Part 2
I see no use in not confessing-- To trace your breed would keep me guessing; It would indeed an expert puzzle To match such legs with a jet-black muzzle. To make a mongrel, as you know, it takes some fifty types or so, And nothing in your height or length, In stand or color, speed or strength, Could make me see how any strain Could come from mastiff, bull, or Dane. But, were I given to speculating On pedigrees in canine rating, I'd wager this--not from your size, Not merely from your human eyes, But from the way you held that cable Within those gleaming jaws of sable, Leaped from the taffrail of the wreck With ninety souls upon its deck, And with your cunning dog-stroke tore Your path unerring to the shore-- Yes, stake my life, the way you swam, That somewhere in your line a dam, Shaped to this hour by God's own hand, Had mated with a Newfoundland.
They tell me, Carlo, that your kind Has neither conscience, soul, nor mind; That reason is a thing unknown To such as dogs; to man alone The spark divine--he may aspire To climb to heaven or even higher; But God has tied around the dog The symbol of his fate, the clog. Thus, I have heard some preachers say-- Wise men and good, in a sort o' way-- Proclaiming from the sacred box (Quoting from Butler and John Knox) How freedom and the moral law God gave to man, because He saw A way to draw a line at root Between the human and the brute. And you were classed with things like bats, Parrots and sand-flies and dock-rats, Serpents and toads that dwell in mud, And other creatures with cold blood That sightless crawl in slime, and sink.
Gadsooks! It makes me sick to think That man must so exalt his race By giving dogs a servile place; Prate of his transcendentalism, While you save men by mechanism. And when I told them how you fought The demons of the storm, and brought That life-line from the wreck to shore, And saved those ninety souls or more, They argued with such confidence-- 'Twas instinct, nature, or blind sense. A _man_ could know when he would do it; You did it and never knew it.
And so, old chap, by what they say, You live and die and have your day, Like any cat or mouse or weevil That has no sense of good and evil (Though sheep and goats, when they have died, The Good Book says are classified); But you, being neuter, go to--well, Neither to heaven nor to hell.
I'll not believe it, Carlo: I Will fetch you with me when I die, And, standing up at Peter's wicket, Will urge sound reasons for your ticket; I'll show him your life-saving label And tell him all about that cable, The storm along the shore, the wreck, The ninety souls upon the deck; How one by one they came along, The young and old, the weak and strong-- Pale women sick and tempest-tossed, With children given up for lost; I'd tell him more, if he would ask it-- How they tied a baby in a basket. While a young sailor, picked and able, Moved out to steady it on the cable; And if he needed more recital To admit a mongrel without title, I'd get down low upon my knees. And swear before the Holy Keys, That, judging by the way you swam, Somewhere within your line, a dam Formed for the job by God's own hand, Had littered for a Newfoundland.
I feel quite sure that if I made him Give ear to that, I could persuade him To open up the Golden Gate And let you in; but should he state That from your legs and height and speed He still had doubts about your breed, And called my story of the cable "A cunningly deviséd fable," Like other rumors that you've seen In Second Peter, one, sixteen, I'd tell him (saving his high station) The devil take his legislation, And, where life, love, and death atone, I'd move your case up to the Throne.
II
OVERHEARD BY A STREAM
Here is the pool, and there the waterfall; This is the bank; keep out of sight, and crawl Along the side to where that alder clump Juts out. 'Twas there I saw a salmon jump, A full eight feet, not fifteen minutes past. Bend low a bit! or else the sun will cast Your shadow on the stream. Still farther; stop! Now joint your rod; reel out your line, and drop Your leader with the "silver doctor" on it, Behind that rock that's got the log upon it.
There's nothing here; the water is too quiet; You need a pool with rapids flowing by it: Plenty of rush and motion, heave and roar. To turn their thoughts from things upon the shore; The day's too calm--I told you that before. Just mind your line! I tell you that he's there. I saw him spring up ten feet in the air-- Twelve pounder, if an ounce! Great Mackinaw! Look! Quick! He's on! The "doctor" in his jaw...... Snapped! Gone! You big fool: worse than any fool! What did you think to find here in this pool-- A minnow or a shiner--that you tried With such a jerk to land him on the side Of this high bank? That was a salmon--fool! The biggest one that swam within this pool; The one I saw that jumped twelve feet--not lower; Would tip the scales at fourteen pounds or more. Lost--near that rock that's got the log upon it, Gone--with the leader and the "doctor" on it.
III
OVERHEARD IN A COVE
(The Old Salt Talks Back) _Swiles_=seals. _Quintal_=cwt.
THE SCHOLAR (_recovering from heroic seizures_)
Existence in this little town I find Much too constricted for an ample mind; Unheeded on these vain and deafening shores Might Wisdom cry aloud her precious stores-- Wisdom for whom the Universe unseen An illustrated page has ever been; Who but initiates may understand The forms and pressures of her amorous hand! Her thoughts that wander through Eternity Would perish here beside this muddy sea, For no divine afflatus ever reaches The men who dry their fish upon these beaches.
THE SALT.
Your poor old dad and granddad, long since dead-- God rest their weary souls--were born and bred Upon this shore, as fine God-fearin' sort As ever brought a leaky ship to port. They never put up any braggin' claims To learnin'--couldn't more than write their names, And yet, no dealer born could take 'em in, In things of common sense, like figurin' Accounts, or show them any solid reason Why number one prime cod might any season Drop in price, while the fish remained as good As ever, and a quintal always stood A quintal; and there never was a strait Or gulf or cape they couldn't navigate; And fair or foul it made no difference.
They had no learnin', but the chunk of sense The Good Lord gave 'em for their calculation, While other men who learned their navigation From books, got drowned; so you for all your letters Have got no call for sneerin' at your betters.
THE SCHOLAR (_with condescension_).
But, my dear man, I feel I must admit To such a native modicum of wit, By this, plus luck, if such a thing there be, A man may wrest his living from the sea; But on the troublous sea as on the land. Note what we owe the scientific hand. The world's dark secrets have been opened out By men who forged their faith from honest doubt. Who rounded out the universe for us But Galileo and Copernicus? Who gave us chart and compass, sextant, log, And apparatus for detecting fog And wind and currents? Who gave us thermometers? Again, I ask; who, prisms and barometers?
THE SALT (_snortingly_).
A man that owns a hand can use a log, An idiot with one eye can see a fog When it is comin'.
THE SCHOLAR.
But no wit surmises The calculated way the wind uprises; The place it comes from, whereunto it goes, Nor tell you to the mile the rate it blows, A full seven days ahead. But Science draws Exact determinations of the laws That govern wind and waves; though, to be sure, In charting atmospheric temperature She may, for uninformed mentalities, Use terms like unexplained contingencies. But still, when all her facts are massed together, Unerring is her forecast of the weather; In our metropolis we have a man Who _plots_ it every day.
THE SALT (_fired by reminiscence_).
Like hell he can. Whenever that fool bulletin comes out, With cock-sure talk about the heat and drought That's bound to last a week, I always ask The missus for me flannels and a flask Of gin to keep me goin' through the day. And when it says--"Look out for frost, 'twill stay Three days or more," I know we'll have a spurt Of heat would boil a man inside his shirt. Its everlasting fable--"Fair and warm" Means "brewin' for the devil of a storm."
THE SCHOLAR (_with righteous warmth_).
This open and unshamed prevarication Perturbs my soul with moral agitation. A votary of Truth I shall abide, That Wisdom of her child be justified.
THE SALT.
And let me tell you this: a half a brain Can tell a nor'-east wind will bring a rain. A sun-hound in the evenin' or a ring Around the moon--there is no safer thing For prophesyin' weather; as for cold, You boasted that your man up yonder told That frost was comin'. Why, sure, a skunk knows That and more; three months ahead he grows A chunkier tail.
THE SCHOLAR.
Your language, my good sir, Is rank: but, waiving that, I must aver With emphasis that human life is longer, As knowledge grows from more to more, and stronger, With every age, the race. Take medicine, And note its triumphs. How shall I begin To glorify that heavenly art enough, Since Aesculapius.
THE SALT.
I calls it bluff, This doctorin' business. There's Jim Hennessey's lad. When he was young his father thought he had The makin's of a doctor in him. I, Inquirin' like, asked him the reason why. He said the lad was handy with a knife, The way he'd carve a rabbit up alive, Or a young robin, maybe, just to see What the innerds were like.
THE SCHOLAR.
Anatomy! A subject of minute research.
THE SALT.
Then Jim Put no less than six years expense on him. When he came back, some said it was decline; He called it asthma, but he had the sign Of a gone man; the neighbors were afraid To have him in; their children, so they said, Might catch the wheezin' off his chest. One case His dad got for him--more to save his face, I said, but let that bide--Jim got his son A case of Jack spavin--a wicked one I will allow it was--in Hazzard's mare. The boy put on a apron, then a pair Of rubber gloves, and then he said he'd freeze The leg and dose her up with fumes to ease The pain; and afterwards he'd operate. Then sew her up and leave the rest to fate. He did his honest bit--at least he tried; The mare kicked down the stalls before she died.
THE SCHOLAR.
But your example only serves to show What dire results from ignorance may flow. He had no skill for equine malady-- No special training.
THE SALT.
Just what Hennessey, His father, thought. So the old man, grown wise, Gave him another year to specialize-- This time in spavins.
THE SCHOLAR.
How does this impugn The Science by which man is made immune From all those fearsome, devastating ills, From cholera morbus to domestic measles, That swept the cosmos? Tell me, has not man Added by this to his allotted span Two decades?
THE SALT.
I don't see it with my eyes. This generation's dyin' off like flies; And why? Each mother son of them and daughter Are bred on arrowroot, with milk and water. They're all a scraggy lot; too much spoon-fed; Wants water bottles when they go to bed; Smokes cigarettes and drinks vile, home-made wine. Rhubarb will corn 'em; so will dandyline. 'Tis not the same as what it was. I know, Away back in the sixties, when our crew Was home from swilin' and a regular streak Of thirst had struck us, how, one night a week, And after lodge was out, each man would take a Good, long and steady swig of old Jamaica, And never feel the worse on it. 'Twould blow A colony like you to Jericho. As tough as staragons, they had no call For other medicine. A swig was all They asked for, and a swig was all they got. It cooled them off when they were dry, and shot Them up, when they were cold. And, say, what can, Within a lifetime, come to any man, Except a burnin' fever or a freezin'?
THE SCHOLAR.
Your argument is void of rhyme or reason; Your observations on disease, mere chatter.
THE SALT.
Maybe 'tis so; but I looks at the matter Quite different wise. I holds that not in strength, Nor muscle, nor in gumption, nor in length Of days, are young folks like they used to be. I minds how in a blinkin' storm at sea, When both the captain and the mate were drowned, Under a double reef we had to round The Cape, on a lee coast, and, undermanned, And the taffrail blown to bits, the youngest hand On board, Sam Drake, took his turn at the wheel. He couldn't see the mainmast--had to feel The schooner's course, yet brought her down the bay, With every shred of canvas swept away.
THE SCHOLAR.
Is not the clamant menace of the sea Silenced by steam, by electricity, By gasoline?
THE SALT.
My notion's still the same, That folks were better off before they came. More swiles were taken in the spring; more fish Were dried upon the flakes, and if you wish To get my views on gasoline, I think The racket of the engine and the stink Is drivin' all the cod out of the bay. 'Tis gettin' hopeless quite--no fish, no pay. But there's a worse account I feel like makin' Against new-fangled notions. They are takin' The backbone from the lads--initiation You called it--
THE SCHOLAR.
No. Allow my emendation-- Initiative! However, I understand.
THE SALT.
Maybe you're right; maybe you're not. 'Tis sand, I calls it; but no matter what 'tis called, With any kind of little snag they're stalled. They'd starve and die with plenty all around 'em. I minds when our supplies ran out we found 'em, Sometimes when we were in the bush, with tea And baccy gone--no drink or nothin'--we Would fetch a kettle full of juniper And boil it for an hour or so, and stir Barbados black-strap with it--
THE SCHOLAR (_in deep spiritual reflection_).
Do I see, In its archetypal form, Zymology, That most potential art?
THE SALT.
Yes, sir, the brew Would grow a jumper on your chest. We'd chew The dried sap of the spruce, and then we'd take Dried tea-leaves with the chips of bark and make A powerful, fine smoke. You never saw, I suppose, a man rig up a lobster claw With quid, to get a drag when he had lost His pipe? I needn't ask. That never crossed Your mind. I'd like to see a good round score Like you, a-headin' all for Labrador, Stowed in a fore-and-after with the sea, A-ragin' through the scuppers. It would be A sight for Satan, every time the ship, With not too much of ballast, took a dip To come right up again with soakin' jibs-- To watch your queasy stomachs and your ribs In need of oilin'.
THE SCHOLAR.
Trivial your words, Your passions bestial. The irrational herds Roaming the plains would scorn such thoughts as these; The ox, the zebra and the ass appease Their several hungers, earth-born as they are-- Without afflatus, without mind--with far More worthy satisfactions. What care you (_recurrence of symptoms_) For the primrose by the river's brink, the blue Within the violet's eye, in fine, for flowers? Eating and drinking you lay waste your powers, The world being too much with you. Have you felt A presence that disturbs you? Have you knelt At Nature's shrine, bathed at her crystal fount, And found her central peace? Say, do you count By figures or by heart-throbs? Have you never Listened to brooks that babble on for ever? Sermons there are in stones; alas, they stir You not.
THE SALT.
Shame on you, you idolater, For worshippin' stocks and stones. I see you took All your religion from a bot'ny book, And a dry, small lump it is, by every sign That I can see, you heathen. I gets mine From another kind of book. You don't need learnin' Neither, the kind that kills the soul's discernin' Of spiritual things. That's what our parson said, And he had learnin', too. It killed him dead Before he gave it up, like a dry rot That puts the blight on damson plums--that's what It is. Give me what makes a critter whole, And pours the blazin' glory on his soul, And saves him from the horrors.
THE SCHOLAR (_on the verge of a paroxysm_).
A most rude Conception of the spirit's growth--mere food For sucklings, for the race at those low stages Of history that form the world's Dark Ages. From your contentions, then, must I assume That in your mind's horizon is no room For formulæ that dominate our times; For laws that tell how by successive climbs Our common human nature has become The paragon magnificent for dumb And erring brutes? Millions of years have passed Between the first crude cycle and the last, In which, despite the bludgeonings of chance And fate, has man his own deliverance Wrought out; survived the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. In the eternal rocks Engraven is the epic.
THE SALT.
Pedley's lad, When he came back from learnin', was as bad As Hennessey. I might say worse, for he Lacked any bit of skill that Hennessey Might seem to own if he got started right. Pedley, for so his old man thought, was quite A brainy boy when growin' up. He'd shirk Any and every job that looked like work. He wouldn't run, he wouldn't walk; he'd fetch A book, and then for hours at a stretch He'd squat down on the wharf--takin' the air, I said it was. He wouldn't read. He'd stare, Then drowse, then stare again, just like a sheep. Whose brains the wise God only gave for sleep, When Jeff, his younger brother, might be seen Shapin' the model of a brigantine, Or doin' something handy, steepin' bark, Or renderin' out the liver of a shark. Well, when the old man finally understood He could do nothin' with him, for the good Of his soul--the last thing left--he thought he'd send Him off to join the Church; thought if he'd spend Ten years wearin' a collar or a satin Gown, and got crammed right to the neck with Latin, And the seven tongues, and all the other learnin', He'd be a thumpin' wonder on returnin'. He was. As bad as you for gall, he'd chin The Lord out of his job, on points like sin, Damnation and the rest of it. He told Us how the world--I can't just mind how old, He said it was; but just to illustrate His point, he took a pencil and a slate, Marked five in the left-hand corner near the top, And added zeros till he had to stop For want of room, and added more by tongue, Then ended, claimin' that the world was young. Just like a mushroom, so to speak; and when He thought he'd finished his explainin', then Our pastor put a poser to him straight. Just how, he asked him, did he calculate It out?--the parson, I'll allow, was rough On questions--Was the slate not big enough? Did he run out of zeros? Was he sure He had the tally right? A zero more, What mattered it, and how did he arrive By any kind of reckonin' at that five? It looked so lonesome by itself. Would not Another zero do instead? And what Do you allow his answer was? I've heard Some blasphemy against the Livin' Word Within my time--the Livin' Word that says The world's bin waggin' now, omittin' days, Six thousand years; but Word and Church and Lord, The evidence of the Fathers and the Sword Of the Spirit, everything--he cast them out With one deliberate, sacrilegious clout. He told us--and it sounded like a boast-- He told us--are you listenin'?--that the most Of all his facts he got from skulls; from graves Of savages that one time lived in caves; From skeletons of serpents, elephants; I think he mentioned bugs and bees and ants And frogs' backbones and such, but most of it He got from skulls so old that not a bit Of chop was left upon the jowls. He said-- Grantin' the man who owned the skull was dead So long, the crown had rotted--yet he'd tell The story from the jaw-bone just as well.
