execution and skill in versification. He handles a triple rhymed stanza in the octosyllabic measure particularly well. His appreciation of nature is tender and sympathetic, one of the pure springs which fed the more boisterous current of his humor when he came out among men to deal with quackery, pretence, and injustice. But what is perhaps most worthy of notice in Freneau is his originality, the instinct with which his genius marked out a path for itself in those days when most writers were leaning upon the old foreign school of Pope and Darwin. He was not afraid of home things and incidents. Dealing with facts and realities, and the life around him, wherever he was, his writings have still an interest where the vague expressions of other poets are forgotten. His poems may be little read now— they are so rare that we have tasked the resources of booksellers, and put friendship to the proof, to draw together the several editions to prepare this article-but they will be surely revived and cherished among the historic and poetic literature of the land. The tree which plants its roots most firmly in the present, will survive the longest with posterity. The genius which has no local habitation for its muse, no personality or relation to time and place to-day (and how much poetry is there thrown upon the public which it is impossible to locate), will be, in sporting language, nowhere to-morrow.

It is a little remarkable that four of the most original writers whom the country has produced have received the least attention from critics and magazinists-Francis Hopkinson, John Trumbull, Brackenridge, and Freneau. In the very few notices to be met with of the last, he is for the most part mentioned in an apologetic tone-as if he were a mere writer of doggrel, low in taste and poor in expression. Even an admirer, who compliments him in verse, has something of this:

Let Freneau live though Flattery's baleful tongue
Too early tuned his youthful lyre to song,
And ripe old age, in ill-directed zeal,
Has made an enervated last appeal:
His song could fire the sailor on the wave,
Raise up the coward,-animate the brave,
While wit and satire cast their darts around,
And fools and cowards tremble at the sound.
Although Ambition never soar'd to claim
The meed of polished verse, or classic fame,
And caustic critics honour, but condemn,
A strain of feeling, but a style too tame.
Let the old Bard, whose patriot voice has fann'd
The fire of Freedom that redeemed our land,
Live on the scroll with kindred names that swell
The page of history, where their honours dwell;
With full applause, in honour to his age,
Dismiss the veteran poet from the stage,
Crown his last exit with distinguished praise,
And kindly hide his baldness with his bays.*

How his contemporaries could sometimes appreciate him, is shown in an epistle in Col. Parke's volume of Horatian translations, and other poems, published at Philadelphia in 1786. In the rarity of these tributes, it is worth quoting:

American Bards, Phila., 1820.

TO MR. PHILIP FRENEAU, ON HIS VOLUME OF EXCELLENT POEMS, PRINTED BY MR. BAILEY. "Difficile est satiram non scribere."—Juv. Tho' I know not your person, I well know your merit,

Your satires admire-your muse of true spirit;
Who reads them must smile at poetical story,
Except the k-g's printer, or some such like tory;
Sir William, Sir Harry, and would-be Sir John,
Cornwallis, the Devil, those bucks of the ton;
Black Dunmore and Wallace with sun-setting-nose,
Who steals hogs and sheep, secure-under the Rose.*
But a fig for the anger of such petty rogues,
To the devil we pitch them without shoes or
brogues!

Pythag'ras' choice scheme my belief now controuls,

I sign to his creed-transmigration of souls;
Euphorbas's shield he no doubt did employ,
And bravely let blood on the plains of old Troy:
The souls of great Marlb'ro' and warlike Eugene
Conspicuous in Washington's glory are seen:
Sage Plato beams wisdom from Franklin's rich
brain,

And sky-taught Sir Isaac is seen here again.
But Hugh when he migrates may daily be found
Cracking bones in a kitchen in form of a hound;
When his compeer shall die-while no Christian
shall weep him,

Old Pluto, below, for a devil will keep him;
Unless he's sent up on some hasty dispatch,
The Whigs to abuse, and more falsehoods to hatch.
Those red-jerkin'd fops, whom your muse I've heard

sing,

From Hounslow's bold heroes successively spring;
From Tyburn they tumble as supple as panders,
Then migrate straightway into knights and com-
manders.

But you, worthy poet, whose soul-cutting pen
In gall paints the crimes of all time-serving men,
The fiend of corruption, the wretch of an hour,
The star-garter'd villain, the scoundrel in pow'r;
From souls far unlike may announce your ascension,
The patriot all-worthy, above bribe or pension,
The martyr who suffer'd for liberty's sake
Grim dungeons, more horrid than hell's bitter lake:
Your name to bright honour, the spirits shall lift,
That glow'd in the bosoms of Churchill and Swift.
And when you are number'd, alas! with the dead,
Your works by true wits will forever be read,
Who, pointing the finger, shall pensively show
The lines that were written, alas! by Freneau.
Philadelphia, June 8, 1786.

