Chapter Eleventh

MOR reasons already given, we deem it best to give the criticisms of others. upon the poetry of Freneau, and begin with the remarks of a London publisher' who, notwithstanding Freneau's hostile feeling towards all that savored in the least of Great Britain, has had the magnanimity to overlook all such sentiment, and bring before the public, of his own free will, a reproduction of the volume of Freneau's poems, as published by Francis Bailey of Philadelphia in the year 1786. In his introduction to the British public he says: "It has been remarked with justice that, in the states which have arisen out of the British settlements in America, literature as a profession is a thing of recent growth. Till within the present century, it was only taken up as a matter of taste, and at leisure, from time to time, by those whose lives were absorbed in other duties and other pursuits, and most frequently took its character from temporary feelings and impulses. It hence happens that a good proportion of the best of the older American literature was temporary in its character, and has become more or less obsolete even in America, and it is only very considerable excellence that has preserved some of it from comparative oblivion. this latter class belongs the poet whose works are given in the present volume, and who arrived at fame amidst the turbulence of the revolutionary period."

To

After giving a synopsis of the poet's varied career, he mentions his first notable poem composed in his

1 1 John Russell Smith, Soho Sq., London, 1861.

sophomore year while at Nassau Hall, Princeton College, which, he says, is distinguished both by the vigor and the correctness of its versification. "His poetic satires against the royalists established his reputation in America, and all these show great talent; and some of his severer satires, such as that on his literary opponent whom he addresses under the name of Mac Swiggin, are characterized by great power."

As this poem gives an insight into Philip's character, his intense love for nature in her varied forms, his lack of desire for fame, yet innate knowledge of his own powers, did he desire to gain it, his scorn for all that was low or base in mankind, and his conscious superiority over a rival whom he has it in the power of his two-edged sword to annihilate; and furthermore as it illustrates that which we have already said his being as much dreaded by a foe, as he was loved as a friend, we will quote some portions of it : —

fell

Long have I sat on this disastrous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen
I think I may defer my voyage as well,
Why should I far in search of honour roam,
And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave,
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave
Hence came these rhymes, with truth ascrib'd to me.
That swell thy little soul to jealousy :

If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,

You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhyme
By labour polish'd and matur'd by time?

Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a windmill would'st thou try thy might,
Against a giant would a pigmy fight?

What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm?
To injure him, who never did thee harm?
Have I from thee been urgent to attain

The mean ideas of thy barren brain?

Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they 're mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own envy thy destruction flows!

Bless'd be our western world - its scenes conspire To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,

Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!

See mighty streams meandering to the main !
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee!
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue well pleas'd your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
And truth disguise through all your mazy way.
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And, by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,

The devil shall help you to your daily bread.

O waft me far, ye muses of the west
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend —
In solitude her converse gives delight,

With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,

Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.

Hail, great Mac Swiggen! foe to honest fame,
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,

You dream of conquest tell me, how, or whence ?
Act like a man and combat me with sense

This evil have I known, and known but once,
Thus to be gall❜d and slander'd by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhyme
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,
And rhymes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen-
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,
Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,
But strive no more with rhyme to daunt thy foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp or water thy vile being end.

Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage ?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face

Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,
Assisted by no poets of the plain,

Whose timorous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream
Were not my breast impervious to despair
And did not Clio reign unrivall❜d there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.

Come on, Mac Swiggen, come- your muse is willing, Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing

Come on

attack me with your choicest rhymes, Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes —