A Satire on Town-Meeting (1782)

BY JOHN TRUMBULL

THUS stor’d with intellectual riches, Skill’d was our ’Squire in making speeches, Where strength of brains united centers With strength of lungs surpassing Stentor’s. But as some musquets so contrive it, As oft to miss the mark they drive at, And tho’ well aim’d at duck or plover, Bear wide and kick their owners over: So far’d our ’Squire, whose reas’ning toil Would often on himself recoil, And so much injur’d more his side, The stronger arg’ments he applied: As old war-elephants dismay’d, Trode down the troops they came to aid, And hurt their own side more in battle Than less and ordinary cattle. Yet at town-meetings ev’ry chief Pinn’d faith on great M’Fingal’s sleeve, And as he motion’d, all by rote Rais’d sympathetic hands to vote. The town, our Hero’s scene of action, Had long been torn by feuds of faction, And as each party’s strength prevails, It turn’d up diff’rent, heads or tails; With constant rattl’ing in a trice Show’d various sides as oft as dice: As that fam’d weaver, wife t’ Ulysses, By night each day’s-work pick’d in pieces, And tho’ she stoutly did bestir her, Its finishing was ne’er the nearer: So did this town with stedfast zeal

Weave cob-webs for the public weal, Which when compleated, or before, A second vote in pieces tore. They met, made speeches full long winded, Resolv’d, protested, and rescinded; Addresses sign’d, then chose Committees, To stop all drinking of Bohea-teas; With winds of doctrine veer’d about, And turn’d all Whig-Committees out. Meanwhile our Hero, as their head, In pomp the tory faction led, Still following, as the ’Squire should please, Successive on, like files of geese. And now the town was summon’d greeting, To grand parading of town-meeting; A show, that strangers might appall, As Rome’s grave senate did the Gaul. High o’er the rout, on pulpit-stairs, Like den of thieves in house of pray’rs, (That house, which loth a rule to break, Serv’d heav’n but one day in the week, Open the rest for all supplies Of news and polities and lies) Stood forth the constable, and bore His staff, like Merc’ry’s wand of yore, Wav’d potent round, the peace to keep, As that laid dead men’s souls to sleep, Above and near th’ hermetic staff, The moderator’s upper half, In grandeur o’er the cushion bow’d, Like Sol half-seen behind a cloud. Beneath stood voters of all colours, Whigs, tories, orators and bawlers, With ev’ry tongue in either faction, Prepared, like minute-men, for action; Where truth and falshood, wrong and right, Draw all their legions out to fight; With equal uproar, scarcely rave Opposing winds in Æolus’ cave;

Such dialogues with earnest face, Held never Balaam with his ass. With daring zeal and courage blest Honorius first the crowd address’d; When now our ’Squire returning late, Arrived to aid the grand debate, With strange sour faces sat him down, While thus the orator went on.

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As thus he spake, our "Squire M’Fingal Gave to his partizans a signal. Not quicker roll’d the waves to land, When Moses wav’d his potent wand, Nor with more uproar, than the Tories Set up a gen’ral rout in chorus; Laugh’d, hiss’d, hem’d, murmur’d, groan’d and jeer’d; Honorius now could scarce be heard. Our Muse amid th’ increasing roar, Could not distinguish one word more: Tho’ she sat by, in firm record To take in short-hand ev’ry word; As antient Muses wont, to whom Old Bards for depositions come; Who must have writ ’em; for how else Could they each speech verbatim tell ’s? And tho’ some readers of romances Are apt to strain their tortur’d fancies, And doubt, when lovers all alone Their sad soliloquies do groan, Grieve many a page with no one near ’em, And nought but rocks and groves to hear ’em, What spright infernal could have tattled, And told the authors all they prattled; Whence some weak minds have made objection, That what they scribbled must be fiction: ’Tis false; for while the lovers spoke, The Muse was by, with table-book, And least some blunder might ensue, Echo stood clerk and kept the cue.

And tho’ the speech ben’t worth a groat, As usual, ’tisn’t the author’s fault, But error merely of the prater, Who should have talk’d to th’ purpose better: Which full excuse, my critic-brothers, May help me out, as well as others And ’tis design’d, tho’ here it lurk, To serve as preface to this work. So let it be—for now our ’Squire No longer could contain his ire; And rising ’midst applauding Tories, Thus vented wrath upon Honorius.

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"Have you forgot, Honorius cried, How your prime saint the truth defied, Affirm’d he never wrote a line Your charter’d rights to undermine; When his own letters then were by, That prov’d his message all a lie?

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To th’ after-portion of the day, I leave what more remains to say; When I’ve good hope you’ll all appear, More fitted and prepared to hear, And griev’d for all your vile demeanour: But now ’tis time t’ adjourn for dinner."

The Sun, who never stops to dine, Two hours had pass’d the midway line, And driving at his usual rate, Lash’d on his downward car of state. And now expired the short vacation, And dinner done in epic fashion; While all the crew beneath the trees, Eat pocket-pies, or bread and cheese; Nor shall we, like old Homer care To versify their bill of fare. For now each party, feasted well, Throng’d in, like sheep, at sound of bell,

With equal spirit took their places; And meeting oped with three Oh yesses:

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As thus he said, the Tories’ anger Could now restrain itself no longer, Who tried before by many a freak, or Insulting noise, to stop the speaker; Swung th’ unoil’d hinge of each pew-door; Their feet kept shuffling on the floor; Made their disapprobation known By many a murmur, hum and groan, That to his speech supplied the place Of counterpart in thorough-base: As bag-pipes, while the tune they breathe, Still drone and grumble underneath; Or as the fam’d Demosthenes Harangued the rumbling of the seas, Held forth with eloquence full grave To audience loud of wind and wave; And had a stiller congregation Than Tories are to hear th’ oration. But now the storm grew high and louder As nearer thundrings of a cloud are, And ev’ry soul with heart and voice Supplied his quota of the noise; Each listning ear was set on torture Each Tory bell’wing out, to order; And some, with tongue not low or weak, Were clam’ring fast, for leave to speak; The moderator, with great vi’lence, The cushion thump’d with "Silence, silence;" The constable to ev’ry prater Bawl’d out, "Pray hear the moderator;" Some call’d the vote, and some in turn Were screaming high, "Adjourn, adjourn:" Not chaos heard such jars and clashes When all the el’ments fought for places. Each bludgeon soon for blows was tim’d; Each fist stood ready cock’d and prim’d;

The storm each moment louder grew; His sword the great M’Fingal drew, Prepar’d in either chance to share, To keep the peace, or aid the war. Nor lack’d they each poetic being, Whom bards alone are skill’d in seeing; Plumb’d Victory stood perch’d on high, Upon the pulpit-canopy, To join, as is her custom tried, Like Indians, on the strongest side; The Destinies with shears and distaff, Drew near their threads of life to twist off; The Furies ’gan to feast on blows, And broken heads or bloody nose; When on a sudden from without Arose a loud terrific shout; And strait the people all at once heard Of tongues an universal concert; Like Æsop’s times, as fable runs, When ev’ry creature talk’d at once, Or like the variegated gabble That craz’d the carpenters of Babel. Each party soon forgot the quarrel, And let the other go on parole;

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And left the church in thin array, As tho’ it had been lecture-day. Our ’Squire M’Fingal straitway beckon’d The constable to stand his second, And sallied forth with aspect fierce The croud assembled to disperse. The moderator out of view Beneath a bench had lain perdue; Peep’d up his head to view the fray, Beheld the wranglers run away, And left alone with solemn face, Adjourn’d them without time or place.

[John Trumbull], (Hartford, 1782), 6–48 passim.