It is not to be denied, however, that Freneau was sometimes careless. He lived and thought with improvidence. His jests are sometimes misdirected; and his verses are unequal in execution. Yet it is not too much to predict that through the genuine nature of some of his productions, and the historic incidents of others, all that he wrote will yet be called for, and find favor in numerous popular editions.

ADVICE TO AUTHORS.

By the Late Mr. Robert Slender.

There are few writers of books in this new world, and amongst these very few that deal in works of imagination, and, I am sorry to say, fewer still that have any success attending their lucubrations. Perhaps, however, the world thinks justly on this subject. The productions of the most brilliant imagi

*He commanded the Rose sloop.

my example who can both weave stockings and write poems. But, if you really possess that sprightliness of fancy and elevation of soul which alone constitute an author, do not on that account be troublesome to your friends. A little reflection will point out other means to extract money from the hands and pockets of your fellow citizens than by poorly borrowing what, perhaps, you will never be able to repay.

6. Never engage in any bosiness as an inferior or understrapper. I cannot endure to see an author debase his profession so far as to submit to be second or third in any office or employment whatever. If fortune, or the ill taste of the public, compels you even to turn shallopman on the Delaware, let it be your first care to have the command of the boat. Beggary itself, with all its hideous apparatus of rags and misery, becomes at once respectable whenever it exhibits the least token of independence of spirit and a single spark of laudable ambition.

7. If you are in low circumstances, do not forget that there is such a thing in the world as a decent pride. They are only cowards and miscreants that poverty can render servile in their behaviour. Your haughtiness should always rise in proportion to the wretchedness and desperation of your circumstances. If you have only a single guinea in the world be complaisant and obliging to every one: if you are absolutely destitute of a shilling, immediately assume the air of a despot, pull off your hat to no one, let your discourse, in every company, turn upon the vanity of riches, the insignificancy of the great men of the earth, the revolution of empires, and the final consummation of all things. By such means you will at least conceal a secret of some importance to yourself that you have not a shilling in the world to pay for your last night's lodging.

8. Should you ever be prevailed upon to dedicate your book to any great man or woman, consider first, whether the tenor and subject of it be such as nay in some measure coincide with the age, temper, education, business, and general conversation of the person whose patronage is requested. A friend of nine once committed a great error on this score. He wrote a bawdy poem, and dedicated it to the principal in the department of finance.

9. Never make a present of your works to great men. If they do not think them worth purchasing, trust me, they will never think them worth reading,

10. If fortune seems absolutely determined to starve you, and you can by no means whatever make your works sell; to keep up as much as in you lies, the expiring dignity of authorship, do not take to drinking, gambling, or bridge-building as some have done, thereby bringing the trade of authorship into disrepute; but retire to some uninhabited island or desert, and there, at your leisure, end your life with decency.

The above is all that has yet been found written by Robert Slender relative to authors and authorshipand further the copyist at this time sayeth not.

DIRECTIONS FOR COURTSHIP.

Hæc eadem ut sciret, quid non faciebat Amyntas ?-VIRG. The parson of our parish used to say, in his hours of convivial gaiety, that nothing puzzles a man of true delicacy more, than how to make the first advances to the woman he loves, with a becoming propriety of sentiment, language, and behaviour.

I must confess I am somewhat of his opinion in this matter, and having in my time observed many a promising alliance broken off by a mere idle inattention to what even a very moderate share of understanding ought always to dictate upon these

occasions, I shall, for the benefit of those whom it may concern, set down a few easy rules, by the assistance of which people may at least prevent themselves from becoming personally ridiculous, if they cannot succeed to the utmost of their wishes in other respects.

I.

When you take a serious liking to a young woman, never discover your passion to her by way of letter. It will either give the lady an idea that you are a bashful booby, or that you have not any address in conversation; both which defects are sufficient to ruin you in the estimation of any woman of only tolerable good sense.

II.

During the time of courtship be careful never to discourse with the lady upon serious subjects, or matters that are not strictly and immediately pertinent to the purpose you are upon. If she asks you what news, you must not tell her a long story out of the Dutch or English gazettes about the decline of trade, the fall of stocks, or the death of Mynheer Van der Possum. She looks for no such answers. You must rather relate a melancholy tale of two or three young gentlemen of fortune and handsome expectations that have lately drowned themselves in the Schuylkill, or thrown themselves headlong from their third story windows, and been dashed to pieces on the pavement for the sake of a certain inexorable fair one, whose name you cannot recollect; but the beauty and shafts of whose eyes these poor young gentlemen could not possibly withstand. Such intelligence as this will instantly put her into good humour; and upon the strength of that lie alone, you will be allowed liberties with her person that a recapitulation of all the morality in Tillotson, or the real news of five hundred gazettes, would not so effectually enable you to take.

