The village merchant: a poem. : To which is added The country printer. : [Four lines of verse]

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.—

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,

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.

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,

"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—

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:

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."

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,

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!