 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
Scene I
SCENE.—Oystershop. TIME.—10 o'clock, P. M. Room brilliantly illuminated by two tallow candles. OYSTERMAN in the background brandishing his knife with a tragic air over a prostrate oyster. Enter TOM and DICK.Thomas
(loquitur)
This hour is big with fate, and must decide,
As Shakspeare well remarks—
Richardus
I like 'em fried,
They suit me rather better; and I think
That, (as you pay,) we'll have a little drink.
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Would— (to Oysterman)
—hand that bottle—taste of this Champagne.
(To Oysterman)
Just file the wires or break them with a fork,
And, when I'm ready, liberate the cork.
Thomas
Say, gentle Oysterman, old Neptune's son,
Oh say and soothe me! are the shellfish done?
Oysterman
That warn't my father's name! I've no idee
Of having fun nor nothing poked at me!
But to add rubbing in to poking—yes,
That's most too hard for any one I guess,
And as for me—young man I tell you what
I am—no matter what I am—I'm hot,
Ay, in my wrath a very mustard pot!
A curse is on me, wander where I will
That dreadful ban, by jingoes! dogs me still!
E'en so some puppy, to whose harmless tail
Some urchin's hand has tied an old tin pail,
Flees to escape it, yet forever feels
The cumbrous pendent dangling at his heels,
And finds the only method left to take
Is—for his heart, or tail, or both, to break!
I once was gentle as my own sweet Sam,
But perfidy has made me what I am!
I have been cheated, and have suffered wrong
Not to be sneezed at, I have borne long, long,
That pay deferred that makes the full heart ache—
Oh trebly cursed be they who coldly take
The poor man's oysters, eat them up and say
“Trust us, good Oysterman”—and never pay!!
Thomas
(aside)
I've heard of second-sight, but can it be
That fate's dark book is conned by such as he?
If it be so, perhaps he may not trust—
We'll eat the oysters though, and then he must!
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'Tis hard, at best, to keep a wife and child
And grievous when the last, last tatur's biled!
When the wide world is wrapt in slumbers all
And only Sammy wakes, and wakes to squall,
Then on my restless couch I sleepless turn.
Richardus
I say! old cock, these oysters here will burn!
Oysterman
Let me alone for that—I scratch my head
To think the morrow brings no loaf of bread.
All this is sad enough, but sadder far,
When I pass by the tavern's well-stocked bar,
See rum o'er rum, o'er whiskey, whiskey placed,
And my mouth waters for one leetle taste
To warm the blood that curdles round my heart,
And add fresh vigor to my baser part,—
Often I've told the bar-keeper how slick
'T would be for both, if he would only “tick,”
Just tick this once, I'd never ask again,
'T would so relieve an intermittent pain,
A sort of daily cholic that would come,
And only yielded to New England Rum.
(Aside)
Take that junk bottle, Samuel, my son,
(It stands up in the corner there,) and run
Round to the grocer's; get it filled with—stuff
And hasten back again—Begone! Enough!
Thomas
Much like the frightful colds which students tell,
Just reach their crisis at the matin bell,
Sudden they come and sudden disappear
When the loud breakfast peal salutes the ear.
The symptoms are a deep lethargic snore
Till much-loved prayers and more-loved Locke are o'er,
At morning meal an appetite diseased,
Which, like poor Rachel, will not be appeased.
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Returns more dreadful by next morning's chimes—
In former days they had a funny cure,
Which, though severe, was almost always sure;
The President in person used to pick
In Craigie's woods full many a walnut stick
Of toughest quality, and having got 'em
Applied the same unto the patient's ---.
But now-a-days the country air is thought
To cure such maladies of every sort.
But are the oysters fried? I cannot wait
Much longer, Oysterman, it's getting late.
I hear sad accents which you cannot hear,
Ventriloquistic voices meet my ear,
My mental ear, and weeping, seem to say
“Our Commons dinner was but poor to-day.”
And when I strive to put the tempter down,
They moan again, “Do have them fried quite brown!”
Dick, if Fate's hand were ever shown in aught,
These dreadful omens are not meant for nought.
So ghosts, when Cæsar fell, wrapt up in sheets,
“Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets,”
As Shakspeare says—
Richardus
Dear Tom, the oysters wait,
Don't stand and moralize, but fill your plate.
Thomas
Fill! I'll do more, I'll empty it as fast
As what is “present” hastens to be “past;”
For verily my nose, most mighty Dick,
Informs my bowels that the treat is slick!
E'en so some grunter, monarch of the stye,
Lifts o'er the new-brought swill his nostrils high,
Keeps all the other rev'rent piglings off
As he inhales the incense of the trough,
And while his very tail for rapture curls,
Prefers his banquet to a feast of pearls.
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Bring on the bottle, Oysterman, this knife
Shall bring its prisoned energies to life,
See how it foams and fizzles to be free,—
(Cuts the cork loose.)
Pop! that's a sounder! how it sparkles! See!
Thomas
E'en so my spirit, Richard, scorns the rules
Of College order, made to shackle fools!
What are all laws in fact but galling chains,
The empty work of still more empty brains;
A poor device, if history tell us true,
To make the many buckle to the few?
Laws! shame that such frail gossamer should bind
The God-like powers of the mighty mind!
(Dick, in the mean while, keeps alternately tipping the bottle towards his glass, and his glass towards his mouth, with a dexterity which Sancho Panza himself might have been proud to imitate.)
Oh how my spirit struggles to be loose
And strives in vain! alas it ain't no use!
Oh Dick! Dick! Dick! if you but had a soul
Like mine, to grasp the world from pole to pole,
And, in its universal charity take in
Each fellow mortal of whatever skin;
Brown Indian, roasted by the eccentric sun,
And ebon Ethiop, rather overdone,
(What time poor Phaëton in Sol's bright car,
“Shot from the zenith like a falling star,”)
Had you a soul, I say, as vast as that,
You'd say—these things are fried in too much fat—
You'd say, What are the laws to me, to any one,
If but approving conscience say, “Well done!”
Richardus
Well done, forsooth! Well done! I do not care
What conscience likes, but I prefer things rare!
(With this he pours down the last glass of Champagne)
Thomas
Yet why this eloquence? he heeds me not,
Far better eat my oysters while they're hot.
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May one day make the Harvard Union stare,
And bellowed forth with more than Stentor's lungs
Call thundering plaudits from a dozen tongues!!!
So some huge Freshman, hero of a tail,
Delights to feel it fluttering in the gale,
But more delights to save it nicely brushed,
Till Sophs' fell ire by Sunday's calm is hushed,
Then proudly does his young ambition soar,
As he struts sternly to the chapel door,
In all but age and size, a Sophomore!
Richardus
Oh nature's noblest gift, New York Champagne!
Light of the sense! Elysium of the brain!
Who cast aside the grape, and mixed instead
With one part brandy, four of pure white lead,
And thus our country's freedom did enhance,
No more dependent on the vines of France?
A leather medal his reward should be,
A leather medal and an LL. D.! (after a pause, sings)
Light of the sense! Elysium of the brain!
Who cast aside the grape, and mixed instead
With one part brandy, four of pure white lead,
And thus our country's freedom did enhance,
No more dependent on the vines of France?
A leather medal his reward should be,
A leather medal and an LL. D.! (after a pause, sings)
“Come hey down derry
Let's drink and be merry
In spite of Mahomet's law!”
Let's drink and be merry
In spite of Mahomet's law!”
But stop! oh sight of horrors! by the stove
Stand two twin oystermen! they do, by Jove!
Glaring at me, with look intent, they stand,
And knives, for murder thirsty, in their hand,
Oh men of oysters! men of oysters oh!
What can possess ye to regard me so?
And Thomas! long loved, honored Thomas too,
Why have you thus transformed yourself to two?
I ne'er expected such a thing of you!
Stand two twin oystermen! they do, by Jove!
Glaring at me, with look intent, they stand,
And knives, for murder thirsty, in their hand,
Oh men of oysters! men of oysters oh!
What can possess ye to regard me so?
And Thomas! long loved, honored Thomas too,
Why have you thus transformed yourself to two?
I ne'er expected such a thing of you!
Thomas
Richard, thou 'rt drunk! you're fuddled Dick, I say,
Here, take my arm, and let us haste away.
Richardus
Believe me, Tom, I really am not high,
This seeing double's wholly “in my eye”—
And really, (hiccup,) Tom, I cannot see
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E'en so the pot behind the kettle's back,
As history tells us, called his cousin black.
A meddling saucepan to the kettle told
The whole affair, before the words were cold.
The latter boiled with wrath, ‘called out’ the pot,
And shot the luckless slanderer on the spot!!
So prithee, Thomas, do not make a fuss,
And let the pot's sad fate take one of us.
Thomas
I will not, dearest Dick—but let us go,
We've something else to do to-night, you know;
And though some proctor, on his evening scout,
Led by his nose, should chance to find us out,
And peeping through night's blanket cry hold! hold!
I'd try his courage, Dick, I feel so bold!!
Richardus
Yes, Tom, if courage dwelleth in the feet,
I think you'd stand the fairest chance to beat.
[Exeunt Tom and Dick singing
I think you'd stand the fairest chance to beat.
“We won't go home till morning!”g
(A proctor comes out from the other cell in the shop)
Proctor
Now will I keep a very strict look out,
And, (if thou'rt faithful to thy charge, my snout,
And guid'st me truly yet this one time more
As thou, unerring, oft hast done before,)
I hope to nip in time this budding scrape,
Nor let the actors or the act escape!
Then in all future proctors' mouths my name
Shall be synonymous with deathless fame.
Guy Fawkes was nothing to this horrid plot,—
But I must strike while yet the iron's hot!
[Exit Proctor, in his haste forgetting to pay.
Manet Oysterman
Now by the terrors of this mighty fist
Which rival oystermen could ne'er resist,
I'll pay that rascal who forgot to pay,
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Nor sword nor horrid oysterknife will sheathe
Until I make him banquet on his teeth!!
(Takes a swallow from the bottle.)
To seal the oath I take one leetle drop—
Sam! while I'm gone, do you attend the shop!
[Exit.
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |