Charleston and her satirists

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

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CHARLESTON, AND HER SATIRISTS.

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CHARLESTON, AND HER SATIRISTS.

A SCRIBBLEMENT.

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PREFACE.

The little brochure which follows, was occasioned by a small pamphlet, purporting to be by a Northern Lady, entitled “Charleston: a Satire.” In all probability, the quill of this prose came from a bird of masculine gender. There were certain passages of the satire which could scarcely be ascribed to a female pen. It contained allusions to subjects of a nature quite too delicate to suppose that they could be discussed in the mind of a woman, and one who claims to be an unwedded one. No matter what the source of the satire, it was sufficiently pointless. With many truths, the aim was too feeble, the shaft too dull, to prove otherwise than innocuous. I have been prompted to a reply,—somewhat glad of the chance, indeed—to confirm the justice of some of the satirist's points of censure, while dissenting from the propriety of others. Charleston has many faults and foibles,—the whole State indeed is open to criticism—vulnerable in its vanities, and particularly so in its politics. It will do no harm to draw attention to these subjects.

“Touchstone.—I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted. It is but the right butter woman's rank to market.”

Doubtless we need the lash—our virtues few,
Our foibles many, and our vices too;
Pride in our souls, and vain conceit of heart,
Still keeping back performance from its part;
Pleased to forget our duties in our joys,
We set aside our talents for our toys;
And with nice tastes, and petty pastimes won,
Leave all our nobler purposes undone.
The morning lounge, where fashion sports her plume,
The evening ride—at night, the crowded room;
The call, where soft inanity, grown starr'd,
Just stirs the knocker once, and leaves the card;
The glittering rout, where, till the supper woos,
The drowsy spirit slumbers with the blues;
And that dull pageant which the Battery sees,
Its stream of butterflies as thick as bees,—
A long procession, buggy, coach and cart,
Where poor pretension still must play its part,
Pleased to be seen and seeking nought beside,
But just to say, “Behold we too can ride;”
Though, bless your eyes, the painful truth once known,
Could the corn merchant but receive his own,
The rider hence, who sought to take the air,
Must jaunt, in ancient style, on Shanks's mare.

These, doubtless, are our follies, sad, indeed,
In circles where most fruits have gone to seed;—
Of these we have our share, and something more,
Which the true man and patriot must deplore;
Though how to cure these follies of a class,
And hiss the several sillies as they pass—
Rebuke the idle impotence that shames
Our present state, and noble ancient names;—
Is still the doubt,—where Satire's self finds cause,
Though ready still to curse, to muse and pause;—
Consoled, at last, to think that debt and fate,
Will cure the evil ere it be too late.

Soothed by a smoothe society, that still
Fetters the mind and subjugates the will;
Disturbs no pride of ancestry or place,
Wakes no misgivings of our perfect grace,
Suggests no doubt that all the world admires,
Our claims of glory for ourselves and sires;
And, while our best possessions, strength and mind,
Escape us, still exult in what's behind;—
Our manners, moulded with the nicest art,
Fit for the court, but foreign to the mart;
Our pride, that points to ancestors of worth,
Whose deeds, perchance, were nobler than their birth;
Grace in the parlor, valor in the field—
Since pride alone forbids the thought to yield—
And still deluding memories of the past,
Where our bold eloquence, amid the blast,
Warm'd by the patriot, tutor'd by the sage,
Sooth'd the wild tempest and defied its rage;—
These, fondly deem'd the virtues that attest,
Our right to rank with people not so blest,—

Our real possessions still—but lead astray
From others which our reason well might pray;
Since these, however proud and really true,
Compènsate not for others lost to view,
Nor can we boast transmitted deeds from sires,
Unless to match them each brave son aspires.

From these we turn, and, while the vista opes,
Survey new empires that invite our hopes;
There we behold a thousand virtues rise,
Which better far could we implore and prize;—
The lively courage, the ambitious aim,
Which struggles boldly in each path of fame,—
The Court, the Camp, the Senate and the Press,
On sea and land, still battling for success;
No toil too hard to check our eager will,
No game too lofty to invite us still;
Leaving no field unconquered or unsought,
And striving boldly in each realm of thought;—
Proud to be first in council,—still prepared,
When comes the fight, with breast and weapon bared;
Nor, vex'd with feeble vanities that shame,
The rising spirit in its rush for fame,—
Not scornful of those humbler arts that make,
A nation glorious for its people's sake!
Proud of the very hammer whose great might,
Spreads the huge engine on the gazer's sight;
And joyous, scaping from our poor routine,
To hail, from native hands, the vast machine;
Passing, with equal pride, from art to art,
That helps the labor, or refines the heart;—
And, where the Poet, emulous of praise,
Strikes the sweet lyre, still eager for his bays,

Toiling, with thirst, that still achievement earns,
To soar with Milton, or to sing with Burns;
Nor less assiduous, with endowments rare,
To crown the canvass with its aspects fair,
Such as would make our Allston's shade rejoice,
And win from Raphael's self approving voice.

How glad my heart, forgetting to deplore,
Would hail these gathering virtues on our shore!
Fond would I see our Shakespeare wing his flight,
Cleaving, Prometheus-like, our skies for light;—
Bringing back rich glories, such as future time,
Would hallow with a homage all sublime;
And, with new pride, in arts too little known,
Rousing each brother to assert his own.
To me no triumph on our history's page,
Would half so truly all my hopes engage,
As that of genius, in whatever toil,
Seeking the struggle, eager for the spoil.
Gladly I grasp the blacksmith by the hand,
Whose work with one small trophy crowns the land;
And build for him the consecrated rhyme,
Whose honest labor illustrates his time.
The idle driveller in whose soul no hope
Of glorious triumph prompts with toil to cope;—
Whose dream is but a butterfly display,
With wingèd insects for a summer's day,
May have his uses, and, with this one doubt,
I would not rashly put his candle out.

But that his nature's human, or his need,
Is what all common sense must doubt indeed;
Still let him flicker in the noontide sun,
Who nothing does himself, is soon undone.

With native powers that fit for any place,
Doubtless, we yield to meaner men the race:
Won with the syren and soul sapping sweet,
That tastes too nice, in vapid circles meet,
Our self esteem, diseased as overfed,
Learns soon its standards to distrust or dread;
We fear to struggle for the glorious prize,
That haunts our hope and glitters in our eyes,
Lest that our strength, still feebler than our aim,
Should only show the failure and the shame.
As if the soul, the noblest known to men,
Had ever gain'd the height within its ken;
Had ever found so bravely as it fought,
Or won at large the empire which it sought;
Nor, though still rising on triumphant wing,
Had not yet fallen a something 'neath its spring;
Seeing, from afar, like Moses, Canaan's vale,
Yet destined at the threshold still to fail;
Since Heaven hath never yet vouchsafed to man
To achieve, himself, the heights his fancy can;—
This were to mock the present with its toil,
And, for the lucky sires, the sons to spoil.

Yet, as if nature asked for full success,
We nothing do, lest we should master less;
Refining still our tastes, their laws apply,
To the great loss of strength and energy;—
We dread the attempt, still trembling lest we fall!—
“If thy heart fail thee do not climb at all.”
But, who among us would not chafe to hear,
That his heart fail'd him, when his mind said “dare?”
Yet, mournful truth, 'tis cowardice like this,
That makes us still each proud performance miss;
And—farther fault—that makes us look with eyes,
Of jaundiced hate to see each brother rise.
For this, our sons, the noblest and the best,
Are driven abroad, and fructify the West,
While eager strangers, darting in their place,
Usurp their natural rights and rule the race:—
They fill the offices, the chairs of State,
Carve out the spoils, the duties regulate;
Compel the native genius to succumb
Or with a thousand arts its powers benumb;
Where they can find the youth at all endow'd,
Detach him for their purpose, from the crowd;
Through him, they rule his fellows; or, if he
Resists the wrong, still seeking to be free,
Party is made the noble youth to hush,
And him they cannot buy, or cheat, they crush!—
'Tis thus we see, how one small set will range,
From seat to seat of power, with constant change;
A judge grown callous in an oft tried chair,
Winks on the Senate and anon he's there;