III.

I would advise you never to make use of the dietatorial style till you are perfectly sure of your Dulcinea; and that period depends in a great measure upon your own prudence. Till then, you must seem to give the preference to her judgment in all matters that happen to be discussed, and submit to be instructed by her in whatever she apprehends you do not understand. Your trade or occupation in life she takes for granted you are perfectly acquainted with; and remember never to say a word on that score in her hearing, unless your calling happens to have no spice of vulgarity about it. If, however, you are a governor of an island, or happen to be some considerable officer of state, you may frequently make professional allusions, as her vanity will be gratified thereby; and women, we all know, are naturally fond of power.

IV.

Have a care that you do not pester her with descriptions of the Alps, the Appennines, and the river Po. A lady is not supposed to know anything of such matters; besides, you must be a very cold lover if those far-fetched things can command your attention a moment in the company of a fine woman. Whatever she thinks proper to assert, it is your business to defend, and prove to be true. If she says black is white, it is not for men in your probationary situation to contradict her. On the contrary, you must swear and protest that she is right; and, in demonstrating it, be very cautious of using pedantic arguments, making nice logical distinctions, or affecting hard and unintelligible terms.

Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.
His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey drest,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that wants no rest.
His bow for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of bone,
Can only mean that life is spent,

And not the finer essence gone.
Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit,
Yet, mark the swelling turf, and say,
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here, still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here, still an aged elm aspires,

Beneath whose far projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest play'd.
There oft a restless Indian queen,

(Pale Marian with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen

To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In vestments for the chace array'd, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer-a shade. And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointe l spear, And reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

From Susquehanna's utmost springs
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,
A shepherd of the forest came.

Not long before, a wandering priest
Express'd his wish, with visage sad-
Ah, why (he cry'd) in Satan's waste,
Ah, why detain so fine a lad?

"In Yanky land there stands a town
Where learning may be purchas'd low-
Exchange his blanket for a gown,

And let the lad to college go."— From long debate the Council rose,

And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy, To Harvard hall,* o'er wastes of snows, They sent the copper-colour'd boy. One generous chief a bow supply'd, This gave a shaft, and that a skin; The feathers, in vermillion dy'd,

Himself did from a turkey win: Thus dress'd so gay, he took his way O'er barren hills, alone, alone! His guide a star, he wander'd far, His pillow every night a stone. At last he came, with leg so lame, Where learned men talk heathen Greek, And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,

To please the muses, twice a week.

* Harvard College, at Cambridge in Massachusetts.

Awhile he writ, awhile he read,

Awhile he learn'd the grammar rules-
An Indian savage so well bred

Great credit promis'd to their schools.
Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him passing well,
Beheld, in him, a sound divine.
But those of more discerning eye
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by

To wander with his dearer bow.
The tedious hours of study spent,

The heavy-moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,

But sigh'd to see the setting sun.
No mystic wonders fir'd his mind;
He sought to gain no learn'd degree,
But only sense enough to find

The squirrel in the hollow tree.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possess'd,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In Fancy's gayest colours dress'd.
"And why (he cry'd) did I forsake

My native wood for gloomy walls;
The silver stream, the limpid lake

For musty books and college halls.
"A little could my wants supply-

Can wealth and honour give me more! Or, will the sylvan god deny

The humble treat he gave before?
"Let Seraphs reach the bright abode,
And heaven's sublimest mansions see-
I only bow to NATURE'S GOD-
The Land of Shades will do for me.
"These dreadful secrets of the sky

Alarm my soul with chilling fear—
Do planets in their orbits fly,

And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
"Let planets still their aims pursue,

And comets round creation run-
In HIM my faithful friend I view,
The image of my God-the Sun.
"Where Nature's ancient forests grow,

And mingled laurel never fades,
My heart is fixed, and I must go
To die among my native shades."
He spoke, and to the western springs,

(His gown discharg'd, his money spent)
His blanket tied with yellow strings,
The shepherd of the forest went.

Returning to the rural reign

The Indians welcom'd him with joy;
The council took him home again,
And bless'd the copper-colour'd boy.

THE DYING INDIAN.
Debemur morti nos, nostraque.
On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active days are past-
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng,
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!