The harp and plow :: :: University of Virginia Library

'T was nightfall on a summer's day
When Sirius holds a baneful sway;
When thunder-gusts full frequent fly
And wrathful thro' the sultry sky;
When sudden showers of roaring rain
Dash drenching o'er the stubble plain;
Or sheeting mists forbear to dry
The stooks of weather-blackened rye;
And Phœbus seems to loose his power
To shine unclouded for an hour;
When farmers, vexed with ‘horrors’ never,
Will gloomy visions have, if ever,—
The scene occurred which I disclose.
Believe or not, just as you choose.
Intent the silver-eel to take,
I hied me to a neighboring lake.
An old tree root, the winds had felled,
My form in careless posture held;
And smothered in a tempting show,
I cast the baited hook below.

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The dripping moon, night's ancient daughter,
Just looked upon the sleeping water
Thro' rifted clouds, then like a ghost
Fled, in the closing blackness lost.

A sign of rainy weather in New England, derived from the ancient Indian tribes, is the appearance of the new moon, viz: when its horns are blunt, and its shape is such (to use the Indian expression) that it will not “hold water.”

There long I sat, unthinking quite,
And heard the ‘voices of the night:’
Sounds which might puzzle one to tell
Who made them all, this side of hell;
Musquetoes, whose delightful buzz
Might e'en provoke the man of Uz;
Bull-frogs, grum base and barytone,
The drowsy pur-r, and doleful groan;
While from the top of neighboring tree
An owlet whined a symphony—
Such sounds, too, as, I am thinking,
Set your fisherman to winking,
For music, tho' it opes the ears,
Oft shuts the eyes of him who hears.
All on a sudden, as we say,
Just along shore a little way,
Reclined upon the sloping bank,
Appeared a figure, long and lank.
He held a rod of extra length,
Made less for beauty than for strength;

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It had a gallows look about it;
(You should have seen it if you doubt it.)
His line was such another cord
As he used who betrayed his Lord,
And such as hangmen now-days use
To knot the ignominious noose.
His hook, e'en in the gloom of night,
Shone with peculiar auric light;
No hollow tinsel of the tinner,
But SOLID GOLD, as I'm a sinner!
For baits he used as many kinds
As were his fish of different minds;
(Not that small fry have minds, but then
What may he use who catches men?)
Beside him stood a basket large
And black as hold of charcoal barge,
And thro' its sooty meshes steamed
Sulphureous fumes that lurid gleamed!
O, for a sheet of heavy fold,
As strong as trunk of oak unrolled!
O, that a pen of mountain pine,
And strength to wield the same were mine!
And ink black-mixed in vasty tub,
To write the name of Beelzebub!
For who else could that being be
Seen angling then and there by me?
Sweet friend, what would have been your case
That night, had you been in my place?

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Instead of facing your old master,
Your coward shanks would borne you faster,
And not the less against your will
Than ran the rogues at Springfield hill.
Methought I 'd stay awhile and watch
To see what sort of fry he 'd catch;
Without the power, if not the wish,
To spare you from the list of fish.

The discomfiture of the rebels during the Shays insurrection at the arsenal hill in Springfield. The story is told of one man who ran thirty miles, with only an occasional stopping to take breath.

He tied a rag of super cloth
With shining web of silken moth
Around his hook, and thus equipped
His line within the flood he dipped.
But scarce his hook was out of sight
Before, it seemed, he felt a bite;
And drawing up again his line,
His luck proved better much than mine.
One thing was something strange to see:
As soon as e'er his fish were free
From out the water, they appeared
No more the finny things he reared;
But metamorphosed seemed the creatures
To human forms with human features.
The fish now dangling on his string
Was but a brainless trifling thing
Such as along a city's walks
With consequential bearing stalks;

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Who owes to tailors' arts and dresses,
The consequence that he possesses;
And lisping tells his brother asses
How he disdains the ‘lower classes.’
Nick merely deigned this word on him
Of smirking face and puny limb:—
‘I only want your body, Zany;
Prime souls are scarce—you have n't any.’
For as he looked upon his face
He knew the worthless minim dace
Was only fit for making bait;
And so consigned him to his fate.
Upon his hook he kept the wretch,
And cast, another fish to catch.

A greedy pike was darting by,
With hungry jaw and eager eye;
He saw the game on which to sup,
And in a moment snatched it up.
Nick with the barb-inflicting twitch
Took in his gills a cruel stitch;
And as he seized the rav'nous pike,
In tone of voice not much unlike
The sound of saw-mill in full motion,
He thus accused him of devotion:

'Give us your hand, my old flint-skinner!
Don't feign surprise, my hopeful sinner!
We 've partners been these many years,
And now we'll settle your arrears.
Your credit is so poor of late
Not even I can longer wait;

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Besides, you 've aped me in my power,
By seeking whom you might devour;
You 've wronged the poor man of his rights;
You 've robbed the widow of her mites;
You 've often watched, as now, to catch
Some silly addle-headed wretch
More flush of money than of brains,
And turned his pockets for your gains;
In all your deal and all your diction
The truth was stranger far than fiction,
But tho' mankind were gulled by you;
One thing is sure, I 've got my due.
He said, and with infernal grin
His basket ope'd, and thrust him in.
I noticed as the lid he raised,
The brimstone flame beneath it blazed!

