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THE VILLAGE MERCHANT: A POEM. TO WHICH IS ADDED THE COUNTRY PRINTER.
A lack a day! on life's uncertain road
How many plagues, what evils must befal;
Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd,
But disappointment is the lot of all.
PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY HOFF AND DERRICK, M,DCC,XCIV.
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THE VILLAGE MERCHANT: A POEM.
SPRUNG from a race that long had till'd the soil
And first dis-rob'd it of its native trees,
He chose to heir their lands, but not their toil,
And thought the ploughman's life no life of ease—
"'Tis wrong (thought he) these pretty hands to wound
"With felling oaks, or delving in the ground:
"I who, at least have forty pounds in cash
"And in a country store might cut a dash,
"Why should I till these barren fields (he said)
("I who have learnt to cypher, write, and read)
"These fields that shrubs, and weeds, and brambles bear,
"That pay me not, and only bring me care?"
Some thoughts had he, long while, to quit the sod
In sea-port towns to try his luck in trade,
But then their ways of living seem'd most odd —
For dusty streets to leave his native shade,
From grassy plats to pebbled walks remov'd—
The more he thought of them the less he lov'd:
The city-springs he could not drink; and still
Preferr'd the fountain, underneath the hill.—
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And yet no splendid objects there were seen
No distant scenes in gaudy colours clad,
Look where you wou'd the prospect still was mean,
Scrub-oaks, and scatter'd pines, and aspins sad—
Banks of a shallow river stain'd with mud;
A stream where never swell'd the tide of flood,
No lofty ship her topsails did unloose,
Nor sailor sail'd —except in log-canoes.
It would have puzzled Faustus to have told,
What did attach him to this paltry spot
Where even the house he heir'd was very old,
And half his fences hardly worth a groat:
Yet so it was, the fancy took his brain
A country shop might here some custom gain:—
Whiskey, he knew, would always be in vogue
While there are country squires to take a cogue,
Laces and lawns would draw each rural maid,
And one must have her
shawl, and one her
shade.
Hard by the road a pigmy building stood,
Thatch'd was its roof, and earthen were its floors:
So small its size, that (in a jesting mood)
It might he call'd a house turn'd out of doors—
Yet here, adjacent to an aged oak
Full fifty years
old dad his hams did smoke,
Nor ceas'd the trade, till worn with years, and spent,
To Pluto's smoke-house he himself was sent.
Hither our merchant turn'd his curious eye
And mus'd awhile upon this fable shell▪
Here father smoak'd his hogs (he said)
and why,
In truth, may not our garret do as well?—
So down he took his hams and bacon flitches,
Resolv'd to fill the place with other riches:
From every hole and cranny brush'd the soot,
And fix'd up shelves throughout the crazy hut:
A counter, too, most cunningly was plann'd
Behind whose breast-work none but he might stand,
[Page 5]Excepting now and then (by special grace)
Some brother merchant from some other place—
Now, muster'd up his cash, and said his prayers,
In Sunday suit he rigs himself for town.
Two raw-bon'd steeds (design'd for great affairs)
Are to the waggon hitch'd, old Bay and Brown;
Who ne'er had been, before, a league from home,
But now are doom'd full many a mile to roam,
Like merchant ships, a various freight to bring
Of ribbons, lawns, and many a tawdry thing.
Molasses too (blest sweet) was not forgot,
And island
rum, that every taste delights—
And
teas, for maid and matron, must be bought,
Rosin and cat-gut strings for fiddling wights—
But why should I his invoice here repeat?
'T would be like counting grains in pecks of wheat;
Half Europe's list was on his invoice found,
And all was to be bought with—
forty pound!
Soon as the early dawn proclaim'd the day
He cock'd his hat with pins, and comb'd his hair,
Curious it was, and laughable, to see
The
village-merchant mounted in his chair:
Shelves pil'd with lawns and linens, in his head,
Coatings, and stuffs, and cloths, and scarlets
red—
All that would suit man, woman, girl, or boy,
Muslins, and muslinets, jeans, grograms, corduroy.
Alack! said I—he little, little dreams
That all the cash he guards with mickle care—
His cash!—the mother of a thousand schemes,
Will hardly buy—a load of earthen ware!
But why should I excite the hidden tear
By whispering truths, ungrateful to his ear?
Still let him travel on, with heart elate,
As
Disappointment never comes too late.
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Though woods obscure and dull perplexing ways
Slow and alone he urg'd the clumsy wheel;
Now stopping short, to let his horses graze,
Now treating them with straw and Indian meal:
At length a lofty steeple caught his eye,
"Higher (thought he) than ever kite did fly:—
"But so it is, these churchmen are so proud
"They ever will be tip-toe with a cloud:
"Bound on a sky-blue cruise, they always rig
"The longest steeple and the largest wig."
Now safe arrived upon the pebbled way
Where well-born steeds the rattling coaches trail,
Where shops on shops are seen—and ladies gay
Walk, with their
curtains some; and some their veil;
Where sons of art their various labours show,
And one cries,
fish! and one cries,
muffins, ho!
Amaz'd alike, the merchant and his pair
Of scare-crow steeds, did nothing else but stare;
So new was all the scene, that, smit with awe,
They grinn'd, and gaz'd, and gap'd at all they saw,
And often stopp'd, to ask at every door,
"Sirs, can you tell us where's the cheapest store?"
"The cheapest store! (a sly retailer said)
"Cheaper than cheap,
guid faith, I have to sell;
"Here are some colour'd cloth's that never fade:
"No other shop can serve you half so well.
"Wanting some money, now, to pay my rent,
"I'll sell them at a loss of
one per cent.—
"
Hum-hums are here,—and muslins—what you please—
"Bandanas, baftas,
pull-cats,—India teas
"Improv'd by age, and now grown very old,
"And given away—you may depend not sold!
Lur'd by the bait the wiley trader laid,
He gave his steeds their mess of straw and meal,
Then, gazing round the shop, thus cautious, said,
"Well, if you sell so cheap, I think we'll deal,
[Page 7]"But pray remember, 'tis for
goods I come
"For, as to
pole-cats, we've enough at home:—
"Full
forty-pounds I'am worth—and that in gold,
"(Enough to make a trading man look bold)
"Unrig your shelves, and let me take a peep;
"'Tis odds I leave them bare—you sell so cheap,"
The city merchant stood, with lengthen'd jaws,
And star'd awhile—then made this short repiy—
"You clear my shelves! (he said)—This shelf of gauze
"Is more than all your
forty pounds can buy—
"On yonder board, whose burthen seems so small
"That one man's pocket might contain it all.
"More value lies, than you, and all your race
"From Adam down, did purchase or possess."
Convinc'd, he turn'd him to another street
Where humbler shop-men from the croud retreat:
Here, caught his eye coarse callicoes and crape,
Pipes and tobacco, ticklenburgs, and tape,
Pitchers and pots—of value not so high
But he might sell—and FORTY POUNDS would buy.
Some jugs, some pots, some fifty ells of tape,
A keg of wine, a cask of low-proof rum
Bung'd close—for fear the
spirit should escape
That many a sot was waiting for at home;
A gross of pipes, a case of home-made gin;
Tea, powder, shot—small parcels he laid in;
Molasses too, for
swichell-loving wights,
(
Swichell, that wings dull
Whaacum's boldest flights
When
Echoed forth, the wild ideas roll,
Flash'd from that farthing candle, call'd his soul:)
All these he bought, and would have purchas'd more
To furnish out his Lilliputian store;
But cash fell short—and
they who smil'd while yet
The cash remain'd—now took a serious fit—
No more the shop-girl could his talk endure
But, like her cat, sat sullen and demure—
[Page 8]The dull retailer found no more to say,
But bow'd his head and wish'd to sneak away;
Leaving his house-dog
now to make reply,
And watch the counter with a lynx's eye—
Our merchant took the hint; and off he went,
Resolv'd to sell at—
twenty five per cent.
Returning far o'er many a hill and stone
And much in dread his earthen-ware would break
Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groan
Lest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak—
His cask, that held the joys of rural squire,
Which even ('twas said) the parson did admire,
And valued more than all the dusty pages
That Calvin writ, and fifty other sages;—
Once highly priz'd—be prais'd in verse and prose,
But now unthumb'd,
enjoy a safe repose.
At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode
Around him quick his anxious townsmen came
One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road,
And one ungeer'd the mud-bespattered team:
While on his casks each glanc'd a loving eye,
Patient, to all he gave a brief reply—
Told all that had befall'n him on the way,
What wonders in the town detain'd his stay,—
"Houses as high as yonder whiteoak tree,
"And boats of monstrous size, that go to sea:
"Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive
"The lord knows how they all contrive to live—
"No ploughs I saw no hoes; no care; no charge,
"In fact, they all are gentlemen at large;
"And
goods so thick on every window lie,
"They all seem born to sell—and none to buy."
A lack a day! on life's uncertrin road
How many pleagues, what evils must befal;
Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd,
But disappointment is the lot of all:
[Page 9]Thieves rob our stores, in spite of locks and keys;
Cats steal our cream, and rats infest our cheese,
The finest coat a grease spot may assail,
Or Susan pin a dish-clout to its tail!
Our Village Merchant (trust me) had his share
Of vile mishaps—for now the
goods unpack'd,
Discover'd what might make a deacon swear,
Jugs, cream-pots, pipes and grog-bowls sadly crackt—
A general groan through all the crowd was heard
Most pitied him, and some his ruin fear'd:
Poor wight! 'twas sad to see him fret and chafe,
While each enquir'd—
Sir, is the rum cask safe?
Alas! even
that some mischief had endur'd—
One rascal hoop had started, near the chine!—
Then curiously the bung-hole they explor'd
With stem of pipe, the leakage to define.—
"Five gallons must be charg'd to loss and gain!"
"—
Five gallons!" (said the merchant) writh'd with pain—
"Now may the cooper never see full flask
"But still be driving at an empty cask—
"Five gallons might have mellow'd down the squire,
"And made the captain strut a full inch higher
"Five gallons might have prompted many a song,
"And made a frolic more than five days long—
"Five gallons now are lost—and, sad to think,
"That when they leak'd, no soul was there to drink!"
Now slightly treated with a proof-glass dram,
Each neighbour took his leave, and mov'd to bed,
All but the merchant!—he, with grief o'ercome,
Revolv'd strange notions in his scheming head—
"For losses, such as these, (thought he) 'tis meant
"That
goods are sold at twenty-five per cent—
"(No doubt, your trading men know what is just)
"'Tis
twenty-five times what they cost at first."
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So rigging off his shelves by light of candle,
The ancient smoak-house walls began to shine:
Here stood his tea pots (some without a handle)—
A broken jar—and there a keg of wine,—
Pipes, many a dozen (ordered in a row)—
Jugs—mugs—and grog-bowls—less for
sale than
shew—
The leaky cask—replenish'd from the well,
Roll'd to its birth—but we no tales will tell—
Catching the eye in elegant display,
All was arrang'd, and snug, by break of day:
The blue-dram bottle on the counter plac'd,
Stood, all prepar'd for
him that buys to taste—
Sure bait! by which the man of cash is taken,
As rats are caught by cheese, or scraps of bacon.
Well—strange it is that fools will still apply
Things to themselves, that authors never meant;
Each country shop-man asks me, "
Is it I
On whom your rhiming ridicule is spent?
Friends, hold your tongues—Such myriads of your race
Adorn Columbia's fertile, favoured climes
A man might rove seven years from place to place
Ere he would find the
subject of my rhymes—
Perhaps in Georgia is this creature known,
Perhaps Rhode-Island claims him for her own:
And if from fancy's world this wight I drew.
What is the imagin'd character to you?
Now, from all parts the rural people ran
With ready cash to buy what might be bought;
One went to chuse a pot, and one a pan,
And they that had no cash their
produce brought,
A hog, a calf, safe halter'd by the neck,
Potatoes (Ireland's glory) many a peck;
Bacon and cheese, of real value more
Than India's gems, or all Potosi's ore.
Some questions ask'd, the folks began to stare—
No sole would purchase, pipe, nor pot, nor pan,
[Page 11]Each shook his head— hung back—
your goods so dear!
In fact (said they)
the devil's in the man"
"Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (said honest Sam)
"In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram,"
"No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate)
"While gauze is valued at so dear a rate."—
Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day,
No custom came, and naught but discontent
Gloom'd through the shop—"
Well let them have their way
(The merchant said)
I'll sell at cent per cent;
By which 'tis plain I scarce myself shall save,
For cent per cent
is just the price I gave."
"Aye (said the 'squire, who still had kept his pence
"Now, sir, you reason like a man of sense!—
"
Custom will now from every quarter come;
"In ceaseless streams shall flow the inspiring rum,
"Till every soul in pleasing dreams is sunk—
"And even our
Socrates—himself—is drunk!"
Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load;
In three short hours the keg of wine ran dry—
Swift from its source even dull molasses flow'd—
Each saw the rum-cask wasting with a sigh:—
"
Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said)
"Its debt
to drunkards now, no doubt, is paid—
"Well—'twas a vile disease that kill'd, it fure;
"A quick
consumption, that no art could cure!
"Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out,
"Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about!
"Time is the tapster of our race below,
"That turns they key, and bids the juices flow—
"Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task
"To moralize upon this EMPTY CASK—
"Thank heaven, we've had the taste—so far 'twas well—
"And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!
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THE COUNTRY PRINTER: A POEM.
Description of his Village.
BESIDE a stream that never yet ran dry,
There stands, a TOWN, not high advanced in fame;
Tho' few its buildings, rais'd to please the eye,
Still this proud title it may fairly claim;
A
Tavern (its first requisite) is there,
A
mill a
black-smith's shop, a
house of prayer.
