 | The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth |  |
NEW-HAVEN:
A POEM.
On the bright tablet of Columbia's fame;
For here did Freedom early cast the yoke,
And fell'd the despot with the chains she broke;
Here Literature and Arts have since combin'd
To culture nature and enrich the mind;
Here fair Religion meekly lifts her eye,
And gives her votaries realms beyond the sky;
Here moral worth and “Steady Habits” reign,
While Vice and Folly seek a place in vain!
Come, virgin Truth, the muse appeals to you;
Bid Justice come, and trace with us the town,
Her balance bring, but throw her sabre down;
And Satire's quiver keep the balance true;
“Laugh where we must—be candid where we can,”
Shall be the motto of our humble plan,
While varying objects teach the muse to steer,
“From grave to gay—from lively to severe.”
'Tis worth and virtue—not the man, we prize—
'Tis vice and folly—not the wretch, that dies.
Connecticut! supremely wise and great!
Whose constitution cannot yet be broke,
Because you wear not such a cumbrous yoke;
Whose laws were framed upon the Jewish mode,
Till you had time to form a better code;
A proof sufficient that they came from Heaven.
Hail, famed Connecticut! where still we trace
The “steady habits” of your fathers' race;
By priests unshackled, as by crime unstained!
Where genius meets a rich and sure reward,
Where speculation never meets with fraud!
Where female virtue fears no hapless flaw,
For chastity is here secured by law;
Where narrow Prejudice is hunted down,
And Superstition drove from every town!
In servile beasts—if not in lordly man;
Where all so strictly do the laws maintain,
That litigation lifts its head in vain;
Where all, in short, is bliss, unknown to vice,
Peace, virtue, innocence, and—Paradise!
No flood of heresy can ever whelm;
Whose prisons, gibbet, pillory, or stocks,
(Those crucibles of tenets orthodox)
Have often taught the heretic to shun
The fatal course his ancestors had run.
With blessings chartered by auspicious Fate;
For whom kind Nature, with a liberal hand,
From Copia's horn pours plenty o'er the land.
Here art and nature every where combine;
The colonnade, the portico, and tower,
Rise on the turf that bears a poplar bower;
Beneath the shade here Genius loves to rove,
And think itself in Academus' grove;
Here thoughtful Silence holds her chosen seat,
For here no deafening pavements spoil the street;
A chaise or chariot here are heard no more
Than feathers falling on the felted floor;
Here I can write, three stories only high,
In such dead silence I could hear a sigh;
No thundering carriage shakes the angled roof,
Nor steeds affright me with the clashing hoof;
No slippery flags the careless step betray,
And crack the skull on every rainy day;
Here, should you fall, you lose no drop of blood,
But safe and soft recline on yielding mud!
Sordid and mean?—or liberal and wise?
What city e'er in arts or splendour shone,
Where interest ruled—where wealth was prized alone?
And individual profit only sought?
Truth answers, none—and here one instance shows
Where liberal, public spirit never rose;
The sad effects that on this languor wait
Disgrace the mistress of so fair a state.
No decent pier receives the freighted bark—
A cluttered mud-bank (dangerous in the dark,
A pigmy fleet of oyster-boats may ride
Safe moor'd in mud) is all that bears the name,
Or to a pier or wharf can kindred claim.
Why does not wealth here bid Industry rise,
And from your sisters snatch, or share the prize?
Give the clogg'd channel all its former size,
And deepen docks by bidding piers arise?
So shall fair Commerce o'er your city smile,
And wearied passengers lose half their toil,
For 'tis no easy task—to walk a mile.
Does this bespeak your famed police too wise?
Where'er I turn a block of wood appears,
Season'd in sun-beams for successive years;
A fatal spark, on some disastrous night,
Might on the subject throw sufficient light;
Then, like a rocket, you for once would soar,
Blaze for a moment, and be seen no more!
But still the threatening danger you defy,
Still bid new piles of cedar kiss the sky!
By parsimony you would gain renown,
And risk a million to secure a crown!
Ignoble maxim!—tear it from the heart,
And bid your soil to lasting structures start;
At once both grace and safety's surest shield:
Live not in terror while your interest claims
Far fairer fabrics, that defy the flames.
Might still have been a barren common wide,
Had not a spirit worthy of the man,
Conceived and urged to execute the plan,
To screen it from a hackney'd long abuse,
And consecrate it to a nobler use.
But he's a lunatic!—then justly own
That madness here is liberal alone.
Where Nature glows in vernal vest array'd,
Where Art with rapture would the scene have traced,
Deform'd by buildings and by tombs defaced?
'Tis not too late to brush the moles away
From Beauty's face, and teach her smiles to play;
For sacred ashes that have breathed and loved,
May be with decent sanctity removed:
And where yon grove of youthful poplars bloom,
Transplanted monuments may mark their tomb.
However rude, displeasing, odd, or strange;
Hence, when you hear the bell, or knocker's din,
No servant comes, some voice exclaims “walk in!”
Perhaps the visiter has only come
To leave a card, or ask if you're at home;
To beg directions to another door,
Or just to tell, “the chaise will call at four;”
No matter what, he may for ever stand
Beneath the porch, with knocker still in hand;
'Tis still “walk in!” from some interior room
Beyond a passage veil'd in deepest gloom;
Fall o'er a chair, or through the entry stray,
Till, sad mistake! he gains the cellar door,
And tumbles down a dozen feet or more.
Excites distrust, inquiry, hope, and fear;
Slander awakes, and Fame her trumpet plies,
Credulity extends her ears and eyes,
While swift around the secret whisper goes,
Till busy Rumour hatches “three black crows.”
The strange proboscis, though of mammoth size,
Thro' wondering Strasburg spread far less surprize.
His name, profession, stature, age, and hue,
The reasons why he bade his home adieu,
All pass a female court in critical review.
Sweet as the damson which she tastes the while,
Informs the party, what they long to know,
The name, and so forth, of the stranger beau,
Whose novel manners gave so much delight
To all at Bloomfield's ball on Monday night.
“O, cries Amelia, 'twas to Adelaide
“His whole attention and respects were paid,
“She knew his name, and if the truth were known,
“I think, prefers it far above her own;
“What could he see in her, a very child!
“Or she in him, to be so soon beguiled?”
Jane eager answers, “I'll instruct you all—
“Their first acquaintance was not at the ball,
“But, as I live, on Sunday he was seen
“Gallanting her to church across the Green;
“Bearing her parasol, her fan and book!
“And bowing, as they parted at the door—
“Now, did you ever hear the like before?”
“O monstrous!” cries Amelia, “what disgrace!
“How could the girl in meeting show her face?
“But after hearing love-tales, I suspect
“That S␣␣␣␣␣'s sermon had not much effect
“On simple Adelaide, whose Sunday's walk
“Will be the topic of the city talk.
“Her coxcomb, too!—what has his breeding been,
“To have such folly by the public seen?
“And at the assembly—did he think us brutes?
“For, how ridiculous! he danced in boots!!!
“'Tis whisper'd, too—and I believe the tale,
“He left his native state to 'scape a jail!
“'Tis known too well he left behind—a wife!”
He finds himself encircled by his foes;
The fiend in bulk increases as she flies,
And swells his crimes in multitude and size;
“A base deserter from a dozen wives!”
And had his reputation twenty lives,
Beneath their venom'd shafts 'tis sure to die,
They pierce his bosom, and he wonders why;
But, worst of all!—a luckless maid is doom'd
To view, with his, her spotless fame entomb'd.
Abroad the wonder, and at home the toast,
Renounce one fault, and lay resistless claim
To sweet perfection and eternal fame.
The soul-expressing, soul-inspiring eye,
The nectared lips that with the ruby vie;
The witching smile that o'er the visage plays,
And bids the fancy in delirium blaze;
The dulcet tone which rapt attention greets,
Breathed through a channel of unrivall'd sweets;
The sprightly step, the graceful, modest mien,
Where all the charms that fascinate convene,
With jealous envy, in the breast reside.
Then better prize your charms—bid mental grace
Superior lustre lend the speaking face;
Renounce vile Slander—Charity pursue,
And angels may conceive of envy too.
As blaze of noon surpasses infant day.
Yes, the proud boast is yet, New-Haven, thine,
External grace with mental charms to join.
For while the grateful theme employs my muse,
A sister-goddess she delighted views,
Who pensive moves, with downcast eye, along,
A lovely contrast with the gayer throng;
A temper, gentle as the glassy lake
When zephyrs scarce an undulation wake,
Shines sweetly through the azure of her eye,
Charms in a smile, or interests in a sigh.
How lovely, when a melting tale of wo
Heaves her fair breast in mounds of virgin snow,
Or from her eye the crystal tribute calls,
Which, lingering on the brink, reluctant falls,
And on that cheek where softest crimson glows,
Rests like a dew-drop on the blushing rose.
How soft her accents, gentle, winning, sweet;
Envy is silent and her snakes retreat;
Improved, refined, but not restrain'd, by art;
Its ebullitions know no false disguise,
They flow from truth and rapture as they rise.