A bull-head was the next he took.
The groper bit the naked hook!
Old Satan grinned another smile,
And thus delighted him awhile:

‘Old churl, I know you to the letter!
You, too, are pretty deep my debtor;
A writing for your soul I hold.
The price of which was paid in gold;
But you were made of horse-leech stuff,
And never knew you had enough,
But you must cry for more, until
It 's my belief you'll get your fill.
What now avails your hoarded wealth?
By meanness yours if not by stealth.

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What now avails your sneaking life,
Grudging your worthless self and wife
The necessary cost of living,
And knowing no such word as giving?
If aught you 'd had to pay for breath
Long since you would have choked to death.
Faith! you're too mean for me to take you;
But yet I must, and I will bake you!’
He spoke, and 'neath the basket lid
The poor old selfish miser hid.

With Bible leaves he baited next,
Well filled with many a pious text.
An eel observed the piece of writ
And quick enough he swallowed it;
Which done, he thought to bolt away;
But Beelze thought he 'd better stay.
‘You slippery dog!’ quoth he, ‘I knew
What baits of all best suited you.
I 've seen you often read the book,
In sack-cloth garb with solemn look;
But never saw you read alone—
'T was when some one was looking on.
I 've minded you full oft at meeting,
To give you there a hearty greeting;
I 've heard you with lip-service pray
The devil's kingdom might decay,
But I 've to thank you for your zeal
Foremost in furthering my weal;

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I 've seen you grieve for negroes' woes
While the poor beast beneath your blows
Has cried like Balaam's ass aloud,
Below your cruel burdens bowed!
I 've seen you give to build a church
Enough to freight a bark of birch,
And have it blazoned in the papers
To hide your mean deceitful capers;
But when your washerwoman came,
With hard work and rheumatics lame,
Begg'd her bill cashed, with tale of sorrow,
You 've bid her call again to-morrow;
Put on your specs and scan'd it o'er,
And swore as Peter never swore.—
No mistress Potiphar could slur you,
Indignant at your stalwart virtue;
Chaste Joseph's story, let me mention,
Was quite beyond your comprehension,
For had you his temptation known,
Your ‘garment’ still had been your own.
I'll toast you on my three-tined spit,
You sweet, old, precious hypocrite!’
The wretch, with loud heart-rending screech
Was soon beyond all pity's reach!
Then with another smile infernal
The devil took a certain Journal
And fixed it on his hook for bait;
Nor did he long for nibblers wait.
One of those things which wear a shell,
That half their time in water dwell—

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The snapping kind, famed for their spite,
Was nothing loath, it seemed, to bite.
As soon as e'er it came afloat,
Behold, it wore a petticoat!
There was no sweet expression tender
By which to designate her gender,
And nothing but the coats she wore
Removed my doubtings on that score.
‘Madam, I hope you're well to-night!’
Cried Sootie, as she hove in sight;
‘But you must know that moral journal
Is what I wish to have diurnal,
And o'er the country wide extend,
For I'm the gainer in the end.’
Her face with ire began to bleach;
Quoth she, ‘For you that 's pretty speech!
If you're a ‘nigger,’—as your hue
Of sooty black betokens you,—
You're quite familiar let me tell you;
Your distance keep ere I compel you!
My talk about man's brotherhood
May for profession all be good,
But practice goes another gait,—
A nigger my associate!’
Just then thoughts of a different kind
Seemed suddenly to cross her mind,
And she went on in tone more civil;
‘It may be, though, that you're the devil;

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What business, pray, have you with me?
We surely cannot disagree.
Have n't I left my proper sphere
To spread my scandals far and near?
Left my ‘old man,’ I swore to cherish,
To cold potatoes or to perish?
My poor neglected brats forsaken
Till you 've apprenticed them, and taken?
Have I not fired with zealous rage
To hear rebuke from some old sage,
Or read the apostolic page?
Sought out each fire-and-tow convention
Fierce for polemics and contention?
Have I not ever cast aloof
Instruction and ‘despised reproof,’
And as a consequence, you see,
Been full of general deviltry?
And now is this the way it ends?
Is this the way you ‘back your friends?’
‘Softly, my dear,’ observed old Sootie,
And seized the bold unblushing beauty;
‘You 've done all this, I'll not deny—
Or rather it was you and I.
Some things you 've done in boiling blood,
And thought that you was doing good;
But let me whisper in your ear,
Your mind was very far from clear.
Ignorance of the law, we read,
Is no excuse for evil deed;

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And since you're fond of so much fire,
You shall have more than you desire.
I'll show you where we keep it bright
And never rake it up at night;
And you shall fill a cozy nitch in
The pot-hook ward of my back-kitchen.’
One thing was certain, if not pretty:
The woman-fish seemed far most gritty;
But zeal is woful without knowledge,
In man or woman, cot or college.
Old Nick got up and took his spawn,
And in a thunder-peal was gone!
It fairly made the tree roots shake,
And stirred the water in the lake.
Some eel, I found, had got my line;
No longer was the tackle mine;
And as the plashing drops descended,
Waking, my homeward way I wended.
I'll go and give those FISH a warning,
Thought I, as soon as dawns the morning;
And tell them, ere it is too late,
Be careful how they take the bait.
The hook will prick them, bye and bye,
And Satan then will have a fry.
And you, good soul, for whom I write,
Think of the FISH were caught that night!