A Handle for the Battle-Axe

A Handle for the Battle-Axe is a satirical poem published anonymously in Groton, Connecticut, in 1842 in response to the publication of the second edition of The Battle-Axe in 1841 by Silas Watrous of the Quakertown Rogerenes. Since it is satire, it should not necessarily be understood to present unbiased, historical fact.

Its author identifies himself on the work’s title page only as “Myself.” Some bibliographies list the author as “Samuel Culver”; yet it is difficult to know who this might have been or how this attribution became attached to the work. Whoever the author was, he seems to have received a classical education, was familiar with the work of eighteenth-century English satirical poets (Edward Young; Alexander Pope), lived near Quakertown and knew its people, and was familiar with and sympathetic towards the people and history of Groton’s First Baptist Church. He also had works of local history available to him (Isaac Backus’s History of New England; David Benedict’s General History of the Baptist Denomination in America) as well as the means of printing and publishing what he wrote. It is possible that the author was someone like David A. Daboll (1813-1895) of Centre Groton, whose family published The New England Almanac and who sometime before 1840 had married Esther Wightman, daughter of John Gano Wightman, pastor of First Baptist Church from 1800 to 1841.

HANDLE

FOR THE

BATTLE-AXE, &C.

--------

“THE WEAPONS OF OUR WARFARE ARE NOT CARNAL.”

Battle-Axe, page I.

-------------------------

BY MYSELF.

-------------------------

Who uses cutting instruments should know,

The handle both directs and speeds the blow.

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1842.

[1]

PROEM.

As my good friend and I walked out,

Six months ago, or thereabout,

Near Quakertown, a sober dozen,

Came forth, my friend and me to cozen,

“We bring the Axe, well ground, new laid,

“And sure, you can’t refuse the trade;

“Come, let’s undo a pack—how nice!

“And twenty cents is all the price!”

Long talk ensued, (we did not buy,)

And many a tale and many a lie,

A chaos of debates and blunders,

Nonsense’s puns, and folly’s thunders.

At length, an interim appearing,

My comrade prayed a moment’s hearing—

“And tell me, Sir upon the spot,

“Do you believe the Axe or not?”—

“Why, if my father had not wrote it,

“I might have reasons to dispute it.”

Then plied us o’er, with homemade stories,

Of revolutionary tories;

Extolled some nameless, Roman soldier,

And seemed each minute growing older.

My friend, lest he should soon forget,

Resumed his subject parapet.

“Quibbling is not what I demand,

“So, no more quibbles from your hand.

“Sir, living witnesses attest,

“What you, by quibbling, have confessed;

“Your Axe a fibber, born to bite

“The victims of its authors’ spite.

“Their innocence soon bruised its head—

“They now repose among the dead.

“Be candid, why do you revive

“Libels that to no purpose live?”

‘Twas all in vain, the fact to hide;

The booby Quaker thus replied: —

“Indeed, we once relinquished it,

“But then our congregation split.—

“The question was debated on,

[2]

“And after reasons, pro et con,

“The brethren thought, since we began,

“‘Twas best to execute our plan,

“For, should it even be delayed,

“The world might say we were afraid

“To publish.—Zounds! what slang would fall,

“Suppose we should not print at all.

“You, if you please, can publish thus,

“Whatever fault you find in us.

“That’s fair enough”—“Agreed!”said I,

(And homeward turning) “Sirs, good-bye.”

Poor thoughtless me! by nature mild,

My muse an infant, undefiled

By songs on knaves disguised in grace;

Unskilled their foibles to retrace—

Where on Parnassus should I stand?

How paint with an unfaultering hand,

In miniature, so meek, loquacious,

So exquisitely false, so gracious,

A host of slovens, sluts, and queans,

Who stigmatize all carnal means?

What dialect celestial use,

To bear aloft the infant muse?

With spirits light, I homeward sped,

And Benedict and Backus read,

Pondered each source of Quaker fame,

Retrenched the blacker scenes of shame,

And e’en began my book, at last—

Said Quakers, “Poet you must haste.”

Quoth I, “to-morrow ‘twill be done,

“Unless you sin upon the run”—

Since which, from every neighbouring lake,

Like Killarny’s embosomed snake,

The swains, where’er I chance to roam,

Cry, “is’nt yet to-morrow come?”

To set the cackling reptiles free

And show my magnanimity,

I send this volume, neatly bound,

To all my Quaker friends around.

Hope they’ll procure at all avents,

My poetry, for twenty cents.

[3]

HANDLE FOR THE BATTLE-AXE.

--------

BOOK I,

Of some for glory [s]uch the boundless rage,

That they’re the blackest scandal of their age. YOUNG

I sing the Quakers,—Some of ancient time,

Some modern deeds, * selected, stain my rhyme.

“To every soul that enters Heaven,

Much persecution mus’t be given :

But if thee fail to get a dressing,

Thy good intention claims the blessing.”

Misconstruing this, their plainest rule,

For want of Esther’ muse or Mule,

Or commentators, Zach, and Tim,

And, Timothy, or Silas trim;

Or else, deceived by Bolles, the priest,

Who thought to make the clan his jest;

(As future story shall decide;)

In this strange doctrine they confide :

That “If one die unpersecuted

His right divine may be disputed,

E’en though he spend his total life,

In vain attempts to kindle strife.

Whereas, not all the imps unclogg’d,

Can bar from Heaven, a Quaker flogg’d.”

So, burning for the immortal prize, |

These future tenants of the skies,

When they disease, or over fatten,

Lest they resign their souls to Satan,

Provoke their enemies to bless,—

Not always with the best success.

Where years uncounted intervene,

Lo! real merit toiled unseen!

Survey’d her influence extend,

-------------------------

* See Benedict, Backus, Connecticut ”Historical Collections,” and the Battle-Axe.

[4]

From heart to heart, from friend to friend;

Revenge let fall her useless goad,—

Quakes sighed along the narrow road,

And trembled for their souls, and trembled for their god.

A strange event! yet stranger still,

The furies slept in Quakerville!

Here envy, parsimony, spite,

Tired of contending, cease to fight;

Unhallowed faction, slander cease,

And Groton smiles to welcome peace.

Quakes wept—alas! who may not weep,

When all such virtues fall asleep?

To view his home, his heaven above,

Himself below, in hopeless love,

Without a rope, or wings, or ladder,

Who’d not proceed from mad to madder?

They saw, they wept; then growing huff,

Assembled under Bolles’ roof,

Where by his sanctified advice,

They hushed their babes, as still as mice,

And all betook to mental toils,

While hope inflamed, and anger boils;

Cursed and re-cursed their slow invention,

To rear the ladder of contention;

Till finally, a pious wit,

Upon the right expedient hit.

The project, singularly bold,

Was in this polish’d couplet told.

“I guess, (hem!) better go to meetin,

And gie the ministers a greetin.”—

Sudden from twenty gaping maws,

Babes, dogs, dames, husbands, roar applause.

Anticipation softens wo.

The sabbath come, to church they go;

Or North, or South, or East, or West,

Eager as Esau to be blest—

Take women, children, oxen, cart,

Tools, loads of work, and all so smart,

Declaring, ere the set of Sun,

The hated sects shall be undone;

Shall die, to sympathy unknown,

Their priests and idol overthrown;

Unless Christianity outbrave ’em

And whip sufficiently to save ’em.

Arrived at church, and now begun,

The worship of the Three in One,

Amid the gaze of wondering eyes,

[5]

Each Quaker to his work applies.

Without, one bawls—“back—jee—haw—whow”—

Within, sits madam carding tow;

There sounds the Axe’s melodious note,

Here peaceful Watrous opes his throat;

“Elder,” says he, “thee knowest thee lie’st,

And that the truth thee now deny’st”;

There to their wives the frugal send,

Breeches to make, and shirts to mend;

Too, managed by a damsel, coy,

The linen-wheel here hums her joy;

And pious Quakers, while within,

Uncover not their heads—’twere sin.

With eyes affixed where Watrous croaks,

Mistaken for the infernal folks,

Thus they proceed, unpunished, vex’d;

The Reverend explained the text.

Thus, to each parish in the county,

They gave a portion of their bounty,

And saved the souls, if right I view’t,

Of all they deigned to persecute. *

Meeting dismissed, their labor done,

The valiant worthies, having shown

Their zeal, their goodness, greatness, love,

Collect their goods, and homeward move.

Xantippe, fell no sharper pain,

When all her rage was spent in vain.

Prior to this, they chose a day,

When each, his suffering should portray,

And domicil in which to meet,—

All seek the sorrowful retreat.

A silence made, up rose one Tim‡,—

His head besmear’d, his visage grim,

More like the feathered nations grown,

Since he departed Quakertown—

And thus exclaimed. “Beloved Friends!

See what the king of Heaven sends

For my reward! now am I pure,

My faith is firm, my soul secure.

Would all, had merited like me,

Some persecution—but contented be.

These gaudy plumes that you behold,

Bedeck my form, debar the cold;

Me these have raised from sorrow’s keen distress,

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* Query. Why might they not persecute and save, as well as be saved by persecution?

‡ Not one of the authors of the “Battle-Axe.”

[6]

These claim for me the crown of righteousness.

“Listen, O saints, while I proceed,

And briefly tell my noble deed!

The Presbyterian church I sought,

(New London town,) t’ await my lot.

As I approached, around the door,

There stood some fifty men or more,

Who soon must enter, as the bell

Had tolled—how long, I cannot tell.

“Down on the steps I sat, undaunted,

Resolved to suffer what I wanted,

Resolved to meet, without one sigh,

A persecuting enemy;

Through tribulations thus to rise,

And dwell immortal in the skies.

“I sat unmoved, the advancing group

Inflamed my soul, inspired my hope;

Onward it presses, while amain,

The threshold each strives first to gain,

And coming up, quick dashes in,

One here, one there; a constant din.

For, as I moved one side, they passed

The other, till at length, I cast

My body prostrate on the floor,

Right in the opening of the door,—

And now, thought I, the way is clogged,

And shall be, till this Quaker’s flogged;

But Heavens! what a world of pains,

They straddled o’er, like flocks of cranes.

Alas? too wide the space to fill,

In vain I sought expedients still.

“My disappointment, and vexation,

Persuaded next vociferation;

So out I screamed, with much address,

In prayer-time, but without success.

“Chagrin, fatigue, desire, and what is worse,

Doubts how I might escape the eternal curse,

All, all, conspired to whelm me in despair,

Waver my constancy, torment my fear,

Shrouded in direful gloom I flew,

With deafning strides, from pew to pew;

Then, staring wildly at his grace,

I cursed the work, and left the place.

“Judge now my grief (’tis easier judged than told)

When I withdrew; attempts were manifold—

‘Why do they not succeed?’ thought I retreating,

Doubtless my friends, elsewhere, will get a beating;

[7]

Must I alone remain, silent my pipes,

Whilst they shall glory in full forty stripes?

No, no indeed, no, this shall never be;

I’ll flog somebody else, if he won’t me.”

“Fired with such thoughts, I travelled on,

Trusting my case to Him alone,

As through my soul the spirit shone,

More radiant than the beams of noon;

My soul, ecstatic, rose to Heaven,

In silent prayer—the boon was given.

“Lo! in the distance did I see,

The hostile band approaching me.

And from their gait and mien, I knew

They were some seacraft’s jolly crew.

They hurried up, and would have passed—

‘Sirrah’, said I, ‘why off so fast?’

When, in a trice, the tars amazed,

Slackened their pace, and grinning gazed.

“Now all the trouble that I took,

Was just to spit upon the cook,

“Quickly he seized me by the arm,—

‘Come follow me, I mean no harm’—

But when I struck the little whelp‘

He called on all the rest for help.

Pellmell they came, and having gagg’d me,

Down on board the ship they dragg’d me,

Stripped, and lashed me to the shroud,

Without one intervening cloud,

To shield me from the scorching blaze,

Of Phoebus’ keen, solstitial rays;

While others hastened to prepare,

The thong, the feathers, and the tar.

Ah me! how can I now relate,

Th’ impending cruelties of fate?

“The torturer comes, and stationed nigh,

Raises his bloody weapon to the sky;

A shout—it fell! and thirteen gashes sore,

Deluged my body in a flood of gore.

The fiend insatiate, every sinew strains—

’Gain streams of blood from all my mangled veins,

And thro’ my trembling bones, throb most excessive pains

‘Mercy!’ I cried, but scarcely spoke,

When the third scourge performed its gory stroke.

Forth gushed the crimson, from each wound afresh,

And bathed, in my own blood, my lacerated flesh.

“Faint, and half roasted in the sun,

My back thus torn with forty stripes, save one,

[8]

They took me down, all clotted and imbued,

And fixed these badges of my fortitude:

Badges, I say, these tar and feathers are,

And witnesses of what I now declare;

And though they rather hide, than point them out,

They show there may be wounds, and you’ll not doubt.

“My hope supported in the trying hour,

Nor did I shrink beneath the torturer’s power:

But proved myself deserving of the prize,

That shall enhance me, when this body dies.

“Now all whom zeal for Quakerism inspires,

Or in whose breasts glow sympathetic fires

Where virtues suffer—suffer but to shine.

With brighter rays, from actions great, like mine,

Shout the glad theme, proclaim from pole to pole,

That I, through faithfulness, have saved my soul.”

He ceased, but not a single voice,

In his good fortune could rejoice,

Silence prevailed, save oft a groan;

Each felt Tim’s luck was not his own.

Now they departed, one by one,

And Tim was left almost alone;

One lingering dame, howe’er, confessed,

Defeat disturbed her sighing breast,

And thus her speech, in gentle plaint,

Poured forth the sorrows of a saint.

“Alas! alas! I little thought,

To carry all my work for nought.”

Methinks he tried to sooth her grief,

But guess he afforded no relief.

Good Quakers, then I came away,

Nor saw them till next Sabbath day,

Howbeit, ’tis said, with some foundation,

They make prodigious preparation,

And gathered teams, and work, and tools,

And waited, like a pack of fools,

Wishing it Sunday, every day,

Till all the week was lazed away.

But this, ’twere rather hard to credit,

Although the Quaker Priest had said it.

At length, the sabbath came, when all,

Rich, poor, drunk, sober, great and small,

Were huddled off in glutted carts,

To practice the redeeming arts.

Each, full of ardor, seemed to vie,

In stratagem, with Timothy;

(Perhaps, indeed, his envious state,

[9]

Increased a thirst for sim’lar fate;)

Yet, though his very plans were tried,

And others introduced beside,

They all came home, discouraged sore,

And grown no better than before.

Unransomed from the final doom,

They dread the swift advancing tomb;

Some plead that persecution’s nought,

Others, allege it must be sought;

These, through belief, that ‘twill be given,

Those, wavering, fear the loss of Heaven;—

Their tottering hope begins to fall,

And Quakery, seems to weave her pall.

Sunk in obscurity, the wit

Saw his dear project deemed unfit;

Until the persecutionists,

Plied their opponents with their fists;

Who, after pithy exhortation,

Beheld the fatal separation,

Confessed their errors, re-confessed,

And meekly thought, that he knew best.

When doves were guarded by a hawk,

And Esop made the foxes talk,

One cunning renard, hungry, lean,

Roving in quest of food, I wean,

Spying a bunch of grapes at length,

Sprung for them with his utmost strength;

Tried every plan he could devise,

Determined that they should be his;

But finding them beyond his power,

He left them, crying, “they are sour.”

Just so the Quakers, for a while.

Attempt, in vain, the heights of guile;

Try slandering, cheating, fretting, hoaxing,

Lying, and as these fail, try coaxing—

These, and a thousand more they try,

To wrest themselves from infamy;

The half of which, if it were told,

Would take till you were very old:

While each, in its succession failed,

Leaving the holy saints entailed

To the dark realms of endless wo,

Where none but demon spirits go.

Our Quakes, much like the fabled fox,

Cry, “’tis a perfect paradox:

What! can our souls be doomed to hell,

[10]

Since we, on earth, behave so well?

Since every Rogerene is an heir of bliss,

Whipt, or unwhipt, what matters, that, or this?”

Thus arguing, they throng their priest,

(Who stood a jackanapes confessed,)

And ask, “Said’st thou we shall be blest,

And triumph in eternal rest

If Quakers? if we hold out pure,

Can this, alone, a heaven secure?”

“True,” says the papal umpire, “true;

This I have often taught to you:

Ye cannot doubt, my friends, ye know,

For ’tis the Bible tells you so.”

“Then,” cry the rabble, “what the use

Of persecution and abuse?”

The crafty priest saw he was caught,

And deemed it fit to answer naught;

But when they pressed him very hard,

He burst his jaws, and thus declared.

“If Quakes, we shall be blest indeed,

Nor persecution do we need;

Yet, know this truth, if suff’rers here,

Your happiness shall be double there.

Such bliss, all I desire to gain,

Such bliss aye costs a life of pain.”

Though so desirable, I ween,

Few Quakes this good effect have seen;

We grant, that many wished to gain it,

Yet few, if any, did obtain it;

And, as their whip-thirst does decrease,

We hail the time when it shall cease.

Now, half discouraged by defeat,

Our Rogerene neighbors only cheat,

Or doom us to their spacious clacks,

Or failing, print the *Battle-Axe—

The Battle-Axe, since Roger’s time

Preserves their writings, prose or rhyme,

Forming three lampoon polyglots;

Containing some misquoted thoughts—

This next, my willing muse shall sing,

As merry as the merry spring;

But for the present, this suffice,

To prove that foxes talk, and Quakes are wise.

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* A volume including a part of Roger’s writings, the Battle-Axe, and the “Effects of the Battle-Axe” is specified, here and in the succeeding book.

[11]

BOOK II.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

No creature smarts so little as a fool.—POPE.

Dread Archolochus’ verse! the muse assist,

And make deception ache, and wring and twist;

While I may drive these Quakers, in thick swarms,

Out from the covert of religious forms;

Or, if not drive them, snatch the veil away,

And bear the harpies to abashing day;

Show whence their race, tell of their fiend-like zeal,

Show how they cast out devils, how they heal;

In fine, sing the whole holy Battle-Axe,

Its authors’ fame, its use, and what it lacks.

On its first pages, John* has place:

The father of the Quaker race.

Say, in a goal appears he best,

Or, ex officio, a priest?

His written laws, of which ’tis said,

“He that hath patience, let him read,”†

Show his abilities: and to attest

His spotless character, his spirit blest,

Learn why he was divorced from *****

And took a hag, his future bride;

Ne’er made her lawfully his wife,

But with her spent—‡ ended his life.

To prove exact the flagrant deed,

A stark new section swelled his creed;

Pursuing which, the bastard sons

Of Quakers, take their loved ones.

Read, if you can, his choice adages,

That battle half the Axe’s pages.

’Twill puzzle a most dextrous wit,

To tell what means that holy writ;

So should you fail to solve its use,

We’ll plead together our excuse;

A dire dilemma this, indeed!

Dear Honestus, what shall we plead?

Let’s say, (for slander should not rant

In texts, and scraps, and vulgar cant,)

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* John Rogers was the founder of this sect.

† See Benedict’s Hist. of the Baptists.

‡ This is a mistake, He afterwards “put her away.” See Conn. Hist. Coll.

[12]

Let’s say, its meaning there’s no telling,

Such tangled periods, such spelling.

Enough, perhaps, to prove great John

Religious, so we’ll travel on.

Should you think this inadequate,

Peruse the history of our State;

That, shall convince you beyond doubt,

Rogers has gone the heavenly rout.

He is the Quakes’ illustrious chief,

He framed their d[o]ctrine, their belief:

They take to Heaven a shorter road,

And follow Rogers, more than God.

Him past: next come good Zachari,

And Timothy and Timothy.

These carry Quaker literature,

“What” to perfection! To be sure.

Our neighbors, all around, forsooth,

Tell us; they did’nt [sic] write the truth.”

Away such notions, foolish, rude,

Does Irving boast exactitude?

They followed fancy’s airy flight,

To please their object, their delight,—

“Delight to please? Our neighbors claim,

The intention was to slander them;

Nor only slander, but belie.”—

I grant it, sir, but listen why;

Listen, and you shall hear the cause,

Explained by Phrenologic laws.

Their heads, though different from the ape’s,

Possess’d not less peculiar shapes.

In front, where mem’ry reigns supreme

O’er common mortals, it would seem

Imagination* stood alone,

The other bumps, entirely gone.

She, double organ, fix’d astride,

A shrivelled face, as if to ride;

Or like two mammoth pumpkins hung,

Their stems united, ever sung,

Alike, as circumstance might urge,

The sonnet gay, the mournful dirge.

Like two huge mountains, seen afar,

(If on the earth, no matter where,)

Whose forms, with equal grandeur rise,

And loose their summits in the skies;

Whose loftiest oaks appear but shrubs—

-------------------------

* Ideality.

[13]

Where bloody tigers lead their cubs,

And wolverines and panthers prowl,

And hungry wolves and jackals howl;

Where gazels speed their tim’rous flight,

And serpents, and hyenas fight;

Where the terrific lion roars,

Affrights each mount and shakes her bowers

Her bowers whole savage armies rove,

Prowess their virtue, hate their love;

Where vocal with the plumy throng,

The forest chants her morning song;

So rose their marv’lousness, less high,

So seemed their bristles shrubbery:

Innumerous animals might rove,

Unseen, unheard, amid the grove

Perched on the boughs, a puny thing

Sat—fledged or not it would not sing.

Now if their pumpkin fancy stray,

And wild chimeras pave the way,

The void of memory would show,

Real or not, all might be so;

And mountain marv’lousness would ken,

And seen, believe and rule the pen.

Sir, if you think you cannot trust

Phrenology, their acts you must;

Acts speak the tenor of the soul,

Their actions shall confirm the whole.

That very book, which you despise,

Because it teems with slanderous lies,

Shows on each page, the puffing flight,

Of wit and fancy hy-ty-tight,

“With heads to points the gulf they enter,

Linked perpendicular to the centre;

And, as their heels elated rise,

Their heads attempt the nether skies.’’

Now. marching to the empyrial throne,

They captivate high heaven alone;

Drive its possessors flaming down,

And give it all to Quakertown.

Now, changing from immortal Gods,

They haste to earth, assert their rods,

Enter the politicians’ schools,

And find the world (save them) are fools:

Or flown to hell, in deep despair

Held converse with the devils there.

[14]

Sir, read the Axe, your folly rue,

Admit Phrenology is true.

Lest of my proof you still complain,

And lest you blame the just again,

I’ll show their void of mem’ry great,

As void as bumps would indicate.

Much proof on each I might produce.

And you might too, so what the use.

Then, lest an argument o’erspun

Should tire your patience, only one.

T’ uproot all doubt let this supply,

This famous act of Zachari.

Once on a time, the good old soul

Tended a mill for half its toll;

Whom contract bound, by night or day

To lock the door, when going ’way.

But ah! forgetfulness decreed,

Quite other than the contract plead:

For oft he left the mill unclosed,

And all the granaries exposed,

(Where many neighbour’s grists were stored,

Beside what toll they might afford,)

To thieves and Quakes. Some weeks gone by,

The owner scolded Zachari,

Threat’ning, if any corn was lost,

To make him pay whate’er it cost.

Says Zach, “Thee ought to blame me not,

I meant to lock it, but forgot.

In time to come I’ll recollect,

Or pay the loss if you direct.”—

“This,” says the owner, “all you need,

To lock the door as you agreed.”

So said, the latter waits t’ observe,

How Zach’s weak mem’ry now will serve;—

But finding for a mouth or more,

The mill left open, as before,

Concludes a medicine has failed,

Which, if more powerful, had prevailed.

Meantime a neighbor came to buy,

Of him (the owner) corn or rye.

Said he, “At Zachy’s there’s some toll—

He’s not at home,—go take the whole;

Nor let him know that you were sent,

Unless the door is locked.”—He went.

At eve came Zach—Heavens, what a sight!

His wife and children took to flight.

Scampering, shrieking, groaning, sighing—

[15]

He heard, and hastened, sobbing, crying,

“Ho, there! Come back, what is the matter?

Why flee me thus? I aint a satyr:

Stop, stop, I say, I’m your dear Zach,

Come back, come back, come back, come back.”

They heard and trembling turned: Said she,

(His wife) “Dear Zachy is it thee?

I thought—’em—stole the corn—same men—

Aint ‘nough left to gie the hen.”

Zach ran to meet her bathed in tears,

Showed her mistake, dispelled her fears,

Learned what had happen’d, how the toll

Was taken.—Rage pervades his soul.

Now to the mill he straight repairs,

Sees the foul havoc, raves, and swears,

With many a sublime prologue,

That he’ll annihilate the rogue;

Fixes a club, to allow with ease

The creaking door eighty degrees,

Then, ‘neath its firm, unerring blow,

To make the bold advent’rer bow:

This done, the family retire,

And Lethe all their souls inspire.

Next day, when waked, (at nine or ten,)

Zacky got up to feed the hen;

No grain on hand, undrest, unshorn,

He waddled to the mill for corn.

Arrived, he oped the dangerous door,—

Fell weltering in his spumy gore;

The forests tremble, mountains rock,

Earth quaked and groaned beneath the shock.

After the wit and genius he has shown,

To set a trap to knock his honor down,

Though unacquainted, none can wrangle more,

That obstinacy kept unshut the door.

This proves his lack of memory,

This act confirms Phrenology;

Who reason right will thence agree,

The void was common to the three;

For the bumpnosticator finds,

That sim’lar heads hold sim’lar minds[.]

All ye who erst contemned the Axe[,]

Receive it now, forgive its lacks;

Join ye my amicable lays,

Extol its beauties, sing its praise,

Teach your descendants how to spell

From that improvement, bid them tell

[16]

To future age the high renown,

Gained by the saints of Quakertown:

Rogers the chief, good Zachari,

Great Timothy, and Timothy.

Next we who read the Axe will find,

Where Tim* stretched all his power of mind;

Perhaps his sufferings to claim,

Perhaps t’ immortalize his name.

This read, turn we where Quaker swains,

Charmed by the muse, exhibit strains

Prolific prophets here unfurled

The wondrous fact! that Quakes might fill the world.

No doubt by Syrius and Procyon inspired;

Read them who can—excuse me, I am tired.

See next the man condemned to Hell,

Because he prayed not quite so well.

Now haste we lastly, gladly too,

Where Sammy Chapman meek and true,

Confessed he had been dragged astray,

By Satan, from Quaker way.

Con well the stanzas where he swore, †

(Hiding his Axe behind the door,)

“If one d—d Quaker enters here,

Only his life shall pay the fare.”

Think what a happy “rapture” this!

How very like consummate bliss!

I’ll tell you (pardon the digression)

Briefly what prompted this confession.

Sam like the noted Luther Gear,

Quaker’d or twice or thrice a year.

Whenever brethren vexed his wrath,

It ended in a loss of faith.

To fix this floating Delos firm,

As oft they wished as saw him squirm;

And first proceed to inquire the cause,

Judging his actions by thy laws,

O brightest child of bastard Quacks,

Thou perfect code, thou Battle-Axe!

The Quaker nobles all confessed,

Sam of some devil was possessed,

Which oft at will produced this schism,

Plotting his fall from Quakerism.

-------------------------

* The same Tim mentioned in Book I.

† The following is from his peculiar “Confession.” “I thought to myself never will I suffer them (Quakers) to come into my house again and fell to cursing and swearing, and said I would kill the first one that ever entered my house again; for which I got my axe and put it behind the door, and swore that I would split the first damned rascal’s head that entered the door again.—I fell into a rapture, &c.” See “Effects of the Battle-Axe.” After confessing, Samuel Chapman, Eloped and never returned to Quakertown.

[17]

All, too, agreed to cast it out,

And fit for bliss th’ unhappy lout.

So, having bound him on a sled,

They whipped, and dragged him almost dead,

“O’er hill, o’er dale, through bush, through brier,

O’er park, o’er pale, through flood, through fire;”

Till tired and sick, th’infernal rogue

Leaped out and barked—“just like a dog.”

Sam at command must now confess,

To pay their kind officiousness,

Forthwith; for if he once complained,

They’d think a devil still remained.

Swift from his tongue the words they took,

And scribed them in that holy book,

The Battle-Axe; where now they speak

Volumes to the backsliding Quake.

(Should any say Sam never wrote it,

Tell such, O Quakes, you do not doubt it.)

See next his muse, attendant friend,

Absconded to the volume’s end.

Him read, we’ll close the book and rest,

Nor ask why Quakes alone are blest.

They, in their synagogue, each Sabbath day,

While other sects are doomed to preach and pray,

Peruse those pages, and with sweet delight,

Receive the spirit of quiescent night.

And when the vivid lightnings rend the sky,

And when nocturnal shades are drawing nigh,

They crowd the mansions of their faultless sires,

And taste the joys that Rogerism inspires;

There read, and read, the heroes of the past,

Till, on their bloated sides they rest at last;

And, mindless of their fate, like rambling sheep,

While Miller calls them to the judgment, sleep.

Thus have I sung the sacred Battle-Axe,

Its authors’ fame, its use, and want of facts.

Go righteous Quaker, with redoubled zeal,

Go, make mankind thy sav’ry influence feel;

Tell christian sects how little bliss would cost,

How soon, if they proceed, all will be lost,

How condescending thou art, and how wise,

Ready to do them favors, or advise:

Advance in piety and lucre still,

Boast of thy good deeds, and of others’ ill,

Follow the road that pious Rogers trod,

Expand the Axe, be ranked a demigod;

[18]

Go, tell the world they ought to let thee rule

Nor blush if the unhallowed call thee fool;

Procure a minx for every duteous son,

E’er he shall reach the age of twenty-one;

Then, other sects deep in oblivion hurl’d,

Quakers shall rise sublime, and fill the world.

--------

BOOK III.

Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task renew:

Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.—YOUNG.

Ye Quaker nymphs romantic! come along,

A friendly choir, partake my friendly song.

Ye Naiads gay, that dance the dimpling rill,

And Oreads, if Diana leads you still,

And Dryads, from your forest tripping down,

And all ye rural gods of Quakertown,

Awake! I sing the conscience clean,

And faith unwavering of the Rogerene.

Teach me, O muse, the subject understood,

T’ evade each act obscene, to cull the good;

That this great argument may clearly show,

What heavenly spirits walk this earth below.

Quakes heard their *prophets, and obeyed,

Old barns were bought, and houses made;

Shop, sty, or crib—each gran’ry room,

For nobler fruit, renounced its doom,

Strange metamorphoses! forth sprung,

In tameless herds, the gabbling young.

The babies mewl around the doors,

Or crowd the sunny rocks in scores;

Striplings, like blackbirds, in the trees

Sit, croaking at the passing breeze;

There, o’er the meadow, many a way,

The well-grown sisters, scolding stray,

There brothers, in unequal strife,

Grapple and fight—all teems with life:

Peopled, the plains and vallies [sic] cry,

While hills reflective hail the sky;

The sky, where Quakers yet shall rove,

Conquerors of the world, and Jove.

They, like the lad, whose eye so quick,

Could see clear through the arithmetic,

-------------------------

* This refers to Book II. Prolific prophets, &c.

[19]

Beheld with joy about to come,

The awful, grand Millennium.

Ah cruel Death! that ruthless foe,

Unsate by men, seized Quakers too;

And all these souls, to whom was given

To visit earth, returned to heaven.

To intercept entire defeat,

Two wives they ask—the scheme’s complete:

For if as erst so many fall

By death, one half survives the pall.

Meeting in Niah’s upper hall,

Th’ illustrious Quaker nation all,

In one grand council, argued long,

If bigamy is right or wrong.

Their ladies did not like the plan,

Of marrying but half a man,

Yet all the wiser Quakes, and priest,

Declared they’d have two wives at least;

Of which was one, the best of men,

Whose fam’ly numbered thirty, then.

Their tall, stout arguments in prose,

Had dragged a week up to its close;

When oratory halts, t’ abide

What the majority decide.

The priest stood up, looked doubly grave,

Spoke of the souls their vote would save,

Said Niah, “Vote! a world reclaim!”—

Up jumped a pertinacious dame,

And interfered. “With your permission,

My lord, I’ll read this exposition;”

(As she unrolled the doom of man,

And thus in lengthy tones began.)

* “The Pharisees to tempt the Lord,

Therefore they did inquire,

If men might put away their wives,

Whenever they did desire.

“But when Christ come to answer them,

He told them to a fraction;

He quoted back when man began,

For to get the exaction.

“When man was made he was alone,

At length appeared another,

Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone,

And so they, loved each other.

“For she was taken from his side,

And the flesh was closed together;

-------------------------

* These are the production of Esther’s muse, and are transcribed verbatim.

[20]

No rib was reserved for another bride,

But closed up forever.

“So that these two became one flesh,

For to forsake all other;

He must forsake his nearest friends,

His father, and his mother.

“If a man must forsake his nearest friends,

For her that is so dear,

How can he take another wife,

And never interfere.

“But after men did multiply,

And hearts grew hard by sinning,

They was killed in wars and took more wires

But not in the beginning.

“When men had took them many wives,

Though it was a delusion,

Many of them they put away,

And all did make confusion.

“Their wives being of a weaker kind,

And could not fight their battles,

They being hard, and heathen like,

Compared them to their cattles.

“But when the time of Christ appeared,

A woman was his mother;

No man of might, could claim a right,

Of father or own brother.

“But men did crucify their Lord,

Nor would they take warning,

But unto woman he first appeared,

Who was seeking him in morning.

“It seems that they had many wives,

In time of the apostles;

The Bishops and the Deacons first,

Did set them right examples.

“A man, the husband of one wife,

Since she has caused him sorrow,

How can he get another wife,

Unless he lusteth for her?

“And if he does, the scripture says,

Adultery is committed;

And he that pleads for such a deed,

Is surely to be pitied.

“Since that the light does shine so bright,

Which is given by our maker.

No man alive, pleads for two wives,

Except the Rogerene Quaker.”

Confounded and astonished, all.

[21]

In hot disorder fled the hall,

Urging, hasting, cuffing, grumbling,

Hither dashing, thither tumbling;

As ghosts from churchyards, robed in white,

Belch forth, amidst the gloom of night.

Thenceforward, Rogerism dispersed,

Mingled with what it counted worst;

Degenerated Quakes were seen,

Almost as peaceable as men;

No slander glorified our land,

No matrimony contraband;

Till Nancy, Dan, and Tim’s bright son,

Perfected what their sires begun;

Doubled the matrimonial tie,

And ground the Axe—up to its eye.

These pure reformers shall renew,

The ancient faith, and glory too,

Teach Quakes they ought to fill the earth,

And patterns die, of conscious worth.

Anon, O Quakes, the gladsome day,

Haste, haste ye on the jubilee;

Haste, drive imperfect sects away,

And set the world from order free.

Then know when earth to you is given,

’Tis time that ye should enter Heaven;

Then from your toils and sorrows rise,

And march triumphant to the skies;

Then shall all else in hell be bound;

Then all the glory, praise, redound

To Rogers, Silas, Zachari,

Dan, Nancy, Tim, and Timothy.

Ravished with such rich display

Of faith and conscience, in this day,

I roll me back to deeds of yore,

Whence Rogers plucked the wreath he wore.

Oft did this prince, of Quakers boast

His matchless faith—how, wrecked and lost,

’Mid ocean tempest’s mad career,

His faith would buoy him up, his faith would steer:

Safely to port the shattered bark would glide,

O’er all the horrors of the troubled tide;

How, placed amongst disease and death,

His health would be preserved by faith;

Were which increased but little more,

All Groton’s rocks should flee her shore;

At his command the hillocks wane,

And mountains tumble to the main.

[22]

Would be had lived, he might have been

A potent help to railroad men.

But ah! he paid the frantic boast,

His life, his precious life, it cost.

A meagre, vaunting, wicked clown,

O’erheard the prince of Quakertown;

And challenged him to Boston, where

The small-pox raged. The envious pair,

Sooner than said, the march began;

Now walked on foot, and now they ran,

Defying each the other’s wiles,—

The distance thence, one hundred miles.

Returned, quoth John to Ned, “You’ll rue

Our journey—it is death to you;

While I, unharmed, shall live at ease,

Trusting my faith against “disease.”

“Fudge; die of the small-pox! you dunce,”

Replied the wag, “I had it once.”

Enraged and mortified, great John,

His comrade blessed, left him anon,

Went home, his enemies forgiven,

Crawled into bed, and flew to heaven.

His fam’ly vanished, by degrees,

Under contagious disease;

Till through his faith, (he had no pride,)

Himself, his hag, and children died:

Died, martyrs to the Quaker faith.

How pure their lives! how fit the death!

If spirits e’er with mortals blend,

Great hero of my song! descend,

And list’n while shouts and timbrels peal,

Thy followers’ conscience, faith, and zeal.

As thou, illustrious! didst command,

The remnant of thy valiant band,

T’ retain the fact, while years should drift along,

The Quaker creed is right, all others wrong;

Through this cold world, through every church to roam,

Accuse, condemn, and ne’er arrive at home;

To damn all rectors, priests, to endless wo,

Their own excepted, him adore below;

No grace at meals, no public prayer allow,

Both wound their honor—hence are wrong I trow;

Study no science which no money brings;

Wear shoes, not boots, for *boots are dangerous things;

To claim protection from their country’s laws,

But ’twere injustice to defend her cause;

-------------------------

* The wearing of cow-hide boots is now tolerated.

[23]

Should they assert the freeman’s right, no time

Could expiate the sacrilegious crime;

To use no carnal weapons, vexed by friends,

But print a lie, this best the quarrel ends;

To seek for persecution, fill the earth,

Labor on Sunday, boast superior worth;

As bees redundant in a foodless hive,

Cribbed and pent up in Quakertown to live;

T’ erecting jails, forts, churches, lend no aid,

However poor, whatever price be paid;

Nor break their bones, nor urge them to their graves,

Surgeons, physicians, wreckless, worthless knaves;

When pain and sickness deign to snatch their breath,

To wind their heads with rags, and act their faith;

Thus have they done; obedient all,

Rich, poor, drunk, sober, great and small.

To every creed, and to thee true,

What conscience dictates, they pursue;

Pursue, and suffer e’en like thee

Sweet martyrdom to Quakery.

Rejoining in the mortal strife,

They sing the approaching end of life;

All free from pride, then soar away,

And bask in everlasting day.

So when the swan retires to die,

She beats her own sad elegy.

Wrapt into time, behold thy care

Inhaling the infected air,

Which, issuing from their glutted rooms,

And gath’ring round their stifled domes,

Lurks pois’nous in the vital rill,

And breeds a typhus baffling skill.

Cabbage was eaten; heads were wound

With blankets, rags;—no cure was found.

’Twas “strange that now a corpse should lay,

Who ate so hearty yesterday,”

Yet strange as ’twas, they sought the sky,

Till justly fearing all would die,

Quakes called a council to decide,

What caused the plague: they found ’twas pride.

Now Quaker pride ne’er ta[i]nts the heart,

But roams externally, athwart

The pious will of master Snooks,

And makes him seem somewhat like folks.

Righteous committees were elected,

That pride might be at once ejected;

Who sharing the same zeal that sent,

[24]

Upon th’ important mission went.

At first, avoiding needless waste,

Chairs, tables, bureaus were defaced;

The china ware (no prayers could save)

Was doomed to an untimely grave;

Mantaus* were turned, besmeared new coats;

Till they extract all minor moats;

Then straight attack the more flagitious,

Disease still raging unpropitious.

As chanc’d these purifiers where

A varnished clock, with timely care,

Had warned a brother, as ‘tis said,

When to get up, and when to bed,

They heard its tinkling, looked around,

And spied, with grief, the source of sound.

Red’ning with indignation, all,—

“Seize it”—as loud as they could bawl,—

“Seize it”—and simultaneous fly;

Fire flashes in each angry eye;—

Bustling they dragged th’ offender off,

Sentenced amid the clamorous scoff,

And stoned to death the idol god,

And buried it beneath the sod.

There lillies wave, nor roses bloom,

No stone points out the timepiece’s tomb.

Now more enthusiastic grown,

They hie and rage through Quakertown.

Wo to the beauteous mantlepiece,

And piled up shelf! (for sin must cease!)

Wo to the black-washed bedstead, clean,

To mouldings striped with red and green!

Wo to the door, and door-case tight!

All fell before the bedlamite.

The barefaced walls, consigned to fate,

Were washed in floods of Billingsgate,

Till every house, and every soul,

Regenerated, and made whole,

Presents, no doubt, a lovely scene,

And purer than the vault serene.

All did not cure, disease was chained;

Though purged from pride the filth remained.

Then first they sought Physician’s aid,

(Pardon the sin, no price was paid,)

By whose advice, the sick were prest,

To die together in one nest;

-------------------------

* At this time the young Quakeresses, were not allowed to wear calico unless made up wrong side out—some disobeyed, but were obliged to turn them.

[25]

Their domes were slabbered o’er with lime,

Laved, scoured, and aired—for the first time.

Such deep contrition did they feel,

That thou, O John, the plague didst heal.

Again thy tribe puissant live,

Again tenfold their virtues thrive.

The itch, that foulest of “complaints,”

Once raged among thy Quaker saints.

None could invent a healing mode,

Not inconsistent with thy code:

So to a tardy, certain close

Of life, and life’s tumultuous woes

Some meekly trudged, at Terror’s call,

And, mindless midst the sullen pall,

That they a world should cleanse and fill,

This putrid world of putrid ill,

Calmly drew forth their latest breath,

Devoted victims to pure faith.

Others a fading hope were watching,

Wishing or fearing not to die,

While a clean conscience kept them scratching,

And ceaseless prayer to thee did fly:

When to their joy and great surprise,

(He scarce believed his very eyes,)

A sinless saint, of prying soul,

As pawing o’er his brainless poll,

Leward, ’neath Ideality,

Handfuls of animalculae

Descried. Quoth he, “Can it be wrong,

To pizen out this varmint throng?

Our brothers, heedless, scrupulous fools,

Died of this plague, to save our rules.

Would they had been as wise as me,

They might have lived, some happier day to see.[“]

To save Quakes lives, and eke his

He made the grand discovery known.

The swains in gratitude, his genius bright,

Praising, declare; “to kill the itch is right.”

Now teems with sulphurous perfumes,

All Quakertown; crackling illumes

Her coal-smutched hearths, the faggot flame,

Quakes urge their lard and cider claim;

Each melancholy eye does glow,

And hope lights up the cheek of wo.

Thus they, obedient to thy will,

Firm in the faith continuing still,

(Disease escapes the holy land,)

[26]

Shine forth a consecrated band.

Their faith, morality, combine,

And glitter on my every, line.

Perfection with prodigious paces,

Enhanced by true submission’s graces,

Dewed by the penitential tear,

Arrives at her full stature here.

Nay, more, a surplus some do win,

Of purity, and pardon sin.

For late, I recollect, yes I,

A saint for peace’s sake coined a lie,

And lodged it, for divine protection,

Within that curious interjection,

The Battle-Axe. Said he, “A neighbor,

Just as we bargained, paid my labor.

Now learn the fact, the greedy boar,

Was full-fed, paid—eight dollars more.

This much received, Quakes join’d to blame;

“Not half enough—for shame! for shame!

Cursed be the ----------” ’twas too bad.

He might have given all he had.

Long lived the ----------, and long

Had mourned his guilt, thy stingy throng:

His guilt that o’er the infernal strife,

Swung him depending by the thread of life;

When their compassion, bursting like a flood,

Swollen with benevolence, and all things good,

Offered (with his permission) in a trice,

For fifty dimes, a very moderate price,

To wash away, or hide the guilty stain,

And wrest his soul from hell’s unending pain.

But would he pay the value, nor confess;

Rejecting thy salvation—who could bless?

Alas! the vital thread too flimsy, breaks;

He dies, unpardoned by the venal Quakes.

Still faithful, whom thou didst annoint,

All strive for nice perfection’s point;

Or, there arrived, of virtue fond,

Dash on t’ infinity beyond.

Lo! Sil, with “fists and feet,” impels

His non-resistence principles:

And with what skill, almost divine,

His brother’s widow’s farm “is mine.”

Now chosen men, with sacred packs,

Peddle the well-ground Battle-Axe,

T’ reform the world—the world, let’s see,

Have purchased four, at Boston three.

Lo! all, as consience [sic] bids them, draw

[27]

Their life, by thy own moral law;

Trace for their youth the heavenward way,

And beat them if they disobey;

Lest, hopelessly, some wily plan,

Dispel the Quake, and show the man;

And, here and yon as Peace directs,

In christian souls portray defects.

But I detain thee from the skies,

Their acts increase, their virtues rise;

(Come some kind zephyr, break the spell)

Good bye, good riddance, fare thee well.

As once Creusa from Eneas sight,

Borne through thick shades, concealed her mystic flight,

Recedes John’s goblin, hurried from my view—.

How great his wisdom! and his love how true!

Rise, Rogerism all-powerful, rise,

Engross the earth, and excavate the skies,

Rear the big Axe and strike, (be careful what,

With this long handle what a gash you’ll cut!

See yon less fatal army wield the sword,

To save their country—O unfeeling horde!)

Robed in lampoon, on fibs to victory ride,

And Rogers shine eternally your guide;

On, Silas, on and join the battle bray,

One tide of Glory marks thy destined way;

Ye christian sects, o’erwhelmed, dissolved, expire!

Ye priests do penance, and ye popes admire!

FINIS.

ERRATA.—On seventh page, 8th line from bottom, for ’Gain, streams of blood, read ’Gain streams my blood.