Dared my fond muse but lisp thy dearer name;
But ere her fingers kiss the trembling wire,
The “ghosts of former joys” untune her lyre;
The sighs of Sorrow murmur as she sings,
And Memory breathes discordance o'er the strings.
Too delicate the theme.—My muse, forbear—
Divert sad Memory with a livelier air;
More subjects yet remain for blame or praise,
New-Haven yet demands the poet's lays.
The meed of reverence and religious fame;
Of these the muse with due respect would sing,
Nor let one wanton note disgrace a string;
Then may not Malice construe wrong the strain,
Nor dare reproach her with intents profane.
The streets deserted, silence reigns around,
Uninterrupted by the smallest sound;
Till the loud signal from the “Old Brick” tower,
Given by Claus, proclaims the solemn hour;
With “brazen throat and iron tongue,” the din;
In measured time the tones salute the ear,
(For e'en bell-ringing goes by method here)
The Brick, and Blue, and Church, the chorus swell,
While raptured Echo answers, “ding! dong! bell!”
Still not a passing foot-fall can we hear,
Not e'en a mouse dare in the street appear,
Till, at the second peal, from every door,
As from the Trojan horse, the legions pour,
Marshall'd, and clad in Sunday's gay attire,
From span-high infants to the hoary sire;
New-Haven grace and beauty now are seen,
With pensive, measured step, and solemn mien,
Led by their mothers o'er the dewy Green.
Beauty, secluded from the vulgar gaze
For six long, tedious, and unhallowed days,
Conspires to raise and solemnize the scene;
For “angels' visits, short and far between,”
Must sure impress the soul with thoughts divine,
While adoration bows before the shrine.
But, on this day, no anxious lover dare
Confess his flame, or e'en salute the fair;
And meekly follows to the house of God.
All enter there—the streets again are clear,
Deserted dwellings show an aspect drear,
And any honest stranger would engage
'Twas owing to the yellow-fever's rage.
Besides myself?—I thought each soul was there;
But yonder walks a man, with club in paw,
Who seems to bid defiance to the law;
Onward he moves with majesty of pace,
Walks thro' each street, and searches every place.
What would he do?—Ah! by his looks, I fear
He'll rob a dwelling while the coast is clear.
While pleasure sparkles in his eager eyes!
O tell me, Truth, what this strange man delights.
Is he an author?—for, behold! he writes;
Some brilliant thought he wishes to retain,
Just popp'd by accident within his brain.
“No, Truth replies, his task is thus to stray,
With book and pencil, on each holy day,
To see if any (but himself) shall dare
Evade the law, and walk in time of prayer;
Their names he notes with secret heart-felt joy,
For rich reward awaits his curst employ;
The hapless wights the enormous fine must pay,
To appease the law and mend the broken day;
The pious Doctor then absolves the sin,
Tips half the fee—the rest attorneys win.”
Justice, indignant, hears the shameful tale,
Sighs for her sword, and points to Satire's scale.
Nor can proceed another step to-day;
No stage-coach wheels must dare profane the roads
On Sabbath day, with their ungodly loads.
The anxious travellers must tarry too,
Though dying friends may bid the world adieu;
Business of moment may their presence claim,
Sickness and death, or love's impatient flame;
Wherever be their hearts, their lips must pray.
Despatches, too, of highest moment, wait,
While merchants suffer in the neighbouring state;
Gazettes, that tell the rise and fall of stocks,
Rich-freighted vessels stranded on the rocks,
Or safe arrived, when fear pronounced them lost,
To save a ten-fold premium's serious cost,
Which Monday's sun will see despairing paid,
Occasioned all because the mail is staid.
How dearly you Religion's precepts love?
Are there no selfish views—no interest here
Conceal'd beneath her mantle?—Yes, I fear
Throughout the whole, when all this fuss is done,
Like others, you “take care of number one;”
For you are gainers, though the world may lose—
Have one whole day's advantage of the news,
And speculation being still your trade,
How many pious fortunes thus are made!
Inn-keepers, too, by this, increase their pelf,
Each traveller must eat, or starve himself.
Salutes the city with his parting ray:
But scarce the watery couch receives his head,
Ere suddenly, as if enchantment wrought,
The scene is changed as quick as human thought;
Bustle and noise, labour and sports begin,
And Silence startles at the direful din.
Whom I must ever love, respect, revere;
And actions, too, that merit lasting praise,
Beyond the efforts of my humble lays.
Yon fair enclosure, where untroubled sleep
Hearts that have bled, and optics wont to weep,
Where sculptured stones adorn the poplar grove;
Where graves, and urns, and epitaphs appear,
And ask the little tribute of a tear.
