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Picture XVII

Columbus in Chains[A]

[A] During his third voyage, while in San Domingo, such unjust representations were made of his conduct to the Court of Spain, that a new admiral, Bovadilla, was appointed to supersede him, who sent Columbus home in irons. —Freneau's note.

 
Are these the honours they reserve for me,
Chains for the man that gave new worlds to Spain!
Rest here, my swelling heart! – O kings, O queens,
Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,
Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!
Why was I seated by my prince's side,
Honour'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?
Was it that I might fall most suddenly
From honour's summit to the sink of scandal!
'Tis done, 'tis done! – what madness is ambition!
What is there in that little breath of men,
Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave
To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss
Which is the lot of happy ignorance,
Less glorious aims, and dull humility? —
Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honour,
And on the strength and vigour of the mind
Vainly depending, court a monarch's favour,
Pointing the way to vast extended empire;
First count your pay to be ingratitude,
Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!
Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,
And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,
Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.
 

Picture XVIII

Columbus at Valladolid[A]

[A] After he found himself in disgrace with the Court of Spain, he retired to Vallodolid, a town of Old Castile, where he died, it is said, more of a broken heart than any other disease, on the 20th of May, 1506. —Freneau's note.

1

 
How sweet is sleep, when gain'd by length of toil!
No dreams disturb the slumbers of the dead —
To snatch existence from this scanty soil,
Were these the hopes deceitful fancy bred;
And were her painted pageants nothing more
Than this life's phantoms by delusion led?
 

2

 
The winds blow high: one other world remains;
Once more without a guide I find the way;
In the dark tomb to slumber with my chains —
Prais'd by no poet on my funeral day,
Nor even allow'd one dearly purchas'd claim —
My new found world not honour'd with my name.
 

3

 
Yet, in this joyless gloom while I repose,
Some comfort will attend my pensive shade,
When memory paints, and golden fancy shows
My toils rewarded, and my woes repaid;
When empires rise where lonely forests grew,
Where Freedom shall her generous plans pursue.
 

4

 
To shadowy forms, and ghosts and sleepy things,
Columbus, now with dauntless heart repair;
You liv'd to find new worlds for thankless kings,
Write this upon my tomb – yes – tell it there —
Tell of those chains that sullied all my glory —
Not mine, but their's – ah, tell the shameful story.
 

THE EXPEDITION OF TIMOTHY TAURUS, ASTROLOGER

To the Falls of Passaick River, in New Jersey⁵⁹

Written soon after an excursion to the village at that place in August,

1775, under the character of Timothy Taurus, a student

in astrology; and formerly printed in New-York

Characters of the Poem

Timothy Taurus, Astrologer, in love with Tryphena.

Slyboots, a Quaker, and his two Daughters.

Dullman, a City Broker.

Deacon Samuel.

Brigadier-General Nimrod.

Lawyer Ludwick.

Parson Pedro.

Doctor Sangrado.

Saunders, a Horse Jockey.

Gubbin, a Tavern-keeper.

Scalpella Gubbin, his Wife.

Mithollan, a Farmer.

 
My morning of life is beclouded with care!
I will go to Passaick, I say and I swear —
To the falls of Passaick, that elegant scene,
Where all is so pretty, and all is so green —
That river Passaick! – celestial indeed!
That river of rivers, no rivers exceed. —
Now why, I would ask, should I puzzle my brain
The nature of stars, or their use to explain —
To trace the effects they may have on our earth,
How govern our actions, or rule at our birth?
Five years have I been at these studies, and scanned
All the books on the subject that sophists have planned!
I am sorry to say (yet it ought to be said)
The stars have not sent me one rye loaf of bread!
Not a shilling to purchase a glass of good beer, —
By my soul, it's enough to make ministers swear.
Tryphena may argue, and say what she will,
I am sure all my fortune is going down hill:
Dear girl! if you wait 'till the planets are for us
Your name will scarce alter to Tryphena Taurus.
Tryphena! I love you – have courted you long —
But find all my labours will end in a song! —
"Will you play at all-fours?" – she said, very jolly; —
I answered, The play at all-fours is all folly!
"Will you play, then, at whist?" – she obligingly said; —
I answered, the game is gone out of my head —
Indeed, I am weary – I feel rather sick,
So, I leave you, Tryphena, to win the odd trick. —
There's a music some talk of, that's play'd by the spheres: —
I wish him all luck who this harmony hears;
And the people who hear it, I hope they may find
It is not a music that fills them with wind. —
There's Saturn, and Venus, and Jove, and the rest:
Their music to me is not quite of the best. —
These orbs of the stars, and that globe of the moon
To me, I am certain, all play a wrong tune.
Not a creature that plods in, or ploughs up the dirt,
But from the mean clod gets a better support:
Then farewell to Mars, and the rest of the gang,
And the comets – I tell them they all may go hang;
I mean, if they only with music will treat,
It is not to me the best cooked of all meat.
They may go where they will, and return when they please, —
And I hope they'll remember to pay up my fees —
So I leave them awhile, to be cheerful below,
And away to Passaick most merrily go!
The month, it was August, and meltingly warm,
Not a cloud in the sky nor the sign of a storm;
So I jumped in the stage, with the freight of the fair,
And in less than a day at Passaick we were. —
Well, arrived at the Falls, I procured me a bed
In a box of a house – you might call it a shed;
The best of the taverns were all pre-engaged,
So I barely was lodged, or rather encaged;
Yet, cage as it was, I enjoyed a regale
Of victuals three times every day, without fail:
There was poultry, and pyes, and a dozen things more
That the damnable college had never in store:
I feasted, and lived on such fat of the place
That the college would not have remembered my face —
So long had I fed on their trash algebraic,
Indeed, it was time I went to Passaick! —
The rocks were amazing, and such was the height,
They struck me at once with surprize and delight.
The waters rushed down with a terrible roar —
What a pleasure it was to be lounging on shore!
They now were as clear as old Helicon's stream,
Or as clear as the clearest in poetry's dream. —
These falls were stupendous, the fountains so clear,
That another Narcissus might see himself here,
Nor only Narcissus – some ill-featured faces
From the springs were reflected – not made up of graces.
But now I must tell you – what people were met:
They were, on my conscience, a wonderful sett;
Some came for their health, and some came for their pleasure,
And to steal from the city a fortnight of leisure;
Some came for a day, and yet more for a week,
Some came from the college, tormented with Greek,
To continue as long as their means would afford,
That is, while the taverns would trust them their board:
(Of this last mentioned class, I confess I was one,
For why should I fib when the mischief is done?)
This age may decay, and another may rise,
Before it is fully revealed to our eyes,
That Latin, and Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Greek,
To the shades of oblivion must certainly sneak;
Too much of our time is employed on such trash
When we ought to be taught to accumulate cash.
Supposing I knew them as pat as my prayers
(And to know them completely would cost me twelve years)
Supposing, I say, I had Virgil by rote,
And could talk with old Homer – 'tis not worth a groat;
If with Rabbi Bensalem I knew how to chat,
Where lies the advantage? – and what of all that?
Were this cart load of learning the whole that I knew,
I could sooner get forward by mending a shoe:
I could sooner grow rich by the axe or the spade,
Or thrive by the meanest mechanical trade,
The tinker himself would be richer than I,
For the tinker has something that people must buy,
While such as have little but Latin to vend,
On a shadow may truly be said to depend;
Old words, and old phrases that nothing bestow,
And the owners discarded ten ages ago. —
Here were people on people – I hardly know who —
There was Mammon the merchant, and Japhet the Jew:
There was Slyboots the Quaker, whose coat had no flaps,
With two of his Lambkins, as plain in their caps.
In silks of the richest I saw them array,
But nothing was cut in our mode of the day,
They hung to old habits as firm as to rocks,
And are just what they were in the days of George Fox.
They talked in a style that was wholly their own;
They shunned the vain world, and were mostly alone,
One talked in the Nay, and one talked in the Yea,
And of light in their lanthorns that no one could see:
They hated the crowd, and they hated the play,
And hoped the vain actors would soon run away; —
No follies like that would the preachers allow;
And Tabitha said thee, and Rebecca said thou.
Here was Dullman, the broker, who looked as demure
As if a false key had unlocked the shop door:
He seemed to enjoy not a moment of rest,
So unhappy to be – far away from his chest.
He was all on the fidgets to be with his gold:
Both honour and conscience he bartered, or sold —
The devil himself – excuse me, I pray —
Old Satan – oh no – take it some other way —
The God of this world had him fast by a chain,
And there let us leave him – and let him remain. —
Here was Samuel, the Deacon, who read a large book,
Though few but himself on its pages would look;
Would you know what it was? – an abridgement of Flavell,[A]
With Bunyan's whole war between soul and the devil; —
It seemed very old, and the worse for the wear,
And might last the next century, handled with care;
But if fashions and folly should not have a fall,
I presume it will hardly be handled at all. —
Here was Nimrod the soldier – he wore a long sword,
And, of course, all the ladies his courage adored;
Two fringed epaulettes on his shoulders displayed,
Discovered the rank of this son of the blade.
"O la!" cried Miss Kitty, "how bold he must be!
Papa! we must beg him to join us at tea!
How much like a hero he looketh – good me!
Full many a battle, no doubt, he has stood,
And waded shoe deep through a mill pond of mud!
What heads have been sliced from the place they possessed
By the sword at his side! – all, I hope, for the best!"
Then the soldier went out, to refresh at the inn —
Perhaps he did not – if he did it's no sin —
He made his congee, and he bowed to us all,
And said he was going to Liberty Hall:
'Tis certain he went, but certainly where
I cannot inform, and the devil may care.
But now to proceed, in describing in rhyme
The folks that came hither to pass away time:
There were more that had heads rather shallow than strong,
And more than had money to bear them out long.
In short, there were many more ladies than gents,
And the latter complained of the heavy expense!
And some I could see, with their splendour and show,
That their credit was bad, and their pockets were low;
Many females were gadding, I saw with concern,
Who had better been knitting, or weaving their yarn.
And many went into Passaick to lave
Whose hides were, indeed, a disgrace to the wave;
Who should have been home at their houses and farms,
Not here to be dabbling, to shew us their charms:
It would have been better to wash their own walls
Than here – to come here, to be washed in the falls.
A judge of the court (in the law a mere goose)
Here wasted his time with a lawyer let loose.
Their books were thrown by – so I begged of the fates
That the falls of Passaick might fall on their pates.
This lawyer was Ludwick, who scarce had a suit,
And for once in his life was disposed to be mute,
But was mostly engaged in some crazy dispute:
A cause against Smyth[B] he could never defend,
As well might the Old One with Michael contend:
The road was before him, the country was spacious,
And he knew an old fellow called fieri facias: —
I saw him demurr, when they asked him to pay —
With a noli-pros-equi he scampered away. —
Though his head was profusely be-plaistered with meal,
One sorrowful secret it could not conceal,
That he drew his first breath when a two penny star
Presided, and governed this son of the bar.
Here was Pedro, the parson, who looked full as grave
As it he had lodged in Trophonius's cave.
He talked of his wine, and he talked of his beer,
And he talked of his texts, that were not very clear;
And many suspected he talked very queer. —
He talked with Scalpella, the inn-holder's wife,
Then dwelt on her beauties, and called her his life! —
He ogled Scalpella! – and spake of her charms;
And oh! how he wished to repose in her arms:
He called her his deary, and talked of their loves;
And left her at last – a pair of old gloves!
I was sorry to see him deranged and perplext
That no one would ask him to handle a text: —
All gaped when he spoke, and incessantly gazed,
And thought him no witch, but a parson be-crazed.
Fine work did he make of Millennium, I trow,
Which he told us would come (tho' it comes very slow)
When earth with the pious and just will abound
And Eden itself at Egg-Harbour be found:
No musketoes to bite us, no rats to molest,
And lawyers themselves rocked into something like rest.
But most of us judged it was rather a whim,
Or, at least, that the prospect was distant and dim.
So I saw him pack up his polemical gown,
To retreat while he could from the noise of the town.[C]
He said there was something in Falls he admired,
But of constantly hearing the roar – he was tired!
With their damp exhalations his fancy was dimmed,
He would come the next spring with his surplice new trimmed,
Besides there were fogs in the morning (he said)
That rose on the river and muddled his head! —
Thus he quitted Passaick! – deserted her shore,
And the taverns that knew him shall know him no more!
One farmer Milhollan – I saw him come here,
Almost at the busiest time in the year;
His intent might be good, but I never could learn
Who coaxed him away from his crib and his barn:
Each morning he tippled three glasses of gin
With as many, at least, as three devils therein.
He quarrelled with Jack, and he wrangled with Tom,
'Till scarcely a negro but wished him at home;
He talked over much of the badness of times,
And read us a list of the governor's[D] crimes,
From which it was clearly predicted, and plain,
That his honour would hardly be chosen again.
He fought with Tim Tearcoat, and cudgelled with Ben,
And wrestled with Sampson – all quarrelsome men; —
I was sorry to see him thus wasting his force
On fellows who kicked with the heels of a horse.
Tho' strong in my arms, and of strength to contest
With the youths of my age in the wars of the fist,
I thought it was better to let them pursue
The quarrels they had, than to be one of their crew;
I saw it was madness to join in the fray,
So I left them to wrangle – each dog his own way.
He spoke thrice an hour of his crop that had failed,
And losses, he feared, that would get him enjailed;
He mentioned his poultry, and mentioned his pigs,
And railed at some Tories, converted to Whigs. —
(Excuse me retailing so much in my rhymes
Of the chatt of the day and the stuff of the times;
'Tis thus in the acts of a play, we perceive
All the parts are not cast to the wise, or the brave;
Not all is discoursed by the famed or the fair,
The demons of dullness have also their share;
Statira in play-house has not all the chance,
For hags are permitted to join in the dance:
Not Catos, or Platos engross every play,
For clowns and clod-hoppers must, too, have their day;
Not the nobles of nature say all that is said,
And monarchs are frequently left in the shade;
There must be some nonsense, to step in between,
There must be some fools to enliven the scene.)
Here was Doctor Sangrado, with potion and pill,
And his price was the same, to recover or kill.
He waddled about, and was vext to the soul
To see so much health in this horrible hole;
He seemed in a fret there was nobody sick,
And enquired of the landlord, "What ails your son Dick?"
"What ails him? (said Gubbins) why nothing at all!"
"By my soul (said the quack) he's as white as the wall;
I must give him a potion to keep down his gall!
There is bile on his stomach – I clearly see that;
This night he will vomit as black as my hat:
Here's a puke and a purge – twelve doses of bark;
Let him swallow them all – just an hour before dark!"
"O dear! (said the mother) the lad is quite well!" —
Said the Doctor, "No, no! he must take calomel:
It will put him to rights, as I hope to be saved!"
"Or rather (said Gubbins) you hope him engraved!"
So, the Doctor walked off in a pitiful plight,
And he lodged in a dog-house (they told me) that night.
Here were wives, and young widows, and matrons, and maids,
Who came for their health, or to stroll in the shades;
Here were Nellies, and Nancies, and Hetties, by dozens,
With their neighbours, and nephews, and nieces, and cousins —
All these had come hither to see the famed Fall,
And you, pretty Sally, the best of them all.
Here was Saunders, the jockey, who rode a white horse,
His last, it was said, and his only resource;
And the landlord was careful to put us in mind
That hell and destruction were riding behind:
He often had told him, "Do, Saunders, take care,
This swilling of gin is a cursed affair:
Indeed – and it puts a man off from his legs,
And brings us at last to be pelted with eggs —
The wit of your noddle should carry you through, —
Break your bottle of rum – give the devil his due!
Keep the reason about you that nature designed,
And you have the respect and regard of mankind!"
This steed of poor Saunders' was woefully lean,
And he looked, as we thought, like the flying machine;
And, in short, it appeared, by the looks of his hide,
That the stables he came from were poorly supplied:
A bundle of bones – and they whispered it round,
That he came from the hole where the Mammoth was found.[E]
They stuff'd him with hay, and they crammed him with oats
While Saunders was gaming and drinking with sots:
(For the de'il in the shape of a bottle of rum
Deceived him with visions of fortune to come;)
His landlady had on the horse a sheep's-eye,
So Saunders had plenty of whiskey and pye:
He had gin of the best, and he treated all round,
'Till care was dismissed and solicitude drowned,
And a reckoning was brought him of more than three pound.
As he had not a groat in his lank looking purse,
The landlord made seizure of saddle and horse: —
Scalpella, the hostess, cried, "Fly from this room,
Or I'll sweep you away with my hickory broom!"
Thus Saunders sneaked off in a sorrowful way,
And the Falls were his fall – to be beggar next day. —
The lady of ladies that governed the inn
Was a sharper indeed, and she kept such a din! —
Scalpella! – and may I remember the name! —
Could scratch like a tyger, or play a tight game.
A bludgeon she constantly held in her hand,
The sign of respect, and a sign of command:
She could scream like a vulture, or wink like an owl;
Not a dog in the street like Scalpella could howl. —
She was a Scalpella! – I am yet on her books,
But, oh! may I never encounter her looks! —
I owe her five pounds – I am that in her debt,
And my dues from the stars have not cleared it off yet.
If she knew where I am! – I should fare very ill;
Instead of some beer she would drench me with swill;
I should curse and reflect on the hour I was born. —
If she thought I had fixed on the pitch of Cape Horn,
She would find me! – Scalpella! set down what I owe
In the page of bad debts – due to Scalpy and Co! —
Her boarders she hated, and drove with a dash,
And nothing about them she liked but their cash;
Except they were Tories – ah, then she was kind —
And said to their honours, "You are men to my mind!
Sit down, my dear creatures – I hope you've not dined!" —
She talked of the king, and she talked of the queen,
And she talked of her floors – that were not very clean: —
She talked of the parson, and spoke of the 'squire,
She talked of her child that was singed in the fire —
The Tories, poor beings, were wishing to kiss her – oh —
If they had – all the stars would have fought against – Cicero.[F]
She talked, and she talked – now angry, now civil,
'Till the Tories themselves wished her gone to the devil.
How I tremble to think of her tongue and her stick, —
Tryphena, Tryphena! I've played the odd trick!
Now the soldier re-entered – the ladies were struck:
And "she that can win him will have the best luck!"
"La! father (said Kitty) observe the bold man!
I will peep at his phyz from behind my new fan!
What a lace on his beaver! – his buttons all shine!
In the cock of a hat there is something divine!
Since the days of Goliah, I'll venture to lay
There never was one that could stand in his way:
What a nose! – what an eye! – what a gallant address!
If he's not a hero, then call me Black Bess!
What a gaite – what a strut – how noble and free!
I'm ravished! – I'm ruined! – good father! – good me!"
"Dear Kitty, (he answered) regard not his lace,
The devil I see in the mould of his face:
Cockades have been famous for crazing your sex
Since Helen played truant, and left the poor Greeks;
And while her good husband was sleeping, and snored,
Eloped with Sir Knight from his bed, and his board. —
Three things are above me, yea, four, I maintain,
Have puzzled the cunningest heads to explain!
The way of a snake on a rock – very sly —
The way of an eagle, that travels the sky,
The way of a ship in the midst of the sea,
And the way of a soldier – with maidens like thee."
 

[A] An English divine of considerable note, who died about a century ago. —Freneau's note.

[B] William Smyth, Esq. Before the Revolution a celebrated lawyer in New York, author of the History of New Jersey, and other works. Afterwards, taking part with the British, he was made Chief Justice of Lower Canada – He is since dead. —Freneau's note.

[C] Passaick Village is at present called Patterson, noted for its unfortunate manufacturing establishments. —Freneau's note.

[D] William Franklin, Esq., then Governor of New Jersey. —Freneau's note.

[E] These two lines were inserted since the first publication of this Poem in Sept., 1775. —Freneau's note.

[F] They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses fought against Sisera. Ancient History. – Freneau's note.

 
At length, a dark fortnight of weather came on,
And most of us thought it high time to be gone. —
The moon was eclipsed, and she looked like a fright;
Indeed – and it was a disconsolate night!
Our purses were empty – the landlord looked sour,
I gave them leg-bail in a terrible shower: —
Scalpella! – her face was as black as the moon,
Her voice, was the screech of a harpy, or loon, —
I quitted Passaick – that elegant place,
While a hurricane hindered them giving me chace.