Part 4
But are you content To have your negroes free, and millionaires In mastership of your republic? Where Are men to overlord your millionaires? You know Out of the eater comes forth meat, who will Exhaust the strength of those whose strength was gained From blood of boys shed on the battle field? What can you do to have a Renaissance That with a terrible light will drive to covert Owls, bats, and mousing hawks, that neither know What life is, whence they come, nor what they are, Who live by superstition, codes of slaves, Fear truth, are weak, and only hunger know-- You must have such a Renaissance or die While slipping smugly, self sufficiently Along a way unvisioned, while you play The hypocrite as it was never played In any place, in any time on earth! These things I see. But let me in conclusion Point to your Lincoln as a man who makes For power and beauty in your country, call it Republic if you will, the name is nothing. I say the vitalest force is love, not hate. I say that all great souls are lovers, but of what? Why, what great Goethe loved! Your master men Should learn of Goethe, hold the crowd through him. And Lincoln was a lover, but of what? Well not the cesspool of the black man’s slavery. He loved the mathematics of high truths, And heightened spirituality, that’s the reason Only a man like me can know him, that’s The reason that your crude American thought Misses the man.
OLD PIERY
I had a paying little refinery And all was well with me, and then The Trust edged up to me and wiped me out. So much for northern tariff, freedom Of niggers and New England rule. Praise God for sponging slavery from the Slate! Well, then I was without a cent again, What should I do? I wanted first a change, And rest in the use of other faculties, So I went out and took a farm. One thing leads to another. I wake up one morning And find a man from Illinois Become my neighbor on the adjoining farm. It’s your John Cogdall, once of Petersburg, County of Menard, in Illinois, Precinct Indian Point, he said to me. We’re friends at once, and visit back and forth. Two months ago I saw upon his table A copy of the _Petersburg Observer_-- John likes to hear the home-town news-- I pick it up and scan it through to see What a country paper is in Illinois. And there I read this notice of “Old Piery,” Real name Cordelia Stacke, dead thirty years, Whose money in the county treasury Is to be made escheat. So here I am Maneuvering for this money, rather shabby If I was not so devilish poor and pressed; If letting Menard County have the prize Would profit any one, when I can prove Old Piery was my great aunt, Her father and my grandfather brothers, When I can prove that I’m her only heir.
Yes, but not as pure of blood. Her father was a judge in South Carolina, Her mother was a belle of New Orleans, My father told me so. Cordelia Stacke, “Old Piery,” as you called her, was a story We heard as children sitting on his knee. I know to prove my name is Stacke, And then because her name was Stacke Won’t draw this money from your treasury, But wait Go to your vault and get that ring she wore, Slipped from her dead hand when you found her body Dead for a week amid her rags and stuff. Go get that ring, Mr. Treasurer of Menard, If I don’t describe it Down to the finest point, Just as I heard my father say The night she disappeared she wore a ring Of such and such, I’ll go back to my farm In Mississippi. But I’ll do much more I’ll trace her from Columbia to Old Salem; I’ll show her crazed brain luring her along To find the spot where Lincoln kept the store Two miles from where we sit. She must have walked Across Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, or perhaps She footed it through Tennessee, Kentucky.
I talked this morning with your county judge. He said she came here late in ’65 Or early ’66, Was seen by farmers near the Salem Mill, A loitering, mumbling woman, Not old, but looking old, and aging fast As she became a figure in your streets And alleys with a gunny-sack on back, Wherein she stuffed old bottles, paper, things She picked industriously and stored away. Would buy a bit of cold food at the baker’s. Sometimes would sit on door steps eating cake, Which friendly hands had given her, then depart And say, “God rest your souls!” Attended mass On Sunday mornings, knew no one And had no friends. In ’69 was found incompetent, And placed in charge of a conservator. Then as she was not dangerous went ahead At picking rags, Until in ’97 passed away.
Such was the life and death of a fine girl, The daughter of a judge in South Carolina And a belle of New Orleans. And after life at best knew life at worst, Beginning in a southern capitol Where she knew riches, admiration, place, She ended up in Petersburg, Illinois, A little croaking, mad but harmless waif, A withered leaf stirred by the Lincoln storm. And here’s my guess: The fancy of her madness brought her here To see the country where The man who was a laborer, kept a store, Could rise therefrom, And bring such desolation to the South, Such sorrow to herself, that is my guess.