Beneath this gloom—for at the close of day,
With downcast eye and interesting tear,
Sweet, pensive Melancholy wanders here.
O how I love to see a due regard
Paid to the dead, as in this hallowed yard!
Where decent order over all presides,
And the rich sculptured stone the mourner guides.
Adorn'd by art and nature's every grace;
To call their ashes from chaotic heaps,
And fashion order where the victim sleeps;
For this alone (if this were all thy fame)
Shall grateful honours gild thy lasting name.
Friendship demands a tear for yonder tomb;
Where, freed from all the cares that life attend,
Reclines fair Virtue's and the Muses' friend.
When first these grateful scenes allured mine eyes,
He taught me where to rove, and what to prize;
When pensive Vesper led the starry train,
And Cynthia's splendours mark'd the eastern main,
Here would we ramble, while the sighing breeze
Waved the tall verdure and disturb'd the trees;
Weave in our converse threads of moral thought,
And scan the truths surrounding emblems taught;
Through present clouds to scenes of brighter hue;
Anticipated joys we hoped to share,
And in imagination revell'd there;
Laid future plans of happiness and ease,
When Love and Fortune would unite to please;
With rapture dwelt upon the grateful theme,
And with regret dismiss'd the waking dream.
Yes, 'twas a dream! and I remain to prove
That both were shadows, promised wealth and love,
Whilst thou wert call'd from visionary scenes
To real pleasures and eternal greens,
Ere sad Experience taught the cruel truth
That shadows only tempted ardent youth—
Kidder! 'tis mine to wish that Heaven's decree
Had snatch'd us both from this tempestuous sea,
That life had ended ere despair begun,
And, as below our hopes, above our joys been one.
The muse to yonder Seminary turns;
Shines in each fabric that adorns the place;
But where exterior beauty but enshrines
Far nobler treasures—Learning's richest mines.
The tributary lay with joy pursues;
Obsequious here the song she fain would raise
High as her theme, and give deserved praise.
But, ah! her humble efforts sink below
The rich encomiums Justice bids bestow;
With diffidence she dares attempt the strain
Which classic bards may hear with cold disdain;
Fearful before Apollo's sons she sings,
Whose more harmonious lyres Minerva strings.
Yon spire denotes the edifice for prayer;
Access is mine, the willing gates unfold,
And Yale's assembled sons mine eyes behold;
Our future statesmen, patriots, bards, divines,
For whom bright Fame the fadeless laurel twines,
Their rising greatness Fancy fain would trace.
Say, are not here some souls that restless burn,
On life's great stage to take an active turn;
To rise, the awful pillars of the state,
And rival ancient Tully in debate?
Some who possess a portion of that flame
That gain'd our Washington immortal fame?
Others, whose philanthropic bosoms glow
To shine like Franklin in relieving wo?
Whose philosophic souls his fame inspires
To wield the thunder and direct its fires;
To soar, on Learning's wing, through trackless space,
View countless orbs and all their movements trace,
Govern'd by order and unchanging laws,
And in effects behold the Eternal Cause?
Some glowing with a Homer's living fire,
Design'd to “wake to ecstacy the lyre,”
To bid Columbia's future fame arise,
And rear Parnassus under western skies;
Here fix the temple of the tuneful throng,
And rival Albion's boasted sons of song?
Or are not here some destined yet to shine,
With cloudless lustre, in the desk divine;
To wake the soul, and guide its feeble view
To Him who made, and can its form renew;
And gently lead him to the fold again;
Arouse the careless, and support the weak,
And gospel truths with voice unfaltering speak?
Combine in him who fills that sacred place!
Renown'd divine! to thee my lays aspire,
Thou reverend minstrel of the epic lyre!
Whose tuneful numbers, when thou didst them roll,
Portray thine own, and rap the listening soul.
But when within the sacred desk you stand,
And raise the eye devout, and spread the hand;
Or, from that holy book, expound to youth
Precepts of Heavenly evangelic truth;
What soul will not enthusiastic glow
With warm devotion as thy accents flow?
What heart can cold, inanimate remain,
And let thy matchless reasoning plead in vain?
The glory, pride, support, and boast of Yale;
Your country's ornaments aspire to prove,
And grace the spheres in which you're call'd to move;
And deathless honours decorate her name.
And here the muse bewails her hapless bard,
Whose cruel fate such golden prospects marr'd,
For Hope once whisper'd to his ardent breast,
“Thy dearest, fondest wish shall be possess'd”—
Unfolded to his view the classic page,
And all its treasures promised ripening age;
Show'd Learning's flowery path which led to Fame,
Whose distant temple glittered with his name.
