Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 79

Webster, some sentiments of, commended by Mr. Sawin, 447, 448.

Westcott, Mr., his horror, 420.

Whig party, has a large throat, 406 but query as to swallowing spurs, 448.

White-house, 430.

Wife-trees, 441.

Wilbur, Rev. Homer, A. M., consulted, 388 his instructions to his flock, 394 a proposition of his for Protestant bomb-sh.e.l.ls, 400 his elbow nudged, 401 his notions of satire, _ib._ some opinions of his quoted with apparent approval by Mr. Biglow, 403 geographical speculations of, 404 a justice of the peace, _ib._ a letter of, _ib._ a Latin pun of, 405 runs against a post without injury, _ib._ does not seek notoriety (whatever some malignants may affirm), 406 fits youths for college, _ib._ a chaplain during late war with England, 407 a shrewd observation of, 408 some curious speculations of, 415-416 his martillo-tower, 415 forgets he is not in pulpit, 420, 433 extracts from sermon of, 421, 425 interested in John Smith, 426 his iews concerning present state of letters, 426-428 a stratagem of, 431 ventures two hundred and fourth interpretation of Beast in Apocalypse, 431 christens Hon. B. Sawin, then an infant, 433 an addition to our _sylva_ proposed by, 441 curious and instructive adventure of, 441-442 his account with an unnatural uncle, 442 his uncomfortable imagination, 443 speculations concerning Cincinnatus, _ib._ confesses digressive tendency of mind, 453 goes to work on sermon (not without fear that his readers will dub him with a reproachful epithet like that with which Isaac Allerton, a Mayflower man, revenges himself on a delinquent debtor of his, calling him in his will, and thus holding him up to posterity, as "John Peterson, The Bore "), 454.

Wilbur, Mrs., an invariable rule of, 406 her profile, 407.

Wildbore, a vernacular one, how to escape, 415.

Wind, the, a good Samaritan, 433.

Wooden leg, remarkable for sobriety, 434 never eats pudding, 435.

Wright, Colonel, providentially rescued, 397.

Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose, 411.

Z.

Zack, Old, 446.

THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.

1850.

THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT.

PART I.

SHOWING HOW HE BUILT HIS HOUSE AND HIS WIFE MOVED INTO IT.

My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, From business snug withdrawn, Was much contented with a lot That would contain a Tudor cot 'Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot, And twelve feet more of lawn.

He had laid business on the shelf To give his taste expansion, And, since no man, retired with pelf.

The building mania can shun, Knott, being middle-aged himself, Resolved to build (unhappy elf!) A mediaeval mansion.

He called an architect in counsel; "I want," said he, "a--you know what (You are a builder, I am Knott,) A thing complete from chimney-pot Down to the very grounsel; Here's a half-acre of good land; Just have it nicely mapped and planned And make your workmen drive on; Meadow there is, and upland too, And I should like a water-view, D' you think you could contrive one?

(Perhaps the pump and trough would do.

If painted a judicious blue?) The woodland I've attended to;"

(He meant three pines stuck up askew, Two dead ones and a live one.)

"A pocket-full of rocks 't would take To build a house of free-stone, But then it is not hard to make What now-a-days is _the_ stone; The cunning painter in a trice Your house's outside petrifies, And people think it very gneiss Without inquiring deeper; _My_ money never shall be thrown Away on such a deal of stone, When stone of deal is cheaper."

And so the greenest of antiques Was reared for Knott to dwell in; The architect worked hard for weeks In venting all his private peaks Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks Had satisfied Fluellen; Whatever any body had Out of the common, good or bad, Knott had it all worked well in, A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, A porter's lodge that was a sty, A campanile slim and high, Too small to hang a bell in; All up and down and here and there, With Lord-knows-whats of round and square Stuck on at random every where,-- It was a house to make one stare, All corners and all gables; Like dogs let loose upon a bear, Ten emulous styles _staboyed_ with care, The whole among them seemed to tear, And all the oddities to spare Were set upon the stables.

Knott was delighted with a pile Approved by fashion's leaders; (Only he made the builder smile, By asking, every little while, Why that was called the Twodoor style, Which certainly had _three_ doors?) Yet better for this luckless man If he had put a downright ban Upon the thing _in limine_; For, though to quit affairs his plan, Ere many days, poor Knott began Perforce, accepting draughts that ran All ways--except up chimney; The house, though painted stone to mock, With nice white lines round every block, Some trepidation stood in, When tempests (with petrific shock, So to speak,) made it really rock, Though not a whit less wooden; And painted stone, howe'er well done, Will not take in the prodigal sun Whose beams are never quite at one With our terrestrial lumber; So the wood shrank around the knots, And gaped in disconcerting spots, And there were lots of dots and rots And crannies without number, Wherethrough, as you may well presume, The wind, like water through a flume, Came rushing in ecstatic, Leaving, in all three floors, no room That was not a rheumatic; And, what with points and squares and rounds Grown shaky on their poises, The house at night was full of pounds, Thumps, b.u.mps, creaks, scratchings, raps--till--"Zounds!"

Cried Knott, "this goes beyond all bounds, I do not deal in tongues and sounds, Nor have I let my house and grounds To a family of Noyeses!"

But, though Knott's house was full of airs, _He_ had but one--a daughter; And, as he owned much stocks and shares, Many who wished to render theirs Such vain, unsatisfying cares, And needed wives to sew their tears, In matrimony sought her; They vowed her gold they wanted not, Their faith would never falter, They longed to tie this single Knott In the Hymenaeal halter; So daily at the door they rang, Cards for the belle delivering, Or in the choir at her they sang, Achieving such a rapturous tw.a.n.g As set her nerves a-shivering.

Now Knott had quite made up his mind That Colonel Jones should have her; No beauty he, but oft we find Sweet kernels 'neath a roughish rind, So hoped his Jenny'd be resigned And make no more palaver; Glanced at the fact that love was blind, That girls were ratherish inclined To pet their little crosses, Then nosologically defined The rate at which the system pined In those unfortunates who dined Upon that metaphoric kind Of dish--their own proboscis.

But she, with many tears and moans, Besought him not to mock her, Said 'twas too much for flesh and bones To marry mortgages and loans, That fathers' hearts were stocks and stones And that she'd go, when Mrs. Jones, To Davy Jones's locker; Then gave her head a little toss That said as plain as ever was, If men are always at a loss Mere womankind to bridle-- To try the thing on woman cross, Were fifty times as idle; For she a strict resolve had made And registered in private, That either she would die a maid, Or else be Mrs. Doctor Slade, If woman could contrive it; And, though the wedding-day was set, Jenny was more so, rather, Declaring, in a pretty pet, That, howsoe'er they spread their net, She would out-Jennyral them yet, The colonel and her father.

Just at this time the Public's eyes Were keenly on the watch, a stir Beginning slowly to arise About those questions and replies, Those raps that unwrapped mysteries So rapidly at Rochester, And Knott, already nervous grown By lying much awake alone, And listening, sometimes to a moan, And sometimes to a clatter, Whene'er the wind at night would rouse The gingerbread-work on his house, Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, Behind the plastering, made a towse About a family matter, Began to wonder if his wife, A paralytic half her life, Which made it more surprising, Might not to rule him from her urn, Have taken a peripatetic turn For want of exorcising.

This thought, once nestled in his head, Ere long contagious grew, and spread Infecting all his mind with dread, Until at last he lay in bed And heard his wife, with well-known tread, Entering the kitchen through the shed, (Or was't his fancy, mocking?) Opening the pantry, cutting bread, And then (she'd been some ten years dead) Closets and drawers unlocking; Or, in his room (his breath grew thick) He heard the long-familiar click Of slender needles flying quick, As if she knit a stocking; For whom?--he prayed that years might flit With pains rheumatic shooting, Before those ghostly things she knit Upon his unfleshed sole might fit, He did not fancy it a bit, To stand upon that footing; At other times, his frightened hairs Above the bedclothes trusting, He heard her, full of household cares, (No dream entrapped in supper's snares, The foal of horrible nightmares, But broad awake, as he declares,) Go bustling up and down the stairs, Or setting back last evening's chairs, Or with the poker thrusting The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust-- And--what! impossible! it must!

He knew she had returned to dust, And yet could scarce his senses trust, Hearing her as she poked and fussed About the parlor, dusting!

Night after night he strove to sleep And take his ease in spite of it; But still his flesh would chill and creep, And, though two night-lamps he might keep, He could not so make light of it.

At last, quite desperate, he goes And tells his neighbors all his woes, Which did but their amount enhance; They made such mockery of his fears That soon his days were of all jeers, His nights of the rueful countenance; "I thought most folks," one neighbor said, "Gave up the ghost when they were dead,"

Another gravely shook his head, Adding, "from all we hear, it's Quite plain poor Knott is going mad-- For how can he at once be sad And think he's full of spirits?"

A third declared he knew a knife Would cut this Knott much quicker, "The surest way to end all strife, And lay the spirit of a wife, Is just to take and lick her!"

A temperance man caught up the word, "Ah, yes," he groaned, "I've always heard Our poor friend somewhat slanted Tow'rd taking liquor over-much; I fear these spirits may be Dutch, (A sort of gins, or something such,) With which his house is haunted; I see the thing as clear as light-- If Knott would give up getting tight, Naught farther would be wanted:"

So all his neighbors stood aloof And, that the spirits 'neath his roof Were not entirely up to proof, Unanimously granted.

Knott knew that c.o.c.ks and sprites were foes, And so bought up, Heaven only knows How many, though he wanted crows To give ghosts caws, as I suppose, To think that day was breaking; Moreover what he called his park, He turned into a kind of ark For dogs, because a little bark Is a good tonic in the dark, If one is given to waking; But things went on from bad to worse, His curs were nothing but a curse, And, what was still more shocking, Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff And would not think of going off In spite of all his c.o.c.king.

Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques, Malays (that didn't lay for weeks).

Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, (Waiving the cost, no trifling ill, Since each brought in his little bill,) By day or night were never still, But every thought of rest would kill With cacklings and with quorkings; Henry the Eighth of wives got free By a way he had of axing; But poor Knott's Tudor henery Was not so fortunate, and he Still found his trouble waxing; As for the dogs, the rows they made, And how they howled, snarled, barked and bayed, Beyond all human knowledge is; All night, as wide awake as gnats, The terriers rumpused after rats, Or, just for practice, taught their brats To worry cast-off shoes and hats, The bull-dogs settled private spats, All chased imaginary cats, Or raved behind the fence's slats At real ones, or, from their mats, With friends, miles off, held pleasant chats, Or, like some folks in white cravats, Contemptuous of sharps and flats, Sat up and sang dogsologies.

Meanwhile the cats set up a squall, And, safe upon the garden-wall, All night kept cat-a-walling; As if the feline race were all, In one wild cataleptic sprawl, Into love's tortures falling.

PART II.

SHOWING WHAT IS MEANT BY A FLOW OF SPIRITS.

At first the ghosts were somewhat shy, Coming when none but Knott was nigh, And people said 'twas all their eye, (Or rather his) a flam, the sly Digestion's machination; Some recommended a wet sheet, Some a nice broth of pounded peat, Some a cold flat-iron to the feet, Some a decoction of lamb's-bleat, Some a southwesterly grain of wheat; Meat was by some p.r.o.nounced unmeet, Others thought fish most indiscreet, And that 'twas worse than all to eat Of vegetables, sour or sweet, (Except, perhaps, the skin of beat,) In such a concatenation: One quack his b.u.t.ton gently plucks And murmurs "biliary ducks!"

Says Knott, "I never ate one;"

But all, though br.i.m.m.i.n.g full of wrath, h.o.m.o, Allo, Hydropath, Concurred in this--that t' other's path To death's door was the straight one Still, spite of medical advice, The ghosts came thicker, and a spice Of mischief grew apparent; Nor did they only come at night, But seemed to fancy broad daylight, Till Knott, in horror and affright, His unoffending hair rent; Whene'er with handkerchief on lap, He made his elbow-chair a trap, To catch an after-dinner nap, The spirits, always on the tap, Would, make a sudden _rap, rap, rap_, The half-spun cord of sleep to snap, (And what is life without its nap But threadbareness and mere mishap?) As 't were with a percussion cap The trouble's climax capping; It seemed a party dried and grim Of mummies had come to visit him, Each getting off from every limb Its mult.i.tudinous wrapping; Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round, The merest penny-weights of sound; Sometimes 'twas only by the pound They carried on their dealing, A thumping 'neath the parlor floor, Thump-b.u.mp-thump-b.u.mping o'er and o'er, As if the vegetables in store, (Quiet and orderly before,) Were all together pealing; You would have thought the thing was done By the spirit of some son of a gun, And that a forty-two pounder, Or that the ghost which made such sounds Could be none other than John Pounds, Of Ragged Schools the founder.

Through three gradations of affright, The awful noises reached their height; At first they knocked nocturnally, Then, for some reason, changing quite, (As mourners, after six months' flight, Turn suddenly from dark to light,) Began to knock diurnally, And last, combining all their stocks, (Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) Into one Chaos (father of Nox,) _Nocte pluit_--they showered knocks, And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally Ever upon the go, like buoys, (Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys, They turned to troubles and a noise That preyed on him internally.