| Citation |
PC.772.062
6-13 Jul 1772:1011 (287)
To the Printer of the Pennsylvania Chronicle. Sir, I
observe, with a great deal of pain, that in every week's
paper we are presented with a scrap of poetry, if so it can
be called. I verily believe, among all men of education, or
no education, no labour is more prevalent than that of
verse-manufacturing.--And among the ladies of high and low
degree, many are more eager to mix the ingredients of a
little piece of thin manufacture, than to mix the
ingredients of a pudding. If Miss can put a few words into
a properly dull order, and can string a few more, so that
the two setts may jingle--lo!-- she is a poet in a moment.
Nay--she may make a song sometimes, and when the fury of
vanity is upon her, can recall it (like the bards of old) to
an admiring croud, with her own agreeable voice--She
prefaces it with you must excuse it--'twas my own
composition--only to divert a leisure hour--then begins, and
with the kind and charitable assistance of love and dove--
fly and die--languish and anguish--boy and joy--kind and
mind--darts and hearts--wings and Kings--makes a piece of
patch-work like the bottom of one of her grandmother's
chairs. . . [several paragraphs on foolishness of this kind
of recitations from "educated" youngsters, who quote
Shakespeare, have read a few poems and plays, but who choose
trivial topics.]
Some take the clang of arms--the shrill trumpet and the
neighing steed--but ah! they fall in the battle, and comfort
themselves with that good friendly line to foolish poem:
In grand attempt tis glorious e'en to fall.
. . .
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