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THOMAS W. HOIT.
Thomas W. Hott is a son of New Hampshire, who has been for about twenty-years a prosperous merchant in St. Louis, Missouri. In early life he learned the art and mystery of printing newspapers, and was, for a short time, an editor. He has written several long poems for special occasions, which are well sustained, and is the author of many short ones which have the merit that finds favor with those who wield editorial scissors—directness and sweetness. Mr. Hott is now about forty years of age. He has practiced prose writing with success, and has reputation as an orator. Most of his poems have been published in St. Louis magazines and newspapers.
CURE FOR SCANDAL.
Take of the toad the brains and ear-wax; bring
The spider's fang, the adder's poison sting;
A lizard's eye-balls, tarantula's tongue;
The chigre's eggs, and fire-fly's maggot young;
Of newt the iris, armadillo's gall;
Cockchafer's grub, and scorpion, sting and all;
Two buzzards' beaks, first hardened in the fire;
Four famished serpents ready to expire;
A living asp, which sure the fang includes;
A salamander's fluid that exudes;
A flea's proboscis, and a viper's eyes;
Four printed scandals, three detected lies;
A beetle's head, a locust's palate dried;
And ten mosquitoes' snouts in strychnine fried;
A wasp's stiletto; flying-dragon's ears;
These saturate with alligator's tears—
"With alcohol then simmer in the skull
Of a black ape; fill the vessel full—
Reduce the mass, and add one screech-owl's eye;
The manis, tongue, cantharides the fly;
A coquette's dimples, and a flunky's nose.
An idiot's brains, an hideous hydra's toes;
A hornet's armor, and a wild boar's foam;
A polecat's odor, and a Shanghai's comb
(Harmless this last ingredient, I trust.
Save that a coxcomb always gives disgust;)
The burning froth from hydrophobia's maw,
A dragon's blood, a scolopendra's claw;
Chameleon's thorax, monad's marrow, fine;
A moth, a weevil, and an earwig's spine;
Into the cauldron two apes' eyebrows fling.
And fan the contents with a vampire's wing.
Stir, stir the jelly with Attila's steel.
His blood-stained dagger let the slanderer feel.
Apply this mixture to the slanderer's tongue.
Moistened with tears from slandered virtue wrung;
And should one dose of this prescription fail,
And the dire venom of his tongue prevail,
Just add a section of the slanderer's tale.
Should the concocted poisons fail of cure,
The last named virus, added, will be sure.
The spider's fang, the adder's poison sting;
A lizard's eye-balls, tarantula's tongue;
The chigre's eggs, and fire-fly's maggot young;
Of newt the iris, armadillo's gall;
Cockchafer's grub, and scorpion, sting and all;
Two buzzards' beaks, first hardened in the fire;
Four famished serpents ready to expire;
A living asp, which sure the fang includes;
A salamander's fluid that exudes;
A flea's proboscis, and a viper's eyes;
Four printed scandals, three detected lies;
A beetle's head, a locust's palate dried;
And ten mosquitoes' snouts in strychnine fried;
A wasp's stiletto; flying-dragon's ears;
These saturate with alligator's tears—
"With alcohol then simmer in the skull
Of a black ape; fill the vessel full—
Reduce the mass, and add one screech-owl's eye;
The manis, tongue, cantharides the fly;
A coquette's dimples, and a flunky's nose.
An idiot's brains, an hideous hydra's toes;
A hornet's armor, and a wild boar's foam;
A polecat's odor, and a Shanghai's comb
(Harmless this last ingredient, I trust.
Save that a coxcomb always gives disgust;)
The burning froth from hydrophobia's maw,
A dragon's blood, a scolopendra's claw;
Chameleon's thorax, monad's marrow, fine;
A moth, a weevil, and an earwig's spine;
Into the cauldron two apes' eyebrows fling.
And fan the contents with a vampire's wing.
Stir, stir the jelly with Attila's steel.
His blood-stained dagger let the slanderer feel.
Apply this mixture to the slanderer's tongue.
Moistened with tears from slandered virtue wrung;
And should one dose of this prescription fail,
And the dire venom of his tongue prevail,
Just add a section of the slanderer's tale.
Should the concocted poisons fail of cure,
The last named virus, added, will be sure.
(442)