A member of the House has but to tire,
Finding it difficult to get much higher,
And he'll persuade a Senator to quit
The place, where his ambition longs to sit.
Thus we make Governors, Judges and the whole—
One little circle having full control;—
Thus they exchange their places, year by year,
Have but one creed, by one base altar swear;
Hating Calhoun in secret, still they wield
His noble name, to sweep the opposing field;
And, by this spell of power, usurp a sway
That tramples all that rises in their way.
The generous youth, in mind and soul erect,
Is on the threshold of performance check'd;
Let him refuse to bend as they demand,
And he becomes a stranger in the land;
Hopeless of place, of chance, to try his strength,
He yields the field, and quits the soil at length,
Mournful retires, in Western woods to find,
That freedom for his spirit and his mind,
Which his own home, by cunning tribes o'errun,
Hath shown him there he never could have won!
And what remains, the native mind expell'd,
But vile debasement from the rank we held?—
Look at our seats in Congress—do they show
Such worth as 'twas their wont of old to know?—
And what our hope at home, when here we see,
How wealth and cunning lord it o'er the free;
Were these but crown'd with virtues as with pow'r,
No heart would sink in shame, no brow would low'r;
But what have we beheld in highest place?
Our country's Themis wallowing in disgrace;
Gown'd teachers revelling at the board till drench'd,

Souced in the gutter, or on side walks bench'd;
Shameless themselves, while every passer by,
Blushes and hurries with averted eye,
Sess the gray hairs that doubly show the shame,
While pity only checks the voice of blame;
The weakness of humanity prevails
And vice grows insolent as justice fails;
No more the sense is felt, of shame or fear,
As social speech grows less and less severe;
With our indulgence vice presumes the more,
And thrice offends, when once sufficed before;
Familiar with the spectacle become,
Our censure pauses, our reproach grows dumb;
Though, did we murmur, with indignant blame,
At our own wrongs, and at the country's shame,—
Of what avail, since, of the tribe that sway,
He mocks the justice others must obey;
Sustained by those, whose several vices scann'd,
Need, like his own, indulgent help and hand:
Thus crimes in common still the herd sustain,
And pride deplores, and justice frowns in vain.

The public duty as the public pride,
Such men as these must equally deride;
As various in their vices as their arts,—
They grow in numbers as our strength departs;
Eager for office which they deem their own,
They ‘bear no rival brother near the throne,’
But for the loaves and fishes struggling still,
Grow just as blind with appetite as will;
In this our hope! since now, with fierce debate,
Each shows his better right to rule the State;
Tom, Dick and Harry, thus, with eager coil,

Stripp'd to the skin, are fighting for the spoil;—
Tom thinks that Harry's ridden long enough;
Harry rejoins, ‘Tom lacks the proper stuff;’
Dick, all the while, stands ready at the side,
To seize the oyster when the shells are wide.

‘When rogues fall out’—the proverb's something stale,
But offers fitly to conclude our tale—
Then honest people,—let the truth be known—
Have some small chance of getting back their own.
Among themselves, when Hunkers fall to strife,
Then public freedom may recover life;
The people summoned to decide the case,
Should tumble all the parties out of place;
Nor long this proper penalty delay,
Since grown expert, long practised at the prey,
They cling like cats, with just as many lives,
And even a fall each tumbling beast revives.
It needs, alike, the prompt and frequent score
Before you're certain that the danger's o'er.
As the leech fastens, though the body shrinks,
And, while the patient swoons, still clings and drinks;
As round the tree, the parasite entwin'd,
Until it choke, will never more unbind;
So these, remorseless of the ills they breed,
Still feed and fasten, fasten still and feed;
Still sap the substance, still maintain the seat,—
Still shame the gown, or still defile the street;
Still, with each brother Hunker, rule the roast,
Nor care while docile people play the host;
Provide the means that prompt each new excess,
And never punish if they never bless.

What danger to our safety to behold,
Our people fettered fast by their own gold;
The very hands that rule us, show us still,
Those that most borrow from the public till!
What State is sure of liberty a day,
When its chief debtors are the men that sway?—
What business of a people ably done
When, from their tasks, the high performers run;
Job it in Washington in selfish toils,
Heedless of public duty, seeking spoils;
Mix'd up with partisans of every grade,
And veer about as suit the turns of trade;
Boldly resolve on business of the State,
Nor ask the people to the sly debate;
Vote them, at will, as fees decide the cause,
Then coolly summon them to yield applause.

Oh! doubtless faults and vices both exist,
And well deserve the mighty satirist;
Such crimes as these, such follies and such shame,
Invite a thousand archers to the game.
Not your poor drudge of verse, whose halting strains
Still show the costive muse and cudgelled brains;
The sickly spawn of vanity or spleen
That looks on all with eyes of jaundiced green;
Some spinster who, surviving every chance,
With Cupid, now from Saturn takes her lance;
Doom'd to neglect, with charms of little worth,
Whose self delusion only moves our mirth;
Bemock'd with dreams of ever-vex'd desire,
That show to fancy but a painted fire.
No bitter selfishness must guide the pen
When satire seeks to touch the souls of men;

No feeble spirit, moved by will alone,
Strive in the toil the pow'r itself unknown;—
But the strong genius, vigorous and terse
Supreme in thought and exquisite in verse,
Roused to indignant utterance by the sense,
Of pow'rs abused that wait on excellence—
Of gifts, by generous Heaven bestowed in vain,
And vices cherished that conduct to pain;—
A people sinking hourly from the place,
That found them first, the noblest of the race;
The public purpose mock'd, the public aim
Despised, and all endeavor put to shame.
These are the themes that satire well might urge,
To prompt our wrath and justify the scourge.

All people have their faults, peculiar each,
As toil, or wealth, or climate chance to teach;—
Doubtless, the stranger, is the first to cast
His eye on that which differs from his past;
Your surface-traveller, satisfied with this,
Lifts up his hands and ears in perfect bliss;—
Not he to ask what's proper in the case,
How needful to the people or the place;
Enough!—what suits not his experience old,
Is something that he would not now behold.
Purge ye of that, says he, though half a thought
Might prove it still the thing he should have sought.
There's Bull—our John—the prince of Pharisees,
Thanks God he is not like the men he sees;
Though a worse monster in a different style,
More strongly marked by hideous horns and bile;
More proud, more fill'd with insolent pretence;
More foe to right, more slow to common sense;—

You will not find, though starting from the pole,
And searching Christendom from height to hole!
Enough for him that what he sees is new,
To prove it worthless, wicked and untrue;
He looks no farther, but with horns erect,
Would dash into your bowels if uncheck'd.
The cudgel, not the argument, alone,
With him, can keep you safe in blood and bone;
Fault-finding is his business,—'tis for this,
He travels only,—it perfects his bliss.
To see, if not to censure, were but waste
Of time and travel, nothing to his taste;
And who provides him with occasion most,
For grunt and grumble, is the properest Host;
For him to deal in satire!—surly elf,
He is a walking satire of himself!

So see and seek most travellers, little skill'd
In fields, which need, with thorough care, be till'd.
They ask but for the surface—soon content
With slight occasion for the sharp commént;—
Few look behind the veil, or ope anew
The courts of thought, to prove their models true.
Better of censure capable than thought,
They move as teachers, never as the taught;
Hear but the side that favors self-conceit,
And walk the Cynic of the court and street;
Like Pilate, asking for the truth, depart
Ere it can reach the ear or teach the heart.

Now, had our Lady Satirist, who, late,
Took our full length of portrait, town and State,
Been caught before her self-esteem had grown

Able to tumble reason from its throne,
She had not blunder'd in the woman freak,
Which found her full experience in a clique;
Nor deem'd the little circle which she sway'd,
Apt likeness for our people, man and maid;
Would not so rashly, in her child career,
Too pleased to speak, too satisfied to sneer,—
Looking through media of her-self and heart,
Perhaps—who knows?—with many a secret smart,
Goading her woman passions into rage,—
Have scrawled her crude opinions on the page,
In which her satire rises up a fault,
Where nothing so much lacks as attic salt.
She would not, surely, in that puny sphere,
Such as she paints, where prudence is but fear,—
Where cold convention still prescribes the rule,
That keeps the brain adrowse, the heart at school—
Though all expanding—fully grown—prepared
With northern breast the southern beaux to beard—
Have found a portrait to a people just,
Whose conscious tread is on heroic dust;
Who, not forgetful of the past—alive
To all the future—still in conflict strive
With noblest of the nation, far and near,—
Yielding no ground, exhibiting no fear,—
Suffering no triumph hostile to their claims,
True to their sires and faithful to their fames.

