The Spooniad

Of John Cabanis, wrath and of the strife         Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat         Who led the common people in the cause         Of freedom for Spoon River, and the fall         Of Rhodes, bank that brought unnumbered woes         And loss to many, with engendered hate         That flamed into the torch in Anarch hands         To burn the court - house, on whose blackened wreck         A fairer temple rose and Progress stood -         Sing, muse, that lit the Chian's face with smiles         Who saw the ant-like Greeks and Trojans crawl         About Scamander, over walls, pursued         Or else pursuing, and the funeral pyres         And sacred hecatombs, and first because         Of Helen who with Paris fled to Troy         As soul-mate; and the wrath of Peleus, son,         Decreed to lose Chryseis, lovely spoil         Of war, and dearest concubine.             Say first,         Thou son of night, called Momus, from whose eyes         No secret hides, and Thalia, smiling one,         What bred 'twixt Thomas Rhodes and John Cabanis         The deadly strife? His daughter Flossie, she,         Returning from her wandering with a troop         Of strolling players, walked the village streets,         Her bracelets tinkling and with sparkling rings         And words of serpent wisdom and a smile         Of 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 eyes         Of all the church frowned on her, till she knew         They feared her and condemned.             But them to flout         She gave a dance to viols and to flutes,         Brought from Peoria, and many youths,         But lately made regenerate through the prayers         Of zealous preachers and of earnest souls,         Danced merrily, and sought her in the dance,         Who wore a dress so low of neck that eyes         Down straying might survey the snowy swale         'Till it was lost in whiteness.             With the dance         The village changed to merriment from gloom.         The milliner, Mrs. Williams, could not fill         Her orders for new hats, and every seamstress         Plied busy needles making gowns; old trunks         And chests were opened for their store of laces         And rings and trinkets were brought out of hiding         And all the youths fastidious grew of dress;         Notes passed, and many a fair one's door at eve         Knew a bouquet, and strolling lovers thronged         About 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; rise         Ye sons of light and drive the wanton forth!"         So John Cabanis left the church and left         The hosts of law and order with his eyes         By anger cleared, and him the liberal cause         Acclaimed as nominee to the mayoralty         To vanquish A. D. Blood.             But as the war         Waged bitterly for votes and rumors flew         About the bank, and of the heavy loans         Which Rhodes, son had made to prop his loss         In wheat, and many drew their coin and left         The bank of Rhodes more hollow, with the talk         Among the liberals of another bank         Soon to be chartered, lo, the bubble burst         'Mid cries and curses; but the liberals laughed         And in the hall of Nicholas Bindle held         Wise converse and inspiriting debate.         High on a stage that overlooked the chairs         Where dozens sat, and where a pop - eyed daub         Of Shakespeare, very like the hired man         Of 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 clique         Cold-blooded, scheming, hungry, singing psalms,         Devour our substance, wreck our banks and drain         Our little hoards for hazards on the price         Of wheat or pork, or yet to cower beneath         The shadow of a spire upreared to curb         A breed of lackeys and to serve the bank         Coadjutor in greed, that is the question.         Shall we have music and the jocund dance,         Or tolling bells? Or shall young romance roam         These hills about the river, flowering now         To 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'er         And riots 'gainst this regimen of gloom,         Shall we submit to have these youths and maids         Branded as libertines and wantons?"             Ere         His words were done a woman's voice called "No!"         Then rose a sound of moving chairs, as when         The numerous swine o'er-run the replenished troughs;         And every head was turned, as when a flock         Of geese back-turning to the hunter's tread         Rise up with flapping wings; then rang the hall         With riotous laughter, for with battered hat         Tilted upon her saucy head, and fist         Raised in defiance, Daisy Fraser stood.         Headlong she had been hurled from out the hall         Save Wendell Bloyd, who spoke for woman's rights,         Prevented, and the bellowing voice of Burchard.         Then, mid applause she hastened toward the stage         And flung both gold and silver to the cause         And swiftly left the hall.             Meantime upstood         A giant figure, bearded like the son         Of Alcmene, deep-chested, round of paunch,         And spoke in thunder: "Over there behold         A man who for the truth withstood his wife -         Such is our spirit - when that A. D. Blood         Compelled me to remove Dom Pedro - "             Quick         Before Jim Brown could finish, Jefferson Howard         Obtained the floor and spake: "Ill suits the time         For clownish words, and trivial is our cause         If naught's at stake but John Cabanis, wrath,         He who was erstwhile of the other side         And came to us for vengeance. More's at stake         Than triumph for New England or Virginia.         And whether rum be sold, or for two years         As in the past two years, this town be dry         Matters but little -    Oh yes, revenue         For sidewalks, sewers; that is well enough!         I wish to God this fight were now inspired         By other passion than to salve the pride         Of John Cabanis or his daughter.         Why Can never contests of great moment spring         From worthy things, not little? Still, if men         Must always act so, and if rum must be         The symbol and the medium to release         From life's denial and from slavery,         Then give me rum!"             Exultant cries arose.         