Illusive all!—the phantom all believe,
Though still we know her promises deceive;
Chill penury convinced the wretch, too late,
Her words were false, and his a hapless fate.
Rule o'er the nation, or direct the states,
Were fashioned here!—the warrior and the sage,
And worthiest statesmen of the present age;
Bards like our Trumbull, Barlow, Humphreys, Dwight,
Who thrill the soul with rapturous delight;
Who feel like Webster, or like Dana rise;
Chauncey, the firmest pillar of our laws,
And Daggett, eloquent in virtue's cause.
And bid her lyre their various worth rehearse,
But these suffice—nor must her measured strain
Swell to more lines than these small bounds contain.
Where the sweet viol leads the mazy dance;
Here Pleasure warms the heart, and lights the eye,
While bounding pulses to the music fly;
Here Grace and Beauty hold their happy court,
And raptured Fancy e'er delights to sport.
How innocent, how rational is this!
Where health receives new flush from virtuous bliss.
Hence, all ye sordid cares that peace destroy!
Here bosoms only feel and throb to joy;
Sacred to Pleasure is the present hour,
Nor Hate, nor Envy dare approach her bower.
Is yet, New-Haven, exquisitely thine.
To please the senses and instruct the mind,
To you unknown—for Prejudice denies,
In this famed state, what liberal tastes must prize.
I mean the stage—(the moralist may start)
I mean the stage—improver of the heart;
That holds the mirror up to vice and crime,
And “shows the form and pressure of the time.”
Why is the drama in this place suppress'd,
The treat with which your sister states are bless'd?
Why, here alone, are minds of taste deprived
Of all the joys from scenic arts derived?
For you, where Prejudice still holds her reign,
Has Shakspear wrote and Cooper lived in vain.
That blear-eyed monster is the deadliest foe
That Learning, Taste, and liberal Arts can know,
And here extends her sway:—O drive her hence!
And wake to Candour, liberty, and sense:
But, ah! I urge in vain—it cannot be,
Candour and “steady habits” won't agree;
An age must roll—a century must waste,
Ere you attain your sisters' arts and taste.
Array'd in flowers, her brow with garlands crown'd,
And, when gay Flora's blush the town arrays,
In Mix's arbours she delighted plays;
Wantons along the winding paths, or treads
In sportive gambols o'er the rosy beds;
Peeps through the foliage of the blossom'd trees,
That freight with sweetness evening's balmy breeze;
Her glowing temple animates above,
And bids the wax discourse, the canvass move;
Swells Grief's bright tear in fair Columbia's eye,
And teaches Music's breath to sweetly sigh.
And feel no sorrows preying on my soul;
Or breathed my feelings through the pensive flute;
Stray'd through these alleys, in yon arbour sat,
Quaff'd the rich juice, and join'd in Friendship's chat;
Here Love, too, sometimes heightened every joy,
When smiles and roses only deck'd the boy,
Ere disappointment barb'd his harmless dart,
And Avarice tore it from my mangled heart.
The demon, now, that all my bliss destroys!
In you I view, with just, impartial eyes,
All that I love, and much that I despise.
Though you affect Religion to revere,
Her noblest precept finds few votaries here:
Sweet Charity, fair offspring of the skies,
You know not, feel not, have not learn'd to prize;
Truth bids me speak—when I the past review,
I know not, feel not, charity for you;
Who, when ye see Misfortune on the chase,
Let loose a pack of Slander and Disgrace;
Hunt the poor wretch till he must yield and die,
Or, pierced with Censure's teeth, ignobly fly;
As is the timid hare, by rustic clown,
Drove from her form, pursued, and hunted down.
Myself, a timid being, eager sought
Your famed retreat for liberty of thought,
And Love detain'd for, one short happy year.
But stern Misfortune, by one cruel blow,
Blasted my hopes, and laid my prospects low;
Then as a fiend lank Poverty pursued,
And, huntsmen like, the cruel sport you view'd;
“The game in view!—hark, forward!” was the cry,
And, gash'd with wounds, the wretch was doom'd to fly;
His strength exhausted, he despairing fell,
And bade to Hope, and Love, and all, farewell!
Was't not enough he bow'd beneath the storm?
But must you trample on his prostrate form,
Torture, and view him writhe beneath the smart,
Murder his peace, and tear his bleeding heart?
O cruel malice! source of his despair!
“A wounded spirit who, alas! can bear?”
O who can tell what struggles rack'd him here?
Who count each bursting sigh, each falling tear,
That forced their passage from his aching breast,
When torn from prospects that had made him blest?
Forbear, my muse! nor dare the dangerous theme,
Recal not back the past illusive dream;
Let dark Oblivion shroud it with her veil,
And in meek silence blasted hopes bewail.
It is a fact that the state of Connecticut has never yet been blessed with a constitution, unless the royal charter of king Charles can be so called.
The first settlers of Connecticut passed a resolution, in a general convention, that they would “be governed by the laws of God, until they had time to make better ones.”
Many enquiries have been made respecting the signification of the term “Blue Laws, ” which has been, for many years, attached to the political character of the State of Connecticut. The Puritans, (as they were termed) who fled from religious persecutions in Europe, after landing on this Continent, still retained a portion of the “old leaven,” and proceeded immediately to pass laws as singular as they were tyrannical, and as oppressive as they were superstitious. To this day have many of the progeny of the ‘Puritans, ’ in the Eastern States, particularly in Connecticut, retained a portion of the follies of their forefathers. For an example of the composition of what is now termed Blue Laws, the following collection of a few of the many curious punishments, inflicted for various offences, is copied from the old court records, between 1630 and 1650:
“Sir Richard Saltonstall, fined four bushels of malt for his absence from Court.
“Josias Plastove shall (for stealing four baskets of corn from the Indians) return them eight baskets again, be fined 5l. and hereafter to be called by the name of Josias, and not Mr. as formerly he used to be.
“Joyce Bradwick shall give unto Alexander Becks, 20s. for promising him marriage without her friends' consent, and now refusing to perform the same.
“William James, for incontinency, knowing his wife before marriage, was sentenced to be set in the bilboes, and bound in 20l.
“Thomas Peter, for suspicion of slander, idleness and stubborness, is to be severely whipt, and kept in hold.
“Richard Turner, for being notoriously drunk, was fined 2l.
“John Haggs, for swearing God's foot, cursing his servant, and wishing “a pox of God take you,” was fined 5l.
“Edward Palmer, for his extortion, taking 33s. 7d. for the plank and wood work of the stocks, is fined 5l. and censured to be set an hour in the stocks.
“John White is bound in 10l. to be of good behaviour, and not to come into the company of his neighbour Thomas Bull's wife, alone.
“Sarah Hales was censured for her miscarriage, to be carried to the gallows with a rope about her neck, and set upon the ladder, the rope's end flung over the gallows, and after to be banished.”
The punishment for female indiscretion was formerly cruelly severe in Connecticut. When an unfortunate fair one fell a victim to the arts and intrigues of the unfeeling votaries of seduction, the fatal consequences of her error were not deemed a sufficient punishment; a life embittered with tears and regret, not an adequate atonement! No.—To the loss of peace and reputation was added corporeal torture—a public scourging on a disgraceful scaffold! To the honour of the state, this law is now laid aside: but I blush for my country while I record its former existence.
The ironical muse perhaps here has an allusion to the finesse often practised by the dealers in horses, who generally find it politic to conceal the faults of the beasts which they wish to dispose of.
However strictly the laws are observed in Connecticut, but few states in the Union support such a numerous clan of attorneys as “the land of steady habits,” who all grow rich by speculating on human depravity.
The general court of New-Haven, in 1658, passed a severe law against the quakers, which was introduced with the following preamble:
Whereas there is a cursed sect of heretics, lately sprung up in the world, commonly called quakers, who take upon them, that they are immediately sent from God, and infallibly assisted by the spirit, who yet speak and write blasphemous opinions, despise government, and the order of God, in church and commonwealth, speaking evil of dignities, &c.
Ordered, That whosoever shall bring, or cause to be brought, any known quaker or quakers, into this colony, shall forfeit the sum of fifty pounds. Also, if a quaker come into this jurisdiction on civil business, the time of his stay shall be limited by the civil authority, and he shall not use any means to corrupt or seduce others. On his first arrival, he shall appear before a magistrate, and from him receive license to pass on his business, and (for the better prevention of hurt to the people) have one or more persons to attend upon him at his own charge, &c. The punishments, in case of disobedience, were whipping, imprisonment, labour, and a deprivation of all converse with any person.
For the second offence, the person was to be branded in the hand with the letter H, to suffer imprisonment, and be put to labour. For the third, to be branded in the other hand, imprisoned, &c. as before. For the fourth, the offender was to have his tongue bored through with a red hot iron, imprisoned, and kept to labour until sent away at his own charge. Any person who shall attempt to defend the sentiments of the quakers, shall, for the third offence, be sentenced to banishment. But these people, (continues the author from whose Geography the above is quoted) who have been so much censured and ridiculed, had perhaps as many virtues as their posterity; and it would be wise in the moderns, who stand elevated on the shoulders of their ancestors, with the book of their experience open before them, to improve from their virtues and to veil their faults.—
See Morse's Geography—Article Connecticut.There is not a paved street in the whole city; and the soil being very sandy, the inhabitants are deluged with dust in dry weather, and with mud at all other times.
The first question asked a stranger who enters New-Haven by land, is “have you seen our Long-wharf?” and on being answered in the negative, the vast politeness of “mine host” induces him to conduct the gentleman all the way through Fleet-street, to visit this “stupendous fabric of human invention.” If the weather has recently been uncommonly fair, he may traverse its whole extent without sinking deeper than to his ancles in mud. Should the path fortunately be unobstructed by plaster, lumber, or carts, he may, as he leisurely proceeds, enjoy a distant prospect of the water—survey the gallant mudscows and oyster-boats on his left, and a tottering row of old wooden ware-houses on his right—inhale the fragrant odours arising from the docks, and, finally, arrive at the point which the New-York packets are enabled to approach at high water. After feasting his senses with all these beauties, the grateful stranger returns with his generous guide, consoling himself with the pleasing reflection that the same delightful excursion will be repeated on his embarkation for New-York.
Additional Note.—Since the establishment of the Steam-Boat, between New-York and New-Haven, “things have been managed better.”—
Publishers.A reference is here had to one of those two rocky mountains which overlook the city from the north, called East and West Rocks, the former in particular supplying very good stones for building. The rugged brows of these wood-crowned heights are tinged with the beams of the rising and setting sun, while the city below is veiled in the soft shade of twilight. A delightful prospect can be enjoyed from their summits, of landscapes beautifully romantic.
The reverend gentleman who, at his own expense, began to ornament this handsome promenade with a fence, trees, &c. has, at various times, evinced such a spirit for public improvement, as to draw on him the imputation of being a madman
The New Burying place, to which many removals have been made from the Old, by such unprejudiced minds as think it not sacrilege to remove human dust.
An accident that actually happened to the unfortunate author, who must consequently be supposed to write feelingly on the subject.
This story is humourously told by Dr. Smollet, and is too familiar with every reader to need repeating here.
Sterne tells us of a man who entered Strasburg with such an enormous nose, that the whole town was thrown into confusion.
Should any individuals imagine themselves alluded to, or pointed at, in this picture of New-Haven tea-table chit-chat, they will surely have, the goodness not to blame the poet. For every person he professes a due respect, and for the fair sex, in particular, he entertains a most devout affection. But as he has, through mere politeness, invited Truth to accompany him on his present little excursion, (as he has frequently offered a play-ticket where he expected its non-acceptance) he cannot, without deviating from etiquette, reject her unfashionable precepts. The unpopularity of this goddess in New-Haven, is most certainly no fault of his.
The reverend M. S␣␣␣␣␣t, who like St. Paul, relinquished the study and practice of the law, to assist in the promulgation of the gospel; but who has unfortunately smothered great wit, sagacity and ability, in the melancholy consideration of the calvinistical dogmas of election, atonement, and predestined damnation.
Perhaps in no part of the civilized world is good breeding so much talked of, and so little seen, as in New-Haven. But this fault, if it is one, is more attributable to heads than to hearts.
The “blue-laws” of Connecticut (so called from the colour of the paper on which they were printed) have never been repealed, though they are not, at this day, strictly observed. While this ridiculous code was considered in full force, it was almost sacrilege to betray any marks of tenderness or affection between the sexes on the Sabbath. A gentleman happened to return from a long absence at sea on Sunday, and so unexpectedly, that he first met his family on their way to church. Overjoyed at the happy meeting, he imprudently embraced his wife on the spot, and imprinted on her lips a kiss of connubial affection. Good Heaven! What consternation filled the breasts of the gaping multitude at seeing this unprecedented enormity! The ladies—modest things! how they blushed! and the gentlemen—how they stared! Every eye was at once directed to the proper authority, and, in mute eloquence, implored redress. Suffice it, that so flagrant a violation of the law was quickly punished by the vigilant police, and the hapless husband condemned to pay a heavy fine.
In Connecticut, with the Presbyterians, Sunday commences at the setting of the sun on Saturday evening, after which moment, labour and sports are suspended till the same period on Sunday, when they are renewed with increased ardour. This custom has, however, varied a little in New-Haven since the laying of the embargo; as this evil was thought to be a judgment of Heaven, they have adopted the plan of attending divine worship on Sunday evening, thereby hoping to avert such a curse in future.
