The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 97

'In this one room his dame you never saw, Where reigned by custom old a Salic law; Here coatless lolled he on his throne of oak, And every tongue paused midway if he spoke.

Due mirth he loved, yet was his sway severe; No blear-eyed driveller got his stagger here; 390 "Measure was happiness; who wanted more, Must buy his ruin at the Deacon's store;"

None but his lodgers after ten could stay, Nor after nine on eves of Sabbath-day.

He had his favorites and his pensioners, The same that gypsy Nature owns for hers: Loose-ended souls, whose skills bring scanty gold, And whom the poor-house catches when they're old; Rude country-minstrels, men who doctor kine, Or graft, and, out of scions ten, save nine; 400 Creatures of genius they, but never meant To keep step with the civic regiment, These Ezra welcomed, feeling in his mind Perhaps some motions of the vagrant kind; These paid no money, yet for them he drew Special Jamaica from a tap they knew, And, for their feelings, chalked behind the door With solemn face a visionary score.

This thawed to life in Uncle Reuben's throat A torpid shoal of jest and anecdote, 410 Like those queer fish that doze the droughts away, And wait for moisture, wrapped in sun-baked clay; This warmed the one-eyed fiddler to his task, Perched in the corner on an empty cask, By whose shrill art rapt suddenly, some boor Rattled a double-shuffle on the floor; "Hull's Victory" was, indeed, the favorite air, Though "Yankee Doodle" claimed its proper share.

''Twas there I caught from Uncle Reuben's lips, In dribbling monologue 'twixt whiffs and sips, 420 The story I so long have tried to tell; The humor coa.r.s.e, the persons common,--well, From Nature only do I love to paint, Whether she send a satyr or a saint; To me Sincerity's the one thing good, Soiled though she be and lost to maidenhood.

Quompegan is a town some ten miles south From Jethro, at Nagumscot river-mouth, A seaport town, and makes its t.i.tle good With lumber and dried fish and eastern wood. 430 Here Deacon Bitters dwelt and kept the Store, The richest man for many a mile of sh.o.r.e; In little less than everything dealt he, From meeting-houses to a chest of tea; So dextrous therewithal a flint to skin, He could make profit on a single pin; In business strict, to bring the balance true He had been known to bite a fig in two, And change a board-nail for a shingle-nail.

All that he had he ready held for sale, 440 His house, his tomb, whate'er the law allows, And he had gladly parted with his spouse.

His one ambition still to get and get, He would arrest your very ghost for debt.

His store looked righteous, should the Parson come, But in a dark back-room he peddled rum, And eased Ma'am Conscience, if she e'er would scold, By christening it with water ere he sold.

A small, dry man he was, who wore a queue, And one white neckcloth all the week-days through,-- 450 On Monday white, by Sat.u.r.day as dun As that worn homeward by the prodigal son.

His frosted earlocks, striped with foxy brown, Were braided up to hide a desert crown; His coat was brownish, black perhaps of yore; In summer-time a banyan loose he wore; His trousers short, through many a season true, Made no pretence to hide his stockings blue; A waistcoat buff his chief adornment was, Its porcelain b.u.t.tons rimmed with dusky bra.s.s. 460 A deacon he, you saw it in each limb, And well he knew to deacon-off a hymn, Or lead the choir through all its wandering woes With voice that gathered unction in his nose, Wherein a constant snuffle you might hear, As if with him 'twere winter all the year.

At pew-head sat he with decorous pains, In sermon-time could foot his weekly gains, Or, with closed eyes and heaven-abstracted air, Could plan a new investment in long-prayer. 470 A pious man, and thrifty too, he made The psalms and prophets partners in his trade, And in his orthodoxy straitened more As it enlarged the business at his store; He honored Moses, but, when gain he planned, Had his own notion of the Promised Land.

'Soon as the winter made the sledding good, From far around the farmers hauled him wood, For all the trade had gathered 'neath his thumb.

He paid in groceries and New England rum, 480 Making two profits with a conscience clear,-- Cheap all he bought, and all he paid with dear.

With his own mete-wand measuring every load, Each somehow had diminished on the road; An honest cord in Jethro still would fail By a good foot upon the Deacon's scale, And, more to abate the price, his gimlet eye Would pierce to cat-sticks that none else could spy; Yet none dared grumble, for no farmer yet But New Year found him in the Deacon's debt. 490

'While the first snow was mealy under feet, A team drawled creaking down Quompegan street.

Two cords of oak weighed down the grinding sled, And cornstalk fodder rustled overhead; The oxen's muzzles, as they shouldered through, Were silver-fringed; the driver's own was blue As the coa.r.s.e frock that swung below his knee.

Behind his load for shelter waded he; His mittened hands now on his chest he beat, Now stamped the stiffened cowhides of his feet, 500 Hushed as a ghost's; his armpit scarce could hold The walnut whipstock slippery-bright with cold.

What wonder if, the tavern as he past, He looked and longed, and stayed his beasts at last, Who patient stood and veiled themselves in steam While he explored the bar-room's ruddy gleam?

'Before the fire, in want of thought profound, There sat a brother-townsman weather-bound: A st.u.r.dy churl, crisp-headed, bristly-eared, Red as a pepper; 'twixt coa.r.s.e brows and beard 510 His eyes lay ambushed, on the watch for fools, Clear, gray, and glittering like two bay-edged pools; A shifty creature, with a turn for fun, Could swap a poor horse for a better one,-- He'd a high-stepper always in his stall; Liked far and near, and dreaded therewithal.

To him the in-comer, "Perez, how d' ye do?"

"Jest as I'm mind to, Obed; how do you?"

Then, his eyes twinkling such swift gleams as run Along the levelled barrel of a gun 520 Brought to his shoulder by a man you know Will bring his game down, he continued, "So, I s'pose you're haulin' wood? But you're too late; The Deacon's off; Old Splitfoot couldn't wait; He made a bee-line las' night in the storm To where he won't need wood to keep him warm.

'Fore this he's treasurer of a fund to train Young imps as missionaries; hopes to gain That way a contract that he has in view For fireproof pitchforks of a pattern new, 530 It must have tickled him, all drawbacks weighed, To think he stuck the Old One in a trade; His soul, to start with, wasn't worth a carrot.

And all he'd left 'ould hardly serve to swear at."

'By this time Obed had his wits thawed out, And, looking at the other half in doubt, Took off his fox-skin cap to scratch his head, Donned it again, and drawled forth, "Mean he's dead?"

"Jesso; he's dead and t'other _d_ that follers With folks that never love a thing but dollars. 540 He pulled up stakes last evening, fair and square, And ever since there's been a row Down There.

The minute the old chap arrived, you see, Comes the Boss-devil to him, and says he, 'What are you good at? Little enough, I fear; We callilate to make folks useful here.'

'Well,' says old Bitters, 'I expect I can Scale a fair load of wood with e'er a man.'

'Wood we don't deal in; but perhaps you'll suit, Because we buy our brimstone by the foot: 550 Here, take this measurin'-rod, as smooth as sin, And keep a reckonin' of what loads comes in.

You'll not want business, for we need a lot To keep the Yankees that you send us hot; At firin' up they're barely half as spry As Spaniards or Italians, though they're dry; At first we have to let the draught on stronger, But, heat 'em through, they seem to hold it longer.'

'"Bitters he took the rod, and pretty soon A teamster comes, whistling an ex-psalm tune. 560 A likelier chap you wouldn't ask to see, No different, but his limp, from you or me"-- "No different, Perez! Don't your memory fail?

Why, where in thunder was his horns and tail?"

"They're only worn by some old-fashioned pokes; They mostly aim at looking just like folks.

Sech things are scarce as queues and top-boots here; 'Twould spoil their usefulness to look too queer.

Ef you could always know 'em when they come, They'd get no purchase on you: now be mum. 570 On come the teamster, smart as Davy Crockett, Jinglin' the red-hot coppers in his pocket, And clost behind, ('twas gold-dust, you'd ha' sworn,) A load of sulphur yallower 'n seed-corn; To see it wasted as it is Down There Would make a Friction-Match Co. tear its hair!

'Hold on!' says Bitters, 'stop right where you be; You can't go in athout a pa.s.s from me.'

'All right,' says t'other, 'only step round smart; I must be home by noon-time with the cart.' 580 Bitters goes round it sharp-eyed as a rat, Then with a sc.r.a.p of paper on his hat Pretends to cipher. 'By the public staff, That load scarce rises twelve foot and a half.'

'There's fourteen foot and over,' says the driver, 'Worth twenty dollars, ef it's worth a stiver; Good fourth-proof brimstone, that'll make 'em squirm,-- I leave it to the Headman of the Firm; After we masure it, we always lay Some on to allow for settlin' by the way. 590 Imp and full-grown, I've carted sulphur here, And gi'n fair satisfaction, thirty year.'

With that they fell to quarrellin' so loud That in five minutes they had drawed a crowd, And afore long the Boss, who heard the row, Comes elbowin' in with 'What's to pay here now?'

Both parties heard, the measurin'-rod he takes, And of the load a careful survey makes.

'Sence I have bossed the business here,' says he, 'No fairer load was ever seen by me.' 600 Then, turnin' to the Deacon, 'You mean cus.

None of your old Quompegan tricks with us!

They won't do here: we're plain old-fashioned folks, And don't quite understand that kind o' jokes.

I know this teamster, and his pa afore him, And the hard-working Mrs. D. that bore him; He wouldn't soil his conscience with a lie, Though he might get the custom-house thereby.

Here, constable, take Bitters by the queue.

And clap him into furnace ninety-two, 610 And try this brimstone on him; if he's bright, He'll find the masure honest afore night.

He isn't worth his fuel, and I'll bet The parish oven has to take him yet!'"

'This is my tale, heard twenty years ago From Uncle Reuben, as the logs burned low, Touching the walls and ceiling with that bloom That makes a rose's calyx of a room.

I could not give his language, wherethrough ran The gamy flavor of the bookless man 620 Who shapes a word before the fancy cools, As lonely Crusoe improvised his tools.

I liked the tale,--'twas like so many told By Rutebeuf and his Brother Trouveres bold; Nor were the hearers much unlike to theirs, Men unsophisticate, rude-nerved as bears.

Ezra is gone and his large-hearted kind, The landlords of the hospitable mind; Good Warriner of Springfield was the last; An inn is now a vision of the past; 630 One yet-surviving host my mind recalls,-- You'll find him if you go to Trenton Falls.'

THE ORIGIN OF DIDACTIC POETRY

When wise Minerva still was young And just the least romantic, Soon after from Jove's head she flung That preternatural antic, 'Tis said, to keep from idleness Or flirting, those twin curses, She spent her leisure, more or less, In writing po----, no, verses.

How nice they were! to rhyme with _far_ A kind _star_ did not tarry; The metre, too, was regular As schoolboy's dot and carry; And full they were of pious plums, So extra-super-moral,-- For sucking Virtue's tender gums Most tooth-enticing coral.

A clean, fair copy she prepares, Makes sure of moods and tenses, With her own hand,--for prudence spares A man-(or woman-)-uensis; Complete, and tied with ribbons proud, She hinted soon how cosy a Treat it would be to read them loud After next day's Ambrosia.

The G.o.ds thought not it would amuse So much as Homer's Odyssees, But could not very well refuse The properest of G.o.ddesses; So all sat round in att.i.tudes Of various dejection, As with a _hem!_ the queen of prudes Began her grave prelection.

At the first pause Zeus said, 'Well sung!-- I mean--ask Phoebus,--_he_ knows.'

Says Phoebus, 'Zounds! a wolf's among Admetus's merinos!

Fine! very fine! but I must go; They stand in need of me there; Excuse me!' s.n.a.t.c.hed his stick, and so Plunged down the gladdened ether.

With the next gap, Mars said, 'For me Don't wait,--naught could be finer, But I'm engaged at half past three,-- A fight in Asia Minor!'

Then Venus lisped, 'I'm sorely tried, These duty-calls are vip'rous; But I _must_ go; I have a bride To see about in Cyprus.'

Then Bacchus,--'I must say good-by, Although my peace it jeopards; I meet a man at four, to try A well-broke pair of leopards.'

His words woke Hermes. 'Ah!' he said, 'I _so_ love moral theses!'

Then winked at Hebe, who turned red, And smoothed her ap.r.o.n's creases.

Just then Zeus snored,--the Eagle drew His head the wing from under; Zeus snored,--o'er startled Greece there flew The many-volumed thunder.

Some augurs counted nine, some, ten; Some said 'twas war, some, famine; And all, that other-minded men Would get a precious----.

Proud Pallas sighed, 'It will not do; Against the Muse I've sinned, oh!'

And her torn rhymes sent flying through Olympus's back window.

Then, packing up a peplus clean, She took the shortest path thence, And opened, with a mind serene, A Sunday-school in Athens.

The verses? Some in ocean swilled, Killed every fish that bit to 'em; Some Galen caught, and, when distilled, Found morphine the residuum; But some that rotted on the earth Sprang up again in copies, And gave two strong narcotics birth, Didactic verse and poppies.

Years after, when a poet asked The G.o.ddess's opinion, As one whose soul its wings had tasked In Art's clear-aired dominion, 'Discriminate,' she said, 'betimes; The Muse is unforgiving; Put all your beauty in your rhymes, Your morals in your living.'

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN