had whisper'd that I was a pedlar, 
 And they had voted — viva voci — 
 That I was here an e7^7'or loci; 
 So being thrown upon the shelf, 
 1 had to forage for myself. 
 
 Once in the science of saltation 
 I owned no compeer in the nation; 
 Could tip you off a highland fling. 
 The back stay step or pigeon wing. 
 So I resolved, though out of use. 
 To shew these wild colts, just broke loose, 
 So full of capering and prancing, 
 A specimen of Yankee dancing. 
 My eyes upon a fair did settle. 
 Whose looks gave earnest of good mettle; 
 I strutted up to her, I vow. 
 And tipped her a New England bow. 
 Her lips no aspiration lent, 
 
206 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 But her white feathers waved consent. 
 
 Cried I — huzza for Saguatuck! 
 
 We took the floor — the music struck 
 
 '-'•The Campbells are coming''* — away we flew- 
 
 By gum, cried I, we're coming, too — 
 
 We figured, flourished, heaved, and sett, 
 
 Chasse'd, displayed, whirled oft', and met, 
 
 Placed in our steps — and I can vouch, 
 
 Pretty white-feathers was no slouch; 
 
 Sometimes I almost thought she might 
 
 Bear off' the bell from Peggy White, 
 
 But though her steps excelled, I found 
 
 Peg could surpass her whirling round. 
 
 The circle, thus, long time we graced — 
 
 Hie labor et hoc opus est — 
 
 Till back-stay, Scotch step, pigeon wing, 
 
 Made us the victors in the ring. 
 
 But, ah! the sequel, though with pain^ 
 I must relate — who should be vain! 
 A tittering laugh, and fingers pointed, 
 Soon told me, I was the anointed. 
 Yet not that I the uncti on bore 
 Like holy men in days of yore. 
 A candle, where I sat awhile. 
 Over my coat had dripped its oil; 
 And such a coat — to count the cost on, 
 It was just twenty wheels in Boston. 
 Here, was the royal Turkish crescent, 
 There, the fine foliage arborescent. 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, E^Q,. 207 
 
 Whew! — what a vile quandary! — well, 
 I wish the ball had been in 
 
 Nay, frown not, Dick — no law was broken, 
 The wish was only thought, not spoken; 
 But such a foul disaster hath 
 Stirred up, ere now, a saint to wrath. 
 So, lest warm feeling should appear, 
 I'll close my theme and letter here. 
 
 J. J. 
 
THIRD LETTER 
 
 FROM 
 
 JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 GIVING A 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF LOUISVILLE, 
 
 Being his third communication, to his friend in Connecticut, but 
 his first from Kentucky. 
 
 Louisville, 24th April, 1838. 
 Dear Richard: 
 
 Since I last addressed 
 A letter to you from the West, 
 The world has ten years older grown, 
 But how much better is unknown. 
 When last I put my foot your coast on, 
 You and my godson were in Boston ; 
 But Charity, your well loved spouse. 
 Performed the honors of the house: 
 With every dainty spread the board, 
 Larder or cellar could afford; 
 And pleasure danced in Charry's eyes, 
 To see me stow away her pies: 
 For if the truth must be confessed, 
 r2 
 
210 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLTBUCK, ESQ, 
 
 I do not need to be much pressed. 
 "Where'er I dine, let me engage 
 Breakfast in Scotland," cried the sage 
 Sam Johnson, who, 'tis known, was not 
 Overdisposed to spare the scot; 
 'Tis in his book — whoever smiles, 
 Vide "Journey to the Western Isles." 
 Had I a wish — this should be mine. 
 In Saguatuck that I might dine: 
 For there, in gastronymic state. 
 The table groans beneath its weight: 
 Perhaps a jig, or social play, 
 With pleasure closes in the day. 
 Amongst the gazers ranged around, 
 Some long remembered face is found, 
 Now lighted up, with joy o'ercome. 
 To see their travelled friend at home. 
 
 To say the truth, my worthy neighbor, 
 I'm sick of this incessant labor — 
 This late and early toil, which knows 
 Neither remission nor repose^ — 
 Like Noah's dove — with toil oppressed, 
 I seek some favored spot to rest — 
 Some quiet and sequestered place. 
 To pass the remnant of my days. 
 I've thought of Saguatuck as such. 
 And on this matter ponder'd much. 
 Mem'ry invests one's native land, Dick, 
 With tints and hues almost romantic. 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 211 
 
 And if Squire Sh*w**d's house and lot, 
 
 With twenty acres, could be got, 
 
 I think — but sound the Squire upon 
 
 This subject — more of it anon. 
 
 And meanwhile, should you write, Dick, mind me, 
 
 Your letter, here, may chance to find me. 
 
 Last Monday, as the clock struck four, 
 
 I drove up to Throckmorton's door: 
 
 The house was full, but they could spare 
 
 A w^eary guest a bed and chair, 
 
 And I, like Falstaff, did begin 
 
 To take my pleasure at mine inn. 
 
 I cannot now distinctly tell 
 
 Why I detest a tavern bell: 
 
 Perhaps because its tinkle sweet 
 Is loudest when there's least to eat; 
 
 As if the ear should be delighted 
 Just when the palate is most slighted. 
 I heard once of a pedlar Jew, 
 
 Who travelled oldVirginia through 
 
 Pending the war, when, as you know, 
 Eating was only just — so, so — 
 At every house where he applied 
 'Twas nought but eggs and bacon fried: 
 You show at this a merry face- 
 To Moses 'twas an awful case, 
 'Twas but to starve, or, as he saw, 
 To break through the Levitic law. 
 Hunger's an eloquent adviser, 
 
212 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ., 
 
 The bacon he resolves to try, sir, 
 And in his throat a piece he stuck. 
 Just then the chimney down was struck 
 With thunder from a passing cloud — 
 Petrified, Moses screamed aloud — 
 "-Why what a fuss is here, 'bout takin'," 
 He cried, '^a little bit of bacon!" 
 
 But in the Gait House, sooth to tell, 
 No sound is sweeter than the bell; 
 It tells us of a table spread. 
 Where man is to profusion fed 
 With every thing that heart could wish. 
 Fish, fowl, and flesh — flesh, fowl, and fish. 
 I did not feel much appetite. 
 When supper was announced that night: 
 Yet, as a stranger in the town, 
 I thought it right to sit me down — 
 Not that I hoped to do much work 
 That evening with the knife and fork — 
 Light suppers yield serene repose — 
 Chatted and yawned till nine, then chose 
 To stretch my languid limbs in bed; 
 A waiter then was called, who led 
 Me up some dozen flights of stairs. 
 Above the world and all its cares. 
 Where I, being with my journey weary, 
 Slept like an eagle in his eyrie. 
 
 Sol through my half closed curtains throw; 
 His beams to chide my long repose; 
 
LETTERS FROM JOINATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ,- 213 
 
 I love the sun — it has the luck 
 
 Each day to gaze on Saguatuck-, 
 
 Whilst I don't visit scenes so dear, 
 
 Though born amongst them, once a year; 
 
 'Tis the same orb — but not so dressed — 
 
 So gaily — blithely — in the west, 
 
 As where its fitful, ruddy ray, 
 
 Through every cranny forced its way, 
 
 Of the crazed roof, with laughing looks, 
 
 Where we were urchins at our books; 
 
 Where Johnny Graham, throned like a god, 
 
 Long wielded the omnific rod. 
 
 Still, in the self-same happy place, 
 
 It cheers another infant race-, 
 
 Still may it cheer, with rays unshorn, 
 
 Race after lace to freedom born, 
 
 Though to a heritage of toil. 
 
 Laborers, not bondmen, of the soil; 
 
 My fears I wdll not here dissemble, • 
 
 Alas! I for my country tremble, 
 
 A few days longer here I dwell, 
 To give my nags a breathing spell; 
 And should I in the time grow dull — 
 Or megrims creep into my skull- 
 By gum ! I'll dip my pen in ink, 
 To scrawl at least, if not to think. 
 To you, my faithful friend, I'll write, 
 To uncle Sam, and Peggy White; 
 Nothing to you or them directed 
 
214 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESft. 
 
 Will show much tact — you don't expect it. 
 
 In truth, when scribbling to a neighbor, 
 
 I never use the limce labor; 
 
 No birth comes forth from my poor head, 
 
 Minerva-like, full grown and bred; 
 
 No fiicts in learned lingo clad: 
 
 First thoughts I give you — good or bad; 
 
 Whate'er I think will not remain 
 
 Shut in the penthouse of my brain. 
 
 Reflection ne'er my goosequill stops, 
 
 As I conceive it, out it pops — 
 
 Without evasion, guise or wile, 
 
 Fresh from the mint — you know my style. 
 
 Since we must write — and write we will- 
 Let's take a peep at Louisville; 
 A swift coup d'oel — a meagre taste — 
 A random sketch — and sketched in haste. 
 But do not, Dick, expect of me 
 To barter truth for eulogy. 
 Truth, Parson Buckland used to say, 
 Subserves our interest every way. 
 But Parson Buckland would, I guess, 
 Have valued truth a trifle less, 
 If, from his living forced to part, 
 To vend out notions from a cart — 
 To take the rough and miry road 
 With a still undiminished load — 
 To toil and strive, yet have no gains 
 But just his labor for his pains. 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ.. 215 
 
 Therefore, I have esteemed it wise, 
 
 To make this saving compromise, 
 
 Which with my conscience I maintain, 
 
 Ne'er to romance—unless for gain — 
 
 Still to call truth unto my aid, 
 
 Except — ^just in the way of trade; 
 
 For where self-interest stands on guard. 
 
 The vestal Truth is rarely heard.* 
 
 Bat here from truth I will not swerve — 
 
 Flatt'ry no interest would subserve — 
 
 The upraised beam no profits shake — 
 
 More I disburse than I shall make. 
 
 Of goods my shandrydan is thin, 
 
 It has its load when I am in. 
 
 I do not, in four lessons, teach 
 
 A grammar of eight parts of speech; 
 
 Of longitude I never dream; 
 
 I do not cure the sick by steam; 
 
 Palmistry or perpetual motion. 
 
 Are things of which I have no notion; 
 
 No clocks, nor nutmegs made of wood, 
 
 Nor drugs to purify the blood; 
 
 No changeful wash for hair grown grey, 
 
 Nor cure for baldness in a day; 
 
 ♦Although we wish to show every mark of courtesy to a stranger, we 
 must inform Mr. Jollybuck that we by no means agree with him, in 
 thus making truth subservient to self-interest. We think that the re- 
 doubtable Johnny Graham has been somewhat remiss in the discharge 
 of his duty. A little more lusty application of the "omnific rod" might 
 have had salutary effects. — [Prfnter's Devil. 
 
216 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ. 
 
 In short no wares nor powers uncommon, 
 To gain a fee from man or woman. 
 And therefore, as I said before, 
 I'll speak the truth and nothing more. 
 
 Now through my raree-show-box peep, 
 And I the cords in hand will keep, 
 And scan this picture, if you'd know 
 Louisville forty years ago: 
 
 Some forest land, cold and champain, 
 And mud and marsh o'ertopt with cane. 
 And intermingling hues with these, 
 Seen through the opening of the trees, 
 A few rough cabins tell that here 
 Still dwells the hardy pioneer. 
 Before whose arm and giant blow 
 The ancient forest is laid low. 
 A shed is here to hold the mail. 
 And dry goods advertised "for sail;" 
 A public board imports that here 
 Whiskey is sold — and cakes and beer; 
 An Indian's bark is seen to glide 
 Swiftly upon the dimpling tide. 
 
 Now, Richard, look this scite upon, 
 One moment — presto! it is gone! 
 Swift as the string the showman plies, 
 A new creation greets our eyes. 
 Gold! money! — that omnific wand 
 
LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ,. 217 
 
 Has with enchantment touched the land; 
 
 Domes, palaces, and temples, rife, 
 
 Burst from the soil and spring to life; 
 
 Lo! its long chains of houses — thick, 
 
 In double columns — built of brick; 
 
 Its numerous streets, well paved and clean, ^ 
 
 Named Walnut, Jefferson, and Green, 
 
 Others to make the chart more plain, 
 
 As Chestnut, Water street, and Main; 
 
 The numerous Cross streets — these aflbrd — 
 
 Like lines upon the checker-board; 
 
 Its grand hotels — and here we note 
 
 Both those on land, and those afloat^ 
 
 Its great canal — its turnpike roads; 
 
 Hacks — drays — and porters with their loads; 
 
 Its museum — much admired when seen; 
 
 Its playhouse; Hospital Marine; 
 
 Its thirty thousand population. 
 
 Of every tongue and every nation; 
 
 Its clergy — lawyers — and physicians; 
 
 Its merchants — teachers — politicians; 
 
 Its gay gallants — femmes a la mode, 
 
 Not oft seen out of their abode — 
 
 The modest girl, the happy w^ife: 
 
 And all in motion — large as life!! 
 
 A most sufficient bill of fare 
 I give you here — and some to spare. 
 To write on each point — in detail — 
 
218 LETTERS FROM JONATHAN JOLLYBUCK, ESQ^. 
 
 Courage would flag, and strength would fail. 
 
 But if it only pleases you, 
 
 I think Fll touch on one or two.* 
 
 Being half undressed, no more I'll write, 
 
 But just slip into bed. Good nigtht. 
 
 *The last letter of Mr. Jollybtjck^ giving some particulars of 
 Louisville, was, by carelessness, lost in a printing office (Mr. J. B. 
 Marshall's) in this city. 
 
ON THE DEATH 
 
 OP 
 
 MRS. JANE MUSE, 
 
 Wife of Laurence Muse, Collector of the Port of Tappahannock, 
 Essex County, Virginia. 
 
 Let the day be remembered with tears and with 
 sighs, 
 That stole thy fair image, sweet sarint, to the skies; 
 Let charity weep, let compassion bemoan, 
 Her premature exit, whose heart was their throne. 
 Let the muses, in mourning, weep over her pall, 
 For the Muse now is gone that transcended them all. 
 For whate'er is most valued in painting or song. 
 Of form or of virtue, to her did belong. 
 How oft at the mansion of want and disease, 
 Have I marked thee, pure spirit, the emblem of 
 
 peace; 
 To thee the lorn victim of sorrow and pain 
 Would recite the sad storv, nor tell it in vain— 
 
250 ON TME DEATH ux-' Atv6, JANE MUSE, 
 
 To the stings of misfortune, the goadings of grief, 
 Thy bosom of sympathy yielded relief. 
 How oft did the tear trembling blue orb confess 
 Thy heart-fraught emotions at others' distress; 
 How oft thy soft accents, by Heaven designed 
 As a balm, oh how soft, to the languishing mind, 
 The widow's sad heart of its woes would beguile, 
 Till the etchings of grief were effaced by a smile. 
 But in vain would remembrance essay to pursue 
 The effects of such merit — of virtue so true; 
 And how feeble the power of my pen to impart 
 The awards of her worth, who yet lives in each 
 
 Yet to linger, the joys and the sorrows be mine, 
 One moment to dwell on her manners divine: 
 How soft, yet how vivid — how artless, how mild; 
 Here the parent of wit — there of nature the child. 
 As a mistress how loved — as a wife how caressed, 
 As a mother — but holdl — be ye quiet, my breast! 
 One sweet little daughter — nor Hebe more fair — 
 Bound down by disease to the couch of despair; 
 1 witnessed her sufferings, and mournfully saw 
 The LAST ebbings of life from life's fountain with- 
 draw. 
 Oh nature how fine, how impressive thy claims! 
 Now the WOMAN withdraws, but the mother remains; 
 I saw the sunk rays from her orbits depart, 
 I heard the deep anguish that burst from her heart. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JANE MUSE. 221 
 
 Old Time, with his antidote, learned to restore 
 The affectionate wife — ah! a mother no more; 
 And Heaven, whom her sorrows with pity had moved, 
 Joined the parent so fond to the offspring so loved I 
 But what language can weaken the pangs of thy mind, 
 Sad sorrowing mourner, who art left behind? 
 Yes — this fond consolation my friend may be given: 
 His Jane is not dead — but is wafted to Heaven. 
 
 s2 
 
ADDRESS 
 WRITTEN FOR THE BARDSTOWN HERALD. 
 
 Good morn, gentle friends, midst your mirth and 
 good cheer, 
 I've just dropped in to bid you a "happy New Year." 
 I'm the printer, you know, who industriously ply 
 My black balls, in Jones' brick office, hard by: 
 I have wealth of emplyments, infernal and civil. 
 Sometimes I am Carrier, and sometimes the Devil! 
 Nay, start not, kind patrons, in this, my debut, 
 Believe me, I won't play the devil with you. 
 
 Well, how do ye do, sirs? — as this is cold vs^eather, 
 Let's just take a tiff of strong waters together; 
 A glass of your brandy, I know ye'U not grudge it — 
 And forthwith, before ye, I'll open my budget; 
 Aye, this is good drinking — this excellent liquor 
 Might preserve the red nose of a judge or a vicar; 
 Well, I'll just try another — I eschew ebriety — 
 I belong, let me say, to a temperate society; 
 Though skilled in knob-ology, Caldwell, I'm thinking. 
 Can't find, in my cranium, the organ of drinking. 
 
 Some Carriers like me, in their New Year's address, 
 On Time's turnings and changes lay wonderful stress; 
 And talk much, and brimful of wisdom, about 
 
224 ADDRESS. 
 
 The year just come in, and the old just gone out: 
 But what's that to me? — I know I must still 
 Roll my black balls about, be the year what it will. 
 Besides, to be plain with you, good Mr. Time, 
 Pm not drunk enough, quite, to be truly sublime: 
 So, patrons and friends, for a song if ye call, 
 I must sing my own way — or I won't sing at all. 
 
 Ye beauties of Bardstownl that sometimes we meet, 
 With such grace, arm in arm, promenading the street; 
 Whose lips are like cherries, red ripe, on the tree — 
 Though faith, I must own, they are sour grapes to me — 
 Whose glance is enchantment, whose kind smile dis- 
 closes. 
 More sweetness than honey or conserve of roses: 
 I wish not to tempt ye with counsels of evil, 
 As Eve was in Paradise — though Pm the devil! 
 To the words of a friend give attention, I pray — 
 Though, now I think on't, Pve nothing to say. 
 Your images brightly stole over me, when 
 A moment I paused just to nib this vile pen; 
 And the thought quickly struck me, your aid to engage, 
 Some charms and attractions to give to my page; 
 Lest the critic might say, with his heart full of ire, 
 There is no beauty in it that one should admire. 
 
 But now to return, and I must make confession, 
 I return with reluctance from this sweet digression; 
 To return to the subject on which I began: 
 You must know. Messieurs Patrons, that I am a man, 
 Such a man, too, as daily you won't chance to see. 
 For talents, high virtues, or proud pedigree. 
 
ADDRESS. 225 
 
 My father and mother in the world made a noise! 
 A trimkmaker he, and she cried penny pies! 
 They lived long together, like turtle-doves really, 
 Except when they quarreled, but that happened daily: 
 In vino Veritas — there is truth in the cup — 
 They drank, quarreled, fought it out — kissed and 
 
 made up. 
 I was the first offspring of this worthy pair, 
 Of tlieir titles, and honors, and fortune, the heir; 
 Dad thought I had genius — but every crow 
 Thinks its own young caw sweetest — the adage you 
 
 know — 
 So, to make me a printer, he took up a notion, 
 As I had for letters an ardent devotion; 
 So, to Bardstown we came, one hot summer day, 
 Our nags cost us nothing in oats, corn, or hay; 
 And since, I have peacefully lived, with whole bones, 
 In this printing establishment, managed by Jones. 
 
 By the powers of my genius, displayed by my pen, 
 I have grown into favor with all our great men: 
 The President, Reynolps, the head of our College, 
 Declares me a great Cyclopedia of knowledge. 
 When our town late received a kind visit from Clay, 
 He took to me hugely by nicrht and by day; 
 Said he, friend, your influence at our next election! 
 Brother Hal, I replied, you shall have my protection!! 
 For our great men of law, too, I sharpen their arrows. 
 When caught, as they sometimes must be, in the 
 narrows; 
 
226 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 Our R*w*N and H*rd*n gain many a fee 
 
 By applying, in difficult cases, to me. 
 
 As an able debater my fame is increasing. 
 
 For ril talk about nothing whole hours without ceasing; 
 
 A difficult subject can trace to its root, 
 
 And travel whole leagues without moving a foot. 
 
 I also am named with the wits and the sages, 
 
 Who write for this wonderful work of four pages: 
 
 There are charming lips — that refuse me a fee — 
 
 Which will say, ^'do, dear Dick, write a sonnet on me;" 
 
 The BEST of the Odes and the Essays that shine 
 
 In the Herald's famed columns, dear reader, are mine. 
 
 Your risible faculties, thus I can jog. 
 
 Whilst I sit in a corner, and chuckle, incog. 
 
 I furnished J*hn H*ys with the first happy notion, 
 
 By which he discovered perpetual motion: 
 
 And so great is its power, that I know, (without boast- 
 
 A turkey will turn its own spit whilst His roasting. 
 
 The plan of an instrument I have in keeping, 
 
 Which will shave you, quite clean and smooth, whilst 
 
 you are sleeping; 
 I also have found for your use, my good friends, 
 A fly-trap, and candles which burn at both ends; 
 A plan, too, to punish those persons who labor 
 To injure the standing and fame of their neighbor: 
 For, by envy and malice, I've been, ('midst my toils,) 
 As sorely tormented as Job w^as with boils. 
 A device has for some time, too, run in my head, 
 To make maiden ladies and bachelors wed— 
 
ADDRESS. 227 
 
 And, if it succeeds, we shall have no more airs 
 From sparks like Censorious, nor Biddy Bellairs. 
 
 But, Sirs, though I'm toiling and laboring still, 
 From morning till night, like a horse in a mill; 
 I am desperately poor — for I've noticed that sich 
 Great geniuses as I am too seldom grow rich — 
 My WARDROBE is greatly wind-shaken of late: 
 'Tis truly in a most poetical state. 
 My chapeau runs up like a cone, and scarce any 
 Remains of the brim — so, I look like a Zany, — 
 My hose are forsaking my legs, and some trouble it 
 Gives me to find the way into my doublet; [fashion, 
 To see my plush small-clothes, that once were the 
 Your bowels would move, sirs, with downright compas- 
 For though it condemns me, I'll tell you the truth: [sion, 
 A bad habit of eating I learned in my youth. 
 Which I fear will remain till the day that I die, sir, 
 Though in some small particulars I hope to grow wiser. 
 This here is our Editor's coat, you may see 
 'Tis too long in the waist, by twelve inches for me — 
 This waistcoat, hat, trowsers, and cravat so white. 
 Of our journeyman, Higgins, I borrowed last night: 
 Lest the Herald should suffer, in credit or vendage, 
 By too humble a Carrier — too mean an appendage. 
 So, alas! when each bird its own feathers shall get, 
 I'll be gutted and plucked like a fowl for the spit. 
 
 But this is not all! I'll a secret impart: 
 When my larder is empty, I'm full at the heart! 
 Not only my butcher — but others I owe. 
 Some debts on demand — see particulars below: 
 /mprimis — I owe the new Doctor a bill; 
 
228 ADDRESS. 
 
 Two Dollars to tPii^w*y; three to McG^ll; 
 
 One Dollar I borrowed, and owe to S H— ; 
 
 For like sum, Mrs. ■ holds my twin shirt in pawn; 
 
 To Roberts, some matter of postage I owe; 
 And a store account, also, to T. Hite &: Co ; 
 
 To T. P ce fifty cents for new soling my shoes. 
 
 Nor here ends my distress, nor the toils of my Muse, 
 For a toil more severe hath come down from above: 
 I've been caught in the toils of the blind God of Love! 
 And I promised my sweetheart to make her appear 
 As fine as a rainbow, the first of this year. 
 
 Amidst all these love scrapes, debts, duns, and dis- 
 asters, 
 I turn my sad eyeballs to you, my good masters; 
 I've got, sirs, an ailment you only can cure: 
 'Tis the pocket consumption that now I endure. 
 And to you, (for my case needs no other physician,) 
 I apply in the form of an humble petition. 
 
 Now don't, my good sirs, to the roof roll your eyes. 
 Smell the tops of your canes, shake your heads and 
 
 look wise — 
 Like some members I've seen of the medical race — 
 And cry hum! ho! what? ha! hum! — a very bad case! 
 'Tis no terrible case, sirs — for, though really ill, 
 I'll be readily cured by a neat silver pill! 
 ]f the symptoms don't yield, and one pill will not do. 
 Repeat the same dose, they'll be vanquished by two! 
 
 To be plain, and get clear of this medical slang, 
 I am sadly in want my good sirs, of l'argent. 
 Should ye furnish the needful this blythe New Year's 
 dnv. 
 
ADDRESS. 229 
 
 Your petitioner, in duty bound will ever pray; 
 And Kitty, my sweetheart, your honors shall bless, 
 As she turns out to church in her bran span new dress, 
 So, good now! a small tribute do not refuse: 
 O, think of the Carrier that brings you the news. 
 
 SECOND ADDRESS 
 WRITTEN FOR THE BARDSTOWN HERALD. 
 
 Long life to your worships — a merry New Year — 
 What, don't you know me, in my holiday gear? 
 I'm the same laughing Devil that addressed you, you 
 
 know. 
 In Byronical stanzas, two winters ago. 
 Like Byron, to write is my aim and my pride — 
 The bard left his mantle to me when he died: 
 But though in his metrical strains I can carol, 
 I am free from his faults — Jc suis un liornme moral — 
 I've a touch of the Estro, and fame is most sweet. 
 But poets are mortal, and mortals must eat; 
 And thus I'm a poet for fame once a year, 
 But weekly a printer for bread and small beer. 
 
 In the Herald's kaleidescope columns you find 
 Tlie great and the little affairs of mankind: 
 Deaths — casualties — robberies — garnish our pages, 
 The wit of the jester, and wisdom of sages; 
 
230 ADDRESS. 
 
 Advertisements — essays, in verse and in prose- 
 Biographies — rebuses — tales — and bon mots. 
 Of speeches in Congress we give you some notes, 
 Tell how foreign heroes cut each other's throats; 
 (Success to the sport — if such sport they delight in I 
 For me, I ne'er had any stomach for fighting!) 
 Our political changes — the ins and the outs. 
 Who groans in defeat, and who victory shouts; 
 From foreign affairs to domestic we roam, 
 From the State of the poles, to our polls here at 
 
 home; 
 What ambitious demagogue's schemes have miscarried; 
 And who the young beauties of Nelson have married. 
 With a hand firm and steady we hold up the glass, 
 Which reflects forms and features of objects that pass:. 
 And, true as the gospel, each word that we tell; 
 Our buckets reach truth — though 'twere hid in a well. 
 
 In our best style of printing, all this and much more^ 
 I bring in the Herald, each week to your door; 
 I'm true to my calling, if cloudy or fair, 
 Bright sunshine, or tempest — no matter — I'm there! 
 Then, my masters, you can't the small pittance delay,. 
 When poor Monsieur Tonson calls in for his pay. 
 I might on these points hold your reverences long. 
 But presto! I'll alter the notes of my song. 
 
 I gave you, in the above mentioned address. 
 Some whimsical instances of my distress; 
 How Fortune growled at me, just like a black bear. 
 But Love smiled, in one that was winning and itdr, 
 I thoumU at tliat time, be it blessino; or curse. 
 
ADDRESS. 23 1 
 
 To make her my partner for better for worse; 
 Her morals were blarneless — her beauty was killing — 
 My love was ferocious — and Kitty was willing; 
 But so gentle a bosom, and manners so civil, 
 It seems were not doomed to be leagued with the 
 ■ devil! 
 Little more than a week ere 1 should have been 
 
 wived, 
 A parcel of beasts and their keepers arrived: 
 Pitched their tent in the w^est of the square — so it fell 
 Not far from the sign of the Bardstown Hotel. 
 Shows sometimes amuse the dull moments of life, 
 I have laughed till I cried, at Van Punch and his wife ; 
 Nor do I e'er grumble to part with my money 
 To see Dandy Jack on the back of the pony; 
 Such cunning and tact, in his movements and features. 
 As if he were one of God's rational creatures. 
 So I said to my sweetheart, my dear will you go 
 To see the wild varmints, to-day, at the show? 
 So soon as I asked it — she gave her consent — 
 For she said that she would — and she did- — and w 
 
 went. 
 A quarter a head and the man let us in, 
 To this world of strange monsters, and music, and din 
 The feats of the beasts, and the multitude's stare, 
 I will not tell, reader — perhaps you were there. 
 Above all the rest sat a musical prig, 
 Who played on the pipe to the elephant's jig: ^ 
 
 A full whiskered, felon-like man. did you see. 
 In round coat— striped kerchief— straw hat?— that 
 
 was he. 
 
232 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 As I marked his puffed cheeks and unchangeable smirk, 
 
 I thought of old Satan in Allovvay Kirk. 
 
 But Kitty, it seemed, liked him better than I, 
 
 And turned on her Orpheus her dark rolling eye: 
 
 The SCOUNDREL perceived it, and marked with delight, 
 
 His magical power o'er an organ so bright! 
 
 For music, he knew, (and the adage is old.) 
 
 Is Love's proper food — as Will vShakspeare has told. 
 
 And she turned her kind glance on the pipe and its 
 
 owner; 
 And he bio wed, and he turned his keen optics upon her; 
 And he turned, and he turned, his harmonical strain; 
 And he turned, and he turned, my poor Kitty's w^eak 
 
 brain ! 
 For he toiled at the mark, and enraptured w^as she, 
 With the hey diddle diddle, and tweedle dum dee; 
 
 Of his d nd brazen musical tube — but enough! 
 
 My love of three years was exchanged for a puff!! 
 And to sum up the fate of this unconstant woman; 
 Her Printer she left — and turned off with the Showman! 
 
 I knew not, in music. Kit took such a pride; 
 But, also, in this thing, our tastes are allied; 
 Through a comb and brown paper, I've bum'd the 
 
 whole da 3% 
 And then on the Jews-harp, — gods! how I could play! 
 With two crabbed sticks — as if toiling for bread, 
 ^1 have beat for whole hours, on an old barrel's head — 
 No instrument near me, I've trod with my shoe. 
 On her long ermine tail, just to hear the Cat mew: 
 And, this, I renewed, with unmingled delight. 
 
ADDRESS. 233 
 
 As oft as grimalJiin came into my sight, 
 
 Till my mother, whose ear is less perfect than mine, 
 
 And feels not the soft power of music divine, 
 
 Hath cried in a rrtge — what the plagues! hist the cat! 
 
 Why Richard, what vile caterwauling is that? 
 
 — Few Doctors in music, as I have a notion. 
 
 Have shewn for the science a greater devotion. 
 
 But then 'tis a wretched dependence for life: 
 
 I wish she may like it so well as a wife. 
 
 I mourned her abduction three weeks and a day; 
 Grew as thin, in the time, and the ghost in the play; 
 Raved, ranted and roared — and the sequel to tell; 
 Was black as the devil, (tt^his highness in H-II; 
 Condemned the whole sex — then, as I am a sinner! 
 Blowed my nose, wiped my eyes, and sat dow to dinner, 
 And hoped as I ate it, some girl yet to see. 
 As fair as my Kitty, and truer to me. 
 So, Fathers and guardians of wards, to be plain, 
 Take notice that Dick is in market again. 
 
 I am no more indebted for fragments of dress. 
 To prop up the Herald, to Fiends of the' press: 
 As the birds of the air, once assembled together, 
 And each bird, to deck the Jackdaw, loaned a feather 
 — Two years some addition have made to my riches: 
 j^-^%i(- ^vears his own coat now, and B^^^^ his own 
 
 br-ch— s: 
 The former of good bottle green, — but alack! ^ 
 
 For me 'twas twelve inches too short in the back. 
 This garb, which so neat on my shoulders appears. 
 Was fashioned by Mattingly's needle and shears.' 
 t2 
 
534 ADDRESS. 
 
 But your memory is in this small matter perplexed. 
 Then, reader, accept this short note on the text. 
 The head of our office convened a divan, 
 And thus, in their w^isdom, they settled the plan; 
 The Herald^ the} said, must not suffer in weal, 
 By a carrier yclept of the shabby genteel^ 
 — So, with bucket and broom I was scrubb'd very much, 
 But, yet, not over white, — then. Sirs, for the last touch, 
 I forthwith was packed from the waistband to throat, 
 In spite of my groans, in our Editor's coat. — 
 To my ribs, spine and shoulders, so tight was the fit, 
 That I seemed, like a gander, prepared for the spit: 
 And I swore by black-balls, impelled by the pain. 
 That things so unequal should ne'er meet again: 
 Such a compass of back, and of coat such a stint. 
 Though the Herald should never more come out in print: 
 And my oath was held sacred, for since that time ne'er 
 Has my back been subjected ngain to the gear. 
 
 These snug galigaskins were fashioned by Deakins; 
 I paid the first cost for the stuff" at M'Meekin's; 
 On the opposite corner his store you may find, 
 To that where La Fayette^ swings high in the wind: 
 La Fayette, by Britons and Tories well known; 
 But now polite and so courteous he's grown; 
 Whig or Tory, or Briton or Turk, — one and all, 
 Hat in hand, with a smile he invites them to call! 
 The house, f6r good fare is excelled not by any, 
 And you'll cheerfully pay off" your bill to — a penny!! 
 
 * The La Fayette Hotel, kept by William Penny. 
 
ADDRESS. 235 
 
 My dignified visage no longer is marr'd 
 By the conical chapeau by the time vilely scar'd, 
 One day in ill humor I ga^ve it a shock, 
 To the fire, where it perished, with all its live stock. — 
 The one, that more proudly now graces my crown; 
 Was made in this place, by the firm, — Bean & Brown. 
 
 But whilst I thus boast of my fortune so changed; 
 I fear, greatly fear, that my system's deranged. — 
 — There's that old new Doctor, now^ one of our neigh- 
 bors ; 
 Who sometimes peeps into our den on our labours; 
 T'other day he step'd in, grasped my wrist, and said he, 
 
 Dick, 
 I'm sorry to tell you that soon you will be sick; 
 I advise you to use the methodus medendi, 
 'Tis that fatal disease cacoethes scribendi.' 
 
 With a look somewhat knowing, I gazed in his phiz, 
 For I know by experience he sometimes can quiz. 
 Come Doctor, said I, — You've mistaken your man, 
 I can whip, Sir, of w^ild cats a whole caravan — 
 My sinews are strong, and my stomach is good, 
 I can eat — if you doubt it, just furnish the food, 
 At a meal, a whole capon, and three pounds of bacon, 
 So your Reverence I humbly conceive, is mistaken. 
 But, his features were stern and unmoved by my rout; 
 And muttering — a icoixl to the icise^ he w alked out. ^ 
 
 Now I've ask'd and conferr'd with each old fashioned 
 dame, 
 
236 ADDRESS. 
 
 If she knows this disease, with the outlandish name, 
 For I can't find it mentioned in '-'-BucharC^ expressly, 
 Nor yet in the '-'-Primitwe Physic''' of '•'• Wesley. '''' 
 But though my enquiries their object have miss'd, 
 I feel all the symptoms, and here is the list: 
 
 My heart by some strange palpitations is stirred. 
 And my stomach, I can't eat the wing of a bird. 
 But this is not all, and I name it with pain: 
 From stomach and heart it has climbed to the brain: 
 I have blindness, and noise in my ears, and I dream, 
 And feel a most dire disposition to scream. 
 I shed many tears, as if quite broken hearted. 
 Though I ne'er wept before, since false Kitty departed ; 
 For frolic and fun, I am ne'er in the mood. 
 But for solitude sigh, in the shade of a wood. 
 
 I have nam.ed to the Doctors this w^orst of all ills: 
 Decoctions some spoke of, some boasted their pills. 
 I've heard of green ointment made by some old woman, 
 Who for skill in the art, is exceeded by no man. 
 But I can't trust my case to our Cobblers at home: 
 In short, 1 am thinking of visiting B*^7n, 
 That wonderful man, though by some deem'd a bore! 
 Who cures, as I have heard, all diseases and more. 
 Then his charges so wondrously small! may I die. 
 But I'll go the next week, if the waters ai'nt high; 
 And whether I'm physick'd or blister'd or bled, 
 You shall know the next 5 ear for a quarter a head. 
 
 Our Franklin has mentioned, the son of a woman. 
 Who had just two legs, his case was so uncommon. 
 
ADDRESS. 237 
 
 Bat more wonderful still (what you ne'er could find out) 
 
 The one was deformed, but the other was stout, 
 
 Now this Solomon Sly^his good member display'd: 
 
 But its ill-favored neighbor kept back in the shade; 
 
 The man was a cripple, and I am another; 
 
 I swear it is true by the beard of my mother! 
 
 But I don't like to tell you, my friends, though I might, 
 
 How heavy my heart is, my pocket how light^ 
 
 Ah! this is ??iij bad leg, I keep out of sight! 
 
 Though 1 bring my petition but yearly before ye, 
 
 I hope I have breeding, 'tis needless to bore ye! 
 
 I don't, like the little Musician, d'ye see, 
 
 At the close of each stave, cry out — ntonee! monee! 
 
 Now I've shown my bad limb, sirs, I'll use no more 
 
 hints, 
 'Tis yours to apply the salve, bandage and splints. 
 
I 
 
A WORD TO MODERN FREE THINKERS. 
 
 Ye modern Free Thinkers, astute and sage, 
 Who write to mend the morals of the age, 
 Say, how are we plain folks, rude and unlettered, 
 To be by your new system greatly bettered; 
 Of sacred things your sentiments we know; 
 Owen and Paine declared them long ago. 
 Ye think that lovely woman is a blessing. 
 Not for one man — but for promiscuous kissing; 
 And that we sacrifice to female pride. 
 What Nature to the brutes has not denied. 
 This is good sensual w^isdom, but the fact is, 
 We ask how will it work — reduced to practice; 
 For us some human prejudices still 
 Cling to our hearts, disguise them as we will. 
 We love our wives — would guard them still from evil, 
 Praise God and (do not smile) w^e fear the devil. 
 Our sires, to whom the sacred book was given, 
 (A mother's gift.) we trust are gone to Heaven; 
 And this conviction still their labours cheered 
 That it was their own offspring that they reared; 
 Remove these checks — the record from above. 
 The truth, the chastity of her we love: 
 And what is left — aye, what? come ye who preach 
 From your own selfish passions learn to teach, 
 
240 A WORD TO MODERN FREE THINKERS. 
 
 That man thro' this dull gloomy world must plod, 
 Uncheer'd by wedded love — denying God. 
 Come ye regenerators of mankind, «** 
 
 Who give the deaf to hear, sight to the blind, 
 Carry your system through, the world expects 
 To know its fate, free'd from such irksome checks, 
 What no response — well we will number here, 
 Some few of the results to us most clear; 
 We'll pluck the roses round the pall that bloom. 
 And shew the festering tenant of the tomb. 
 
 The sacrament of marriage held at nought. 
 Women not courted. Worship'd — only bought; 
 Promiscuous love — where burns lust's fiercest fires. 
 Fatherless babes or unacknowledged sires; 
 The sweet relationships of life denied, 
 Or if acknowledged — only on one side; 
 Women, God's fairest workmanship and best, 
 Unlov'd — unmourn'd, sinks to her eiulless rest; 
 No husband's love the dying couch prepares, 
 Nor weeping sire the last procession shares. 
 Here Parson Malthus' system may succeed, 
 For vice, like other monsters will not breed, 
 Yet issue there will be — however scant. 
 Some Spartan band must keep these babes from want. 
 
 No grace! no charm! no sweet endearments known; 
 No God! no wife! no children you can own; 
 A world of selfish bitterness and strife. 
 Kneel to the beast and worship! — this is life! 
 
A WORD TO MODERN FREE THINKERS. 241 
 
 Amongst reformers — who is there expects 
 To find a leader in the gentler sex; 
 Who patronises learning — (is a blue,) 
 Anatomy and jurisprudence too, 
 But in her wisdom deems it very odd, 
 Thai people should rear domes to worship God. 
 She laughs at marriage vows — like her who died 
 As vTodwin's wife, a mother ere a bride, 
 With talents bless'd — for no benignant use, 
 Things sacred serve her only for abuse; 
 She mounts the rostrum and doth there proclaim 
 A womari^s degradation and her shame! 
 
 But why should w^e fresh theories advance, 
 
 The oldest may remember modern France; 
 
 A great convention of the Gallic nation 
 
 Voted God out — aye, out of his creation. 
 
 The pulpit, the best guard to virtue known, 
 
 Fell crumbling into atoms with the throne; 
 
 ^^Deaths an eternal sleep," the millions cried, 
 
 The bloody guillotine the test applied; 
 
 Thus from Free Thoughts sprung up the worst of times, 
 
 Napoleon rose and saved them from their crimes. 
 
 Beneath the new made consulate — Morbleu, 
 
 Monseur Crapeau had work enough to do; 
 
 History for this shall larger fame accord. 
 
 Than for the grand achievements of his sword. 
 
 Yet there are some, aye, many, rash and vain. 
 Who madly spurn the matrimonial chain, 
 
242 A WORD TO MODERN FREE THINKERS. 
 
 Others, whom sordid wretchedness assails, 
 
 Are sorely tempted to break Diaii's pails; 
 
 Some take the fatal path, yet pause and think, 
 
 And turn away before they reach the brink; 
 
 The most unfortunate to ruin led 
 
 Is she who shared a drunkard's loathsome bed. 
 
 These must not all to infamy be given. 
 
 The strongest hearts require the aid of Heaven; 
 
 All but the first demand commisseration. 
 
 We see the fault, but know not the temptation. 
 
COLUMBIA— ABOLITION. 
 
 What Power does not envy Columbia where she 
 Reclines in her heaiity majestic and free, 
 yVhWsi pkntij the child of this kind mother born, 
 Pours into her lap her full redolent horn, 
 Yet still midst her blessings and power, we espy 
 The vestige of grief in her tear trembling eye. 
 What sorrow, we ask with surprise, can appear, 
 To dim that beneficent eye with a tear? 
 Alas! for Columbia, her tears are not vain, 
 Her sorrows revert to a land o'er the Main; 
 'Tis the home of her Mother^ where pensively she 
 Resides on an Isle of the dark rolling sea; 
 To the lip of that Mother^ with famine oppress'd, 
 Like the daughter of Greece she displays her full breast; 
 And asks her old parent to come and provide 
 For subsistence and life from its plentiful tide. 
 But here, where new streams of subsistence are found, 
 Tho' her lips may be free, yet her hands must be bound. 
 
 Away with that pestilent Hydra that stood 
 Abolition by name, to the knees steep'd in blood, 
 The bludgeon that placed in the Negro's right hand, 
 And gave to his left, the destructive^re brandy 
 Which taught him to draw from its scabbard the knife, 
 'Gainst his master, whose care had sustained him 
 through life; 
 
244 COLUMBIA ABOLITION. 
 
 For if 'twere my last word, that word should declare, 
 The owner's part is the most profitless share. 
 
 Oh shame on the man who by vanity led, 
 (May the foolscap and bells, decorate his weak head) 
 Who brought on him.self the abolitionist'' s fate. 
 By opinions too loose in a slave holding state. 
 Who thought not of means, nor expedience, nor place, 
 To perfect his wrong — O eternal disgrace! 
 
 who should feel wonder — if in our own day 
 
 We have seen such a man, that his name should be Clay. 
 
 Let Irish O'Connel make game and deride; 
 'Tis easy for him, on our case to decide, 
 But answer, O'Connell, and answer me flat. 
 Who grafted this curse on our land? — tell 7ne that! 
 'Twas the avarice of Britain^ her curs'd lust of gain. 
 On our ^scutcheon that stamp'd this indelible stain, 
 And boasters and quacks, like yourself, we endure, 
 Who don't study the case and mismanage the cure. 
 
 The Negro, in short, has through ages been known, 
 Content with his cabin, then let him alone; 
 Would you send him to Afric^ where blacks were first 
 
 reared. 
 Few would leave their old homesteads by habit endeared. 
 Then free them and keep them at home, we've been told. 
 Worse and worse! shall my p-^ji the dire mischiefs unfold? 
 
 1 pray you, your robber's foul hands to keep back, 
 Few diseases do well in the care of a quack! 
 
JOHN HAYES. 
 
 That great talents and great misfortunes are espe- 
 cially allied to each other, has been often affirmed and 
 seldom contradicted. This opinion, taken in the ab- 
 stract, may appear paradoxical and unfounded; for we 
 would naturally believe, upon every principle of sound 
 reason, that great talents would first seek their own 
 advantage, and possessing superior power, would find 
 the readiest means of securing the end. But when we 
 look abroad upon the world, we find abundant reason 
 to suspect the justness of this conclusion: — certain it 
 is, that the greatest geniuses have been referred to by 
 authors, as furnishing conclusive evidence, that talents 
 possess little or no advantages, in securing their pos- 
 sessor from the most poignant and lamentable misery 
 and distress. D'Israeli, an English writer of celebri- 
 ty, in his '•'Miseries uf Ah ors^''"' has furnished a very 
 ample fund of testimony on this subject, which, how- 
 ever repugnant it may be to our wishes, leaves no doubt 
 upon our judgment. We will leave to our readers, 
 however, to ascertain the causes of this singular anom- 
 aly in the moral world: contenting ourselves, with 
 adding another to the already swollen catalogue of 
 unfortunate geniuses; and in a very brief memoir of the 
 late John Hayes, we propose to give some account of 
 
 Jt^ 
 
246 JOHN HAYES. 
 
 his remarkable attainments, in connexion with his 
 miserable life, and his untimely death. 
 
 This distinguished but unfortunate person was born 
 in Lunenburg county, Virginia, in the year 1793. The 
 family of which he was an infant member, removed to 
 Kentucky two years after his birth. His parents, 
 Thomas and Agnes Hayes, have long resided within a 
 few miles of Bardstown, at which place the father may 
 be generally seen, during the session of court, and on 
 other occasions. He is one of those plain, primitive, 
 republican looking characters, that remind us of the 
 men of the revolution, a few of whom are still to be 
 met with in the United States, but are daily becoming- 
 more rare; and will be, ere long, finally lost in the in- 
 creasing fondness of our population for exotic and sur- 
 reptitious fashions and manners, follies and expenses. 
 
 This kind and indulgent parent, taxed his limited 
 means to the utmost in order to give his son John, in 
 whom the buds of promise had already began to ap- 
 pear, a good and liberal education. It was in happy 
 accordance with this enlightened view, that Bards- 
 town, at that time, could boast a teacher of the most 
 rare and extraordinary endowments — one in whom 
 nature and opportunity, genius and talent, had united 
 to give to the world a fine and perfect model of a 
 literary sage; for he was as highly entitled, by his intrin- 
 sic merit, to this distinction, as any man that ever sway- 
 ed the birchen sceptre, although, I know that Socra- 
 tes, Milton, and Johnson were of that number. Those 
 who have enjoyed the advantage of a personal ac- 
 
JOHN HATES. 247 
 
 quaintance with Mr. James McAllister, a native of 
 Scotland, will not think that I have overrated him by 
 giving him, a place in such illustrious company. This 
 great man has passed away, and left no record behind 
 him except, that which is indelibly inscribed in the 
 hearts of his relativ^es and pupils: but these are ftiith- 
 ful and eloquent memorialists. 
 
 Under the direction and care of a preceptor so sin- 
 gularly and profoundly qualified for the onorous and 
 responsible duties of his vocation, young Hoyes^ in a 
 few^ years gained a very competent stock of humane 
 learning. His frequent recitations from latin and 
 Greek authors, amply proved, not only, how well he 
 had spent his time at school, but illustrated also the 
 uncoQimon retentiveness of his memory which could 
 have received little assistance from study in his more 
 advanced years; for Hayes had become a scholar 
 more by feeling and inclination than by habit. In his 
 darkest and gloomiest hours of inebriation, (for this 
 species of intemperance had become the sore bane and 
 affliction of his life.) a classical quotation or allusion, 
 incidentally dropped by one of his companions, would 
 imuiediately recall the Roman or Grecian friends of his 
 youth, and whilst his mind, suddenly casting off the 
 toils which dissipation had thrown around it, would 
 freely expand and luxuriate in this his happiest and 
 most congenial element, he would very clearly and 
 affectingly demonstrate, how sincere and ardent had 
 been the devotion paid by him, at the altar of ancient 
 literature in his younger and happier years. 
 
248 JOHN HAY£?. 
 
 With the exception of what he gained from the 
 affectionate and paternal care of Mr. McAllister, 
 Hayes received little assistance in his studies from any 
 human being. No rich man furnished him with means^ 
 nor wise man with counsel, to use a homely figure, he 
 was an unlicked cub ol the wilderness. To the Hon- 
 orable John Rowan, only, did he acknowledge any ob- 
 ligation in the progress of his law studies; for that 
 gentleman equally removed by his talents and benevo- 
 lence from all dread of jealousy or rivalship, has ever 
 shown himself the sincere friend and willing patron of 
 younger and less experienced members of the legal 
 profession. But Hayes did not avail himself, to its full- 
 est extent, of the good feeling of that great man. His 
 genius spurned control, and his independence needed 
 no assistance. His intellect did not, like Minerva, 
 spring full grown from the head of its parent god, but 
 it was a hardy and thrifty bantling, which soon cast 
 off its leading strings and walked upright without their 
 aid. His mind seemed to have had what the chemists 
 call a compound elective attraction for knowledge. It 
 inhaled — it absorbed — it drank it in, if in such terms 
 we may speak of his acquirement of large masses of 
 law knowledge with apparently inadequate application 
 to books, and wich still less assistance from man. He 
 buckled on his sandaPd shoon, took his crabstick in his 
 h md, and ^oaded on by his ever restless ambition, and 
 with extraordinary facility he reached the goal alone. 
 
 And so John became a lawyer, and such a one as is 
 not often heard to open his mouth in county courts. 
 He had his day, and a bright day it was. He was 
 
JONN HAYES. 249 
 
 hailed as a star of the finest briUiancy, as the rising 
 ci/nosure of the bar, and this was great distinction: for 
 he had to shine amongst the Pleiades! He was courted 
 and caressed, retained and employed, and what is bet- 
 ter than all, he was paid. He was imitated and 
 quoted by students and other aspirants after forensic 
 fame. It was in their company that I heard some of 
 his finest flights and boldest figures, and I will hazard 
 the assertion, that they would not have disgraced him 
 in a comparison wdth the eflhsions of Cicero, of Henry, 
 or of the elder or younger Pitt. 
 
 The people espoused him, and the people in this en- 
 lightened and happy country, are the only legitimate 
 judges, as they are the only effective patrons of pro- 
 fessional merit. We do not expect a professional man 
 to be fairly tried i^id to receive an honest verdict from 
 his rivals and competitors: thq|^ would as soon take 
 money out of their own pocket and put it into his, as 
 to speak of him as he is, if he really possesses merit; 
 for their pride as well as their pecuniary interest is 
 concerned in depreciating and underrating him. These 
 remarks are not intended for professional gentlemen^ 
 but for the little, low-minded, illiberal, factious herd, 
 who hang upon the outskirts of all professions, who, 
 sensible of their ow^i insignificance, are always the 
 loudest in demonstrations of indignation against all su- 
 periority in a rival, which sounds like an insult in their 
 ears, as the owls in the fable, were the first to com- 
 plain of the carrolings of the nightingale. If John 
 Hayes, however, entirely escaped all unjust and 
 
250 John hay£.s. 
 
 illiberal opposition from his legal compeers, (which 
 we are not prepared either to affirm or deny,) it was 
 no absolute' proof, that the latter were blind to his 
 merits; but certainly a very high and conclusive one 
 of their magnanimity and liberality. But we have 
 wandered from the subject, where we only meant to 
 say, that it was to the people, alone, he looked for 
 patronage and support, and the people answered his 
 expectations as ihey will generally do, if the applicant 
 has it in his power to show the proper vouchers. 
 
 The people who were always partial to Hayes and. 
 seemed proud of his talents, were ever disposed to render 
 him an efficient support as a lawyer; but not content 
 with this, they elected him as one of the delegates to 
 represent the respectable county of Nelson, in the 
 General Assembly of the State, in^, the year 1819. 
 After this honor confe^p'ed upon him, he was brought 
 out for Congress, and held a canvass in opposition to 
 John Rowan and Benjamin Hardin, Esqrs. ; but for 
 some reason, to us unknown, he declined before the 
 election. B. Hardin was the successful candidate. 
 
 I never had an opportunity of hearing Hayes upon 
 any great display of his eloquence, except upon one 
 occasion, and that was upon Washington's birth day, 
 the 22d day of February, 1829. I had then lately 
 settled in this handsome town, and knew little of the 
 intellectual character of most of my neighbors. Two 
 fine young men from the College delivered long, polish- 
 ed, gentlemanly and scholarlike orations in the Court- 
 house, which certainly reQected much credit on their 
 
JOHN HAYES, 551 
 
 eloquence and genius. A large and splendid assem- 
 blage of both sexes were present to honor the anni- 
 versary of the father of his country. Hayes was 
 there, and heard all that was said, like an old blood- 
 hound he caught the cry of the pack, his uncontrolla- 
 ble ambition which had slept but was never extin- 
 guished, blazed forth and burst its boundaries. He 
 felt that he was the same John Hayes, who possessed 
 the power, 
 
 "The applause of listening Senates to command." 
 The impulse was sudden, but it was irresistible — with 
 three strides he vaulted to the rostrum, and opened in 
 his remarkable manner, and with his peculiar intona- 
 tions and emphasis upon his surprised and delighted 
 auditory. The effect was astonishing — was sublime — 
 He had for a considerable length of time given himself 
 tip to intoxication, and was believed by all to be 
 morally, politically and intellectually dead — the pres- 
 ent was therefore like a resurrection from the tomb, 
 and was received with as unfeigned wonder as if it 
 had been really such. In effect, never had I beheld a 
 transition like that which now addressed my eyes and 
 my ears. He was changed a cajyite ad calcinn from 
 head to foot, yet it was certainly Hayes that I saw, 
 that I heard — who else could it have been! A few 
 hours before I had seen him in his threadbare woollens, 
 and with linen owing little obligation to his Ian- 
 dress, sauntering about the streets reckless and mo- 
 tiveless as if he knew not what to list. He now stood 
 forth in all the proud claims and high aspirations of a 
 
252 
 
 JOHN HATE*. 
 
 forensic hero. His fine Grecian bust had stretched 
 itself to its tallest dimensions, and seemed full of dig- 
 nity and inspiration! Intent on high designs! His 
 restless red eye seemed calm and settled, the harbinger 
 of energy and wisdom; that energy and wisdom which 
 now flowed in a full, clear, resistless, majestic and 
 perennial fountain from his magical jaw^s. He did not, 
 like Tom Moore, damn his hero with faint praise — 
 there was nothing about 
 
 "How shall we rank thee upon glory's page 
 Thou more than hero and just less than sage; 
 All thou hast been reflects less praise on thee, 
 Far less than all thou hast forborne to be." 
 
 No! it was not what Washington had forborne to 
 be, but what he had actually been, what he had actu- 
 ally done, what he had hazarded and accomplished and 
 achieved for his beloved America^ that constituted the 
 fervid, glowing, burning, happy theme of his w-onder- 
 ful discourse! The talented young man who pre- 
 ceded him must have felt mortified by the superior in- 
 cantations of this master spirit. He spoke like a 
 patriot, like an American! like an orator! like a poet! 
 For this intrepid, ingenious and original son of the 
 west was all these, and was all of them upon the 
 present occasion. It has been my fortune to have 
 heard some of the finest orators of this country and of 
 England, but never have I witnessed any thing like 
 the approbation, like the enthusiasm with which this 
 address was received by the audience. It broke out 
 
JOHN HAYES. 253 
 
 at the close of every sentence in long and reiterated 
 plaudits. My prejudices, — for I confess I had previ- 
 ously believed, that Hayes was overrated by the par- 
 tiality of his countrymen, — v^ere scattered to the 
 winds, two hours before, I had viewed him with com- 
 miseration, I now envied him! 
 
 Poeta nascitor orator Jit is an adage of the Roman 
 Poet, which is generally true, and by its operation 
 most men are denied the power of joining the ivy of 
 the poet to the bays of the orator; but Hayes, singu- 
 lar as he was in every thing else, was also an excep- 
 tion to this rule. He was both horn and made. Al- 
 though eloquence was certainly the highest cast of his 
 talents, and that by which he was best known, and 
 will be longest remembered, he possessed no incon- 
 siderable portion of the poetical estrus, or perilous 
 fire which was said to have been purloined from 
 Heaven. His Washingtoniad^ an incomplete Poem, 
 published in two cantos, is certainly very creditable 
 to his muse, but it has shared the fate of the best pro- 
 ductions of our home market — that of being very little 
 read or known. It seems that poetical productions, to 
 be popular in America, must have undergone a sea- 
 sweat., otherwise why is it that we hear so little of the 
 '■'•Airs of Palestine," of Pierpont — the ^'Powers of Ge- 
 nius," of John Blair Linn — of Percival, and many 
 other very tolerable domestic manufacturers of verse. 
 Bardstown has itself produced other singing birds, be- 
 sides Hayes, of rare plumage and exquisite note. 
 Amongst the finest of this topical aviary is the late 
 
254 JOHN HAYES. 
 
 Dr. Harney, whose Chrystalina is a rambling and 
 moralless fairy tale of good workmanship. It is a 
 slender thread on which is strung some pearls and 
 jewels of the greatest value and highest brilliancy. 
 He certainly was a poet, and why should he not have 
 been one since Apollo is the patron god of poesy as 
 well as of physic: had it been otherwise, in vain should 
 we have looked for such bards as Darwin, or Arm- 
 strong, or Akenside, or Garth, or Smollet, or Moore, 
 or Goldsmith, or Good, or many others of surpassing 
 merit, who have wedded truth, sentiment and feeling 
 to immortal verse. 
 
 But although we have spoken of Washington as the 
 theme of Hayeses eloquence as well as the hero of his 
 unfinished epic, it is not to be understood that it re- 
 quired a subject so exalted as he who was first in war — 
 first in peace — and first in the hearts of his country- 
 men, to elicit the happy and excursive powers of his 
 genius, and that he was great only in treating of great 
 objects. This was not the case, although he delighted 
 most, as was 7?iost natural, in the maximus; he could 
 also chime out his tentinabulary sounds upon the patDus^ 
 the minor and the 7mnimus^ as nothing could soar 
 above his genius, so nothing was two minute for its 
 ken. It was not only strong and fecund, but it was 
 versatile and diversified. It was like an imperial je^i 
 d'eau, or more properly like the widow's cruse, 
 always bubbling over, yet always full. He could play 
 with the distaff* as well as yield the club of Her- 
 cules; he could treat of minums without making them 
 
JOHN HATES. 
 
 255 
 
 whales. It cost him no efforts who counted rouleaus 
 of gold m his intellectual treasury to spend a shilling. 
 He could have discoursed with Addison upon black 
 patches for ladies' cheeks, w^ith Bloomfield on an 
 oaken table, with Burns on a '-^wee modest crimson tip- 
 pet flow'r," with Cowper on the heel of an old shoe, or 
 wdth Wolcott on a louse. The infinite diversity of 
 his conversation is recollected by many of the inhab- 
 itants of this town, where for many years he exer- 
 cised his social and convivial talents, amusing the 
 lively with his wit, the serious with his knowledge, the 
 scholar with his learning, and the politician with his 
 sagacity," 
 
 '^Whilst words of learned length and thund'ring sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics ranged around, 
 And still they gazed and still the wonder grew 
 How one small head could carry all he knew." 
 
 Hitherto we have viewed Hayes only in his more 
 favorable phases; we have spoken of him as a scholar 
 and as a genius — as an orator and as a poet; but a 
 more difficult task is before us, and one to the per- 
 formance of which we acknowledge oureelves inade- 
 quate. To us in many respects he was a sealed book. 
 Were you to ask any person in the streets of Bards- 
 town, did you know John Hayes? The answer would 
 probably be yes, very well, — intimately — and thus it 
 is — and so little attention is paid to the meaning of 
 words. These persons could have told you what 
 kind of a looking man he was, how he walked, and 
 talked, and acted, and the sort of clothes he wore. 
 
256 
 
 JOHN HAYES. 
 
 But of his moral diathesis, the tone, coloring or complex- 
 ity of his feelings, the power, direction, or combina- 
 tion of his motives, and other internal movements, and 
 springs of action they knew nothing. He was in truth 
 a very difficult and singular moral enigma. His most 
 intimate friends knew nothing of him; his respectable 
 father, and the mother that bore and nurtured him at 
 her breast knew him not. He was ignorant of him- 
 self. To one only was he known, and that was the 
 Great author of his being, who saw fit to make him 
 such as he was. How then shall we proceed? 
 
 Although Hayes's moral temperament was strange 
 and often inexplicable, much of it may be illustrated 
 by reference to two remarkably strong characteristic 
 traits, the one of his temper, the other of his constitu- 
 tion, which, like the Sin and Death of Lucifer, accom- 
 panied and tyrannized over him through life. We 
 shall attempt this in a few words. 
 
 Ambition^ that vice of great minds, as it has been 
 emphatically called, was the strong mastering and de- 
 mon passion of his soul, incited by the writhings and 
 contortions of this internal Hydra, Hayes has been 
 known on particular occasions, when his interest and 
 feelings were deeply involved, to manifest unequivocal 
 symptoms of real madness. 
 
 The constitutional peculiarity which we have to 
 mention was a deep-toned hypochondriacal affection^ 
 which he inherited from his paternal ancestors — this 
 was the evil star on his moral horoscope, portending 
 to him disaster^ dismay and death; to the tyrannical 
 operation of these two radical principles, may be at- 
 
JOHN HAYES. 257 
 
 tributed most of the singularities which distinguished 
 his conduct from that of other men. Thus when his 
 dawning prosperity broke through the clouds and 
 shadows of his original obscurity — when in a gayer 
 and sunniar soil his fortune had flowered — when by 
 his talents and the partiality of the public he h<^d be- 
 come distinguished beyond his years, how was it with 
 Hayes? Was he happy? No! he rolled himself in 
 the dust and groaned in spirit. 
 
 In the ta-sk we have undertaken, we propose to be 
 governed by the admonition of Othello. Speak of me 
 as I am, extenuate nothing, nor set down aught in 
 malice — we design to give the reader a true, though a 
 iT)ugh and hasty sketch of Hayes — to be faithful to his 
 beauties — and if wrinkles, warts or blotches appear in 
 the original — no matter — they must all be painted. 
 May not biography as well as history be truly called 
 philosophy, teaching by example, and how shall the 
 example teach if the moral be lost? Upon these prin- 
 ciples we would beg leave to change the reading of a 
 well know^n axiom, and casting out the adjective 
 honum^ make it, de mortuus nil nisi verum — speak 
 nothing of the dead but what is true. We deem no 
 apology necessary, indeed, for mentioning some of the 
 faults of Hayes, as his constitutional temperament re- 
 moved much of his responsibility as a moral agent — 
 they were the faults more of nature than of himself. 
 The melancholy feelings to which we have already 
 alluded invaded his peace end happiness in his earliest 
 years. Like the unfortunate Henry Kirke White, he 
 became their victim in his incipient studies. He was 
 v 2 
 
258 JOHN HAYES. 
 
 at this period of his life in the custom of waking up 
 his companions in the house, to whose ears he would 
 reveal his alarming tale. The house was to be burned 
 by wicked incendiaries, or he (Hayes) was to be rob- 
 bed or murdered.. These agitating fears and appre- 
 hensions, like a church yard ghost, seen every where, 
 and no where, followed him through life. 
 
 To obtain a temporary respite from the ruthless 
 grasp of this, his worst constitutional enemy, he be- 
 came a confirmed and inseparable devotee of the bot- 
 tle. This course, persevered in for a series of years, 
 could not fail to impair his health, to weaken his intel- 
 lect, to injure his respectability, and to ruin his reputa- 
 tion and practice as a lawyer, and accordingly all these 
 unhappy consequences did follow. He removed to the 
 country and tried a school, and accounts were brought, 
 that John was an altered man, that he had become as 
 settled but not half so supine as the rafter tree of the 
 auld log higgin in which he kept it, but they were de- 
 ceptive. In a few months he appeared again in Bards- 
 town; he was indeed changed, but it was for the worse. 
 His propensity for liquor was incurable; it had become 
 a link in the chain of his existence, a fibre of his heart! 
 He now manifested unequivocal symptoms of the dis- 
 ease called mania a potu; he had read and reflected 
 much on the case of Morgan, and believed that the 
 fraternity of masons were hunting him like a wild beast, 
 to put him to death. He had also been told, that the 
 Medical Faculty had discovered, that there was some- 
 thing remarkably fine in the structure of his brain, and 
 
JOHN HATES. 
 
 259 
 
 that they were seeking him to dissect and analyze it; 
 this made a strong impression. 
 
 The first night after his return to Bardstown, Mr. 
 Elder, tavern-keeper, hospitably furnished him a room 
 and bed up stairs in his house. He retired, but not to 
 sleep; he imagined that the free masons had surround- 
 ed his bed and were in the act of siezing him. With 
 the spring of a tiger he dashed through a window, and 
 would have met an immediate termination of his life 
 and troubles had not the proprietor only a few days 
 before built a flat porch immediately under the window, 
 on which he alighted without material injury. 
 
 During the whole period of his mental aberration, the 
 citizens of this town manifested the utmost sympathy 
 and indulgence towards him. It was their brilliant, 
 but unfortunate countryman; it was the unhappy man 
 of talents; it was poor John Hayes; and the tear wiped 
 away, or the sigh exhaled was not less honorable to 
 its object than to those by whom this silent tribute of 
 affection and sorrow was in secret offered. 
 
 'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds, 
 
 His high rehictant spirit bends, 
 In'bitterness of soul he bleeds. 
 
 Nor longer with his fate contends, 
 An idiot laugh the welkin rends, 
 
 As Genius thus degraded lies, 
 Till pitying Heaven the veil extends, 
 
 That shrouds in night his ardent eyes. 
 
 Had this extraordinary individual been blessed with 
 a moderate share of plain every day sense and pru- 
 dence, could he have added sobriety, economy and in- 
 dustry to his proud mental superiority, to his retentive 
 
i^60 JOHN HAYES. 
 
 faculty, to his happy fecundity, what might he not 
 have been? The idle of his friends, the terror of his 
 opponents, unrivalled at the bar, distinguished in the 
 councils of his nation; perhaps a lasting monument of 
 the greatness of the Western regions of America. The 
 highest object which ambition could emulate, or at which 
 envy could point her shrivelled finger; but it pleased the 
 Divine Disposer of events otherwise to order his lot. 
 
 A few words shall close this mournful tragedy; his 
 friends, who had long despaired of seeing any reforma- 
 tion in his habits, had of necessity brought themselves 
 to the melancholy resignation of believing that he 
 would pass through all the stages of worldly humilia- 
 tion and distress; that he would drink the cup of human 
 wretchedness to its last, foul, bitter, and disgusting 
 dregs. But they were disappointed: the sands of his 
 glass were nearly run out! The hammer was raised 
 that was to strike his knell! On the 24th day of July, 
 1830, he was found dead near to a fence a few miles 
 from town. Of the mode or manner of his death 
 nothing certain is known. It has been conjectured that 
 in a paroxysm of his mental malady he v/as attacked by 
 some of his imagined enemies, the masons or the Doc- 
 tors, and that he perished by the energies of his self- 
 defence. Symptoms of injury were seen upon the 
 head, and some blood was found upon the fence. The 
 body was stiff and cold, the spirit had left its clay tab- 
 ernacle to enter into its accountability with its God. 
 
 "Oh ! breathe not his name, let it rest in the shade 
 Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid; 
 Sad, silent and dark be the tears that are shed, 
 As the dew drops that fall on grass oe'r his head." 
 
SUEGICAL CASES 'vrs. INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 One well attested Surgical case will do more good, 
 in promoting the only object we have in view in the 
 following narrative, than a whole volume of morality* 
 It must be apparent even to the most superficial ob- 
 server of human life, that the celebrated Scotch poet, 
 Robert Burns, a short biography of whom is given in 
 this volume — as well as his superior in education, and 
 not greatly his inferior in natural gifts, the young Ken- 
 tucky orator, John Hayes, of whom we have also ta- 
 ken some notice — hastened themselves prematurely to 
 the tomb, by their inordinate fondness for strong 
 drink. 
 
 The propensity is even more common than is gene- 
 rally believed. During an extensive practice of eigh- 
 teen years, in the county of Culpeper, Virginia, where 
 I married and settled as a physician, early in life, so 
 large a number of cases arising from a similar cause 
 obtruded themselves upon my attention, that even to 
 give a short detail of each, would swell this volume to 
 a size much beyond its prescribed limits. I shall, 
 therefore, merely select two or three of the most re- 
 markable of those which I was called upon to attend; 
 premising, that the predisposing cause in every such 
 instance was intoxication. In doing this, I shall 
 
262 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 divest myself of all professional technicality — as this 
 narrative is intended for public benefit — and shall ex- 
 press myself in terms so plain and simple, that even 
 the most ordinary capacity amongst my readers may 
 not misunderstand my meaning. It is not by this that 
 I expect to make any very strong impression upon 
 the habits of drunkards, however I may succeed in 
 convincing their judgments. For many successive 
 years, the pulpit has resounded with denunciations 
 against intemperance- — public lectures have been elo- 
 quently arrayed against it — the press has teemed 
 with instances of desolation, ruin, and death, which it 
 has produced, not drawn from imagination but from 
 the stern and sober realities of life. No person can 
 plead ignorance, for the truths have been often re-ite- 
 rated, that thirty thousand individuals annually fall 
 victims to this pernicious and degrading habit in the 
 United States — that madhouses are populated by it — 
 that there is a period, averaging thirty years in the 
 short period of human life, between the temperate 
 man and the drunkard; to account for all this, we 
 must understand, that ardent spirits received into the 
 human system, greatly accelerates the action of the 
 heart and arteries, insomuch as to occasion a con- 
 tinued fever, and thus to create and very materially to 
 aggravate every disease ^Hhat flesh is heir to;" with 
 all these particulars the public has been made minutely 
 acquainted, for publications detailing the wretchedness 
 and misery arising from intemperance have been writ- 
 ten by divines, and left by moralists in every house 
 and placed in every hand — yet notwithstanding all 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 26 S 
 
 this, if I may be permitted to use a vulgar but appro- 
 priate expression, '•'•the sow has returned to its wallowP 
 Disclaiming, therefore, the hope of doing much good 
 as a moralist, by the short histories I am about to in- 
 dite, I will, nevertheless, place them before my reader, 
 believing that they may amuse a leisure hour, if they 
 do not improve his moral faculty. 
 
 One night, in the winter of 1 8 — , about ten o'clock, 
 being about to retire to bed, a loud rapping was heard 
 at my door; upon obeying the summons, a young man 
 presented himself, who informed me that I was request- 
 ed to attend a person named Hedgeman Thom^ whom 
 I had known as a midshipman discharged for some mis- 
 conduct from the United States navy, who was now 
 lying dangerously wounded at the tavern of Mr. James 
 Sims, in Georgetown, three miles distant. I always 
 avoided too much interlocution, when called upon in 
 dangerous cases. I, therefore, promptly ordered my 
 horse, and having put into my medical saddlebags my 
 pocket instruments and a box of simple cerate, and 
 thrown them across his back, in a few minutes I was 
 along side of my companion, threading the gloom of a 
 murky night, at a good round hand gallop — ^ few min- 
 utes brought me to the apartment of my patient, 
 which I found shrouded in total darkness; I was guided 
 to his bed, (a pallet of straw,) by a slight grunt, re- 
 peated at regular intervals, resembling in no small de- 
 gree that of a well known quadruped. His pulse was 
 sunk so low as to be absolutely imperceptible. The 
 fragments of his shirt, which were covered with blood, 
 were stiff and hard as a sealskin. I was loud and 
 
264 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 peremptory in demanding a light, which at length was 
 brought. Having removed the remnant of his shirt, 
 by gently tearing it piecemeal from his body, and ap- 
 plying the sponge, well saturated with warm water, 
 which I had some difficulty to procure, and washing 
 away all clotted blood, straw, &c., from his skin, I at 
 last discovered the extent of my patient's danger. I 
 counted twenty-two wounds, inflicted with a pocket 
 knife or a small dirk. One had perforated between 
 the ribs and passed completely into the lungs, so that 
 the air passed at each expiration, through the wound, 
 as if coming from a pair of bellows. This wound 
 being the most formidable, demanded my primary 
 care — according to the principles of Mr. John Bell, I 
 secured it with strips of adhesive plaster, so as effec- 
 tually to prevent all egress of the air taken into 
 the lungs, carried a bandage two or three times 
 round his body, to retain the dressings in situ. I then 
 turned my attention to the remaining wounds, some of 
 which required a stitch or two of the needle, and all 
 of them were finally cleaned and dressed. I then ad- 
 ministered an anodine in a cup of strong toddy, and 
 left him with the certain expectation, which dwelt 
 upon my mind, that next day I should be informed 
 that he had passed off" towards morning. In the even- 
 ing, a messenger arrived, requesting me to visit Thom 
 again: he informed me that he seemed better — that he 
 had turned himself in his couch, and had demanded 
 something to eat. I lost no time in paying him a sec- 
 ond visit, and was not a little surprised to find that 
 there was an evident improvement; his pulse was like 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 265 
 
 a thread, but it could now be distinctly felt; he could 
 also articulate, so as to be understood. In short, ope- 
 rated on by that feeling which ever interests a physi- 
 cian in his patient's recovery, I began to entertain 
 some glimmering of hope that Thorn would rise again; 
 and, contrary to all reasonable expectation, he did 
 rise again, and some months afterwards he set out for 
 the western country, since which time I have entirely 
 lost sight of him. 
 
 The history given me of this case was as follows:— 
 Hedgeman Thom and Elijah Curtis, it seems, were 
 sitting in Sims' porch — both were much intoxicated — 
 a violent quarrel arose between these sworn comrades 
 and boon companions about nothing — knives were 
 drawn, and Curtis being the most dexterous of the 
 two in the use of the weapon, and his antagonist be- 
 ing, perhaps, the drunkest, the latter was' soon laid 
 liors de combat. Curtis had still sense or cunning 
 enough left, to secrete himself until he ascertained the 
 extent of the mischief he had done. The more un- 
 fortunate Thom was carried to an out-house and 
 thrown upon a truss of straw, to await the arrival of 
 the Doctor. 
 
 But this case did not terminate here; the sanctity 
 of the law had been invaded. Curtis was arrested 
 and lodged in jail, to await the sentence of the Cul- 
 peper court, in session. He was sentenced to one 
 year's imprisonment in the Penitentiary at Rich- 
 mond. Mrs. Curtis, (his wife,) like the heroic Madame 
 La Valette, visits the prison of her husband; with 
 tears and entreaties she urges him to avoid the' dis- 
 
 w 
 
266 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 grace of executing the sentence that had been pro* 
 nounced against him; to dress himself in her apparel, 
 whilst she would assume his, and in this disguise to ef- 
 fect his escape. The experiment is successful — Curtis 
 clears the village, and is secreted amongst the rocks of 
 Mount Pony. Their little son, a boy of ten or twelve 
 years of age, is the agent that passes between them. 
 Mrs. Curtis is retained by the jailer, contrary to law, 
 as a hostage for the return of her husband. This un- 
 expected severity alarms her — she becomes dejected, 
 miserable, and at length loses her reason. Curtis is 
 minutely informed of all this; he determines to liberate 
 his wife at every hazard; he leaves his cold and sterile 
 hiding-place amongst the Rocks, marches down from 
 his mountain, walks directly to the court-house, enters 
 the jail, and peremptorily demands the freedom of his 
 wife. Asher, the jailer, is nothing loth to make the 
 exchange — Mrs. Curtis is turned out of doors — her 
 husband is secured, and after a few days is sent off to 
 Richmond to serve out the penalty of the law. 
 
 So ends the case of Hedgman Thorn. The house 
 in which he underwent the twenty-two-fold operation 
 of the knife, seemed to have been doomed. In two 
 years after this period, I was called upon to visit its 
 landlord, James Sims, who, in a fit of drunken despe- 
 ration, had cut his throat with a razor from ear to ear. 
 I arrived at his house only fifteen minutes before he 
 drew his last breath. 
 
 I was sent for to visit a man named John Lucas, a 
 stonemason and a noted drunkard, living ten miles 
 from the courthouse. I found him placed in a rickety 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 267 
 
 straw bottomed chair, with his head thrown back, like 
 the open lid of a coffee-pot, displaying a frightful gash 
 in his throat, which ^th the aid of a razor he had in- 
 flicted upon himself three hours before I saw him. 
 The oesophagus was not entirely separated, but every 
 drop of water that he took into his mouth escaped im- 
 mediately through the orifice. I had him placed on a 
 pallet not far from the fire, and took several stitches 
 in the separated parts, and dressed the whole with 
 cerate, prescribing a strong anodine, with orders to 
 repeat it until he slept. On the second day after my 
 return home, I was again called upon to see Lucas. 
 It seems that the anodine had procured for him some 
 sleep, but so soon as he was thoroughly awake he had 
 torn away with his own hand all the dressings and 
 ligatures. The wound was now so much disfigured, 
 that it w^as with some difficulty that the stitches and 
 adhesive strips were again applied. In this, however, 
 I at length succeeded. The sequel of this case I will 
 not fatigue my readers to detail. When I left Virginia, 
 Lucas was still living, but he was living in the mad- 
 house at WUliamshurg ! 
 
 After my removal to Kentucky, where for three 
 years I practised my profession in Bardstown, Nelson 
 county, I was one evening about twilight called upon 
 by a Mr. Clark, living near the village of Fairfield, 
 with a request that I would immediately visit his 
 brother, Joe Clark, whose lower limbs were so severe- 
 ly injured, by being frostbitten, that to retain them 
 and yet to insure his life, seemed (as Mr. Clark in- 
 formed me) to be beyond the hopes of his attending 
 
268 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 physician, Dr. Morrison. This happened in the depth 
 of a remarkably cold winter, and the road we had to 
 travel was deep beyond any former precedent. I in- 
 formed Mr. Clark that, as we had eleven miles to ride, 
 we could not hope to reach our destination before mid- 
 night; that 1 would venture to do nothing without con- 
 sulting with the family physician, who had, he informed 
 me, returned home, and could not again be brought 
 out that night; in short, I promised to be at his broth- 
 er's house by ten o'clock the following morning. 
 Upon my arrival, a few minutes after the appointed 
 time, I found that Dr. Morrison had preceded me. 
 There was a very large collection of people in the 
 house — for this was sermon Sunday, and they had 
 stopped in to sympathise with Clark on their way to 
 church. The history of the case, which I gathered 
 here was as follows: — A few days before I saw him, 
 Clark had got into his possession a demijohn contain- 
 ing five gallons of apple brandy, of the last distillation; 
 and to secure himself from interruption, had deter- 
 mined upon the solitary enjoyment of drinking it 
 alone in the woods. The weather was as cold as it 
 is known in Siberia. Clark was unaccountably miss- 
 ing for two nights and one day. On the morning of 
 the second day, he was found — and the bottle also, 
 but its contents were evaporated. He was carried to 
 a neighboring house, and well rubbed with snow, and 
 buckets of cold water from a frozen stream were 
 thrown over him; at length, but not before marks of 
 animation had returned, he was removed to his own 
 house. But his legs were lost to him forever; I per- 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 269 
 
 ceived them to be without vitality, very pale, very 
 cold, and insensible, which I further ascertained by 
 pricking them in various parts with a pin, which he 
 felt not; the circulation seemed to be entirely suspend- 
 ed. Whilst this examination was going on, Joe's 
 anxiety was upon the alert — he cast an eye upon me, 
 such as a drowning man would direct to a recumbent 
 limb in the water, which he is struggling to grasp be- 
 fore he sinks. In this state of things what could I 
 say? — what? — but to confirm the sound opinion given 
 by Dr. Morrison — and this I did, with all tenderness 
 and delicacy. His countenance immediately fell, and 
 by a heavy groan nature sought to relieve the oppres- 
 sion at his heart. One last lingering hope yet re- 
 mained: "Doctor," said he, ""^will not the amputation 
 of one leg suffice — cannot one, at least be spared me?" 
 Here I found it necessary to temporize: ''■Mr. Clark," 
 I replied, "my present opinion is, that both your limbs 
 must be removed, to preserve your life — but an imme- 
 diate operation is not absolutely necessary, as gan- 
 grene will not supervene for some days to come. Let 
 me see — this is Sunday — on Wednesday next I shall 
 visit you, prepared to remove one of your limbs; and 
 if the other can be spared, it will afford me infinite 
 pleasure. But understand me, this is what I rather 
 hope for than expect. Saying this, my horse being at 
 the door, I mounted and returned to Bardstown. 
 
 On the following Wednesday I visited Clark again. 
 I found Drs. Morrison and Bodine in the house, to- 
 gether with a large collection of his neighbors. I ob- 
 served that Clai'k shuddered when my amputating in- 
 
 \\r 2 
 
270 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE, 
 
 struments were unstrapped from the saddle and 
 brought in. A Catholic has greater confidence in and 
 attachment to his priest than any other denomination 
 of christian; nothing could be done without the pres- 
 ence of Father Elliot — fortunately, Fairfield, where 
 the priest resided, was only distant one mile, and 
 in less than one hour he arrived. I then proceeded 
 with the operation, and in seven minutes and a half 
 my patient was removed to his bed, with the loss of 
 one limb; forty drops of laudanum which I had given 
 him, previous to the operation, procured him some 
 gentle sleep, which I encouraged by directing silence 
 to be preserved in the room. The following night I 
 slept in the house of the old man, (his father;) about 
 midnight I was disturbed by a report that the patient 
 was troubled with a symptom known to physicians by 
 the name of subsuUus tendenum. I directed them to 
 take the sircingle from my saddle, and to place it over 
 the stump, to be secured to each side of the bed, and 
 measured out a teaspoonful of laudanum, with direc- 
 tions to give it to him immediately in a little water. 
 I heard no more from him till next day, when I walked 
 over to see him. But what was to be done with the 
 remaining leg? Joe begged, entreated, and wept. 
 "Mr. Clark," said I, '4 cannot be considered the arbi- 
 ter of your fate. The mischief was done before I 
 saw you. If your life is precious to you, you must 
 submit to a second amputation; for, without it, you 
 have suffered the first in vain. My duty is impera- 
 tive — you will do well not to throw unnecessary ob- 
 stacles in the way." Joe seemed to yield to necessity 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 271 
 
 the point which he had vainly hoped to extract from 
 humanity — and a day was appointed for the second 
 operation. Panctiial to the time, I attended, and 
 found in the house the two Doctors, and nearly as large 
 an assemblage of his neighbors as upon the former oc- 
 casion; ^^but," said Joe, "where is Father Elliot? — he 
 must be sent for." This occasioned the loss of an- 
 other hour — no small sacrifice to a practising physi- 
 cian, w^ith whom time is money. At length, the 
 priest arrived, and assisted the two Doctors in hold- 
 ing the leg whilst I removed it. After leaving some 
 medicine with Mrs. Clark, and directions respecting 
 his subsequent treatment, I took my leave. 
 
 After this long and melancholy account of '•'■wounds., 
 bruises^ and jyutrifijing sores^^' my readers will not be 
 displeased to turn to something more lively and 
 agreeable. I intend to relate some further particulars 
 of this man, (Clark,) which will show forth his genius 
 in social and domestic life. 
 
 He had married the daughter of a respectable 
 neighboring farmer, whose name it is unnecessary to 
 mention. They had two children at this time. His 
 constitutional irritability, augmented as it was by 
 his recent misfortune, finding no other object against 
 whom to direct itself, but his gentle and unoffending 
 wife, who had waited upon him in his confinement 
 with the assiduity of a slave, now broke forth with 
 unwonted severity. He kept a long wand, resem- 
 bling a fishing-pole, at the head of his bed, and as his 
 wife, "on household cares intent," would sometimes 
 approach too near to where he lay, with a lusty arm 
 
272 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPKRANBE. 
 
 he would lay it heavily across her back. This disci- 
 pline was too rigorous to be patiently borne. She 
 left him, and with her two children returned to her 
 parents. Now began the period of mortification and 
 bitter regret with Joe; greatly he condemned his 
 hasty temper, and was not slow in finding out good 
 qualities in his wife, which he never before suspected 
 her to possess; she was also now more beautiful than 
 ever to his waking and sleeping dreams. This state 
 of things was too bitter to last. Joe must see his 
 wife and persuade her to return; a horse was brought 
 to his door in the night, upon this Joe was placed, and 
 he took the direction to his father-in-law's house. 
 With considerable difficulty he descended from his 
 horse, and throwing the rein across the yard fence — 
 what miracles will not love perform! — he crawled 
 upon his hands and knees to the window of the room 
 where he knew his wife lodged, and tapped lightly at 
 it with a switch. The wife, perhaps not better sat- 
 isfied with her situation than her husband, hears the 
 signal; she rises from her bed, takes him by the arms, 
 and lifts him in. Oh! the affection of a wife and 
 mother! — what promises of amendment and future 
 good conduct are made and greedily listened to, I 
 know not, but this much I have been informed, Joe 
 remained with his wife all that night — and only re- 
 gained his wondering steed, who was less pleased than 
 himself with these nightly revels, before the crowing 
 of the cock. This nocturnal adventure, so perilous 
 in its performance, but so gratifying in its issue, was 
 repeated again and again. At length, having grown 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE, 273 
 
 more confident by impunity, Joe one night ensconced 
 himself in the porch before the family had retired to 
 rest. His mother-in-law having some errand to the 
 kitchen, opened the door and running suddenly out, 
 made a full somerset over the recumbent person of 
 our hero. She gathered herself up, and keeping on to 
 the kitchen demanded of a domestic a light and a 
 stick, to beat out a large black dog, as she firmly be- 
 lieved it to be, that was lying in the porch, over 
 which she just had a heavy fall. In the meantime, 
 the black dog himself was not slow to clear the cape. 
 Clambering up to his horse, he returned to his own 
 comfortless cabin, congratulating himself, no doubt, 
 upon the lucky escape he had made. 
 
 Mrs. Clark now made of her own accord a motion 
 to return, and w^as, in a short time afterwards, sha- 
 ring the cabin and creature comforts of her now more 
 reasonable and temperate husband. 
 
 Since I had been in Kentucky, I had looked abroad 
 upon society, and had brought my mind to the con- 
 clusion, that there was no situation so comfortable, in- 
 dependent, and free from care as that of a farmer. 
 Operated on by this opinion, which experience has 
 ratified, I laid out some cash fimds, for which I had no 
 immediate use, in the purchase of a pretty farm, well 
 improved — ^^put some of my negroes upon it, and in a 
 short time followed them myself. It so happened that 
 this purchase was not more than one mile from the 
 residence of my former patient, Mr. Clark; but I felt 
 satisfied that I had shaken myself clear of all anxiety 
 and solicitude about this troublesome case, but I had 
 
274 SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE". 
 
 reckoned without my host! Joe had demonstrated 
 towards me marks of unusual affection, during my at- 
 tendance upon him; this, probably, arose from my 
 assiduity in attending to the case, or more, perhaps, 
 from the fact that I had charged him not one cent for 
 all my trouble: from this, I had vanity enough to in- 
 dulge a belief that I stood pretty high in his good 
 graces, probably only one step below Father Elliot. 
 Urged by this feeling, Joe felt inclined often to come 
 over to see me; he would ride his horse up the lane, 
 and would haul up immediately before my door. My 
 servants were ever ready to lift him from his sad-' 
 die, to carry him gently into the house, and place him 
 safely in a chair. But no! it would not do — no one 
 could manage that but the Doctor. It was in vain for 
 me \o hide, for he would have patiently kept his sad- 
 dle half a day to have seen me; therefore, making 
 the best of my ill-luck, rather than have my hospital- 
 ity impeached, I had to make my appearance, to 
 force my features into a smile, to shake him by the 
 hand, and tell him how proud I was of his visit. 
 Alas! the misery of him w^ho practises as a country 
 surgeon! Then began my labor; I had to mount a 
 block, and with light hands, where the strength of a 
 Hercules was required, I had to lift this stout man 
 clear off his horse, to descend the block, and to carry 
 him into the house; and a similar operation had to 
 be repeated at his departure, 1 congratulated myself 
 that every successive visit was his last, when my ear 
 was again accosted with the report of my servants, 
 "Here comes Mr. Clark again." I was not born to 
 
SURGICAL CASES VS. INTEMPERANCE. 275 
 
 be a porter, and had taken the resolution to tell him 
 so; but from so unpopular a measure I was saved by 
 his removing to another farm on the further side of 
 Fairfield, where his father-in-law had given him twen- 
 ty acres of land. 
 
 Joe, since he lost his legs, is unable to trudge about 
 a farm — he has, therefore, learnt the trade of a peg 
 shoemaker: you may hear his hammer going at any 
 time that you pass his cabin, unless he has business at 
 Fairfield, which does not happen oftener than once 
 or twice a day. His good little wife superintends a 
 magnificent establishment, built out of logs and slabs, 
 containing as many apartments as the Temple of 
 King Solomon. Here she raises, annually, a great 
 number of fowls — you can hear a constant cackle, 
 cackle, from morning till night. — she sells eggs by the 
 bushel. And here I must be permitted to leave this 
 happy couple to enjoy the blessings of their good 
 fortune. 
 
VERSES 
 
 Written on the death of Anna, daughter of Dr. John C. Gunn, who 
 
 was accidentally killed in the city of New Orleans, where she was 
 on a visit with her parents, by the culpable carelessness of a drayman, 
 on the 21st day of February last. 
 
 Oh, she was talented, and young, and fair. 
 
 Genius had claimed and marked her from her birth: 
 She seemed inspired, as sister spirits are, 
 
 With thoughts too buoyant, too refined for earth. 
 I saw her in her loveliness — her words 
 
 Passed like fresh zephyrs o'er the sultry wild; 
 Her tiny fingers twinkled on the chords, 
 
 A graceful romp — a gay and happy child. 
 And whilst her sister played — the sprightly girl, 
 
 When to the frolic dance she would incline, 
 Made the light pirouette, the lively whirl. 
 
 Till heads would ache, so old and grey as mine. 
 I looked again — I saw a fearful corpse, 
 
 Ruin's rough ploughshare o'er her form had passed; 
 Ah! madness that way lies — the brand perforce 
 
 On parents' hearts is ever doomed to last. 
 Those who had reared her with parental care, 
 
 Their hearts are blighted — tearful are their eyes; 
 Where now their hopes of happiness! — they are 
 
 Low buried in the tomb where Anna lies. 
 My friends, forbear to mourn, and kiss the rod — 
 
 Perhaps 'twas kindly meant — in mercy given 
 To wean your hearts from this, their dark abode. 
 
 And tempt your veering thoughts fi'om earth to i' 
 Heaven. 
 
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