Nay, more—a little market-house is seen
And iron hooks where beef was never hung,
Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean,
Pigs head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue:
Look when you will, you see the vacant bench
No butcher seated there, no country wench.
Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town;
A market he would have,—but, humbled now,
Sighing we see its fabrick mouldring down,
That only serves at night to pen the cow:
And hence, by way of jesting, may be said,
That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead.
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A breast the inn—a tree before the door,
A Printing-Office lifts its humble head,
Where master
Type old journals doth explore
For news that is thro' all the village read;
Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot)
Is author, pressman, devil—and what not?
Fame says he is an odd and curious wight,
Fond to distraction of his native place
In sense not very dull nor very bright,
Yet shows some marks of humour in his face,
One who can pen an anecdote complete,
Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet.
Three times a week by nimble geldings drawn
A stage arrives but scarcely deigns to stop,
Unless the driver far in liquor gone
Has made some business for the black-smith-shop,
Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news,
Welcome alike from Christians, Turks, or Jews.
All is not
Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell—
So much the better for this man of news:
For hence, the country round that know him well,
Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse.
Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain—
If false or true—alike to him are gain.
But if this motley tribe say nothing new,
Then many a lazy, longing look is cast
To watch the weary post-boy travelling through,
On horse's rump, his budget buckled fast;
With letters safe in leathern prison pent
And wet from press, full many a packet sent.
Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes,
Look'd sharper for his prey than honest TYPE
Explores each package, of aluring size,
Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe,
Did not the post-boy watch his goods and swear
That village TYPE should only have his share.
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Ask you what
matter fills his various page?
A mere farrago 'tis of mingled things;
What'er is done, on madam TERRA's stage
He to the knowledg of his townsmen brings:
One while, he tells of monarchs run away;
And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay.
Some miracles he makes, and some he steals;
Half nature's works are giants in his eyes:
Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,—
New-Hampshire apples grown to pompkins size
Pompkins almost as large as country inns
And ladies bearing, each—three lovely twins!
He, births and deaths with cold indifference views;
A paragraph from him is all they claim;
And here the rural squire, amongst the news
Sees she fair record of his father's fame;
All that was good, minutely brought to light▪
All that was ill,—concealed from vulgar sight!
THE OFFICE.
Source of the wisdom of the country round,
Again I turn to that poor lonely
shed ▪
Where many an author all his fame has found,
And wretched proofs by candle-light are read,
Inverted letters; left the page to grace,
Colons derang'd, and commas out of place.
Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;—
Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say,
Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come
One single cob-web was not brush'd away:—
Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom
Ne'er to be plagu'd with boonder, brush, or broom.
Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press
Gives to the world its children, with a groan,
Some born to live a month—a day—some less.
Some, why they live at all, not clearly known,
All that are born must die—TYPE well knows that—
The
almanack's his longest-living brat.
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Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd
Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse;
Ready to speak [their order only chang'd]
Creek-Indian Lingo, Dutch, or Highland erse;
These types have printed Erskin's
Gospel Treat.
Tom Durfy's songs, and Bunyan's works complete.
But faded are their charms—their beauty fled!
No more their work your nicer eyes admire;
Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read
But almanacks and ballads for the Squire,
Dull paragraphs in homely language dress'd.
The pedlars bill, and sermons by request.
Here doom'd the fortune of the press to try
From year to year poor TYPE his trade pursues—
With anxious care and circumspective eye
He dresses out his little sheet of news;
Now laughing at the world now looking grave,
At once the Muse's midwife—and her slave.
Thou, who art placed in some more favour'd spot,
Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime
Discharge their freights—despise thou not the lot
Of master TYPE, who here has pass'd his prime
At case and press has labour'd many a day
But now, with years, is verging to decay.
He, in his time, the patriot of his town
With Press and Pen attack'd the royal side,
Did what he could to pull their Lyon down,
Clipp'd at his tail, and twitch'd his
sacred hide.
Mimick'd his roarings; trod upon his toes,
Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose.
Rous'd by his page, at church or Court-House read,
From depths of woods the willing rustics ran,
Now by a priest, and now some deacon led
With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man;
Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough
Marching afar, to fight
Burgoyne or
Howe.
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Where are they now?—the Village asks with grief,
What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?—
Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief,
Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains;
Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach
For seven-years pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach.
Ye
Guardians of your country and her laws!
Since to the pen and press so much we owe
Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause
From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow;
Hence, a new order grows from reason's plan,
And turns the fierce barbarian into—man.
Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd,
Man always found a tyrant or a slave,
Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd
Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave:
Despots and kings this restless race may share,—
But knowledge only makes them worth
your care!
FINIS.