Part 2

Well, then The first hour that I call an hour of heaven: Who was that man that built the first hotel?-- It stood across the river from the Fort-- No matter. But before that I had heard Nothing beside a fiddle, living here Amid the traders eleven years or so. And this man for his hotel’s opening Had brought an orchestra from somewhere. Think Bass viols, violins, and horns and flutes. I’m dressed up like a princess for those days. I’m sixteen years of age and pass the door, Enter the ball-room where such candle-light As I had never seen shone on me, they Bored sockets in suspended wheels of wood And hung them from the ceiling, chandeliers! And at that moment all the orchestra Broke into music, yes, it was a waltz! And in that moment--what a moment-full! This hotel man presented you and said You were my partner for the evening. Jean I call this heaven, for its youth and love! I’m sixteen and you’re twenty and I love you. I slip my arm through yours for you to lead me, You are so strong, so ruddy, kind and brave. I want you for a husband, for a friend, A guide, a solace, father to the child That I can bear. Oh Jean how can I talk so In this lone church at mid-night of such things, With all these candles burning round your face. I who have rounded ninety-years, and look On what was sweet, long seventy years ago? Feeling this city even at mid-night move In restlessness, desire, around this church, Where once I saw the prairie grass and flowers; And saw the Indians in their colored trappings Pour from a bottle of whisky on the fire A tribute to the Spirit of the world, And dance and sing for madness of that Spirit?

Well, Jean, my other hour. I’ve spoken before Of our long life together glad and sad, But mostly good. I’m happy for it all. This other hour is marked, I call it heaven Just as I told you, not because they stood Around me as a mystery from the past, And looked at me admiringly for my age, My strength in age, my life that spanned the growth Of my Chicago from a place of huts, Just four or five, a fort, and all around it A wilderness, to what it is this hour Where most three million souls are living, nor Because I saw this rude life, and beheld The World’s Fair where such richnesses of time Were spread before me--not because of these, Nor for the ninety roses, nor the tribute They paid me in them, nor their gentle words-- These did not make that hour a heaven, no-- Jean, it was this:

First I was just as happy As I was on that night we danced together. And that I could repeat that hour’s great bliss At ninety years, though in a different way, And for a different cause, that was the thing That made me happy. For you see it proves, Just give the soul a chance it’s happiness Is endless, let the body house it well, Or house it ill, but give it but a chance To speak itself, not stifle it, or hush it With hands of flesh against the quivering strings, Made sick or weak by time, the soul will find Delights as good as youth has to the end. And even if the flesh be sick there’s Heine: Few men had raptures keen as his, though lying With death beside him through a stretch of years. It must be something in the soul as well, Which makes me think a third hour shall be mine In spite of death, yes Jean it must be so! I want that third hour, I shall pray for it Unceasingly, I want it for my soul’s sake: Which will have happiness in its very power And dignity that time nor change can hurt. For if I have it you shall have it too. And in that third hour we shall give each other Something that’s kindred to the souls we gave That night we danced together--but much more!...

It’s dawn! Good bye till then, my Jean, good bye!

IV

THE OUIJA BOARD

(_David Kennison died in Chicago February 24th, 1852, aged 115 years, 3 months and 17 days. Veteran of the Revolution._)

David Kennison is here born at Kingston in the year Seventeen thirty-seven and it’s nineteen sixteen now, Dumped the tea into the harbor, saw Cornwallis’ career End at Yorktown with the sullen thunder written on his brow.

Was at West Point when the traitor Arnold gave up the fort, Saw them hang Major Andre for a spy and his due. Settled down in Sackett’s Harbor for a rest of a sort, Till I crossed the western country in the year forty-two.

And I saw Chicago rising in the ten years to come, Ere I passed in the fifties to the peace of the dead. Now where is there a city in the whole of Christendom Where such roar is and such walking is around a grave’s head?

Oh, ’twas fighting as a soldier in the wars of the land; And ’twas giving and living to make the people free That kept me past a century an oak to withstand The heat and snow and weevils that break down a tree.

There were other dead around me with a slab to mark When they heaped the final pillow for my honor’s meed. Now the lovers stopping curiously in Lincoln Park Look at the bronze tablet on my boulder and read:

How I fought at Long Island and fought at White Plains-- What does it mean you lovers who scan what is scored On the tablet on my boulder?--Why the task remains To make the torch brighter and to keep clean the sword.