In circle such as that which gives her pain,
Our fair might look, for men like these, in vain;
What fool in fashion's petty realm and clique,
The sage or statesmen ever thinks to seek?
Who, with a mighty purpose in his breast,

Implores the help of whisker or of vest;
Puts on gay ringlets, and in petty plight,
In buz of other grublings takes delight?
Look through the realm of Fashion, and behold,
Its hues of fancy, glitter, green and gold:
Hearken its song, and when it prattles, list,
Note all it does and says, fair satirist;
And see you aught that moves the nation's soul,
That spurs the motive power or seeks control;—
That wings the impulsive mission whose wide aim,
Explores the forest, makes the savage tame;
Conceives great laws of empire, such as prove,
Not more the rule of wisdom than of love;
Opes glorious views to science—bids the song
In mountain echoes through all lands prolong—
Strikes marble into manhood, and with art,
Caught from the cherub, warms the stone to heart?

From fashion nought like this! Seek, where she thrives,
Whether in southern groves or northern hives,
And still an insect, without power or aim,
To serve a people or secure a name,
She spreads a gaudy, glittering wing, and still
You hear her buz—bizz-buzz—with petty thrill.
Faint echoes from faint voices hail her song,
And lo! they spread abroad a glittering throng;
Blue, crimson, green and orange, flout the air;
Still in the sunbeam, insect wings show fair;
Hither and thither, how they sail and ride,
Happy, if still by kindred insects eyed;
Following their Queen—for, differing from the bee,
Our human drones acknowledge sovereignty—

They stream in long procession on the view:—
See them in Gotham's great Fifth Avenue;
Here, at the White Point Garden;—every town
Having a show place for its cloak and gown;
A little sphere aside, where, safe from scorn,
The zany may unfold him to the morn;
Congratulate the damsel by his side,
That they have winglets both, were born to ride,
And, in return for raptures at her lace,
Receive her blessings on his moustached face!
Who wastes, on errant tribes like these, his breath,
Or points a Paixhan for a maggot's death?
Still let them wriggle on, of this assured,
All lands and cities still maintain their hoard;
The locusts not more numerous, but more dread;
The fly, more troublous when least famishèd;
Still harmless, as they sport the painted wing,
With power alone to buz and not to sting;
As thick in Boston as you find them here,
And, in no region, worth a single sneer.

But not to theme like this our maid confines
The hostile battery of her unmann'd lines;
Her aim falls short, although the mark in sight;
Her powder weak, for such a bullet's flight.
Taught by that prudent wisdom which beseems
The woman most, when glowing most with schemes,
She should have paused at censure, nor outspoke,
When satire's risk was satire to provoke.
What could she know, the stranger and the maid,
Of the deep policies of State and trade?
How, with what justice, on the work decide,
Which aims to send our feelers far and wide,

Piercing the heights and shades of Tennessee,
Bringing her mountains to embrace our sea—
Laying deep foundations for a mighty toil,
To save our people and restore our soil.
The stranger, good at surface-seeing, knows
But little that which 'neath the surface grows;
Must live beneath our laws and feel their force,
Ere he can judge their action and their course:
At best, he gathers from some single voice,
The opinion that he makes his own by choice,
And mostly blunders, since, of all the crowd,
The grumbler's first to clamor, long and loud;
The discontent finds tongue, when he who strives,
Works on in silence, trusting still, and thrives.

Her little circle, narrow'd in its scope,
Without a purpose as without a hope;—
Bounded by walls of prejudice that keep
The stagnant thought in ever-bonded sleep;—
Had little commerce with a city's need,
And groaning at the expense of public deed,
Might well begrudge the assessment of the pelf,
For the State's safety, wholly spent on self.
She heard the groans around her, of the few,
And, glad to censure, joined the grumble too.
All that moved satire, or beguiled to sneer,
Was so much music to her Northern ear:
Sweet food for judgment, critical and nice,
Of public manners and of ways precise,—
Which takes its laws as Yankeedom decrees—
Through Boston's media, only, ever sees—
In each grey goose of that dear region, knows
A glorious swan as ardent as its snows;

While sworn the swans of other lands to shame,
With still the scornful hiss and goose's name.
How should she find, in any sphere but one,
The bird to match its plumage with her own?
That genuine gosling nature, which forsakes
The sky, to wallow rich in dusky lakes;
Still shrieking out a sort of gander hymn,
(That may be satire,) “how we swanlings swim!—
What birds we make, how ardent and how fair,
Beyond all reach of rival or compare!—
Should we but once spread out our vans and fly,
We should do business in some Southern sky;
What wonders wake, what prompt admirers find,
Low at our feet in admiration blind;
How we should touzle in the groves at noon,
With kindred wings that never come too soon—
How skim the woods, with other birds in sight,
Whose open doings still enforce delight—
How yield to wooings, which too well persuade
The eager damsel to forget the maid,
And, finding passion at its utmost need,
Bring out the ardent appetite, indeed.”
Her ardent Northern nurture at Cape Cod—
(Was it there or farther?) went too soon abroad.
Alas! with fancies that inflame like these,
What error, sinking to such low degrees!
How should she hope that, in our Southern blood,
There should be fervor equal to such flood;
Worthy those days of knighthood and romance,
When every maid could always find a lance,
And meet indulgence for the blinding flame,
Forebore to call her passion by its name.

Ah! the vain dreaming of those early days,
When she beheld the South in fraudful lays,
When, in her fancy, classed with fairy land,
She saw its picture from Boccacio's hand.—
Boccacio's morals seem to wake no doubt,
Of what his fancy dreamed and was about,
Though writer more obscene, in lovelier style,
Did ne'er, for maiden's fancy, weave his wile.
How she beheld us then with dreaming eye!—
How fair our groves, how soft our zephyrs fly;
The air all balm, the flowers for aye in bloom,
Beheld no blight, and passion fear'd no doom;
Sweet vistas, heedful to exclude the sun,
Showed Beauty where to wander and be won—
And youthful Ardor by her happy side,
Left nought unsaid, and nought unsatisfied.
There life were, sure, all fragrance—Hope, a thing
Born of the sky, yet never on the wing;
And Man, erect and noble as at first,
When on the eager gaze of Eve he burst,—
A glorious image of the world's young pride,
With but one mission still—to seek a bride.
How dear the dream that pictur'd such delight,—
Well might the damsel madden at the sight!—
Thither, the ardent maiden from the North,
Had but to spread her summer plumage forth,
And thousand gay gallants were in her wake,
Eager the prize to win, the prey to take!—
'Twas but to sigh, and they were at her feet—
To smile, and make the homage sure and sweet—
To say the “yea,” though anticipative,
And gain all blessings that a man could give.
Well might the damsel, born in Yankee land,

For such a realm, unglove her virgin hand,
And, with such visions of dear flashing eyes,
And manly forms, dart forth for Southern skies—
Without a doubt to check the sweet career
Of thoughts, too ardent quite for shame or fear.

Youth lives on dreams like these. The sanguine maid,
Too often, in her fancy, clasps a shade.
How many, like our satirist, depart
From their own provinces, to find a heart!
But hearts too have conditions. You may seek
The manly form, bright eye and sunny cheek,
But these are not so ready at command,
Unless you carry the divining wand,—
The spell of power—the secret to reveal,
Where the soul harbours, whence its waters steal—
How to arrest its currents as they waste,
And turn them safe to your receiving breast!
What were your powers to spell surrounding souls?
Where the sweet charm that still the heart controls?
What smile superior wreathed your lip for love?
What shapes of rapture taught you to his grove?
What lovely fancies tended at your call,
Such as the eager soul of youth enthrall?
What nobler thoughts than to the herd belong?
How bright your wing—how more than sweet your song?
What thousand charms impelled the chase to ply?
What the dear fires that kindled in your eye?
Were youth, and wit, and beauty in your store?—
For Love asks these, and Husbands something more;—
Your hook you cast into the sea elate,—
But, Cape Cod Damsel, what has been your bait?

Grievous the folly, which, with merit small,
Would suffer appetite to grasp at all;
Mere want, and hunger, and the will to feed,
Fare badly if they bring no proper meed.
Wealth buys the best, but beggary must voice
Its keen entreaty for its need, not choice;
Great charms and manifold may still insist,
And, from the river, take what fish they list.
But she, with few or none, must never look
Too nicely, though 'tis porgy at her hook;
Content, where fish are not too often caught,
Still to find something, though not all that's sought.
Various and large your merits would you find
The noble person, and the tow'ring mind;
The charms compel of lofty thought or grace,
And still, the attentive court and smiling face.
These, in all lands and cities, may be found,
Would you but seek them on their proper ground;
Not in your vapid circles, where the heart,
In a poor pageant, plays the humblest part;
And, all performance, though it leads to fame
Still mocks a fool to save an ancient name.
'Tis not enough that you assert your sex,
Such claims, unless by beauty, only vex;
Your sex must always ask respect and care,
But worth must win, if love would hope to wear:
The chance that flings you in the walks of those
Who live in whiskers, and achieve by clothes;—
Who eat, sleep, talk, and travel, by routine,
For maids and manhood equally too mean;—
The King-street idler or the Battery crow,
Who nothing has to boast and less to show,—
May be a hapless fortune, undeserved

By maid with brains and beauty both preserved;
But still, one truth must each beholder strike,
Jack finds his Jill, and every goose her like;
And she who moves, the centre of a sphere,
Most likely mates with all that mingle there.
You hold not this!—You fancy you have powers,
That should bring nobler homage to your bowers;
You think you think—you know that you can write,
And, handsome men the subject, verse indite.
Alas! 'tis self delusion mocks you still;
Verse, such as yours, ne'er moved Pieria's hill;
Ne'er took by storm one mortal soul or sense,
Nor yielded patient hearing recompense;
Our worthy Mayor himself, must find it hard,
To keep his visage smooth before his bard;—
The painful effort to avoid a roar,
Must peril some frail buttons at the fore;
Endanger much the mood that smooths his face,
Which still in whisker muffles up grimace;
Compel him last to swear, as still he grins,
Verse never more to number with his sins.
If your lips lack in sweetness, like your ear,
No wonder that our gallants come not near;
Such halting verse, so clumsy and so rude,
But seldom on the public dares intrude.
And, for the thought,—one truth you should have found,
Talk's not more thought than music's simply sound;
An hundred reams of jabber may be read,
The exudation of the senseless head;
And rhyming thought still scarcer, seldom flows
From one, in thousands, who might think in prose.
Few but write doggrel—all New-England scrawls,

Gould squeaks and squeals, Sigourney screams and squalls;
Scribblers inveterate—ardent, you would say!—
Alas! a colder or a balder lay,
One more denuded of all thought and flame,
More wretched common-place, more vilely tame,
Ne'er batter'd ears of passion or of sense,
Ne'er vex'd Apollo with more stale pretence;
Ne'er knock'd so frequent at the Muse's door,
Their plaint so endless, and their plea so poor;
How would their husbands, like the Muses, curse,
Were they themselves but fecund, like their verse.

Such scribblers come in shoals, and Griswold cooks
His annual volume from their squeaking books;
Their puny passions, and their twattling cant,
That show not what they have but what they want;
No genius moves them to the great design,
But the dull labor hobbles through each line;
No rich conception in the verse o'erflows,
No fancy brightens, no ideal glows;
All's flat and vulgar, rapid as the stream,
Where Hyson wakes the scandal or the scheme;
Their very topics show the absent mind,
That knows not where to seek or how to find,
But thanks its stars when mere events invite,
The brain to breeding, and the pen to write.
No infant dies, but gratefully they cry,
To Heaven, that gives them theme for elegy;
No ardent bride, made lucky by success,
Goes to the altar, but in rhyme they bless;
No parson gets a surplice, or a child,
But they, too, swell, and strain on strain is piled;—

Such strains, indeed,—such straining,—that one fears
All strings will part, like those that hold our ears;
We dread, lest passing thus, from worse to worst,
They'll strain some mortal fastenings 'till they burst;
Explode in parts where muses bring no aid,
And rend alike both body and brocade.

Of minstrels, such as these, we too might boast,
But that the world already has its host;
Their volumes still suffice, if floods of rhyme,
Mere scribble, were not dear at any time;
Dull song and duller sermon, the disgrace,
Of letters always, coldest common place,
That weaves all morals we already know,
All flow'rs, abused a thousand years ago;
Thoughts, stories, sentiments—the stalest stuff,
That ever moved the cry of ‘Hold, enough’—
These still, when all's examined they produce,
Are the entire substance of the sluice:—
Take any huge collection of the year,
Such as the North still hashes for us here,
And such sheer platitude and downright trash,
Would mock the Lapland stew and Spanish hash;—
Matter so wanting in the essential things
That crown the thought with fire, the verse with wings;
Fancy more fruitless than the crab tree drièd,—
Imagination leafless at its side;—
Art clumsy as a prentice, first at tools,
Which nature never meant for babes or fools,—
And nothing present but the rare conceit,
That grins as hobbling couplets link their feet.
With such as these to boast, our Northern fair,

Does wisely sure, at young Legaré to sneer;
His slender book, a mere boy's utterance still,
Shows greener banks of shade, a clearer rill,
Fancy more delicate, and thrice the grace,
That nature ever deigned to all her race.
A promise only, he will yet grow strong,
And honor Ashley with befitting song.

Doubtless, our Spinsters, when the rhyme is read,
Persuade themselves they ardently have bred;
They talk of passions which they do not know,
And, as they talk, believe indeed they glow;
'Tis thus, in Northern countries, they deceive
The fancy, with the inventions that they weave;
There, self-delusion guides them to the grove,
Where stands a little God they dream is Love;
A tricksy Eros, who extorts their vows,
And sometimes gives them, what they seek, a spouse;
A lover seldom, but some hapless swain,
Who came too often to escape again,
His foot set down most erring in the snare,
Which made him curse the hour he wander'd there.
There, at the altar of their subtle God,
We see them stretch'd at length, or simply bow'd;
His creed prepared by Fourier or by Wright,
Teaches indulgence both for touch and sight;
That passions are most natural to the race,
And what is natural still is worthy chase;
That marriage is a bond that fetters need,
And woman has a right of tilth and seed.

Yet, though thus ardent, with unfetter'd will,
Our maiden watches the main chances still.

She has a lover, passable enough;—
The world, 'tis true, still shows her better stuff,
But, well she knows the maxim, “much more good
One bird in hand than bushels in the wood,”—
And though not quite the person she would choose,
Too scarce the article to pick and choose;
On him she concentrates her ardent fires,
For him alone survives, for him expires,
Employs all charms, all sentiments and snares,
Now sighs, and suffers him to see her tears,—
And now, as stammering, he's about to start,
She cries, “Oh! yes; too well you know my heart,”
And, on his breast, with half a scream, she sinks,
And he must taste, whatever still he thinks.

As cool, the while, as cucumber in ice,
'Tis thus our ardent damsel makes him splice;—
The trout may struggle, but the fisher still,
Plays him with courage equal to her skill;
Line, but no time she gives, for fear her prey,
Takes the one season and escapes away;
Never her flame too ardent for her arts,
'Tis neck or nothing if her cable parts;
She cares not for the captive in the snare,
Another, just as precious, wandering there;
But, if he scapes her, who shall dare to say,
If other troutlings shall pursue that way.
Nay, will not he, escaped her treacheries,
Show to his brethren where the danger lies;
Erect a beacon, and, with aspect grim,
Point where the hooks of Sylla worried him;
Show where Charybdis, rival quite as keen,
On neighboring waters, at the trade is seen;

So that, environed by such ardent foes,
That still pursue where'er the victim goes,
The thrice warn'd captive, once the peril o'er,
Swears against whitemeat bait forever more.
If not so lucky at escape, he tries
No more the force of hook, the strength of plies,
Yields in the struggle and resigns to fate,
You must not fancy that she grows elate,
Unless the prey, with some superior claim,
Of purse or person, shows the road to fame.
If but a common troutling of the brook,
Never more cool the fisher with his hook;
Which still sways out, well baited it may be,
For other game, in matrimony's sea;
A better victim ta'en, not long she'll lack,
The impulse which must fling the former back.
So, ardent though she be, she takes her fish,
Not that it suits her taste, or meets her wish,
But that her need, or policy requires
Some fry at all times to employ her fires.