The name’s Cordelia Stacke inside this ring You tell me. She’s the same no doubt. We all lived in Columbia when the troops Of Sherman whirled upon us to the sea. I was a year old then. We were burned out, Lost everything. The troops came howling, plundering, And tossing combustible chemicals. They butchered just for sport our cattle; Split chests and cabinets with savage axes; Walked with their hob-nailed boots on our pianos; Ran bayonets through pictures; Rode horses in our parlors; Broke open trunks and safes; Searched cellars, opened graves for hoarded gold, And yelled “You dirty rebels now we’ve got you.” They filled their bellies up with wine and whisky, And drunken, howling through Columbia’s streets They carried vases, goblets, silver, gold, And rolled about with pockets full of loot, And then at last they stuck the torch to us And made a bon-fire of our city.
Cordelia had a lover who was killed At Antietam fighting, not for niggers, But fighting back the fools who had been crazed By preachers, poets, Garrisons and Whittiers Who thought they worked for freedom, but instead Worked for New England’s tariff--look at me How could the trust destroy me if the tariff Put no bricks in the bully’s boxing gloves? Well, then, Cordelia lost her lover, And when the troops came was a novitiate Nun at the convent. And the soldiers came To say the convent would be spared. But when The flames arose, she ran into the city To be beside her father and her mother. And she arrived Just as the soldiers entered the house for loot. Her mother was in bed half dead from fright, Not well at best. The soldiers broke the bedroom door, And howled for treasure. When the mother said There was no treasure, then they took her And flung her from the bed, ripped up the matress, Raked pictures from the walls, and smashed the mirrors, Tore closets open, then went to the cellar Leaving the mother lying on the floor, Who lay as dead. They drank what wine they found, Then seized the father, hung him to a tree To make him tell where he kept money hidden. The mother died in two days from the fright. The father was not killed, they took him down, And went their way carousing, yelling out “You dirty rebels now we’ve got you fair.” Cordelia thought no doubt that both were dead. A passerby beheld her on the lawn Her hair let down and plucking at her dress. But who could stop to help her in that hell Of a city burning and the howls and shouts, And falling walls? Cordelia disappeared and from that night Was never seen or heard of. To his death Her father thought she met a terrible fate: Was raped and slaughtered.
So you see All of this put together tells the story Of this poor creature whom you called “Old Piery.” But let me add Cordelia had a horse She called “Old Piery”--that fits in my proof. That’s why she named herself “Old Piery” here, And gave your boys and girls a mocking name To hail her with as she went up your alleys; With which to rap the windows of her room, Where bottles, cans, waste rags, and copper things, Old hoops of iron, staves, old boots and shoes, Springs, wheels of clocks, and locks of broken guns, Old boards and boxes, stacks of paper waste Stuffed up the place, and where unknown to all Paper and silver money hid in cracks Between the leaves of fouled and rain-soaked books, Or packed in jars were kept by her. You see Her mind was turned to treasure, hiding it Against the soldiers maybe, in this land Where Lincoln was a laborer, farmer, kept A store at Salem.
Well I say God rest her soul, as she was used to say. I want to raise a stone to mark her grave, And carve her name below a broken heart. For listen now: the ring Cordelia wore Was just a little band of gold and set With a cornelian heart--am I not right? I knew I was.
THE TYPICAL AMERICAN?
He calls himself an American citizen-- And yet among such various breeds of men Who’ll call him typical? At any rate His faults or virtues one may predicate Somewhat as follows: He is sent to school Little or much, where he imbibes the rule Of safety first and comfort; in his youth He joins the church and ends the quest of truth. Beyond the pages of theology He does not turn, he does not seem to see How hunger makes these Occidental creeds Sweet foliage on which the stomach feeds. Like those thick tussock moths upon the bole Of a great beech tree, feed the human soul And it will use the food for gold and power! So men have used Christ Jesus’ tender flower, And garnered it for porridge, opiates, And made it flesh of customs laws and states Where life repeats itself after a plan And breeds the typical American-- As he regards himself.
Our man matures And enters business, following the lures Of great increase in business, more receipts-- Upon this object center all his wits. And greater crops make needful larger barns, Vainly the parable of Jesus warns. His soul is now required, is taken away From living waters, in a little day Thrift, labor dooms him, leaves him banqueting Where nothing nourishes, they are the sting Which deadens him and casts him down at last Fly blown or numb or lifeless in this vast Surrounding air of Vital Power, where God Like the great sun, invites the wayside clod To live at full.