Go labor for the future. Go make the cities great: There are other realms to conquer for the men to be. For it’s toil and it’s courage that solve a soul’s fate, And it’s giving and living that make a people free!

V

HANGING THE PICTURE

Before you pull that string, And strip away that veil, I rise to enter my objection To the hanging of Archer Price’s picture Here in this hall.... For I’ll venture the artist has tried to soften The vain and shifty look of the eyes; And the face that looked like a harte-beest’s, And the rabbit mouth that looked like a horse’s, Lipping oats from a leather bag!

I knew this man in ’28 When he drifted here from Maine, he said. And now it’s eighteen ninety two: This year is sacred to conquerors, Discoverers and soldiers. And I object to the hanging of pictures Of men who trade while others fight, And follow the army to get the loot, And rest till other men are tired, Then grab the spoils while the workers sleep. I would like to burn all masks, And padded shoes, And smash all dark lanterns. And take all friends of the people And brand them with the letter “B,” Which means “Betrayer.” And I would like to enter the Kingdom of Heaven Just to see the publicans who will be there, And the Archer Prices who will not be there!

You call him a great man, And a prophetic man, And a leader, and a savior, And a man who was wise in an evil world Of tangled interests and selfish power, And who knew the art of compromise, And how to get half when you can’t get all! You haven’t probed deep enough in this man. For he was great as the condor is great. And prophetic as the wolf is prophetic. And a leader as the jackal is a leader. And his wisdom was that of the python, Which will swallow a hare when no pig is at hand!

He was rich, He was well known, His name was linked with lofty things, And adorned all noble committees. And he was a friend of art and music-- He gave them money! He was on the Library Board, And the Commerce Board, and every board For building up the city-- I admit these things. They were pawns on the board for him. That’s why I rise to enter my objection To hanging his picture here!

We had no telephones in those days. But there was a certain man of power, A man who was feared, as one might fear A lion that hides in the jungle. And this man sat in a hidden room As a banded-epira waits and watches. And he went from this room to his house in a cab, And back to this room in a cab. But everyone knew that Archer Price Was doing the will of the man in the room, Though you never saw the two together, As you never could see together the leaders Of some of these late bi-partisan deals. But Archer Price was so much alike This secret man in the room; And did so much what we knew He wanted done, and built the city So near to the heart’s desire of this man That all of us knew that the two conferred In spite of the fact that telephones Had never been heard of then....

Well, because of this man in the room, As well as because of Price himself, Everyone feared him, no one knew Exactly how to fight him. Everyone hated him, although Everyone helped him to wealth and power. He was what you’d call a touch-me-not. If you clodded him you ran the risk Of hitting the teacher, or maybe a child. He always walked with the wind to his back: If you spit at him it would fly in your face. And though we suspected more than we knew Of his subtle machinations, No one could attack him for what was known. Because the things he was known to be doing Were service to those, who couldn’t allow The service to be imperiled.

There never was a time This man was out of public office. He clung to the people’s treasury As a magnet clings to a magnet. Why didn’t your orator tell this audience He started in life as town assessor? That would have left me with nothing to say Except he traded the fixing of taxes For business! Oh, you people who unveil pictures! In his day no one was permitted to say this. And now everyone has forgotten it. It is useless to say it. And here in the year of Columbus You are unveiling his picture!

And you say the Illinois and Michigan Canal Had never been built or saved for the people Except for Archer Price! Why don’t you tell that he fought the Canal in 1830, Saying it would burden the people? And why don’t you say that even then He was acting for his own interests and the man in the room? Why don’t you show that his art of compromise Created the Public Canal Committee When he failed to block the Canal, And failed of appointment as Canal Commissioner? Why don’t you show that through that committee The squatters stole the wharves on the river? Why don’t you show how his friends grew rich Through buying the lands at public sales Which were given to build the Canal, And which the Committee was pretending to conserve? Why don’t you show that through that Committee, Pretending to be a friend of the people, He opened a fight at length on the squatters And won the fight, and won the wharves For himself and a clique of friends? Why don’t you tell--? Cry me down if you will-- I object--I object--

VI

THE LINCOLN AND DOUGLAS DEBATES

Have you ever seen the Douglas monument There in Chicago? They say it’s by the Lake, With a column of marble a hundred feet high, And a statue of The Little Giant on top, With knit brows and lion face, Like he used to look when debatin’ with Linkern. I want to go up to Chicago sometime, To see that monument.

And some one told me They carved on his marble coffin the words: “Tell my children to obey the laws, And uphold the constitution.” Well, they couldn’t have put sadder words On his coffin than that. For it was tryin’ to obey the laws and support the constitution That killed him. And why should his children do the same thing and die?

You young men of this day don’t care, And you don’t understand the old questions. But a man’s life is always worth understanding, Especially a man’s like The Little Giant. Now this was the point: There was that devilish thing slavery, And The Little Giant, as senator, Put through a bill for leaving it to the people Whether they would have slavery in Kansas or Nebraska, Or any other territory, and that was popular sovereignty-- And sounds democratic; but three years later Along comes the Supreme Court and says: The people of a territory must have slavery Whether they want it or not, because The constitution is for slavery, and it follows the flag! Well, there was The Little Giant Caught between the law and the constitution! And tryin’ to obey ’em both! Or better still he was like Lem Reese’s boy Who was standin’ one time one foot on shore, And one in a skiff, baitin’ a hook, And all at once Col. Lankford’s little steamer Came along and bobbled the skiff; And it started to glide out into the river,-- Why the boy walked like a spread compass For a month.

For the skiff was movin’, and that’s the law. And his other foot slipped on the slimy bank, And that’s the constitution!

But if you want to consider a minute How Time plays tag with people, And how no one can tell When he’ll be It, just think: There was Bill McKinley Who kept the old constitution’s from goin’ to the Philippines, And they elected him. And here was The Little Giant, Who wanted to send it everywhere, And they defeated him. So you see it depends on what it means Whether you want to keep it or send it. And nobody knows what it means-- Not even judges.

But just the same them were great days. One time The Little Giant came here with Linkern And talked from the steps of the Court-house; And you never saw such a crowd of people: Democrats, Whigs, and Locofocos, Know-nothings and Anti-masonics, Blue lights, Spiritualists, Republicans Free Soilers, Socialists, Americans--such a crowd. Linkern’s voice squeaked up high, And didn’t carry. But Douglas! People out yonder in Proctor’s Grove, A mile from the Court House steps, Could hear him roar and hear him say: “I’m going to trot him down to Egypt And see if he’ll say the things he says To the black republicans in northern Illinois.” It made you shiver all down your spine To see that face and hear that voice-- And that was The Little Giant!

And then on the other hand there was Abe Linkern standing six foot four, As thin as a rail, with a high-keyed voice, And sometimes solemn, and sometimes comic As any clown you ever saw, And runnin’ Col. Lankford’s little steamer, As it were, you know, which would bobble the skiff, Which was the law; and The Little Giant’s other foot Would slip on the bank, which was the constitution. And you could almost hear him holler “ouch.” And Linkern would say: This argument Of the Senator’s is thin as soup Made from the shadow of a starved pigeon! And then the crowd would yell, and the cornet band Would play, and men would walk away and say: Linkern floored him. And others would say: He aint no match for The Little Giant. But I’ll declare if I could decide Which whipped the other. For to let the people decide whether they wanted slavery Sounded good. And to have the constitution in force sounded good. And not to have any slavery at all sounded good. But so far as the law was concerned, And where it was, and what you could do with it It was like the shell game: Now you see the little ball and now you don’t! Who’s got a dollar to say where the little ball is?

But when you try to obey the laws and support the constitution, It reminds me of a Campbellite preacher We had here years ago. And he debated with the Methodist preacher As to whether immersion or sprinkling Was the way to salvation. And the Campbellite preacher said: “The holy scripture says: ‘And Jesus when he was baptised Went up straightway out of the water.’ And how could he come up out of the water If he wasn’t in?” asked the Campbellite preacher, Pointing a long finger at the Methodist preacher. “And how could he be in without being immersed?” Well, the Campbellite preacher won the debate. But the next day Billy Bell, An infidel we had here, Met the Campbellite preacher and said: “I suppose it wouldn’t be possible for a man To stand in water up to his knees And have water sprinkled on his head, would it?” And the Campbellite preacher said: “Get thee behind me Satan,” and went on. Well Linkern was kind of an infidel, And The Little Giant got caught in his own orthodoxy, And his ability for debate led him into The complete persuading of himself. And by arguin’ for the law He made Linkern appear As bein’ against the law.

But just think, for a minute, young man: Here is The Little Giant the greatest figure in all the land And the wheel of fortune turns And he stands by Linkern’s side and holds His hat while Linkern takes the oath As president! Then the war comes and his leadership Has left him, and millions who followed him Turn from him, and then Death comes, And sits by him and says: Your time’s up! So I say when they put up that monument And carved those words upon it They had just as well have carved the words, “He took poison.”

Which reminds me: There was a family over at Dutchland Named Nitchie. And my boy writes me from college That there is a writer named Nitchie Who says--well I can’t tell you just now. But if you’ll look at things close You’ll see that Linkern was against the legal law, And Douglas against the moral law so-called, And neither cared for the other’s law-- And that was the real debate! Linkern rode over laws to save the Union, And Douglas said he cared more for white supremacy Than anything else. Which being true, who can tell Who won the debates? Is it better to have the Union, Or better to have a master race?

I’ll go over to the post-office now And see if there’s a letter from my boy.

VII

AUTOCHTHON

In a rude country some four thousand miles From Charles’ and Alfred’s birthplace you were born, In the same year. But Charles and you were born On the same day, and Alfred six months later. Thus start you in a sense the race together.... Charles goes to Edinburgh, afterwards His father picks him for the ministry, And sends him off to Cambridge where he spends His time on beetles and geology, Neglects theology. Alfred is here Fondling a Virgil and a Horace. But you--these years you give to reading Æsop, The Bible, lives of Washington and Franklin, And Kirkham’s grammar.

In 1830 Alfred prints a book Containing “Mariana,” certain other Delicate, wind-blown bells of airy music. And in this year you move from Indiana And settle near Decatur, Illinois, Hard by the river Sangamon where fever And ague burned and shook the poor Swamp saffron creatures of that desolate land. While Alfred walks the flowering lanes of England, And reads Theocritus to the song of larks You clear the forests, plow the stumpy land, Fight off the torments of mosquitoes, flies And study Kirkham’s grammar.

In 1831 Charles takes a trip Around the world, sees South America, And studies living things in Galapagos, Tahiti, Keeling Island and Tasmania. In 1831 you take a trip Upon a flat-boat down to New Orleans Through hardships scarcely less than Joliet And Marquette knew in 1673, Return on foot to Orfutt’s store at Salem.

By this time Jacques Rousseau was canonized; Jefferson dead but seven years or so; Brook Farm was budding, Garrison had started His _Liberator_, Fourier still alive; And Emerson was preening his slim wings For flights into broad spaces--there was stir Enough to sweep the Shelleyan heads,--in truth Shelley was scarcely passed a decade then. Old Godwin still was writing, wars for freedom Swept through the Grecian Isles, America Had “isms” in abundance, but not one Took hold of you.

In 1832 Alfred has drawn Out of old Mallory and Grecian myths The “Lady of Shalott” and fair “Œnone,” And put them into verse. This is the year you fight the Black Hawk war, And issue an address to Sangamon’s people. You are but twenty-three, yet this address Would not shame Charles or Alfred; it’s restrained, And sanely balanced, without extra words, Or youth’s conceits, or imitative figures, dreams Or “isms” of the day. No, here you hope That enterprise, morality, sobriety May be more general, and speak a word For popular education, so that all May have a “moderate education” as you say. You make a plea for railroads and canals, And ask the suffrages of the people, saying You have known disappointment far too much To be chagrined at failure, if you lose. They take you at your word and send another To represent them in the Legislature. Then you decide to learn the blacksmith’s trade. But Fate comes by and plucks you by the sleeve, And changes history, doubtless.

By ’36 when Charles returns to England You have become a legislator; yes You tried again and won. You have become A lawyer too, by working through the levels Of laborer, store-keeper and surveyor, Wrapped up in problems of geometry, And Kirkham’s grammar and Sir William Blackstone, And Coke on Littleton, and Joseph Chitty. Brook Farm will soon bloom forth, Francois Fourier Is still on earth, and Garrison is shaking Terrible lightning at Slavocracy. And certain libertarians, _videlicet_ John Greenleaf Whittier and others, sing The trampling out of grapes of wrath; in truth The Hebrews taught the idealist how to sing Destruction in the name of God and curse Where strength was lacking for the sword--but you Are not a Robert Emmet, or a Shelley, Have no false dreams of dying to bring in The day of Liberty. At twenty-three You’re measuring the world and waiting for Dawn’s mists to clear that you may measure it, And know the field’s dimensions ere you put Your handle to the plow.