Part 16

“’Tis thirty years,” I said. “And then the war came on Apace, and our young King had need Of men to serve him oversea Against the heathen. For their greed, Puffed up at Tunis, troubles him——”

She said: “This week my son is gone To him at Paris with his men.” And then: “You never married, John?”

I answered, “No.” And so we sate Musing a while.

Then with his guests Came Robert; and his thin voice broke Upon my dream, with the old jests, No food for laughter now: and swore We must be friends now that our feud Was overpast.

“We are grown old— Eh, John?” he said. “And, by the Rood! ’Tis time we were at peace with God Who are not long for this world.”

“Yea,” I answered; “we are old.” And then, Remembering that April day At Calais, and that hawthorn field Wherein we fought long since, I said: “We are friends now.”

And she sate by, Scarce heeding. Thus the evening sped.

And we ride homeward now, and I Ride moodily; my palfrey jogs Along a rock-strewn way the moon Lights up for us; yonder the bogs Are curdled with thin ice; the trees Are naked; from the barren wold The wind comes like a blade aslant Across a world grown very old.

_Vachel Lindsay_

(Nicholas) Vachel Lindsay was born in the house where he still lives in Springfield, Illinois, November 10, 1879. His home is next door to the Executive mansion of the State of Illinois; from the window where Lindsay does most of his writing, he saw many Governors come and go, including the martyred John P. Altgeld, whom he has celebrated in one of his finest poems. He graduated from the Springfield High School, attended Hiram College (1897-1900), studied at the Art Institute at Chicago (1900-3) and at the New York School of Art (1904). After two years of lecturing and settlement work, he took the first of his long tramps, walking through Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas, preaching “the gospel of beauty,” and formulating his unique plans for a communal art. (See Preface.) During the following five years, Lindsay made several of these trips, travelling as a combination missionary and minstrel. Like a true revivalist, he attempted to wake in the people he met, a response to beauty; like Tommy Tucker, he sang, recited and chanted for his supper, distributing a little pamphlet entitled “Rhymes to be Traded for Bread.”

Lindsay began to create more poetry to reach the public—all of his verse being written in his rôle of apostle. He was, primarily, a rhyming John the Baptist singing to convert the heathen, to stimulate and encourage the half-hearted dreams that hide and are lost in our sordid villages and townships. But the great audiences he was endeavoring to reach did not hear him, even though his collection _General Booth Enters Into Heaven_ (1913) struck many a loud and racy note.

Lindsay broadened his effects, developed the chant and, the following year, published his _The Congo and Other Poems_ (1914), an infectious blend of rhymes, ragtime and religion. In the title-poem and, in a lesser degree, the three companion chants, Lindsay struck his most powerful—and most popular—vein. They gave people (particularly when intoned aloud) that primitive joy in syncopated sound that is at the very base of song. In these experiments in breaking down the barriers between poetry and music, Lindsay (obviously infected by the echolalia of Poe’s “Bells”) tried to create what he called a “Higher Vaudeville” imagination, carrying the form back to the old Greek precedent where every line was half-spoken, half-sung.

Lindsay’s innovation succeeded at once. The novelty, the speed, the clatter forced the attention of people who had never paid the slightest heed to the poet’s quieter verses. Men heard the _sounds_ of energetic America in these lines even when they were deaf to its spirit. They failed to see that, beneath the noise of “The Kallyope Yell” and “The Sante Fé Trail,” Lindsay was partly an admirer, partly an ironical critic of the shrieking energy of these states. By his effort to win the enemy over, Lindsay had persuaded the proverbially tired business man to listen at last. But, in overstressing the vaudeville features, there arose the danger of Lindsay the poet being lost in Lindsay the entertainer. The sympathetic and colorful studies of negro spirits and psychology (seen at their best in “The Congo,” “John Brown” and “Simon Legree”) degenerated into the crude buffooneries of “The Daniel Jazz” and “The Blacksmith’s Serenade.”

But Lindsay’s earnestness, keyed up by an exuberant fancy, saved him. _The Chinese Nightingale_ (1917) begins with one of the most whimsical pieces Lindsay has ever devised. And if the subsequent _The Golden Whales of California_ (1920) is less distinctive, it is principally because the author has written too much and too speedily to be self-critical. It is his peculiar appraisal of loveliness, the rollicking high spirits joined to a stubborn evangelism, that makes Lindsay so representative a product of his environment.

Besides his original poetry, Lindsay has embodied his experiences and meditations on the road in two prose volumes, _A Handy Guide for Beggars_ (1916) and _Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty_ (1914), as well as a prophetic study of the “silent drama,” _The Art of the Moving Picture_ (1915).

THE EAGLE THAT IS FORGOTTEN[34]

[_John P. Altgeld. Born December 30, 1847; died March 12, 1902_]

Sleep softly ... eagle forgotten ... under the stone, Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. “We have buried him now,” thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day after day, Now you were ended. They praised you, ... and laid you away.

The others that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, The widow bereft of her pittance, the boy without youth, The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor That should have remembered forever, ... remember no more.

Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons, The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man.

Sleep softly, ... eagle forgotten, ... under the stone, Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. Sleep on, O brave hearted, O wise man, that kindled the flame— To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, To live in mankind, far, far more ... than to live in a name.

THE CONGO[35]

(_A Study of the Negro Race_)

I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, [Sidenote: _A deep rolling bass._] Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, Hard as they were able, Boom, boom, BOOM, With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.

THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. I could not turn from their revel in derision. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _More deliberate. Solemnly chanted._] CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. Then along that riverbank A thousand miles Tattooed cannibals danced in files; Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. [Sidenote: _A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket._] And “BLOOD” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, “BLOOD” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, “Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing! Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,” A roaring, epic, rag-time tune [Sidenote: _With a philosophic pause._] From the mouth of the Congo To the Mountains of the Moon. Death is an Elephant, Torch-eyed and horrible, [Sidenote: _Shrilly and with a heavily accented meter._] Foam-flanked and terrible. BOOM, steal the pygmies, BOOM, kill the Arabs, BOOM, kill the white men, HOO, HOO, HOO. [Sidenote: _Like the wind in the chimney._] Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. Hear how the demons chuckle and yell. Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. Listen to the creepy proclamation, Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, Blown past the white-ants’ hill of clay, Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:— “Be careful what you do, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, [Sidenote: _All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered._] And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”

II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS

Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call [Sidenote: _Rather shill and high._] Danced the juba in their gambling-hall And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.... THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _Read exactly as in first section._] CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. A negro fairyland swung into view, [Sidenote: _Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible._] A minstrel river Where dreams come true. The ebony palace soared on high Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. The inlaid porches and casements shone With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore At the baboon butler in the agate door, And the well-known tunes of the parrot band That trilled on the bushes of that magic-land.

A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came [Sidenote: _With pomposity._] Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call And danced the juba from wall to wall. But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:— [Sidenote: _With a great deliberation and ghostliness._] “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.” ... Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, [Sidenote: _With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp._] Shoes with a patent leather shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, [Sidenote: _With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm._] Knee-skirts trimmed with the jessamine sweet, And bells on their ankles and little black feet. And the couples railed at the chant and the frown Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. (O rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,” While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, And sang with the scalawags prancing there:— [Sidenote: _With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end._] “Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.” Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while [Sidenote: _Slow philosophic calm._] That made those glowering witch-men smile.

III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

A good old negro in the slums of the town [Sidenote: _Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance._] Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. Beat on the Bible till he wore it out, Starting the jubilee revival shout. And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs. And they all repented, a thousand strong, From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong And slammed their hymn books till they shook the room With “Glory, glory, glory,” And “Boom, boom, BOOM.”

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _Exactly as in the first section._] CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. In bright white steel they were seated round And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. And the twelve apostles, from their thrones on high, Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:— “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; [Sidenote: _Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”_] Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you.” Then along that river, a thousand miles, [Sidenote: _With growing deliberation and joy._] The vine-snared trees fell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed [Sidenote: _In a rather high key—as delicately as possible._] A million boats of the angels sailed With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through. ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation. Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation; And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. [Sidenote: _To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”_] Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, And only the vulture dared again By the far, lone mountains of the moon To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:— “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. [Sidenote: _Dying off into a penetrating, terrified whisper._] Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”

TO A GOLDEN HAIRED GIRL IN A LOUISIANA TOWN

You are a sunrise, If a star should rise instead of the sun. You are a moonrise, If a star should come in the place of the moon. You are the Spring, If a face should bloom instead of an apple-bough. You are my love, If your heart is as kind As your young eyes now.

THE TRAVELLER

The moon’s a devil jester Who makes himself too free. The rascal is not always Where he appears to be. Sometimes he is in my heart— Sometimes he is in the sea; Then tides are in my heart, And tides are in the sea.

O traveller, abiding not Where he pretends to be!

A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

Legree’s big house was white and green. His cotton-fields were the best to be seen. He had strong horses and opulent cattle, And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle. His garret was full of curious things: Books of magic, bags of gold, And rabbits’ feet on long twine strings. _But he went down to the Devil._

Legree, he sported a brass-buttoned coat, A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt. Legree, he had a beard like a goat, And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt. His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white, He had great long teeth, and an appetite. He ate raw meat, ’most every meal, And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal. His fist was an enormous size To mash poor niggers that told him lies: He was surely a witch-man in disguise. _But he went down to the Devil._

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day To capture his slaves that had fled away. _But he went down to the Devil._ He beat poor Uncle Tom to death Who prayed for Legree with his last breath. Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew, To the high sanctoriums bright and new; And Simon Legree stared up beneath, And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth: _And went down to the Devil._

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom; He went into his grand front room. He said, “I killed him, and I don’t care.” He kicked a hound, he gave a swear; He tightened his belt, he took a lamp, Went down cellar to the webs and damp. There in the middle of the mouldy floor He heaved up a slab; he found a door— _And went down to the Devil._

His lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright. Simon Legree stepped down all night— _Down, down to the Devil._ Simon Legree he reached the place, He saw one half of the human race, He saw the Devil on a wide green throne, Gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone, And he said to Mister Devil:

“I see that you have much to eat— A red ham-bone is surely sweet. I see that you have lion’s feet; I see your frame is fat and fine, I see you drink your poison wine— Blood and burning turpentine.”

And the Devil said to Simon Legree: “I like your style, so wicked and free. Come sit and share my throne with me, And let us bark and revel.” And there they sit and gnash their teeth, And each one wears a hop-vine wreath. They are matching pennies and shooting craps, They are playing poker and taking naps. And old Legree is fat and fine: He eats the fire, he drinks the wine— Blood and burning turpentine— _Down, down with the Devil; Down, down with the Devil; Down, down with the Devil._

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT[36][37]

(_In Springfield, Illinois_)

It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down, Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us;—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long, Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks of men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why; Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: A league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

_Edwin Meade Robinson_

Edwin Meade Robinson (no relation to Edwin Arlington Robinson) was born November 1, 1879, at Lima, Indiana. He engaged in newspaper work when he was scarcely out of his ’teens, joining the staff of the Indianapolis _Sentinel_ in 1901. He began writing a daily poem in 1904 and, for years, has conducted a column of prose and verse in the Cleveland _Plain Dealer_.

_Mere Melodies_ (1918) is a collection of Robinson’s light and sentimental verse, an uneven collection. _Piping and Panning_ (1920) is a much fresher and far more vigorous assembling of this versifier’s humorous and burlesque idioms. One of our most adroit technicians, he is especially happy in interior rhyming; a poem like “Halcyon Days” contains, beside the end-rhymes, rhymes hidden within the lines and others running over from line to line.

HOW HE TURNED OUT

When he was young, his parents saw (as parents by the million see) That Rollo had an intellect of quite unequaled brilliancy; They started in his training from the hour of his nativity, And carefully they cultivated every bright proclivity.

At eight, he ate up authors like a literary cannibal, At nine he mastered Latin as the Latins mastered Hannibal; At ten he knew astronomy and differential calculus, And at eleven could dissect the tiniest animalculus.

At twelve, he learned orthometry, and started in to master all The different kinds of poetry, the lyric and the pastoral, The epic and dramatic, the descriptive and didactical, With lessons theoretical and exercises practical.

Music he learned—the old and sweet, the up-to-date and hideous; He painted like Apelles and he modeled like a Phidias; In language he was polyglot, in rhetoric Johnsonian, In eloquence Websterian, in diction Ciceronian.

At last, with learning that would set an ordinary head agog, His education far outshone his most proficient pedagog; And so he entered life, with all his lore to lift the lid for him— And what do you imagine that his erudition did for him?

Alas! I fear the truth will shock you, rather than amuse you all— To those who’ve read this sort of verse, the sequel is unusual. This man (it’s hard on humor, for it breaks the well known laws of it!) Was happier for his learning, and a great success because of it!

“HALCYON DAYS”

Ere yet the giants of modern science had gone a-slumming in smelly slums, And through the Ghettos and lazarettos had put in plumbing (and pulled out plums!) When wily wizards in inky vizards employed their talents at homicide, And poisoned goblets for faithless squablets by knightly gallants were justified; When maids were fairest, and baths were rarest, and thaumaturgy was wrought by dames, When courts were rotten and faith forgotten, and none but clergy could write their names—