Myself a bachelor, I something know,
Of ardent damsels in a northern snow;
Have I not rollick'd, over heels and head,
Toss'd with a dozen beauties from a sled;
Roll'd in promiscuous heap, and grasping wide,
With here a waist and lip on every side;
Felt all the keen encounter—was it bliss?—
That changed from kiss to squeeze, from squeeze to kiss,
Nothing reluctant to the mutual strife,
That brought the strangest fancies into life,
And left both parties, when the game was done,
Not all unwilling to repeat the fun.

Did I, for once, delude myself, for me
Alone, these joys, this fresh felicity,—
That sigh, that smile, that sudden kiss and squeeze?
My comrade shares the self-same luxuries;
The very waist, late circled by my arms,
Yields, at his instance; and the heaving charms,
That did my heart, of all its pow'r persuade,
Is his—the boon of the same ardent maid.
All's free and easy, and the liberal fair
Keeps little back for future love to share.

So, travelling lonely in the midnight coach,
Have I beheld the smiling fair approach;—
Begin the encounter; on the scene dilate,
The woods, the stars, the groves, and chance and fate;
Next song and love; until, before the dawn,
My arm about her pliant waist was drawn,
And she vouchsafed, at parting, the embrace,
That sent the bounding blood into my face;
Scarce knowing what I felt, or what she meant,
How I should answer, what was her intent.—
She little moved, perhaps, cold as her snows,
On every traveller the same boon bestows;
Deeming it due to habit or to youth,
A show of feeling, not a mark of truth;
Safe in her coldness only, at a game,
Which, were there blood, would flush her cheeks with shame;
And, in the constant exercise alone,
Learning, what else her pulse had never known.
Constant this kissing practice in those climes,
Whose chill all fervor in the blood sublimes;
A prurient relish, which at last suggests,
Rather a taste than passion to their breasts;

They kiss at meeting,—kiss at parting—kiss
All friends, all faces, nothing comes amiss;
Kiss before meat and after meat,—the grace,
Being needless, as no season's out of place;
Familiar this, next follows the embrace;
And next,—but read the common history,
Divorce, and murder, and adultery;
Bishops are found to figure in the tale,
And grey-beard laymen do not often fail,—
A horrid chronicle, where woman still,
Becomes the victim of a pampered will;
A frail, weak thing, who never struggles long,
When once her pride has told her, she is strong;
Never so much in danger, as when pride
Asserts the privilege to wander wide;
To trust herself, nor, with a holy fear,
Remember Eve in that serener sphere,
Where but one serpent, hid beneath the flowers,
Beguiled her to assert her fancied powers,
And left her wreck'd,—the ruin of her race,
Still falling from the garden and the grace!
You talk of instincts, still, as teaching true
What should the lady or the woman do;
But instincts are all animal;—obeyed—
Equally fatal to the man and maid!—
Man's instinct is his reason—common sense,
Being needful still to keep his innocence;
This teaches what our weakness, what our strength;
How far to wander, where to stop at length;
How strong the passions, and how weak the soul,
When lust or pride invites us, to control;
How better far to fly, with wise distrust,
Where'er we can, submitting when we must.
Woman, it tutors in her weakness still,

A creature she of frailty, man her will;
Her guide and guardian he,—the oak of power,
She the sweet vine to cling with bud and flower;
To venerate his majesty and be,
The bloom and blossom, simply, of his tree;
Safe in his shade, obedient to his sway,
Secure in smiles, though round the lightnings play;—
Glad in the dear protection she receives,
She loves with reverence, and with love conceives;
No idle dreams of power, that his defies,
Move her vain tongue or sparkle in her eyes;
Deluded not with maxims false as these,
That women still may do as she may please;
By instinct taught, impossible to err,
With man, submissive still, her worshipper;
The child of instinct, over Reason's lord,
Sway with high rule and still imperious word,
Accord the palm as suits her fond caprice,
And justify her empire, by her grace!

Oh! precious doctrine for all proselytes,
To the new dogmas, based on woman's rights;
Which make the safety of the man machine,
Depend upon the pleasure of his Queen.
Better for her, her safety and her hope,
If thus we find the limit to her scope,—
Do as he pleases,—he, still pleasing her,
Not more her guardian than her homager;
Cherishing with Love's best office every charm,
That lies upon his breast, beneath his arm;
Lies in the sleep of confidence, that knows,
How vast the strength that shelters her repose,
Assured of manly power and changeless faith,
That still protects through danger and till death;

Protection still implying, on her part,
A feebler nature, though as fond a heart;
Weakness that needs his nurture and requites,
For manly office, with all pure delights.

Here, with hearts warmer far,—with fires we glow,
That needs we clothe the breast in folds of snow;
Too quick our pulse, our passions too intense,
We dare not risk one moment our defence;
The icy mantle which convention wears,
Once thrown aside, our snow would melt to tears;
Thaw'd by the volcan fires that sleep beneath,
Sleep quickly broke by passion's fiery breath;
We know our weakness, and, with modest dread,
Deny that passion shall be idly fed;
Lest grown too strong for virtue, we deplore
The guardian shield too careless worn before.
Hence the nice barriers, raised by social care,
To keep what's precious from the sun and air;
Hence the close caution, which the colder mood
Deems needless to restrain the wanton blood.
The virgin kiss we hold a sacred boon,
For love alone—nor sought, nor given, too soon;
Too precious far for common lips to seize,
It forms the dearest of our luxuries;—
The waist unyielded 'till the heart we gain,
The kiss unwon, till beauty shrinks in vain;
The dream unbiassed by one wild desire,
'Till Hymen's self builds up the nuptial fire.
Caution not coldness checks our eager souls,
And Delicacy still the flame controls;
That's the best virtue not too bold to fear,
And fearing, still withdrawing from the snare;

We hold as vulgar, the perpetual trade
Of chaffering lips, which leave no debt unpaid;
Crowd interest still on interest, till the kiss,
From lips which all may taste, confers no bliss.
Doubtless, to persons practised in this play,
We are the coldest people of our day;
And sad it is, with appetite awake,
We should not waive our customs for their sake;
They should not surely starve with meat in sight;
Some bounteous friend should wait on appetite,
A dispensation from our laws procure,
And squeeze the sufferer, if a squeeze can cure;
At least, by arts not wholly here unknown,
Bring back a vision of the raptures flown,
Make the poor heart, too long compelled to pine,
Dream, like the Barmecide, and dreaming, dine;—
Taste, for a moment, a return of bliss,
Such as restores a moment past to this;
Make Fancy pregnant with her old delights,
Though Passion still may slumber cold o' nights.

But still excuse us, if we here prefer,
For our own use, a good extinguisher;
Still fettering Passion's privilege to roam,
And keeping young hearts modestly at home.—
Boarding school morals, like their graces, smack
Too greatly of the trottoir and the hack;
Bold damsels, who discuss beneath the boughs,
The hopes of future bliss, with swain or spouse,—
Who point for models to the embracing doves,
Are something too spontaneous in their loves;
And she who wanders oft among the bow'rs,
May find more snakes than Eve, beneath the flow'rs.

She must not be confounded, thus amiss,
From many evil tongues to hear the hiss;—
To learn that woods and groves, though very sweet,
Are never quite secure for wandering feet.
Read Milton's glorious ‘Comus’ for the truth,
And see how needful caution is to youth;
Know, that even innocence is badly taught,
Unless it finds its counsellor in thought;—
Learns still to question where it most may crave,
And feels most fearful when it feels most brave;
Distrusts until it loves, and yields at last,
When Reason's spell with that of love is cast;
Obeys the sweet suggestions of delight,
Only when Wisdom whispers,—‘all is right!’

If faults peculiar to each race abound,
Peculiar virtues also may be found;
Some people boast their enterprize and skill,
Others their courage and unyielding will;
Some build on notions and inventions rare,
Their ships and stores, their very toil and care,
And doubtless with deserving;—others show
Grace, sweetness, dignity, where'er they go;
A carriage, never violent and rude,
Claims that are firmly held but ne'er intrude;
A just regard for other's rights, that stays
Its course, nor jostles in the public ways;
Yields ever promptly, nor a plea can find,
In business, hurrying headlong as the wind;
Waits still its time, and rather yields to loss,
Than tramp a neighbor's corns, his path to cross;
With sweet self-sacrifice approves its claim,
To virtues of the gentle, and the name.

These, for their several excellences, pay,
And none are perfect, though their parts they play;
For the rare energies which crown the one,
And make his toils still triumphs 'neath the sun,
He yields some graces, some refinements still,
His tastes being far inferior to his will;—
Is salient, hard and angular—denies
Himself and neighbour many sympathies;
Too often shuts his door, when his best pride,
Should be with hand benign to fling it wide;
Withdraws his favor from the wholesome arts,
That still refine his own and nation's parts;
Is keen, exacting, in the shop and street,
Yields nothing, as he still expects the cheat;
Scorns the sweet social graces, which subdue
The selfish nature, and improve the true;
And, still irrational, of reason proud,
Dilates about the “useful,” long and loud;
Narrows his standard of the useful down,
To that which makes him potent o'er the town;
And holds the test of best desert to be,
What boils the pot, or crams the treasury;
The tastes being nothing, and the soul a thing,
Which rather needs a chophouse than a wing;
Of which sufficient estimate is made,
If still the parson's salary's promptly paid.
His uses lie in conquests o'er the crude;
He plucks the wild barbarian from his mood,
Opens the pathway by commercial aims
To heathen realms which thence his barter tames;
Coerces wild ambition in his rage,
And still war's terrors labors to assuage;
Prompts courage into enterprise, and moves

The ingenious artisan to toils he loves.—
With wholesome general purposes, he fails,
To see what's needed still of small details;
O'er looks too much the claims of social state,
Deems little worth but business, nothing great;
And, while he gives his thousands at a word,
When claim of public benefit's prefer'd;—
Endows the College, opes the public square,
And writes his gifts at once in sea and air;
Forgets,—as never tutor'd for the view—
That hospitality's a virtue too;—
That the sweet graces throng about the home,
Glad when the stranger may in gladness come;
And that the boon, most useful to the race,
Is that which finds society first place;
Assured that nature, with gregarious need,
Requires the free communion of the breed,
Restrained by laws, alone, that still demand
The needful guardianship and guiding hand;
So that the innocent, secure may roam,
Nor find the evil lurking in the home,
Black sheep with white—the wolf allow'd to stray,
Where tender lambkins run with thoughtless play;
And all select, assorted to their kind,
Grateful in mix'd varieties of mind,
To teach and train, to lure with virtuous wile,
The serpent's wisdom, not the serpent's guile;
Harmless as doves in nurture; teaching well,
How dear to virtue still the social spell,
Where, through attrition meet, each mind is taught,
How best to travel safely on with thought;
Compelled, by meet resistance, to forbear,
And prove the problem ere they hold it clear;

And still subdue the imperious will that blinds,
If unopposed, the very best of minds.

Mix'd faults and virtues,—worth and virtue grow,
Wherever man in sin has found a foe;
And 'tis the part of wisdom to believe,
Some good still modifies the ill we grieve;
In others tastes and habits, we discern,
Something not more to reprobate, than learn;
Your Spartan was not less a man of might,
Because in sooty broth he took delight;
Nor your Athenian wanting in his lore,
Because he too much scorned the Spartan boor;—
Doubtless, our habits, rated o'er their cost,
Were better never known, or quickly lost;
We pray too much for tastes that pamper pride,
Too much with idle pleasures gratified;
Too yielding to our luxuries, that chase,
From use, the better virtues of the race;—
Wherever taste refines, at loss of strength,
The nation must succumb, in shame, at length;
We must not suffer courage to depart,
Nor energy of will to leave the heart,
Lest the proud edifice, grown fair and frail,
In rude collision with the strong, must fail;
And with a boast upon our lips, that shames,
The sires that made it true, and left it fame's,
We mock the very trophies we assert,
Our deeds a dream, our very temples dirt;
Failing ourselves, as unpossessed at last,
Of those same virtues that made great the past.

Each people hath its part in life to play,
According to necessity or sway;

Vain to complain, or of the lack deplore,
Which suits not with the climate or the shore.
Earth's tillers, from the very dawn of art,
Have always held the less imposing part,
Lords in the field, but noteless in the mart.—
They dwell, a scattered race, and from this cause,
Grow proud, and to themselves are ever laws;
For self-esteem still fats in solitude;—
The thirsting spirit, doom'd with self to brood,
Beholds, from far, the laboring crowd at strife,
And shyly clings to its securer life.
There, where no keen and hourly press demands
The anxious thought—the work of heart and hands,—
Where no impetuous creditor invades,
And peace and plenty crowd his forest shades;
With life of ease, and sports of stream and wood,
He grows erect in grace and hardihood;
Asks nothing from his fortune, but to keep
His even progress thus, from sleep to sleep.
Without ambitious hopes to vex the brain,
Or cares of office, or worse cares of gain,
He too much loses of that loftier will,
That leads to struggle and to conquest still;—
If safe from strife and trouble, he foregoes,
Each higher prize that from the struggle flows;
Too slow for action, laggard still in thought,
He loses all that's by attrition taught;
Without the rival mind to goad his own,
He drowses, while the merchant travels on,—
Sharpened by strife, with faculties that sway,
Swift as the summer lightning in its play,
No moment lost, no path of gain untried,—
No fields unsought, no aim unsatisfied;

He sleeps with one eye open, and he flies,
Ere our slow farmer can unfold his eyes.

Thus still the race who till the simple soil,
Due to their training, natural to their toil;
In every land the same, we nowhere see
The peasant soaring to the mastery.
If born with genius, 'scaping from the thrall,
He, for the city, flies the native hall:
Thus England's mind through London we behold,
Thus France through Paris doth her strength unfold;
Thus, in all regions, 'tis the mart alone,
In which the nation's genius may be shown;
'Tis there by common standards of the crowd,
Each seeks his level, all his claims allow'd;
There, where the keen encounter proves the wit,
And those alone who stand, may claim to sit.

Our southern planter, from the constant strife,
Secure, that clings to trade and city life,
Suffers his leisure to usurp his strength,
And sinks too feebly to the drone at length.
No peasant he to labor,—still, his pride,
From conquest as from labor turns aside;
Letters and arts should flourish in his care,
Since time and wealth he equally may spare;
Talents and tastes, in glimpses still he shows,
With all the store that college life bestows;
And, with endowments rare, by travel taught,
He might stand up, for sway, in realms of thought.
Alas! too much the rule prescriptive chains,
His mental habit and his will constrains;
Luxurious tastes still mock the high desire,

And, left unfanned, goes out the native fire.
He squanders wealth, still profuse in his store,
Spends ere he gains, and dwells with open door;
Invites his friend,—the stranger—all—to share,
But never builds the temple or the square;
Will take you to his wigwam, there to dine,
In a log cabin on Madeira wine;
And never shares with you the great surprise,
As still with grace his costly juice he plies,
How, with such mean externals, he should be
So absolute in walks of luxury.
No cost of social luxury he shirks,
But seldom gives a sous to public works;
His life is individual—he is one—
Not of the mass, but moving still alone;
While still the fond idea makes him proud,
You cannot surely lose him in the crowd.
He lives not with the public—never knows,
The world's great want, or trembles with its throes;
He's but a passenger, and, sink or swim,
The vessel's danger brings no care to him.
Still in a realm apart, he dreams and dwells,
Nor sees how ocean rises up and swells,
Destined, while still he dotes and dreams, to sweep,
Himself and landmarks headlong to the deep;
Unless in season, resolute at last,
He rises true to present as to past,
Plucks from the ocean its escaping breath,
And learns that idleness is surely death;
That work alone is manhood, and that toil,
Is needful to the son as to the soil;—
Needful for safety, since nor name nor state,
Can save the nation from impending fate;

Nought but just use of all the natural powers,
Our fathers knew, and such as still are ours.

Thus, while the tradesman painful vigil keeps,
Our planter still in dreamy languor sleeps;
With neighbors few, and vassals only 'round,
His mental sleep grows more and more profound;
No life more fatal than the life of ease,
Where need ne'er calls, ambitions never tease—
Where sluggish fancies win the hours away,
And hope's a lizard in the sun at play.
Great strength of will it needs to grope in books,
Remote from aught that to the produce looks;
With none to chide the sad inaction still,
And force new studies idle hours to kill:
He reads too little for his mind's desires,
Delight, or want,—and this too little tires;
Sees the great world too seldom to be shown,
How great the shame of mind by flesh o'ergrown;
And while, in other climes, the impetuous race
Spans sea and land, impatient in the chase,
He sees unmoved the eager tribes go by,
And crawls still feebly while the thousand fly;
Fancies all's right, or will be right at length,
And dozes, Sampson like, till shorn of strength.
Thus he becomes a victim;—thus he sees
His prospects darken by still sure degrees;
Neglects each due improvement, 'till, at last,
All that belongs to pride, is in his past;—
His fields grow bare—his debts grow great—his pride
Grows humbled, as his negroes wander wide;
And, conscious of the liberal still, and free,
His heart grows chill in deep despondency;

He seeks for richer lands, forgetting still,
That all successful culture lies in will;—
That richest regions only yield to toil,
And wealth is rather in the soul than soil;—
That he, whose gross improvidence defaced
One land, would leave another land a waste,
And all that's lovely in earth's garden spot,
The mind unexercised, availeth not.
He, who by Ashley or by Congaree,
Scalp'd the fair land our father's joyed to free,
And left it barren, though he found it good,
Would ruin other empires if he could;
Would leave, in turn, the Mississippi's vale,
Doom'd to as cruel fate and shameful tale;
'Till after centuries, and a nobler toil,
Restored the garden and refreshed the soil;
While he departs, unwrong'd by any fate;
And dies insolvent, where he dwelt in state.

'Tis needful from this apathy we wake,
The bonds of old prescription first to break;
Throw with just scorn aside, the idle fear,
That fancies loss of pride in toil and care;
Learn the great lesson that the slothful soul,
Can never conquer, nor in aught control;
Is scarcely human, since the doom decrees,
To man the crown of thorns, not couch of ease;
In due proportion to his care, his claim,
And from the struggle only comes the fame.
Who shrinks to meet the stubborn in the strife,
Can claim no more than vegetable life;
He lives and dies a cabbage, blest to own
Sufficient length of leg to stand upon;

And scarcely conscious, when his growth is past,
If he proves collards in the pot at last;
Not honored by our sympathy when dead,
His gain of shank being at the loss of head;
A vegetable man, and on the table,
Cut up, most wretched as a vegetable.

These are our faults and follies, told in part,
Deserving well the satire and the smart;
Our Lady Censor somewhat wastes her shot,
On game too small and meagre for the pot,—
Light in excess in parlors; stiff-backed chairs;
And churches far too chill for maiden prayers;
Newspapers badly managed; spinsters shy,
And lads too bashful to approach too nigh;
Good Mrs. Cheney's domicile in doubt,
Whether to tumble in, or tumble out;
Our Island too much at the breezes sport,
Though, for this very reason, our resort;
And no Hotel made fit to entertain,
Those whom we—never care to see again;—
Our country too much boasted,—since our fair,
Thinks valour cheap and common every where;
That Maine and Massachusetts quite as well
Can make their billets, and their bullets tell!
We only know they did not,—never did,
Though never yet their lights were bushel-hid;
Their trumpet ever sounding with its blast,
That, false at first, wins easy faith at last;
Still busy ever, reckless of the shame,
Which, for the worthless, robs the brave of fame.

We hold that custom which shuts out the light

From daily use, as hurtful to the sight;
Hence the opthalmic sufferers at the North,
Where carpets, more than optics, challenge worth:—
So the exclusion of God's blessed air,
Rooms dark'd that damsels ever may seem fair,—
With chambers warm'd by fætid vapors sent,
Through every avenue without a vent,—
Crowd us with their consumptives, who must fly,
From home, in purer atmosphere to die.
Not thus they dwelt, with climate more severe,
In former times, in Northern hemisphere;
Their ancient houses, several, stood apart,
Nor yielded healthy space to crowded mart;
With numerous windows open to the light,
They freely breath'd, nor suffer'd loss of sight;
Took fresh the breeze and sunshine, bracing air,
Nor suffer'd, though the winter grew severe;
Fires of grey wood sent out a generous heat,
Though sleety show'rs against the windows beat;
Then Fashion had not set her grasp on health,
Nor vain Frivolity pretended wealth;
Men were content, and women too, to grow,
Nor make of reason fool and nature foe;
Mere affectation lorded not supreme,
And life was not a mock, nor love a dream!

'Tis sad that stiff-back'd chairs should love befal!
But beauty's chair should have no back at all;—
Her spine made strong with seemly exercise,
Should still upright, without supporters rise;
Though, if prolong'd the session, by the swain
Prone at her feet, with pray'rs not made in vain—
Reject the chair for sofa or divan,

As grateful to the maid as mussulman;—
Prayer-carpets offer change, and not denied,
By Fashion, Ottomans are still made wide:
Spines must not be o'erstrained, though fully grown,
A truth as well to men as maidens known;
They must have rest at seasons, and I pray,
That swains, in proper season, go away;
Nor linger on, till beauty yawns and tires,
But only stay while ardency requires.

For freezing churches, let our maiden try
How far warm prayer her chills may mollify—
The cold may serve as penance to remove,
Or quench some fiery passions kin to love;
And thus yield room for better thoughts to guide,
The heart too full of passion and of pride.
Thus, in the feudal periods, did the monk,
By cold, and rope, and scourge, rebuke his trunk;
And the fair nun, by flagellated flesh,
Kept evil moods at bay, and virtues fresh;
Silenced the fiend, bold canvassing in church,
By keen and frequent ministry of birch.
No doubt she too, beheld the embracing birds,
But what she thought, she seldom spoke in words,—
And, as for boasting of her ardent flame,
She simply sought the proper way to tame.
If her own skill, with passion could not cope,
Cold cell, cold water, and the scourge and rope,—
The Limitour, experienced in the trade,
Was summoned straightway to the damsel's aid;
As Chaucer writes, “A ful solempné man;
In all the ordres foure is now that can
So moche of daliance and fayre langage.”

He knew how best bad passions to assuage,
And, by his art, unstinted in appliance,
Soon sooth'd the fiend, or put him at defiance;
Oh! do no Limitours even now survive,
When maidens thus grow restive, thus to shrive!

But why dilate? already far too long,
The fruitless satire, and the playful song;
Let truth have way—the Cape Cod damsel chide,
'Twill do our b'hoys a service, such a guide;
Surely, our women sometimes need to know,
That woman's mission is not just to sow;
That she must see with a dilating ken,
Herself no man, but mother she of men;
Required to teach, like Roman dame of yore,
To our young Gracchi, all of wisdom's lore;
Direct the bold ambition on its way,
To work and conquest, not to toys and play;
Task'd, at the present, from the threatening fate,
With a firm valor, to redeem the state;
Rescue from habits feeble, fancies vain,
And bring our guardian glories back again.
For this, 'mong other things, a press we need,
Such as will speak the public want, indeed;
A bold, free journal of opinion—just,
In judgment—heedful of its sacred trust;
True to the South in this, its hour of grief,
And thoughtful still in measures of relief;
No party hack, the politician's tool,
Still seeking only to maintain his rule;
Submissive to his changes, as he glides,
The eel of party to its several sides;
Sworn against Cass and all his friends in June,

But sworn his vassal in the self-same moon.
‘Watch while we prey,’—so runs the Scripture talk,
The maxim still of Hunker and of Hawk;
Destined, while Press and Patriot bribe and lie,
To rob the race of wealth and liberty;—
Forge newer bonds for each successive year,
'Till all our strength and virtues disappear;
The base in rule, the meaner minds in sway,
The wise in exile, and the brave at bay;
Still struggling hopeless in the holy strife,
And glad perchance to end the war with life,
Surviving not the shame that mocks the race,
And leaves their country only to the base.

One hope remains! that in our youth there glows
A kindling fire, that threatens yet our foes;
That still shall sweep from mountain to the sea,
Wherever youth is generous, valor free,
Or glory finds an impulse, or true men
Rejoice to waken ancient worth again!
Sees not our damsel satirist, how well
Our youth have lately answered to the spell;
Shaken from their shoulders the insulting power
That robb'd their land of strength, their hope of flow'r—
Which suffer'd not a thought to spring to life,
That threaten'd reckless rule, with fearless strife;
Swaying each movement of the public will,
Until it sunk to terror and grew still?

Oh! they have risen, our youth, and with a bound,
That rives all bonds, their freedom they have found;
Resolved, henceforth, that, where the strength abides,
The will to use it Providence provides;

There is the wisdom,—there the genius,—there,
The several faculties by which to steer;—
With these employ'd, the nation cannot fail;—
But what must be the melancholy tale,
When, for the united wisdom of a race,
The awful Hunker rises in his place,
Shakes his strategic noddle, as he waves
His sceptred finger o'er his willing slaves,
And cries, “retire, my people, to your rest,
Peaceful your slumbers, each within his nest;
For you I think,—I work the hours away,
And while you frolic, lo! I watch and prey!
Who keeps your money with such guardian care,
That no one really knows—how much is there;
Who thinks so wisely, with such happy skill,
That all that's left you is—to pay the bill.
With dext'rous hands we steer the Ship of State,
And all our care is—not to lose the freight;
For you no toils—still in the sunshine bask,
Leave us the rule, for that is all we ask;
Power is but care—we save you from its thrall;—
Money an evil—we'll endure it all;
Thought brings grey hairs—behold them for your sake;
Toil follows office—we will office take;
Still slumber on, leave us the work to do,
Born for your several goods—and chattels too”

Fatal the fortune where such doctrine grows,—
Doom'd every people, sunk to such repose;
Even if the servant, faithful to his trust,
Show'd true accounts, in all his dealings just,—
Still were it fatal, if a single mind,

By its one light kept all its people blind;—
If where, by natural laws decreed, the race
Requires each person's thinking, in his place,
They all alike surrender to the hands,
Of one, who thus performing, still commands.
Various the minds and multitudes that frame
A State, and shapes its several deeds for fame;
And each contributes, or the State must fall,
To the high purpose that belongs to all.
Withhold this contribution from the stock,
First comes the stagnant calm and then the shock;
The shock which wrecks, when nothing can avail,
To stem the torrent or outride the gale.
Nor is it merely in concerns of State,
Mere politics, that thus we rush on fate,
For, if in these, the people cease to do,
'Tis sure all enterprise will fail them too.
Thus, saved from thought in what concerns our sway,
Our minds forego all duties of the day;
In art, in science, trade, alike, we rust,
And leave all business to the one we trust.
Where shall we seek this universal mind,
Equal to all the duties of his kind;
Wise as a counsellor, in science sure,
In art supreme, in common things secure;
Watchful of letters, in mechanics skill'd,
Able to teach us how all fields are till'd,
And ever prompt to turn, as need demands,
From tilth in politics to tilth in lands;
Sagacious in all interests, and still free,
With thought and leisure to devise and see;
Frame the just law, conceive the jealous scheme,
On doubtful councils cast the needed gleam;

Plan the wise purpose; with far-reaching eye,
Behold where fruits of commerce may supply,
And still, in all things, answer to the call,
Which justly counselled, needs the voice of all.
Yet this our fate, and 'tis by this we sink,
'Till now we stand on ruin's utmost brink,
Our fortunes failing, our adventure lost,
Fields badly cultured, enterprise still cross'd,
And each man turning, with bewilder'd view,
Still asking hopeless—what are we to do?—
How base the question, which we had not made,
If still our Hunker-masters had not sway'd,
Usurp'd all judgment, all direction taught,
Grasp'd at all power, and govern'd every thought,
Until we grew incapable of aught;—
We only call'd to bear the master's train,
Yelp out our ‘Ayes’ and home to sleep again.

But day's at hand! when darkest grows the hour,
The bright sun's nearest with supremest power;
The scales are falling from our people's eyes,
New toils, new courage, show them newly wise;
They stand, for once, in power and pride erect,
The bit removed at last, the speed unchecked;
Give them due credit, damsel of Cape Cod.
Since thus they rend the rule and break the rod;
Sworn to achieve the rescue of the land,
And where they lately crept, to rise and stand;
Engage in all the toils that make a State,
Supply each lack, and every power create;
Put down the vain conceit that frown'd on toil,
And bring to life each virtue in the soil;
Grapple with courage in each rival art,

That makes a regal power in every mart,
Pluck virtue still from labor, and reduce,
Each stubborn element to human use.

Nor let the ambition, godlike and endowed,
Be still content with struggles of the crowd;
A something higher in our purpose seek,
Such as became the Etruscan and the Greek:
Oh! in this land where young eyed wonder proves
Some new delight where'er his footstep moves;
Some brighter promise in the world before,
That wins his heart and woos him to explore;
Where soaring science resolute to scan
Each boundless province yet withheld from man;
Stretches her giant pinions for the sun,
And finds new worlds when all the old are won;—
Oh! here, where Commerce, seated by the sea,
With realm as boundless and with wing as free,
Commands the billows and with sway complete,
Brings the far wealth of India to our feet,
Erects her ample standard and extends
Her human sway to earth's remotest ends,
'Till, mingling with the great and ancient lands,
Our wealth invites their steps, our worth commands.
Oh! this were great, though not enough,—the sway,
Though science soars and sweeping ships obey—
Though valor wins us empires,—though we moil,
And rend from earth's embrace the boon of toil;
Though Commerce brings us homage—though we bind
As coursers to her chariot, fire and wind;—
Though from the stubborn and denying earth,
Fore-doom'd by Heav'n a niggard from its birth,

Resolving Labor, never known to blench,
Applies the shoulder, and impels the wrench,
And drags the secret jewel from the mine;—
Yet if the arts that chasten and refine,
Deny the gracious service which subdues,
Nor brings to help us each reluctant muse;—
If on heaven's pavement still we cast our eyes,
By Mammon taught to make its gold our prize,
Nor borne aloft when Israelis sings,
In holy exstase that provides the wings;—
How poor the triumph still that stops too short,
The entrance gains, but lingers in the court,—
With base acknowledgment of soul too low,
To tread the heights that woo us as we go!

Let not the labor of our souls confin'd,
Forbear the loftiest efforts of the mind,
Content with base necessities to creep,
Along the shore, nor boldly cleave the deep.
Art must conduct us to our noblest part,
Labor proves duty, but she speaks for heart;
She must impel us to the sweet desire,
The soul to lift, the lowly mind to fire.
Shall Fancy slumber on that tideless sea,
Where dwells the drowsy queen of apathy,
Nor rise with wings, assiduous to explore,
Our boundless realm of rock, and wood, and shore;
Pursue the muses to each secret dell,
Invoke their aid, and all their charms compel,
Hurl night-born silence from his savage throne,
Seize on his realm, and make its secrets known;
Drag dim Tradition from his Druid wold,
Win all his treasures with a song of old,

Record the imperfect legend from his lips,
And free our wondrous past from long eclipse!

Methinks the dream, if bravely we declare,
Will prove as true, as Fancy shows it fair;
Within our powers, and not beyond our aim,
If boldly now our youth strike out for fame:
A generous host, I see them as they rise,
Hope in their souls and triumph in their eyes;
Exulting in one victory, how they glow,
For each new struggle with the assailing foe;
'Tis but to will, to toil, with eager strength,
The field is won, the spoils enure at length;
No more asleep, no more beguiled, they see,
At once their triumph and necessity;—
See, that so long as slumber spells their hearts,
Their strength is shorn, their very life departs,
The insidious Ancient of the Sea once more,
Leaps on the shoulders rid so long of yore;
Reluctant at that schooling of his pride,
Which now demands that Sinbad too shall ride.
But leaps in vain; young Carolina cheers,
Discards the drowsy rule that choked for years,
And all her true born sons, that seek her weal,
Rise with new strength at every fresh appeal;
See where they move, our courage and our skill,
The bone, the sinew of our rights and will;
Proud to be first in danger as in state,
Seeking no spoils but such as deeds await,
Asking no favor, firm, and unfraid,
To wrestle with the Hunker or the maid;
Able to fling the despot from his seat,
Or soothe the damsel down with dear defeat.

Candle, in the sense of ‘life.’ So Shakespeare in Macbeth,

“Out, out, brief candle,
Life's but a walking shadow, &c.,’

So again in Othello:

“Put out the light, and then—put out the light!
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,” &c.
“once put out thine,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.”

These words ascribed to Queen Elizabeth, in reply to the line of Raleigh, then a young courtier, scribbled on a pane of glass.—“Fain would I rise, but that I fear to fall.”

University of Virginia Library

CHARLESTON, AND HER SATIRISTS.

A SCRIBBLEMENT.