The Spooniad

Of John Cabanis’ wrath and of the strifeOf hostile parties, and his dire defeatWho led the common people in the causeOf freedom for Spoon River, and the fallOf Rhodes, bank that brought unnumbered woesAnd loss to many, with engendered hateThat flamed into the torch in Anarch handsTo burn the court-house, on whose blackened wreckA fairer temple rose and Progress stood—Sing, muse, that lit the Chian’s face with smilesWho saw the ant-like Greeks and Trojans crawlAbout Scamander, over walls, pursuedOr else pursuing, and the funeral pyresAnd sacred hecatombs, and first becauseOf Helen who with Paris fled to TroyAs soul-mate; and the wrath of Peleus, son,Decreed to lose Chryseis, lovely spoilOf war, and dearest concubine.

Say first,Thou son of night, called Momus, from whose eyesNo secret hides, and Thalia, smiling one,What bred ’twixt Thomas Rhodes and John CabanisThe deadly strife? His daughter Flossie, she,Returning from her wandering with a troopOf strolling players, walked the village streets,Her bracelets tinkling and with sparkling ringsAnd words of serpent wisdom and a smileOf cunning in her eyes. Then Thomas Rhodes,Who ruled the church and ruled the bank as well,Made known his disapproval of the maid;And all Spoon River whispered and the eyesOf all the church frowned on her, till she knewThey feared her and condemned.

But them to floutShe gave a dance to viols and to flutes,Brought from Peoria, and many youths,But lately made regenerate through the prayersOf zealous preachers and of earnest souls,Danced merrily, and sought her in the dance,Who wore a dress so low of neck that eyesDown straying might survey the snowy swale’Till it was lost in whiteness.

With the danceThe village changed to merriment from gloom.The milliner, Mrs. Williams, could not fillHer orders for new hats, and every seamstressPlied busy needles making gowns; old trunksAnd chests were opened for their store of lacesAnd rings and trinkets were brought out of hidingAnd all the youths fastidious grew of dress;Notes passed, and many a fair one’s door at eveKnew a bouquet, and strolling lovers throngedAbout the hills that overlooked the river.Then, since the mercy seats more empty showed,One of God’s chosen lifted up his voice:“The woman of Babylon is among us; riseYe sons of light and drive the wanton forth!”So John Cabanis left the church and leftThe hosts of law and order with his eyesBy anger cleared, and him the liberal causeAcclaimed as nominee to the mayoraltyTo vanquish A. D. Blood.

But as the warWaged bitterly for votes and rumors flewAbout the bank, and of the heavy loansWhich Rhodes, son had made to prop his lossIn wheat, and many drew their coin and leftThe bank of Rhodes more hollow, with the talkAmong the liberals of another bankSoon to be chartered, lo, the bubble burst’Mid cries and curses; but the liberals laughedAnd in the hall of Nicholas Bindle heldWise converse and inspiriting debate.

High on a stage that overlooked the chairsWhere dozens sat, and where a pop-eyed daubOf Shakespeare, very like the hired manOf Christian Dallman, brow and pointed beard,Upon a drab proscenium outward stared,Sat Harmon Whitney, to that eminence,By merit raised in ribaldry and guile,And to the assembled rebels thus he spake:“Whether to lie supine and let a cliqueCold-blooded, scheming, hungry, singing psalms,Devour our substance, wreck our banks and drainOur little hoards for hazards on the priceOf wheat or pork, or yet to cower beneathThe shadow of a spire upreared to curbA breed of lackeys and to serve the bankCoadjutor in greed, that is the question.Shall we have music and the jocund dance,Or tolling bells? Or shall young romance roamThese hills about the river, flowering nowTo April’s tears, or shall they sit at home,Or play croquet where Thomas Rhodes may see,I ask you? If the blood of youth runs o’erAnd riots ’gainst this regimen of gloom,Shall we submit to have these youths and maidsBranded as libertines and wantons?”

EreHis words were done a woman’s voice called “No!”Then rose a sound of moving chairs, as whenThe numerous swine o’er-run the replenished troughs;And every head was turned, as when a flockOf geese back-turning to the hunter’s treadRise up with flapping wings; then rang the hallWith riotous laughter, for with battered hatTilted upon her saucy head, and fistRaised in defiance, Daisy Fraser stood.Headlong she had been hurled from out the hallSave Wendell Bloyd, who spoke for woman’s rights,Prevented, and the bellowing voice of Burchard.Then, mid applause she hastened toward the stageAnd flung both gold and silver to the causeAnd swiftly left the hall.Meantime upstoodA giant figure, bearded like the sonOf Alcmene, deep-chested, round of paunch,And spoke in thunder: “Over there beholdA man who for the truth withstood his wife—Such is our spirit—when that A. D. BloodCompelled me to remove Dom Pedro—”

QuickBefore Jim Brown could finish, Jefferson HowardObtained the floor and spake: “Ill suits the timeFor clownish words, and trivial is our causeIf naught’s at stake but John Cabanis, wrath,He who was erstwhile of the other sideAnd came to us for vengeance. More’s at stakeThan triumph for New England or Virginia.And whether rum be sold, or for two yearsAs in the past two years, this town be dryMatters but little— Oh yes, revenueFor sidewalks, sewers; that is well enough!I wish to God this fight were now inspiredBy other passion than to salve the prideOf John Cabanis or his daughter. WhyCan never contests of great moment springFrom worthy things, not little? Still, if menMust always act so, and if rum must beThe symbol and the medium to releaseFrom life’s denial and from slavery,Then give me rum!”

Exultant cries arose.Then, as George Trimble had o’ercome his fearAnd vacillation and begun to speak,The door creaked and the idiot, Willie Metcalf,Breathless and hatless, whiter than a sheet,Entered and cried: “The marshal’s on his wayTo arrest you all. And if you only knewWho’s coming here to-morrow; I was listeningBeneath the window where the other sideAre making plans.”

So to a smaller roomTo hear the idiot’s secret some withdrewSelected by the Chair; the Chair himselfAnd Jefferson Howard, Benjamin Pantier,And Wendell Bloyd, George Trimble, Adam Weirauch,Imanuel Ehrenhardt, Seth Compton, Godwin JamesAnd Enoch Dunlap, Hiram Scates, Roy Butler,Carl Hamblin, Roger Heston, Ernest HydeAnd Penniwit, the artist, Kinsey Keene,And E. C. Culbertson and Franklin Jones,Benjamin Fraser, son of Benjamin PantierBy Daisy Fraser, some of lesser note,And secretly conferred.

But in the hallDisorder reigned and when the marshal cameAnd found it so, he marched the hoodlums outAnd locked them up.

Meanwhile within a roomBack in the basement of the church, with BloodCounseled the wisest heads. Judge Somers first,Deep learned in life, and next him, Elliott HawkinsAnd Lambert Hutchins; next him Thomas RhodesAnd Editor Whedon; next him Garrison Standard,A traitor to the liberals, who with lipUpcurled in scorn and with a bitter sneer:“Such strife about an insult to a woman—A girl of eighteen” —Christian Dallman too,And others unrecorded. Some there wereWho frowned not on the cup but loathed the ruleDemocracy achieved thereby, the freedomAnd lust of life it symbolized.

Now morn with snowy fingers up the skyFlung like an orange at a festivalThe ruddy sun, when from their hasty bedsPoured forth the hostile forces, and the streetsResounded to the rattle of the wheelsThat drove this way and that to gather inThe tardy voters, and the cries of chieftainsWho manned the battle. But at ten o’clockThe liberals bellowed fraud, and at the pollsThe rival candidates growled and came to blows.Then proved the idiot’s tale of yester-eveA word of warning. Suddenly on the streetsWalked hog-eyed Allen, terror of the hillsThat looked on Bernadotte ten miles removed.No man of this degenerate day could liftThe boulders which he threw, and when he spokeThe windows rattled, and beneath his browsThatched like a shed with bristling hair of black,His small eyes glistened like a maddened boar.And as he walked the boards creaked, as he walkedA song of menace rumbled. Thus he came,The champion of A. D. Blood, commissionedTo terrify the liberals. Many fledAs when a hawk soars o’er the chicken yard.He passed the polls and with a playful handTouched Brown, the giant, and he fell against,As though he were a child, the wall; so strongWas hog-eyed Allen. But the liberals smiled.For soon as hog-eyed Allen reached the walk,Close on his steps paced Bengal Mike, brought inBy Kinsey Keene, the subtle-witted one,To match the hog-eyed Allen. He was scarceThree-fourths the other’s bulk, but steel his arms,And with a tiger’s heart. Two men he killedAnd many wounded in the days before,And no one feared.

But when the hog-eyed oneSaw Bengal Mike his countenance grew dark,The bristles o’er his red eyes twitched with rage,The song he rumbled lowered. Round and roundThe court-house paced he, followed stealthilyBy Bengal Mike, who jeered him every step:“Come, elephant, and fight! Come, hog-eyed coward!Come, face about and fight me, lumbering sneak!Come, beefy bully, hit me, if you can!Take out your gun, you duffer, give me reasonTo draw and kill you. Take your billy out.I’ll crack your boar’s head with a piece of brick!”But never a word the hog-eyed one returnedBut trod about the court-house, followed bothBy troops of boys and watched by all the men.All day, they walked the square. But when ApolloStood with reluctant look above the hillsAs fain to see the end, and all the votesWere cast, and closed the polls, before the doorOf Trainor’s drug store Bengal Mike, in tonesThat echoed through the village, bawled the taunt:“Who was your mother, hog—eyed?” In a triceAs when a wild boar turns upon the houndThat through the brakes upon an August dayHas gashed him with its teeth, the hog-eyed oneRushed with his giant arms on Bengal MikeAnd grabbed him by the throat. Then rose to heavenThe frightened cries of boys, and yells of menForth rushing to the street. And Bengal MikeMoved this way and now that, drew in his headAs if his neck to shorten, and bent downTo break the death grip of the hog-eyed one;’Twixt guttural wrath and fast-expiring strengthStriking his fists against the invulnerable chestOf hog-eyed Allen. Then, when some came inTo part them, others stayed them, and the fightSpread among dozens; many valiant soulsWent down from clubs and bricks.

But tell me, Muse,What god or goddess rescued Bengal Mike?With one last, mighty struggle did he graspThe murderous hands and turning kick his foe.Then, as if struck by lightning, vanished allThe strength from hog-eyed Allen, at his sideSank limp those giant arms and o’er his faceDread pallor and the sweat of anguish spread.And those great knees, invincible but late,Shook to his weight. And quickly as the lionLeaps on its wounded prey, did Bengal MikeSmite with a rock the temple of his foe,And down he sank and darkness o’er his eyesPassed like a cloud.

As when the woodman fellsSome giant oak upon a summer’s dayAnd all the songsters of the forest shrill,And one great hawk that has his nestling youngAmid the topmost branches croaks, as crashThe leafy branches through the tangled boughsOf brother oaks, so fell the hog-eyed oneAmid the lamentations of the friendsOf A. D. Blood.

Just then, four lusty menBore the town marshal, on whose iron faceThe purple pall of death already lay,To Trainor’s drug store, shot by Jack McGuire.And cries went up of “Lynch him!” and the soundOf running feet from every side was heardBent on the