1801. DEIFICATIONS, OR MODERN LOVE DITTIES. YOUNG Tom is a sly, wicked dog; He dresses so gay and so prim; Has set all the girls so agog, That efags, I'm a booby to him. He so bustles about at a dance, So towzels and teazes the misses, That, dang me, 'f I get any chance, To come in for my share of the kisses. But then, why the deuce should I care, My Susan's a fine topping jade, As you ever saw cap'ring along; She can dance a good jig, it is said, And sing you a fine pretty song. She is tall, and as straight as a pole; Od, zounds, if she'd only but say, That the parson shall make us but one; We'd so kiss, snuggle up and close lay, That Time like a racer would run. SAMMY. The Retort Courteous, or Susan to Sammy. SWEET Sammy-O! that I could tell How my heart bob'd up to my chin, They made us so funny and gay, And car'd off a bone to the barn. I wonder, now, what makes you think And snores too as loud as a hog. Let him brag of his new leather breeches, I'd rather have you without riches, My love is as sweet as a cake; As strong as New England or Gin; His teeth are as sharp as a knife; If his love aint as cold as a stone, ANACREONTIC TO A PIG'S TAIL. BY ISAAC STORY (PETER QUINCE). 1801. LITTLE tail of little pig, When he grunted thro' the town; SUSAN. Tho' by nature, well design'd, Thee, I hail-so sweet and fair, Who thee seizes for a toy When the butcher sad or grinning Round thy suburbs falls to cleaning, With his water smoking hot, Lately boiling in a pot; Pot which often did contain Dinner costly, dinner plain; Dinner from the land and water, Duck destroy'd by faithful gun; Side of sheep, joint of ram, But of all it did contain What invokes the muse's strain; As was ever taken up; Happy thrice, and thrice again, Who, with tail of little pig, JACK AND GILL, A MOCK CRITICISM. AMONG critical writers, it is a common remark, that the fashion of the times has often given a temporary reputation to performances of very little merit, and neglected those much more deserving of applause. This circumstance renders it necessary that some person of sufficient sagacity to discover and to describe what is beautiful, and so impartial as to disregard vulgar prejudices, should guide the public taste, and raise merit from obscurity. Without arrogating to myself these qualities, I shall endeavor to introduce to the nation a work, which, though of considerable elegance, has been strangely overlooked by the generality of the world. The performance to which I allude, has never enjoyed that celebrity to which it is entitled, but it has of late fallen into disrepute, chiefly from the simplicity of its style, which in this age of luxurious refinement, is deemed only a secondary beauty, and from its being the favorite of the young, who can relish, without being able to illustrate, its excellence. I rejoice that it has fallen to my lot to rescue from neglect this inimitable poem; for, whatever may be my diffidence, as I shall pursue the manner of the most eminent critics, it is scarcely possible to err. The fastidious reader will doubtless smile when he is informed that the work, thus highly praised, is a poem consisting only of four lines; but as there is no reason why a poet should be restricted in his number of verses, as it would be a very sad misfortune if every rhymer were obliged to write a long as well as a bad poem; and more particularly as these verses contain more beauties than we often find in a poem of four thousand, all objections to its brevity should cease. I must at the same time acknowledge that at first I doubted in what class of poetry it should be arranged. Its extreme shortness, and its uncommon metre, seemed to degrade it into a ballad, but its interesting subject, its unity of plan, and, above all, its having a beginning, middle, and an end, decide its claim to the epic rank. I shall now proceed with the candor, though not with the acuteness, of a good critic, to analyze and display its various excellences. The opening of the poem is singularly beautiful: Jack and Gill. the business at once. Here our author is very happy: for instead of telling us, as an ordinary writer would have done, who were the ancestors of Jack and Gill, that the grandfather of Jack was a respectable farmer, that his mother kept a tavern at the sign of the Blue Bear; and that Gill's father was a justice of the peace, (once of the quorum,) together with a catalogue of uncles and aunts, he introduces them to us at once in their proper persons. I cannot help accounting it, too, as a circumstance honorable to the genius of the poet, that he does not in his opening call upon the muse. This is an error into which Homer and almost all the epic writers after him have fallen; since by thus stating their case to the muse, and desiring her to come to their assistance, they necessarily presupposed that she was absent, whereas there can be no surer sign of inspiration than for a muse to come unasked. The choice, too, of names is not unworthy of consideration. It would doubtless have contributed to the splendor of the poem to have endowed the heroes with long and sounding titles, which, by dazzling the eyes of the reader, might prevent an examination of the work itself. These adventitious ornaments are justly disregarded by our author, who by giving us plain Jack and Gill has disdained to rely on extrinsic support. In the very choice of appellations he is, however, judicious. Had he, for instance, called the first character John, he might have given him more dignity, but he would not so well harmonize with his neighbor, to whom in the course of the work, it will appear he must necessarily be joined. I know it may be said, that the contraction of names savors too much of familiarity, and the lovers of proverbs may tell us that too much familiarity breeds contempt; the learned, too, may observe, that Prince Henry somewhere exclaims "Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bones;" and that the association of the two ideas detracts much from the respectability of the former. Disregarding these cavils, I cannot but remark that the lovers of abrupt openings, as in the Bard, must not deny their praise to the vivacity, with which Jack breaks in upon us. The personages being now seen, their situation is next to be discovered. Of this we are immediately The first duty of the poet is to introduce his sub-informed in the subsequent line, when we are told, ject, and there is no part of poetry more difficult. We are told by the great critic of antiquity that Jack and Gill Went up a hill. we should avoid beginning "ab ovo," but go into Here the imagery is distinct, yet the description concise. We instantly figure to ourselves the two persons travelling up an ascent, which we may accomodate to our own ideas of declivity, barrenness, rockiness, sandiness, etc., all which, as they exercise the imagination, are beauties of a high order. The reader will pardon my presumption, if I here attempt to broach a new principle which no critic, with whom I am acquainted, has ever mentioned. It is this, that poetic beauties may be divided into negative and positive, the former consisting of mere absence of fault, the latter in the presence of excellence; the first of an inferior order, but requiring considerable critical acumen to discover them, the latter of a higher rank, but obvious to the meanest capacity. To apply the principle in this case, the poet meant to inform us that two persons were going up a hill. Now the act of going up a hill, although Locke would pronounce it a very complex idea comprehending person, rising ground, trees, etc., etc., is an operation so simple as to need no description. Had the poet, therefore, told us how the two heroes went up, whether in a cart or a wagon, and entered into the thousand particulars which the subject involves, they would have been tedious, because superfluous. The omission of these little incidents, and telling us simply that they went up the hill, no matter how, is a very high negative beauty. These considerations may furnish us with the means of deciding a controversy, arising from a variation in the manuscripts; some of which have it a hill, and others the hill, for as the description is in no other part local, I incline to the former reading. It has, indeed, been suggested that the hill here mentioned was Parnassus, and that the two persons are two poets, who, having overloaded Pegasus, the poor jaded creature was obliged to stop at the foot of the hill, whilst they ascended for water to recruit him. This interpretation, it is true, derives some countenance from the consideration that Jack and Gill were in reality, as will appear in the course of the poem, going to draw water, and that there was such a place as Hippocrene, that is a horsepond, at the top of the hill; but, on the whole, I think the text, as I have adopted it, to be the better reading. Having ascertained the names and conditions of the parties, the reader becomes naturally inquisitive into their employment, and wishes to know whether their occupation is worthy of them. This laudable curiosity is abundantly gratified in the succeeding lines; for Jack and Gill To fetch a bucket of water. Here we behold the plan gradually unfolding, a new scene opens to our view, and the description is exceedingly beautiful. We now discover their object, which we were before left to conjecture. We see the two friends, like Pylades and Orestes, assisting and cheering each other in their labors, gaily ascending the hill, eager to arrive at the summit, and to-fill their bucket. Here, too, is a new elegance. Our acute author could not but observe the necessity of machinery, which has been so much commended by critics, and admired by readers. Instead, however, of introducing a host of gods and goddesses, who might have only impeded the journey of his heroes, by the intervention of the bucket, which is, as it ought to be, simple and conducive to the progress of the poem, he has considerably improved on the ancient plan. In the management of it also he has shown much judgment, by making the influence of the machinery and the subject reciprocal: for while the utensil carries on the heroes, it is itself carried on by them. In this part, too, we have a deficiency supplied, to wit, the knowledge of their relationship, which as it would have encumbered the opening, was reserved for this place. Even now there is some uncertainty whether they were related by the ties of consanguinity; but we may rest assured they were friends, for they did join in carrying the instrument; they must, from their proximity of situation, have been amicably disposed, and if one alone carried the utensil, it exhibits an amiable assumption of the whole labor. The only objection to this opinion is an old adage, "Bonus dux bonum facit militem," which has been translated "A good Jack makes a good Gill," thereby intimating a superiority in the former. If such was the case, it seems the poet wished to show his hero in retirement, and convince the world, that, however illustrious he might be, he did not despise manual labor. It has also been objected, (for every Homer has his Zoilus,) that their employment is not sufficiently dignified for epic poetry; but, in answer to this, it must be remarked, that it was the opinion of Socrates, and many other philosophers, that beauty should be estimated by utility, and surely the purpose of the heroes must have been beneficial. They ascended the rugged mountain to draw water, and drawing water is certainly more conducive to human happiness than drawing blood, as do the boasted heroes of the Iliad, or roving on the ocean, and invading other men's property, as did the pious Eneas. Yes! they went to draw water. Interesting scene! It might have been drawn for the purpose of culinary consumption; it might have been to quench the thirst of the harmless animals who relied on them for support; it might have been to feed a sterile soil, and to revive the drooping plants, which they raised by their labors. Is not our author more judicious than Apollonius, who chooses for the heroes of his Argonautics a set of rascals, undertaking to steal a sheep skin? And, if dignity is to be considered, is not drawing water a circumstance highly characteristic of antiquity? Do we not find the amiable Rebecca busy at the well-does not one of the maidens in the Odyssey delight us by her diligence in the same situation? and has not a learned Dean proved that it was quite fashionable in Peloponnesus?-Let there be an end to such frivolous remarks. But the descriptive part is now finished, and the author hastens to the catastrophe. what part of the mountain the well was situated, what was the reason of the sad misfortune, or how the prudence of Jack forsook him, we are not informed, but so, alas! it happened, Jack fell down At Unfortunate John! At the moment when he was nimbly, for aught we know, going up the hill, perhaps at the moment when his toils were to cease, and he had filled the bucket, he made an unfortunate step, his centre of gravity, as philosophers would say, fell beyond his base, and he tumbled. The extent of his fall does not, however, appear until the next line, as the author feared to overwhelm us by too immediate a disclosure of his whole misfortune. Buoyed by hope, we suppose his affliction not quite remediless, that his fall is an accident to which the wayfarers of this life are daily liable, and we anticipate his immediate rise to resume his labors. But how are we deceived by the heart-rending tale, that Jack fell down And broke his crown Nothing now remains but to deplore the premature And Gill came tumbling after. Here the distress thickens on us. Unable to support the loss of his friend, he followed him, determined to share his disaster, and resolved, that as they had gone up together, they should not be separated as they came down.* In the midst of our afflictions, let us not, however, be unmindful of the poet's merit, which, on this occasion, is conspicuous. He evidently seems to have in view the excellent observation of Adam Smith, that our sympathy arises not from a view of the passion, but of the situation which excites it. Instead of unnecessary lamentation, he gives us the real state of the case; avoiding, at the same time, that minuteness of detail, which is so common among pathetic poets, and which, by dividing a passion, and tearing it to rags, as Shakspeare says, destroys its force. Thus, when Cowley tells us, that his mistress shed tears enough to save the world if it had been on fire, we immediately think of a house on fire, ladders, engines, crowds of people, and other circumstances, which drive away every thing like feeling; when Pierre is describing the legal plunder of Jaffier's house, our attention is diverted from the misery of Belvidera to the goods | and chattels of him the said Jaffier: but in the poem before us, the author has just hit the dividing line between the extreme conciseness which might conceal necessary circumstances, and the prolixity of narration, which would introduce immaterial ones. So happy, indeed, is the account of Jack's destruction, that had a physician been present, and informed us of the exact place of the skull which received the hurt, whether it was the occipitis, or which of the ossa bregmatis that was fractured, or what part of the lambdoidal suture was the point of injury, we could not have a clearer idea of his misfortune. Of the bucket we are told nothing, but have a scene of misery, unequalled in the whole as it is probable that it fell with its supporters, we compass of tragic description. Imagine to ourselves Jack rapidly descending, perhaps rolling over and over down the mountain, the bucket, as the lighter, moving along, and pouring forth (if it had been filled) its liquid stream, Gill following in confusion, with a quick and circular and headlong motion; add to this the dust, which they might have collected and dispersed, with the blood which must have flowed from John's head, and we will witness a catastrophe highly shocking, and feel an irresistible impulse to run for a doctor. The sound, too, charmingly "echoes to the sense," Jack fell down And broke his crown, And Gill came tumbling after. The quick succession of movements is indicated by an equally rapid motion of the short syllables, and in the last line Gill rolls with a greater sprightliness and vivacity, than even the stone of Sisyphus. Having expatiated so largely on its particular merits, let us conclude by a brief review of its most prominent beauties. The subject is the fall of men, a subject, high, interesting, worthy of a poet: the heroes, men who do not commit a single fault, and whose misfortunes are to be imputed, not to indiscretion, but to destiny. To the illustration of this subject, every part of the poem conduces. Attention is neither wearied by multiplicity of trivial incidents, nor distracted by frequency of digression. The poet prudently clipped the wings of imagination, and repressed the extravagance of metaphorical decoration. All is simple, plain, consistent. The moral, too, that part without which poetry is useless sound, has not escaped the view of the poet. When we behold two young men, who but a short moment before stood up in all the pride of health, suddenly falling down a hill, how must we lament the instability of all things! MOREAU'S MISTAKE.-When Gen. Moreau, who forsook the colors of Napoleon, and was afterwards killed, fighting against his former commander, in Germany, was in the city of Boston, he was much courted and sought after as a lion of the first quality. On one oc * There is something so tenderly querimonious in the silent grief and devotion of Gill, something which so reminds us of the soft complaint of the hapless sister of Dido, that it must delight every classical reader. Comitemne sororem Sprevisti moriens? Eadem me ad fata vocasses; |casion he was invited to Cambridge to attend the commencement exercises. In the course of the day, a musical society of undergraduates sang a then very popular ode, the chorus of which was To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow." Moreau, who was imperfectly acquainted with our language, fancied they were complimenting him, and at every recurrence of the burden, which he interpreted, "To Moreau, to Moreau, to Moreau," he rose and bowed gracefully to the singers' gallery, pressing his laced chapeau to his heart. We can easily imagine the amusement of the spectators who were in the secret, and the mortification of the Frenchman when he discovered his mistake. EULOGY ON LAUGHING. Delivered at an Exhibition by a Young Lady. BY JONATHAN MITCHEL SEWALL. 1801. LIKE merry Momus, while the gods were quaffing, Yet others, quite as sage, with warmth dispute Hail, rosy laughter, thou deserv'st the bays! Come, with thy dimples, animate these lays, Whilst universal peals attest thy praise. Daughter of Joy! thro' thee we health attain, When Esculapian recipes are vain. Let sentimentalists ring in our ears The tender joy of grief-the luxury of tearsHeraclitus may whine-and oh! and ah!I like an honest, hearty, ha, hah, hah! It makes the wheels of nature gliblier play: Dull care suppresses; smooths life's thorny way; Propels the dancing current thro' each vein; Braces the nerves; corroborates the brain; Shakes ev'ry muscle, and throws off the spleen. Old Homer makes yon tenants of the skies, His gods, love laughing as they did their eyes! It kept them in good humor, hush'd their squabbles, As froward children are appeas'd by baubles; Ev'n Jove the thund'rer dearly lov'd a laugh, When, of fine nectar, he had ta'en a quaff! It helps digestion when the feast runs high, And dissipates the fumes of potent Burgundy. But, in the main, tho' laughing I approve, The honest laugh, unstudied, unacquir'd, I thought you all, ere this, would die with laughing! MISS Tabitha Towzer is fair, TABITHA TOWZER. BY THOMAS G. FESSENDEN. No guineapig ever was neater; Like a hakmatak slender and spare, And sweet as a musk-squash or sweeter. Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek, When dress'd in her pretty new tucker, Like an otter that paddles the creek, In quest of a mud-pout or sucker. Her forehead is smooth as a tray, Ah! smoother than that on my soul, And turned, as a body may say, Like a delicate neat wooden bowl. To what shall I liken her hair, As straight as a carpenter's line, For similes sure must be rare, When we speak of a nymph so divine. 1806. Not the head of a Nazarite seer, My dear has a beautiful nose, With a sled-runner crook in the middle, Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes, And oft with a magical glance, She makes in my bosom a pother, When leering politely askance, She shuts one and winks with the other. |