Then, as George Trimble had o'ercome his fear         And 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 way         To arrest you all. And if you only knew         Who's coming here to - morrow; I was listening         Beneath the window where the other side         Are making plans."             So to a smaller room         To hear the idiot's secret some withdrew         Selected by the Chair; the Chair himself         And Jefferson Howard, Benjamin Pantier,         And Wendell Bloyd, George Trimble, Adam Weirauch,         Imanuel Ehrenhardt, Seth Compton, Godwin James         And Enoch Dunlap, Hiram Scates, Roy Butler,         Carl Hamblin, Roger Heston, Ernest Hyde         And Penniwit, the artist, Kinsey Keene,         And E. C. Culbertson and Franklin Jones,         Benjamin Fraser, son of Benjamin Pantier         By Daisy Fraser, some of lesser note,         And secretly conferred.             But in the hall         Disorder reigned and when the marshal came         And found it so, he marched the hoodlums out         And locked them up.             Meanwhile within a room         Back in the basement of the church, with Blood         Counseled the wisest heads. Judge Somers first,         Deep learned in life, and next him, Elliott Hawkins         And Lambert Hutchins; next him Thomas Rhodes         And Editor Whedon; next him Garrison Standard,         A traitor to the liberals, who with lip         Upcurled 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 were         Who frowned not on the cup but loathed the rule         Democracy achieved thereby, the freedom         And lust of life it symbolized.         Now morn with snowy fingers up the sky         Flung like an orange at a festival         The ruddy sun, when from their hasty beds         Poured forth the hostile forces, and the streets         Resounded to the rattle of the wheels         That drove this way and that to gather in         The tardy voters, and the cries of chieftains         Who manned the battle. But at ten o'clock         The liberals bellowed fraud, and at the polls         The rival candidates growled and came to blows.         Then proved the idiot's tale of yester-eve         A word of warning. Suddenly on the streets         Walked hog-eyed Allen, terror of the hills         That looked on Bernadotte ten miles removed.         No man of this degenerate day could lift         The boulders which he threw, and when he spoke         The windows rattled, and beneath his brows         Thatched 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 walked         A song of menace rumbled. Thus he came,         The champion of A. D. Blood, commissioned         To terrify the liberals. Many fled         As when a hawk soars o'er the chicken yard.         He passed the polls and with a playful hand         Touched Brown, the giant, and he fell against,         As though he were a child, the wall; so strong         Was hog-eyed Allen. But the liberals smiled.         For soon as hog-eyed Allen reached the walk,         Close on his steps paced Bengal Mike, brought in         By Kinsey Keene, the subtle-witted one,         To match the hog-eyed Allen. He was scarce         Three-fourths the other's bulk, but steel his arms,         And with a tiger's heart. Two men he killed         And many wounded in the days before,         And no one feared.             But when the hog-eyed one         Saw Bengal Mike his countenance grew dark,         The bristles o'er his red eyes twitched with rage,         The song he rumbled lowered. Round and round         The court-house paced he, followed stealthily         By 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 reason         To 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 returned         But trod about the court-house, followed both         By troops of boys and watched by all the men.         All day, they walked the square. But when Apollo         Stood with reluctant look above the hills         As fain to see the end, and all the votes         Were cast, and closed the polls, before the door         Of Trainor's drug store Bengal Mike, in tones         That echoed through the village, bawled the taunt:         "Who was your mother, hog - eyed?" In a trice         As when a wild boar turns upon the hound         That through the brakes upon an August day         Has gashed him with its teeth, the hog - one         Rushed with his giant arms on Bengal Mike         And grabbed him by the throat. Then rose to heaven         The frightened cries of boys, and yells of men         Forth rushing to the street. And Bengal Mike         Moved this way and now that, drew in his head         As if his neck to shorten, and bent down         To break the death grip of the hog-eyed one;         'Twixt guttural wrath and fast-expiring strength         Striking his fists against the invulnerable chest         Of hog-eyed Allen. Then, when some came in         To part them, others stayed them, and the fight         Spread among dozens; many valiant souls         Went down from clubs and bricks.             But tell me, Muse,         What god or goddess rescued Bengal Mike?         With one last, mighty struggle did he grasp         The murderous hands and turning kick his foe.         Then, as if struck by lightning, vanished all         The strength from hog - eyed Allen, at his side         Sank limp those giant arms and o'er his face         Dread pallor and the sweat of anguish spread.         And those great knees, invincible but late,         Shook to his weight. And quickly as the lion         Leaps on its wounded prey, did Bengal Mike         Smite with a rock the temple of his foe,         And down he sank and darkness o'er his eyes         Passed like a cloud.             As when the woodman fells         Some giant oak upon a summer's day         And all the songsters of the forest shrill,         And one great hawk that has his nestling young         Amid the topmost branches croaks, as crash         The leafy branches through the tangled boughs         Of brother oaks, so fell the hog - eyed one         Amid the lamentations of the friends         Of A. D. Blood.             Just then, four lusty men         Bore the town marshal, on whose iron face         The purple pall of death already lay,         To Trainor's drug store, shot by Jack McGuire.         And cries went up of "Lynch him!" and the sound         Of running feet from every side was heard         Bent on the