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be got and how used, I leave for devils to explain ; but enough of this nonsense. I did not set down to criticise Milton.-Heaven help me! No, I am too conscious of the longo intervallo between him and a thumping and dumplin sort of fellow like myself; but I must take leave to say, that not one in a thousand of common folks, mind I say of common folks, who affect to be mightily pleased with Paradise Lost, can expound the following quotation:

“They pass the planets seven, and pass the fix'd

And that Crystalline sphere, whose balance weighs,

The trepidation talk'd, and that first mored.” Can there be any pleasure in reading what requires so much labour to understand ? No, sir, it was not to criticise, but to beseech you to urge people, who cannot write poetry, to let it alone, and do as I did. I once took it into my head, that I could draw, and was always making the most uncouth things in the world, but still could not be convinced of my incapacity that way, until one day as I was sketching a head of the Marquis La Fayette, a friend peeped over my shoulder and asked me, if that was a water jug I was drawing. A water jug!! The head of La Fayette mistaken for a water jug!!! Mortified to death, I threw down my pencil, and secretly vowed that I was done with that business forever. Just so entreat those who never dipped their “jugs into the real Hippocrene,” to break them at once, and pursue some more profitable calling. I know well that Dean Swift, or somebody, has said, that every one must have a poetical purging at some period of life; but he never intended that any one should bring on a diarrhea of poetry. I have, sir, in my neighborhood, a run mad poet; and I ask you to recommend what can be done to restore the man to his

If Chalmers can cure a man of drunkenness, surely you might compound a dose which would cure my neighbor of his propensity to rhyme. I was in hopes that some of your versifiers had given him a dose that he never could get over, but he is at it again and

senses.

worse than ever. Ought he not to be sent to the lunatic hospital? For you know that a poet has himself said,

“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,

Are of imagination all compact.” What am I doing? Plague on the fellow, he has absolutely infected me with his propensities—but let me describe him. He goes about with a sesquipedalian volume of poems, six inches thick, in a large side pocket; and there is no subject which can be introduced into conversation, that he is not immediately ready to draw out his heavy artillery and fire away upon you, He has made an acrostic upon every man, woman, and child in the county; and I'll tell you how he does it; he says it is the simplest thing in the world. He writes down the initials and then without any manner of reference to the particular individual to be described, he writes whatever enters his head, and is as well satisfied with his productions, as if they were the finest portraits. I could cut out as good verse with a broad-axe. He is besides, a perfect poetical Jackdaw, and is so tricked out in other people's feathers, that you dare not open your mouth, but he is ready for you with quotations innumerable. He beats Dr. Pangloss hollow. This is sufficiently annoying, but nothing to the inflictions of his own rhymes. Not a cat nor a dog can die, but he writes an epitaph. Marriage with us is absolutely discouraged—because the young people are afraid of an epithalamium. It is dangerous to admit him into your house, for he goes away and describes every mother's son of

you.

He has caused some of my most valuable acquaintances to emigrate to the western country. In short he keeps a Poetical Bank and discounts paper. Our whole community is flooded with his notes. There is no danger of his stopping. I wish there was. He is truly a dreadful animal, and ought to be treated, as the ancients did their mischievous bulls. He should have hay upon his head ;-Foenum habet cornu, ought to be graven on his forehead. His effrontery is the most_unblushing. He reads his own

productions without shame, and looks around with an air of triumph for approbation. He declares he was born a poet, and cannot help writing if he would ; that he has the divine afflatus, and must pour out his abundant thoughts. He takes snuff to excess, and says he has a most hexcellent foice. Now, sir, can you imagine a greater bore? Even sleep, my favorite resort, is denied me; for he will not suffer me to sleep, but like a fly, is perpetually tickling my nose with "how do you like that?" "mark this,” and “observe that.”

groan in spirit, but the fellow has no bowels of compassion, Sometimes in a frenzy I jump up and rush out, but he follows me, and continues reading long after I get out of the reach of his foice. With all this, he has not the most distant idea of his own absurdity. Once I slept in the same room with him; I say slept, because by great good luck his poetical blunderbuss had been left down stairs. In the middle of the night, I felt some one shaking me; and opening my eyes, there he stood over me, in his shirt-t-1, with a candle in one hand, and a written paper in the other, to read to me some beautiful thoughts which he had been embodying. He has written a sort of mock heroicomical poem, which it was my purpose to send you with my annotations and reflections. It is called the Diviad, and is founded upon a story which was current some years ago, of one of our Prests, who was remarkably fond of swimming, and who, upon one occasion, went out with his son to the Potomac, and in the course of their aquatic pranks overturned their boat, and lost all their clothes. After various attempts to recover them by diving, they succeeded in obtaining a portion of the habiliments of the father and son, but not enough to rig out the former for a becoming entrance into Washington. By sending off the son, a cabinet council was called, consisting of B S

C-, and R-, who respectively gave their opinions to his majesty mounted upon his throne (viz. the bottom of the boat,) as to the most advisable mode of getting back to Washington without an exhibition of his nudity; but I must stop, or I shall tire you as much as he has tired me. I know that this

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is “rayther a sudden pull up," as Mr. Weller says; but the art of writing, according to Sam, is to make the reader vish there vos more.

Very respectfully,
Your most obd't, humble servant,

SOLOMON SOBERSIDES.

JOHN

ADAMS SON, MY JO, JOHN. John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, when we were first

acquent, I did na dream your aim was, to be the President; Ye've got unto the tap, John, but have an eye below, Ye're ganging down as fast as up, John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, when Party here began To raise her horrid head, John, ye were a Fed’ral man, And ye, amang us a', John, did hate the Demoes so, We thought ye then a trusty frien', John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, what pleasure did it gie
In Alien and Sedition days to see ye gang wi' me?
Ah! “palsied” be the Press, John, it teased your Fa-
We did our best to stap its breath, John Adams' Son,

ther so;

my Jo.

high,

bar-go,

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, it blew us all “sky And may be brought “a drap,” Sir, a drap intil your

"eye,But soon there came a time, John, the lucky EmAnd then ye took a tack about, John Adams' Son, my Jo. John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, we wanted then nae “Great Jefferson had said ye must,” and surely he was

right, So on ye drave the scheme, John, it was a maister blow, And sent ye to St. Petersburg, John Adams' Son, my Jo.

"light,"

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, we thought ye turned

aside, And did na see what was the trick, the ass in lion's

hide," But late ye’ve bray'd so loud, John, we ken ye now,

oh ho! How "stupid" we !-"ineffably!—John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, ye must be deep at play, Or must have got the help, mon, of Maister Speaker

Clay; But how came ye to bray,John, so soon, I want to know, Ye'll sure-be beat by Jacky's Son, John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, ye've brought about your

fa' By saying ye wad send men to Isthmus Pan—a—ma; And then to cap the climax, John, John Sergeant he

must goThat chiel who wants the Blackies free, John Adams'

Son, my Jo. John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, what said old Wash

ing—ton? Trade, trade wi' ev'ry nation-get tangled up wi' none." Tak' back the silly pledge, the pledge of Jim Monroe, Or say it was “a pledge to self,John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

tions so,

John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, why go to Pan-a-ma? What profit under heaven, can we be getting there? How can ye think to change, John, the laws o' naOr Catholics to Protestants, John Adams' Son, my Jo. John Adams' Son, my Jo, John, let Hayti, mon, alone, Things hae been fixed wi' her sure, this mony a year

agone; We want no consuls black, John, to rouse domestic foe, Guid folks enou' at work for that, John Adams' Son,

my Jo.

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