THE SCHOLAR (_delivering le grand coup_).
Thanks to the scientist's imagination, The point is proven to a demonstration, Your patriarchal history is a fable, A groundless fiction like your Tower of Babel, Your Samson or your Jonah. Had you sense To follow while I forge the evidence, How from the void of dancing vortices, The human mind has wrought its destinies, You'd gather what the Universe discloses.
THE SALT (_with profound disgust_).
I'm done with you, my lad--I stands by Moses.
IV
THE PASSING OF JERRY MOORE
(_Juniper Hall answers the critics_).
Did Jerry get through the gates of gold, To join the white-robed Saints, that basked In the glory of the Father's fold? That was the question each man asked, As Jerry lay with his cold feet And his cold hands under the sheet.
The last man, known as Juniper Hall, The life-time pal of Jerry Moore, Spoke--as soon as he had the floor-- And said he disagreed with them all. He thought the judgment of Doran, That sanctified and solemn man, Put altogether too great store Upon the words of Jerry's speech, As Jerry sat in the rain and swore At the fish that rotted on the beach. Why shouldn't a man, who day by day Had seen the clouds wipe out the sun And botch the work his hands had done, Pour out his soul in a natural way, On the chance of ridding his chest of it, And tell the Lord what he thought of it all-- The rain, the fog and a hungry fall, The rotten fish and the rest of it?
Then Juniper asked why Solomon Rowe (Who handed out to sinners gratis Timely advice such as might flow From him, a saint of ten years' status) Should so denounce what occupied Old Jerry's mind the night he died. He had spent the day in mending a net And splicing a rope; without a thought About the way a sinner ought To make eternal peace, he ate His three good hearty meals and went To bed. He took no Sacrament; He had no dying pains; he gave No groans; nor called the Lord to save His soul; but in his dreams he talked, With a sort of chuckle in his speech, Of a shoal of caplin on the beach, And of the punt that he had caulked, And other things that he had done. The case was proved, for Jake, his son, Who lay beside him on the bed, Had vouched for all that Solomon said. But Jerry's life from the day of his birth Was only meant for the jobs of earth, Like caulking punts and mending nets, And catching fish to pay his debts. He would shout like a man with gospel soul At the saving news of a herring shoal, That swarmed down the bay in the spring, And no one louder than Jerry could sing As he'd barrel 'em up or smoke 'em, His rough, red hands, a-reeking with brine, And his clothes with a mixture of turpentine, Of tar and cod-liver oil and oakum; What wonder then that in his sleep, As he dreamed about that caplin shoal, The thought should so have tickled his soul And made him laugh, instead of weep, Like the saints that get so short of breath In the last hour before their death? Besides, it's claimed he had not met, For want of savings, a just debt He owed to Rowe before he died. But, then, as he had often said, The reason why he had not paid It off--the Lord had never dried His load of cod; but Solomon Rowe Had owed a hundred dollars or so For years, though the sun had always shone Upon the fish of Solomon.