This beautiful spot deserves a particular description; and travellers who may pass through this city are invited to visit it, with the assurance that they will never regret an hour so employed. The New Burying-place is situated at the northern extremity of the city, just far enough removed from its noise and bustle, for retirement and calm reflection it is perfectly level, carpetted with the richest verdure, and is divided into lots, of suitable dimensions for large families, by a slight railing. At the head and foot of each lot grows a tall and flourishing poplar; so that the whole has the appearance of a beautiful shady grove, with spacious alleys, intersecting each other at right angles, happily calculated for ambulatory recreation. Every lot is distinguished by the name of its proprietor painted on the railing that marks its boundaries, and the progress of the art of sculpture shines conspicuous in the elegant marble monuments that adorn it. The stones, tables, and urns, are all white, and in a moon-light evening produce a very interesting effect. The lengthened shades of the poplars, the chequered gloom, the aspiring monuments, the waving grass, and the sighing breeze, all conspire to fill the mind with sensations of awe mingled with an indescribable pleasure.
Francis Kidder, printer, who died in the autumn of 1807. His typographical brethren, as a testimony of their affection and respect, erected a handsome stone to his memory, the first one in this place lettered in gilt: it has since, however, been copied by many others.
Yale College was founded in 1700, and remained at Killingsworth until 1707, then at Saybrook until 1716, when it was removed and fixed at New-Haven. It has its name from its principal benefactor, Gov. Yale. There are at present eight college domiciles, three of which, each one hundred feet long, are inhabited by the students, containing thirty-two chambers each, sufficient for lodging two hundred students; a chapel forty by fifty feet, with a steeple one hundred feet high; another edifice for the library, &c. of the same dimensions; a dining hall sixty by forty feet; a house for the president, and another for the professor of divinity; the whole pleasantly situated west of the Greenwhich is spread before it.
Dr. Dwight, president of Yale College, and professor of divinity; a great scholar, profound divine, and celebrated poet.
John Trumbull, Esq. the author of a poem, in copious wit, second only to the cantos of Butler; and in vigour, dignity, and sweetness, superiour to the “passing worth of Sir Hudibras.”—When the politics of “M'Fingal” are forgotten, the poem will be read, repeated, and admired by every lover of the jocund muse. This poem, comprising four cantos, was published in 1734, and has since passed through several editions. “The Progress of Dullness,” “Elegy on the Times,” and several other fruits of his genius, adorn the annals of American poetry.
Joel Barlow, Esq. commenced the career of life by pursuing the more flowery paths of literature. His “Vision of Columbus,” his local and satirical poems, and above all, his admirable “Hasty Pudding,” have conferred on him a degree of celebrity to which few American bards have attained. While in Europe, he published, among other pieces, “The Conspiracy of Kings,” which has been repeatedly published in the United States.
Colonel David Humphreys, the friend of Dwight, Hopkins, Trumbull, Wolcott, Strong, and Barlow, was a distinguished star in this constellation of geniuses. The “Anarchiad” is said to be the joint production of these poets, whose primary design was to chastise the promoters of measures hostile to good faith and sound policy, which were, at that time, every where pursued—the American Republic being then united but in name. What first drew public attention to colonel Humphreys as a poet, was his “Address to the Armies.” His next publication of any note was his poem “On the Happiness of America.” This was followed by his “Essay on the Life of General Putnam,” and by his tragedy, entitled “The Widow of Malabar,” translated from the French, first played in May, and published in August, 1790. A poem entitled “Industry,” published in Philadelphia, in 1794, was his last production of note, and the author has now retired to his seat at Humphreysville, where he has established an extensive cloth manufactory.
Dr. Dwight's first poetical publication was the “Conquest of Canaan,” an epic poem, in eleven books, printed in Hartford, in 1785, and reprinted in London the next year. In this work the lover of poetry will discover many passages highly poetical, and will probably read the eleventh book with pleasure, more than once. The versification, for uniform correctness, has seldom been surpassed. In 1794, he published, in New-York, his “Greenfield-Hill,” a poem in seven parts, which, three years afterwards, was also reprinted in London. Besides these, he is the reputed author of many smaller poems, and several exquisite pieces of unrivalled merit.
The Columbian Gardens, kept by Mr. Mix, proprietor of the Museum, may be considered the only resort for rational recreation. Here, on a summer's evening, is sometimes convened a brilliant assemblage of beauty, taste, and fashion.
| The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth | |