Liber Primus

What vig’rous protests now assail my eyes?

See Jackson’s satellites in anger rise!

His ardent readers, steep’d in tales of love,

Sincere devotion to their leader prove;

In brave defence of sickly gallantry,

They damn the critic, and beleaguer me.

Ingenious Russell, I forgive the slur,

Since in such clever lines your sneers occur.

Your verse, with true Pierian heat inflam’d,

Should be at some more worthy object aim’d.

Think not, good rhymester, that I sought to spew

In my late letter merely what I know,

Nor that I labour’d, with my humble quill,

To bend the universe to suit my will.

My aim, forsooth, was but to do my best

To free these pages from an am’rous pest.

With no false hopes did I so strongly plead;

Small chance had I, unaided, to succeed.

Of Russell’s rhymes thus briefly I dispose,

And next consider Crean’s perspicuous prose.

Forbear, kind sir, to think my plaint was made,

That I my store of language might parade:

In truth, my words are not beyond the reach

Of him who understands the English speech;

But Crean, I fear, by reading Jackson long,

Hath lost the pow’r to read his mother tongue.

Yet hark! I face another diatribe;

My critic says, I am a luckless scribe.

Dismiss the charge! From that disgrace I’m free;

No line of fiction e’er was writ by me!

So much for Crean, but ere my song I end,

I porze, Fonetik Bennett too Kummend.

His rugged wit hath such a solid worth,

‘Tis not amiss to doubt his rustic birth,

And guess he toils, his protests to prepare,

Safe seated in an editorial chair,

From whence he hurls deceptive ridicule

‘Gainst all who fight soft Jackson and his school.

Scrawl on, sweet Jackson, raise the lover’s leer;

‘Tis plain, you please the fallen public ear.

As once in Charles the Second’s vulgar age,

Gross Wycherley and Dryden soil’d the stage;

So now again erotic themes prevail,

However loud the sterner souls bewail.

Pure fiction wanes, and baser writings rise—

But cease, my Muse! No more I’ll criticise.

Liber Secundus

Still louder bawl the bold Boeotian band,

And seize their arms at sentiment’s command:

The lovers’ legion, martially array’d,

To tender Jackson brings its eager aid.

Their acid quills, fresh pluck’d from Cupid’s wing,

At me the Myrmidons of Venus fling.

intrepid Saunders heads the hostile horde,

And hurls with deadly skill the poison’d word;

Help’d on by books, both sacred and profane,

He seeks to shine in the satiric strain.

Peace! Oklahoman, cease my words to rate:

“Jacksonian”, “Jacksonine”, “Josh Billings-gate”

Claim no existence but as satire’s tools;

Owe no allegiance to linguistic rules,

Whilst as for “Hanoverian”, take care

Lest as a faulty scholar you appear;

Too much upon your lexicon you lean,

For proper names in such are seldom seen.

As studious Saunders, like the kangaroo,

Jumps in a hansom, and is lost to view,

Laconic Bonner takes the leader’s place,

And throws his modest “classic” in my face.

Now fairer forms from out the ranks emerge;

The Amazons in reckless fury charge.

Good Madam Loop, like Crean of Syracuse,

Protests unkindly ‘gainst the words I use:

Whoe’er this lady’s firm esteem would seek,

In monosyllables must ever speak.

The North and West have now their rancour spent,

And Old Virginia joins the tournament.

Here once a nobler JACKSON wag’d his wars,

And died a hero in a glorious cause.

Lost is the cause, but deathless STONEWALL’S fame.

Alas, that lesser men should bear his name!

But down, my Muse, to present actions skip;

And meet th’ attack of Mistress Blankenship.

The maid of Richmond, with romantic mind,

Considers my opinions most unkind;

And finds in Jackson’s tales of love intense

A charming sweetness; beauteous innocence.

What fascination! Ah! what loveliness—

Save us, ye Gods, from such a nauseous mess!

Exactitude the fair one hardly heeds,

Since she “erratic” for “erotic” reads,

But unimportant ‘tis, for by my troth,

Jackson’s erratic and erotic both!

How vain the task such champions to oppose;

Fred’s fond battalion ev’ry moment grows.

Naught can I do, save here and now to close.

Liber Tertius

What skill’d replies can modest letters bring!

My waspish foes in metric manner sting:

Before my face in rage they buzz along,

And beat their wings in Heliconian song.

Russell, like Butler, seeks to school the times

In four-foot verse bestrown with double rhymes.

He lights on me, and stings with careless courage,

As if I were the Hudibras of our age.

For answ’ring sneers I vainly search my mind;

No blemish in his numbers can I find.

And yet, methinks, he still mistakes my aim,

When I ‘gainst dull erotic tales declaim.

To aid his cause, he points with logic’s art

At Boz, and Cooper, Avon’s bard, and Scott:

“Behold,” he cries, “thro’ classic pages move

The sweet delusions of idyllic love.”

Russell, ‘tis true. Give proper love its own,

But let us not be fed on love alone!

Now, heav’nly Muse, thy latest pupil see,

As Saunders bares his soul in poetry.

To grave heroics does his taste incline;

His verse is modell’d after Pope’s (or mine).

A worthy measure, worthily employ’d;

By no false accent is the ear annoy’d.

The wit is biting, and the language pure;

The sense, like Browning’s, is a bit obscure:

The thoughts in most ingenious cloaks are wrapp’d;

The metaphors, tho’ somewhat mix’d, are apt.

Thy pen, brave Saunders, from a ploughshare made,

Writes deadly words, and strikes us all afraid.

Beneath thy verse we guilty wretches cower;

Detested Lovecraft, and fierce Isenhour.

Stay, conqu’ring scribe, thou hast no need to fly,

When in the dust thy foemen prostrate lie.

But what shrill shoutings now offend my ears?

Methinks, some rough and raucous Rahs I hear.

No brutal force my new opponent lacks;

He bluntly yells, I should receive the axe!

ungentle headsman, spare a death so mean;

I vastly should prefer the guillotine.

The calmer, kinder Forrest next succeeds,

And mercy for unhappy Jackson pleads.

The plea is granted, for the war is o’er;

The crusty bachelor will rant no more.

Still may he rage, but never shall he pen it;

That task he leaves to honest Master Bennett.

Liber Quartus

Russell again! This time he tries to damn

His daz’d opponent with an epigram.

He shuns politeness in his spleenful scrawl,

And swears my stock of learning is but small.

In well-turn’d lines, with sickly venom writ,

He counts my failings to display his wit.

Yet for one fault, let Russell bear the curse:

‘Tis he that led the fighters into verse!

Russell, retire, as clever Cummings comes,

Who brilliant quips in jingling measure hums.

His tuneful nonsense charms the list’ning ear,

While wondrous merits in his pun appear:

He gains distinction and eternal fame,

From neatly playing on a hated name.

A third now seeks his rugged rhymes to wield,

And fierce fantastic Forster fills the field.

His searing satires no false arts adorn;

His learned lines the rules of metre scorn.

In true trochaic rage the bard begins,

When, lo! an odd iambus intervenes.

Some eight lines down, he strikes the ballad form,

But soon a dactyl swells the shapeless swarm:

The fifteenth line assumes heroic length,

And stands apart in solitary strength.

As for the rest, what man among us knows

If it be verse, or merely rhyming prose?

On Forster’s sense, I waste but little care,

For why discuss a thing that is not there?

Jackson’s forgot, but still the mob delight

To vent in venom’d verse their random spite:

Without a leader, and without a cause,

They force on me these long defensive wars.

Methinks, when scribes thus bitterly contend,

The Editor alone the fray can end.