Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A MIRROR FOR DETRACTORS. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, by ESTHER LEWIS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A MIRROR FOR DETRACTORS. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, by                    
First Line: This wit was with experience bought
Last Line: And smile upon my humble flight.
Alternate Author Name(s): Sylvia; Clark, Robert, Mrs.
Subject(s): Women's Rights; Feminism


THIS wit was with experience bought
(And that's the best of wit, 'tis thought),
That when a woman dares indite,
And seek in print the public sight,
All tongues are presently in motion
About her person, mind, and portion;
And every blemish, every fault,
Unseen before, to light is brought.
Nay, generously they take the trouble
Those blemishes and faults to double.

Whene'er you chance her name to hear,
With a contemptuous, smiling sneer,
A prude exclaims, 'O, she's a wit!'
And I've observed that epithet
Means self-conceit, ill-nature, pride,
And fifty hateful things beside.

The men are mighty apt to say,
'This silly girl has lost her way;
No doubt she thinks we must admire
And such a rhyming wit desire;
But here her folly does appear,
We never choose a learned fair,
Nor like to see a woman try
With our superior parts to vie.
She ought to mind domestic cares,
The sex were made for such affairs.
She'd better take in hand the needle,
And not pretend to rhyme and riddle.
Shall women thus usurp the pen?
That weapon nature made for men.
Presumptuous thing! how did she dare
This implement from us to tear?

'In short, if women are allowed
(Women by nature vain and proud)
Thus boldly on the press to seize,
And say in print whate'er they please,
They'll soon their lawful lords despise,
And think themselves as Sybils wise.'

Thus far the men their wit display;
Let's hear now what the women say.

Now we'll suppose a tattling set
Of females o'er tea-table met,
While from its time-consuming streams
Arise a hundred idle themes,
Of fans, of flounces, flies, and faces,
Of lap-dogs, lovers, lawns and laces.
At length this well-known foe to fame
In luckless hour brings forth my name;
Then all exclaim with great good-nature,
'O Lord! that witty, rhyming creature!'
Alternate then their parts sustain:
'Pray, don't you think she's mighty vain?',
Says one; 'No doubt,' another cries;
'Vain, Lord, of what?', a third replies;
'What though suppose the thing can rhyme,
And on the changing numbers chime,
No merit lies in that, 'tis plain,
And others, if they were as vain,
I make no doubt could write as well,
Would they but try, perhaps excel.'

Then thus Philantha, in whose breast
Good-nature is a constant guest:
'I own I've heard before, with pain,
Some people call her proud and vain;
I know her well, yet ne'er could see
This mighty pride and vanity.'
'You, Madam, are, I find, her friend;
But I can never apprehend
She ever yet a poem penned.
They're all another's works, no doubt,
With which she makes this mighty rout.'

'That's very like, but, Miss, suppose
She does the tedious stuff compose,
Yet for my part, though some may praise,
And stick the creature out with bays,
I can see nothing in the scrawls,
That for such vast encomiums calls.
'Tis true, in length if merit lies,
From all she'll bear away the prize.

'This for her poems may be said,
They're mighty good to lull the head;
For nothing there piquant you'll find,
To raise a laugh, or rouse the mind.
No doctor's opiate can exceed'em,
Whene'er I want a nap I read'em.'

Philantha then -- ''Tis so well known
That all those poems are her own,
I wonder anyone can doubt it,
Or have a single thought about it,
And oft I've heard the lines commended;
Then all allow they're well intended.'

'That may perhaps be true enough;
But who's the better for her stuff?
I see no difference in the times,
The world's not mended by her rhymes.
She to the men, I apprehend,
Intends herself to recommend
By scribbling verses, but she'll find
They don't so much regard the mind;
For though they're civil to her face,
'Tis all a farce, and mere grimace;
Her back once turned, I've heard 'em swear
They hated wisdom in the fair.

'Then she's so nice and so refined
About the morals, and the mind,
That really, Madam, I'm afraid
This rhyming wit will die a maid;
And if she weds, it is high time,
I think she's almost past her prime.
Why, with the men, as I've been told,
She'll paper-conversation hold.'

'Madam, that's fact, I long have known it,
Without a blush I've heard her own it.'

'Good Lord! some women are so bold,
I vow I blush to hear it told;
I hate censoriousness, but when
Girls freely correspond with men,
I can't forbear to speak my mind,
Although to scandal ne'er inclined.
Well, I protest I never yet
To any man a letter writ;
It may be innocent, 'tis true,
But 'tis a thing I ne'er could do.'

'Well,' cried Philantha, 'I protest
I almost think you are in jest,
For really, Miss, I cannot see
In this the breach of modesty;
With men we chat away our time,
And none regard it as a crime;
And where's the difference, if we write:
'Tis but our words in black and white.
I think we may, without offence,
Converse by pen with men of sense.'

'Well, let us say no more about her,
But entertain ourselves without her;
No harm I meant, nor none I wish;
Miss, won't you drink another dish?'
'Not one drop more, I thank you, Madam.'
'Here, take away the tea-things, Adam.
And bring the cards, and since we're met,
Pray let us make at whist a set.'

Thus tea and scandal, cards and fashion,
Destroy the time of half the nation.

But, Sir, methinks 'tis very hard
From pen and ink to be debarred:
Are simple women only fit
To dress, to darn, to flower, or knit,
To mind the distaff, or the spit?

Why are the needle and the pen
Thought incompatible by men?
May we not sometimes use the quill,
And yet be careful housewives still?
Why is it thought in us a crime
To utter common sense in rhyme?
Why must each rhymer be a wit?
Why marked with that loathed epithet?
For envy, hatred, scorn, or fear
To wit, you know, is often near.
Good-natured wit, polite, refined,
Which seeks to please, not pain the mind,
How rare to find! for O, how few
Have true and generous wit like you!
Your mind in different mould was cast,
To raise a character, not blast;
Pleased to encourage what I write,
And smile upon my humble flight.





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