Each pa.s.senger he eyes with curious glance, And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind, To conversation, straight, he makes advance, Hoping, from thence, some paragraph to find, Some odd adventure, something new and rare, To set the town a-gape, and make it stare.

II.

All is not Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell-- So much the better for this man of news; For hence the country round, that know him well, Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse.

Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain-- If false or true--alike to him are gain.

But if this motley tribe say nothing new, Then many a lazy, longing look is cast To watch the weary post-boy travelling through, On horse's rump his budget buckled fast; With letters, safe in leathern prison pent, And, wet from press, full many a packet sent.

Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type Explores each package, of alluring size, Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe, Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear That village Type shall only have his share.

Ask you what matter fills his various page?

A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things; Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings: One while, he tells of monarchs run away; And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay.

Some miracles he makes, and some he steals; Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes: Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,-- New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size, Pumpkins almost as large as country inns, And ladies bearing, each,--three lovely twins.

He, births and deaths with cold indifference views; A paragraph from him is all they claim: And here the rural squire, amongst the news Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame; All that was good, minutely brought to light, All that was ill,--conceal'd from vulgar sight!

III.

THE OFFICE

Source of the wisdom of the country round!

Again I turn to that poor lonely shed Where many an author all his fame has found, And wretched proofs by candle-light are read, Inverted letters, left the page to grace, Colons derang'd, and commas out of place.

Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;-- Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say.

Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come One single cob-web was not brush'd away:-- Fate early had p.r.o.nounc'd this building's doom, Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom.

Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press Gives to the world its children, with a groan, Some born to live a month--a day--some less; Some, why they live at all, not clearly known, All that are born must die--Type well knows that-- The Almanack's his longest-living brat.

Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse; Ready to speak (their order only chang'd) Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse; These types have printed Erskine's _Gospel Treat_, Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete.

But faded are their charms--their beauty fled!

No more their work your nicer eyes admire; Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read; But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire, Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd, The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request.

Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try, From year to year poor Type his trade pursues-- With anxious care and circ.u.mspective eye He dresses out his little sheet of news; Now laughing at the world, now looking grave, At once the Muse's midwife--and her slave.

In by-past years, perplext with vast designs, In cities fair he strove to gain a seat; But, wandering to a wood of many pines, In solitude he found his best retreat, When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart, He to those deserts brought his favorite art.

IV.

Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot, Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime Discharge their freights--despise not thou the lot Of humble Type, who here has pa.s.s'd his prime; At case and press has labour'd many a day, But now, in years, is verging to decay.

He, in his time, the patriot of his town, With press and pen attack'd the royal side, Did what he could to pull their Lion down, Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide, Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes, Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose.

Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read, From depths of woods the willing rustics ran, Now by a priest, and now some deacon led With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man; Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough, Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe.

Where are they now?--the Village asks with grief, What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?-- Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief, Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains; Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach.

Ye Guardians of your country and her laws!

Since to the pen and press so much we owe Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause, From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow; Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan, And turns the fierce barbarian into--man.

Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd, Man, always found a tyrant or a slave, Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave: Despots and kings this restless race may share,-- But knowledge only makes them worth your care!

[48] Published in four installments in the _National Gazette_, beginning December 19, 1791. Issued in pamphlet form, together with "The Village Merchant," in 1794. Republished only in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed.

SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE[49]

Great things have pa.s.s'd the last revolving year; France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,-- Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear, Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo-- Sorry we are that Pompeys, Caesars, Catos Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes.

Discord, we think, must always be the lot Of this poor world--nor is that discord vain, Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not, Full many an honest Type would starve--that's plain; Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found-- Empires--or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound.

The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted-- And many a Christian despot stands, contriving Who next shall bleed--what country next be wasted-- This is the trade by which they get their living: From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan To Empress Kate--that burns the Rights of Man,

The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us; Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music, And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows, Enough almost (he thinks) to make a Jew sick: His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey, All think it best to keep--the good old way.

Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet-- Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?-- Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat Are at an end when Englishmen knock under: Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent, Lightning will fall--full twenty five per cent.

[49] I have found this only in the edition of 1795.

LINES[50]

Written on a Puncheon of Jamaica Spirits

Within these wooden walls, confined, The ruin lurks of human kind; More mischiefs here, united, dwell, And more diseases haunt this cell Than ever plagued the Egyptian flocks, Or ever cursed Pandora's box.

Within these prison-walls repose The seeds of many a b.l.o.o.d.y nose; The chattering tongue, the horrid oath; The fist for fighting, nothing loth; The pa.s.sion quick, no words can tame, That bursts like sulphur into flame; The nose with diamonds glowing red, The bloated eye, the broken head!

Forever fastened be this door-- Confined within, a thousand more Destructive fiends of hateful shape, Even now are plotting an escape, Here, only by a cork restrained, In slender walls of wood contained, In all their dirt of death reside Revenge, that ne'er was satisfied; The tree that bears the deadly fruit Of murder, maiming, and dispute; a.s.sault, that innocence a.s.sails, The Images of gloomy jails The Giddy Thought, on mischief bent, The midnight hour, in folly spent, All These within this cask appear, And Jack, the hangman, in the rear!

Thrice happy he, who early taught By Nature, ne'er this poison sought; Who, friendly to his own repose, Treads under foot this worst of foes,-- He, with the purling stream content, The beverage quaffs that Nature meant; In Reason's scale his actions weighed, His spirits want no foreign aid-- Not swell'd too high, or sunk too low, Placid, his easy minutes flow; Long life is his, in vigour pa.s.s'd, Existence, welcome to the last, A spring, that never yet grew stale-- Such virtue lies in--Adam's Ale!

[50] Published in the _National Gazette_ for January 23, 1792, introduced by a short essay upon country taverns. The following is an extract:

"Happy would it be for every community if ardent spirits could be banished from amongst them.... I shall conclude these observations with some lines written last winter at a country tavern, where from the introduction of a single _jug of rum_, conviviality and good humour were changed into madness and brutality, and numbers of the guests, who came, perhaps, only to pa.s.s a social hour, went away maimed, muttering, and lastingly embittered against each other." The poem appeared in the edition of 1795 with the t.i.tle "The Jug of Rum." Text from the edition of 1809.