The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume I Part 11

So, down he took his hams and bacon flitches, Resolv'd to fill the place with other riches; From every hole and cranny brush'd the soot, And fixt up shelves throughout the crazy hut; A counter, too, most cunningly was plann'd, Behind whose breast-work none but he might stand, Excepting now and then, by special grace, Some brother merchant from some other place.

Now, muster'd up his cash, and said his prayers, In Sunday suit he rigs himself for town, Two raw-boned steeds (design'd for great affairs) Are to the waggon hitch'd, old Bay and Brown; Who ne'er had been before a league from home, But now are doom'd full many a mile to roam, Like merchant-ships, a various freight to bring Of ribbons, lawns, and many a tawdry thing.

Mola.s.ses too, blest sweet, was not forgot, And island Rum, that every taste delights, And teas, for maid and matron must be bought, Rosin and catgut strings for fiddling wights-- But why should I his invoice here repeat?

'Twould be like counting grains in pecks of wheat.

Half Europe's goods were on his invoice found, And all was to be bought with forty pound!

Soon as the early dawn proclaim'd the day, He c.o.c.k'd his hat with pins, and comb'd his hair: Curious it was, and laughable to see The village-merchant, mounted in his chair: Shelves, piled with lawns and linens, in his head, Coatings and stuffs, and cloths, and scarlets red-- All that would suit man, woman, girl, or boy; Muslins and muslinets, jeans, grograms, corduroy.

Alack! said I, he little, little dreams That all the cash he guards with studious care-- His cash! the mother of a thousand schemes, Will hardly buy a load of earthen ware!

But why should I excite the hidden tear By whispering truths ungrateful to his ear; Still let him travel on, with scheming pate, As disappointment never comes too late.--

HIS JOURNEY TO THE METROPOLIS; AND MERCANTILE TRANSACTIONS

Through woods obscure and rough perplexing ways, Slow and alone, he urged the clumsy wheel; Now stopping short, to let his horses graze, Now treating them with straw and Indian meal: At length a lofty steeple caught his eye, "Higher (thought he) than ever kite did fly:-- But so it is, these churchmen are so proud They ever will be climbing to a cloud; Bound on a sky-blue cruise, they always rig The longest steeple, and the largest wig."

Now safe arrived upon the pebbled way, Where well-born steeds the rattling coaches trail, Where shops on shops are seen--and ladies gay Walk with their curtains some, and some their veil; Where sons of art their various labors shew And one cries fish! and one cries m.u.f.fins ho!

Amaz'd, alike, the merchant, and his pair Of scare-crow steeds, did nothing else but stare; So new was all the scene, that, smit with awe, They grinn'd, and gaz'd, and gap'd at all they saw, And often stopp'd, to ask at every door, "Sirs, can you tell us where's the cheapest store!"

"The cheapest store (a sly retailer said) "Cheaper than cheap, guid faith, I have to sell; "Here are some colour'd cloths that never fade: "No other shop can serve you half so well; "Wanting some money now, to pay my rent, "I'll sell them at a loss of ten per cent.-- "Hum-hums are here--and muslins--what you please-- "Bandanas, baftas, pullcats, India teas; "Improv'd by age, and now grown very old, "And given away, you may depend--not sold!"

Lured by the bait the wily shopman laid, He gave his steeds their mess of straw and meal, Then gazing round the shop, thus, cautious said, "Well, if you sell so cheap, I think we'll deal; "But pray remember, 'tis for goods I'm come, "For, as to polecats, we've enough at home-- "Full forty pounds I have, and that in gold "(Enough to make a trading man look bold) "Unrig your shelves, and let me take a peep; "'Tis odds I leave them bare, you sell so cheap."

The city merchant stood, with lengthen'd jaws; And stared awhile, then made this short reply-- "You clear my shelves! (he said)--this trunk of gauze "Is more than all your forty pounds can buy:-- "On yonder board, whose burthen seems so small "That one man's pocket might contain it all, "More value lies, than you and all your race "From Adam down, could purchase or possess."

Convinced, he turn'd him to another street, Where humbler shopmen from the crowd retreat; Here caught his eye coa.r.s.e callicoes and c.r.a.pe, Pipes and tobacco, ticklenburghs and tape.

Pitchers and pots, of value not so high But he might sell, and forty pounds would buy.

Some jugs, some pots, some fifty ells of tape, A keg of wine, a cask of low proof rum, Bung'd close--for fear the spirit should escape That many a sot was waiting for at home; A gross of pipes, a case of home-made gin, Tea, powder, shot--small parcels he laid in; Mola.s.ses, too, for swich.e.l.l[A]-loving wights, (Swich.e.l.l, that wings Sangrado's boldest flights, When bursting forth the wild ideas roll, Flash'd from that farthing-candle, call'd his soul:) All these he bought, and would have purchased more, To furnish out his Lilliputian store; But cash fell short--and they who smiled while yet The cash remain'd, now took a serious fit:-- No more the shop-girl could his talk endure, But, like her cat, sat sullen and demure.-- The dull retailer found no more to say, But shook his head, and wish'd to sneak away, Leaving his house-dog, now, to make reply, And watch the counter with a lynx's eye.-- Our merchant took the hint, and off he went, Resolv'd to sell at twenty-five per cent.

[A] Mola.s.ses and water: A beverage much used in the eastern states.--_Freneau's note._

THE MERCHANT'S RETURN

Returning far o'er many a hill and stone And much in dread his earthen ware would break, Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groan Lest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak-- His cask, that held the joys of rural squire Which even, 'twas said, the parson did admire, And valued more than all the dusty pages That Calvin penn'd, and fifty other sages-- Once high in fame--beprais'd in verse and prose, But now unthumb'd, enjoy a sweet repose.

At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode, Around him quick his anxious townsmen came, One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road, And one ungear'd the mud-bespatter'd team.

While on his cask each glanced a loving eye, Patient, to all he gave a brisk reply-- Told all that had befallen him on his way, What wonders in the town detain'd his stay-- "Houses as high as yonder white-oak tree "And boats of monstrous size that go to sea, "Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive; "The Lord knows how they all contrive to live-- "No ploughs I saw, no hoes, no care, no charge, "In fact, they all are gentlemen at large, "And goods so thick on every window lie, "They all seem born to sell--and none to buy."

THE CATASTROPHE, OR THE BROKEN MERCHANT

Alack-a-day! on life's uncertain road How many plagues, what evils must befal;-- Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd, But disappointment is the lot of all: Thieves rob our stores, in spite of locks and keys, Cats steal our cream, and rats infest our cheese, The gayest coat a grease-spot may a.s.sail, Or Susan pin a dish-clout to its tail,-- Our village-merchant (trust me) had his share Of vile mis-haps--for now, the goods unpackt, Discover'd, what might make a deacon swear, Jugs, cream-pots, pipes, and grog-bowls sadly crackt-- A general groan throughout the crowd was heard; Most pitied him, and some his ruin fear'd; Poor wight! 'twas sad to see him fret and chafe, While each enquir'd, "Sir, is the rum-cask safe?"

Alas! even that some mischief had endured;-- One rascal hoop had started near the chine!-- Then curiously the bung-hole they explored, With stem of pipe, the leakage to define-- Five gallons must be charged to loss and gain!-- "--Five gallons! (cry'd the merchant, writh'd with pain) "Now may the cooper never see full flask, "But still be driving at an empty cask-- "Five gallons might have mellowed down the 'squire "And made the captain strut a full inch higher; "Five gallons might have prompted many a song, "And made a frolic more than five days long: "Five gallons now are lost, and--sad to think, "That when they leak'd--no soul was there to drink!"

Now, slightly treated with a proof-gla.s.s dram, Each neighbour took his leave, and went to bed, All but our merchant: he, with grief o'ercome, Revolv'd strange notions in his scheming head-- "For losses such as these, (thought he) 'tis meant, "That goods are sold at twenty-five per cent: "No doubt these trading men know what is just, "'Tis twenty-five times what they cost at first!"

So rigging off his shelves by light of candle, The dismal smoke-house walls began to shine: Here, stood his tea-pots--some without a handle-- A broken jar--and there his keg of wine; Pipes, many a dozen, ordered in a row; Jugs, mugs, and grog-bowls--less for sale than show: The leaky cask, replenish'd from the well, Roll'd to its birth--but we no tales will tell.-- Catching the eye in elegant display, All was arranged and snug, by break of day: The blue dram-bottle, on the counter plac'd, Stood, all prepared for him that buys to taste;-- Sure bait! by which the man of cash is taken, As rats are caught by cheese or sc.r.a.ps of bacon.

Now from all parts the rural people ran, With ready cash, to buy what might be bought: One went to choose a pot, and one a pan, And they that had no pence their produce brought, A hog, a calf, safe halter'd by the neck; Potatoes (Ireland's glory) many a peck; Bacon and cheese, of real value more Than India's gems, or all Potosi's ore.

Some questions ask'd, the folks began to stare-- No soul would purchase, pipe, or pot, or pan: Each shook his head--hung back--"Your goods so dear!

"In fact (said they) the devil's in the man!

"Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (cry'd honest Sam) "In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram; "No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate) "While gauze is valued at so dear a rate."

Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day; No custom came; and nought but discontent Gloom'd through the shop.--"Well, let them have their way, (The merchant said) I'll sell at cent per cent, "By which, 'tis plain, I scarce myself can save, "For cent per cent is just the price I gave."

"Now! (cry'd the squire who still had kept his pence) "Now, Sir, you reason like a man of sense!

"Custom will now from every quarter come; "In joyous streams shall flow the inspiring rum, "'Till every soul in pleasing dreams be sunk, "And even our Socrates himself--is drunk!"

Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load; In three short hours the kegs of wine ran dry-- Swift from its tap even dull mola.s.ses flow'd; Each saw the rum cask wasting, with a sigh-- The farce concluded, as it was foreseen-- With empty shelves--long trust--and law suits keen-- The woods resounding with a curse on trade,-- An empty purse--sour looks--and hanging head.--

THE PUNCHEON'S EULOGY

"Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said) "Its debt to Commerce now, no doubt, is paid.-- "Well--'twas a vile disease that kill'd it, sure, "A quick consumption, that no art could cure!

"Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out, "Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about!

"Time is the tapster of our race below, "That turns the key, and bids the juices flow: "Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task "To moralize upon this empty cask-- "Thank heaven we've had the taste--so far 'twas well; "And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!"

EPILOGUE[31]

Well!--strange it is, that men will still apply Things to themselves, that authors never meant: Each country merchant asks me, "Is it I On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?"

Friends, hold your tongues--such myriads of your race Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes, A man might rove seven years from place to place Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes.-- Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known, Perhaps New-England claims him for her own: And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew, What is the imagin'd character to you?"

[30] From the 1809 edition of Freneau's poems. This piece does not appear in the editions of 1786 and 1788. It ran as a serial for several weeks in the _National Gazette_, beginning May 17, 1792, and it was immediately reprinted by Bache in his _Aurora_. I can find no earlier trace of it. It was printed, together with "The Country Printer," in 1794 by Hoff and Derrick, Philadelphia, as a 16-page pamphlet, under the t.i.tle, "The Village Merchant," and it was given a place in the 1795 edition, dated "Anno 1768." In the 1809 edition it was first divided into sections with sub-t.i.tles.

[31] The epilogue was first added in 1795.

_Debemur morti nos nostraque!_

THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT[32]

A Dialogue. Written in 1770.

_Scene._--Egypt. _Persons._--Traveller, Genius, Time.

_Traveller_

Where are those famed piles of human grandeur, Those sphinxes, pyramids, and Pompey's pillar, That bid defiance to the arm of Time-- Tell me, dear Genius: for I long to see them.

_Genius_

At Alexandria rises Pompey's pillar, Whose birth is but of yesterday, compar'd With those prodigious fabricks that you see O'er yonder distant plain--upon whose breast Old Nile hath never roll'd his swelling streams, The only plain so privileg'd in Egypt.

These pyramids may well excite your wonder, They are of most remote antiquity, Almost co-eval with those cloud-crown'd hills That westward from them rise--'twas the same age That saw old Babel's tower aspiring high, When first the sage Egyptian architects These ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd;-- But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!

_Traveller_

Old Rome I thought unrivall'd in her years, At least the remnants that we find of Rome, But these, you tell me, are of older date.

_Genius_

Talk not of Rome!--before they lopt a bush From the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood, These pyramids were old--their birth day is Beyond tradition's reach, or history.

_Traveller_

Then let us haste toward those piles of wonder That scorn to bend beneath this weight of years-- Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions rise The pride of art, the sleeping place of death!

Are these the four prodigious monuments That so astonish every generation-- Let us examine this, the first and greatest-- A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius, To touch these monuments that are so ancient, The fearful property of ghosts and death!-- Yet of such mighty bulk that I presume A race of giants were the architects.-- Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'd How many generations have decay'd, How many monarchies to ruin pa.s.s'd!

How many empires had their rise and fall!

While these remain--and promise to remain As long as yonder sun shall gild their summits, Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.