In time our hero weds A woman like himself, and little heads Soon run about a house or pleasant yard. He must work now to keep them--have regard To the community, its thoughts and ways. What church is here? He finds it best to praise Its pastor and its flock, his children send To Sunday school, if never he attend Its services. What politics obtain? He must support the tussock leaf campaigns If he would eat himself. ’Tis best to join The party which controls the greater coin. And so what is his party’s interest In business? There must his soul invest Its treasure till the two are wholly one. Like the poor prostitute he is undone In virtue not alone, but he has made Himself a cog-wheel in the filthy trade Of justice courts, police and graft in wine Bondsmen and lawyers with a strength malign Moving the silken vestured marionette To laugh, entice and play the sad coquette. Yet if for bread you are compelled to ask The giver may impose an evil task, Or terms of life. Would you retain a roof, Mix with the crowd, nor dare to stand aloof. Our hero sees this, wears a hopeful smile To cover up his spattered soul, and while Digesting wounded truth, hiding his thought, His own opinions, for his soul is caught Amid the idiot hands that strike and press-- One may glide through who learns to say yes, yes, While in heart-sickness whispering to himself: I do this for the children, and for pelf To keep the house and yard, the cupboard full. Some time I hope to free myself and pull My legs out of this social muck and mire. First money is, then freedom his desire, But often neither comes. If he win wealth He has become lead-poisoned, for by stealth The virus of the colors which he used To paint his life is spread and interfused In every vein. By ways complaisant Our hero has got gold from ignorant Vulgarian nondescripts, has entertained The odorous cormorants, and has profaned His household gods to keep them safe and whole Upon the altar--winning what a goal! For meantime in this living he has schooled His children in the precepts which have ruled His days from the beginning. They are bred His out-look to repeat, and even to tread The way he went amid the tangled wood In their own time and chosen neighborhood. What has our hero done? Why nothing more Than feed upon the beech leaves, gather store For children moths to feed on, and get strength To climb the branches and on leaves at length To feed of their own will.
Is this a man? Is this your typical American?
COME, REPUBLIC
Come! United States of America, And you one hundred million souls, O Republic, Throw out your chests, lift up your heads, And walk with a soldier’s stride. Quit burning up for money alone. Quit slouching and dawdling, And dreaming and moralising. Quit idling about the streets, like the boy In the village, who pines for the city. Root out the sinister secret societies, And the clans that stick together for office, And the good men who care nothing for liberty, But would run you, O Republic, as a household is run. It is time, Republic, to get some class, It is time to harden your muscles, And to clear your eyes in the cold water of Reality, And to tighten your nerves. It is time to think what Nature means, And to consult Nature, When your soul, as you call it, calls to you To follow principle! It is time to snuff out the A. D. Bloods. It is time to lift yourself, O Republic, From the street corners of Spoon River.
Do you wish to survive, And to count in the years to come? Then do what the plow-boys did in sixty-one, Who left the fields for the camp, And tightened their nerves and hardened their arms Till the day they left the camp for the fields The bravest, readiest, clearest-eyed Straight-walking men in the world, And symbolical of a Republic That is worthy the name!
If you, Republic, had kept the faith Of a culture all your own, And a spiritual independence, And a freedom large and new. If you had not set up a Federal judge in China, And scrambled for place in the Orient, And stolen the Philippine Islands, And mixed in the business of Europe, Three thousand miles of water east, And seven thousand west Had kept your hands untainted, free For a culture all your own! But while you were fumbling, and while you were dreaming As the boy in the village dreams of the city You were doing something worse: You were imitating! You came to the city and aped the swells, And tried to enter their set! You strained your Fate to their fate, And borrowed the mood to live their life! And here you are in the game, Republic, But not prepared to play!
But you did it. And the water east and water west Are no longer your safeguard: They are now your danger and difficulty! And you must live the life you started to imitate In spite of these perilous waters. For they keep you now from being neutral-- For you are not neutral, Republic, You only pretend to be. You are not free, independent, brave, You are shackled, cowardly For what could happen to you overnight In the Orient, If you stood with your shoulders up, And were Neutral!
Suppose you do it, Republic. Get some class, Throw out your chest, lift up your head, Be a ruler in the world, And not a hermit in regimentals with a flint-lock. Colossus with one foot in Europe, And one in China, Quit looking between your legs for the re-appearance Of the star of Bethlehem-- Stand up and be a man!
PAST AND PRESENT
Past midnight! Vastly overhead A wash of stars--the town’s asleep! And through the pine trees of the dead The rising winds of morning creep.
Dim, mid the hillside’s shadow grass I count the marble slabs. How vain My throbbing life that waits to pass Into the great world on the train!
The city’s vision fades from mind. I only see the hill and sky; And on the mist that rides the wind A tottering pageant meets my eye.
The cock crows faintly, far away; A troop of age and grief appears. Ye shadows of a distant day. What do ye, pioneers?
There shines the engine’s comet light. Ye shadows of a century set, Haste to the hillside and the night-- I am not of you yet!
ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
To the lovers of Liberty everywhere, But chiefly to the youth of America Who did not know Robert G. Ingersoll, Remember that he helped to make you free! He was a leader in a war of guns for freedom, But a general in the war of ideas for freedom! He braved the misunderstanding of friends, He faced the enmity of the powerful small of soul, And the insidious power of the churches; He put aside worldly honours, And the sovereignty of place, He stripped off the armor of institutional friendships To dedicate his soul To the terrible deities of Truth and Beauty! And he went down into age and into the shadow With love of men for a staff, And the light of his soul for a light-- And with these alone! O you martyrs trading martyrdom for heaven, And self-denial for eternal riches, How does your work and your death compare With a man’s for whom the weal of the race, And the cause of humanity here and now were enough To give life meaning and death as well?-- I have not seen such faith in Israel!
AT HAVANA
I met a fisherman at Havana once, Havana on the Illinois, I mean, There by the house and fish boats. He was burned The color of an acorn, and his hair Was coarse as a horse’s tail. His scraggy hands Looked like thick bands of weather-colored copper, But his eyes were blue as faded gingham is. I stood amid the smell of scales and heads, And fishes’ entrails dumped along the sand. The still air was a burning glass which focused A bon-fire sun right through my leghorn hat; And a black fly from crannies of the air Lit on my hand and bit it venomously. Across the yellow river lay the bottoms Where giant sycamores and elms o’ertopped A jungle of disgusting weeds. The breeze Hot as a tropic breath exhaled the reek Of baking mud and of those noisome weeds, Wherewith the odors of putrescent fish Mixed on the simmering sands. A naturalist Must seek the habitat of the life he studies.... There on a platform lay the dressed fish, carp, Black-bass, and pike and pickerel, buffalo, Cat-fish, which I had come to see, and talk With fishermen along the Illinois. My man held up a fish and said to me; “Here is the bastard who drives all the fish Out of the river, out of any water He comes in, and he comes wherever food Can be obtained; the black-bass, even cat-fish, And all the good stocks run away from him, He is so hoggish, plaguy, and so mean. The other fish may try to live with him, I’m thinking sometimes, anyway I know He drives the others out.” I looked to see What fish is so unfriendly to his fellows. “Just look at him,” he said, but as he spoke The black fly stung my hand again. When I Looked up from swatting him, the man had thrown The fish upon the sand, and a stray dog Was running off with him along the river.
THE MOURNER’S BENCH
They’re holding a revival at New Hope Meeting house, I can’t keep from going, I ought to stay away. For I come home and toss in bed till day, For thinking of my sin, and the trouble I am in. I dream I hear the dancers In the steps and swings, The quadrilles and the lancers They danced at Revis Springs. I lie and think of Charley, Charley, Charley The Bobtown dandy Who had his way with me. And no one is so handy A dancer as Charley To Little Drops of Brandy, Or the Wind that Shakes the Barley, Or Good mornin’ Uncle Johnny I’ve fetched your Wagon Home.
And Greenberry Atterberry, who toed it like a pigeon Has gone and got religion; He’s deserted the dancers, the fiddlers, merry-makers, And I should do it too. For Charley, Charley has left me for to roam. But a woman at the mourner’s bench must tell her story true-- What shall I do? What shall I do?
My grandmother told me of Old Peter Cartwright Who preached hell-fire And the worm that never dies. And here’s a young preacher at the New Hope Meeting house, And every one allows, he has old Peter’s brows, And flaming of the eyes, And the very same way, they say. Last night he stuck his finger right down in my direction, And said: “God doesn’t care For your woman’s hair. Jesus wants to know if your soul is fair As your woman’s complexion.” And then I thought he knew-- O what shall I do?
Greenberry Atterberry, weeping and unsteady Had left his seat already. He stood at the mourner’s bench in great tribulation And told the congregation: That fiddling and dancing and tobacco chewin’ Led up to whisky and to woman’s ruin-- And I thought he looked at me. Well, you can stop dancing, and you can stop drinking And you can leave the quarter-horses at the crooked races. But a woman, a woman, the people will be thinking Forever of a woman who confesses her behavior. And then I couldn’t look in the people’s faces, All weeping and singing, O gentle Saviour! Then the devil said: You wench You’d cut a pretty figure at the mourner’s bench, Go out and look for Charley, Go out and look for Charley, He’s down at Leese’s Grove. He has found a fresh love Go win him back again. He is dancing on the platform to the Speckled Hen.
O Saviour, Saviour, how can I join the mourners, Face all the scorners? But how can I hunt Charley at Leese’s Grove? How can I stand the staring, the whispering of things Down at Revis Springs? How can I stand the mocking of the fiddle strings? Charley! Charley! So it’s knowing what’s best to do, Saviour! Saviour! Its knowing what’s best to do!
THE BAY-WINDOW