Chapter III (1)

Ring up the curtain and the play protract! Behold our Sharon in his last mad act. With man long warring, quarreling with God, He crouches now beneath a woman's rod Predestined for his back while yet it lay Closed in an acorn which, one luckless day, He stole, unconscious of its foetal twig, From the scant garner of a sightless pig. With bleeding shoulders pitilessly scored, He bawls more lustily than once he snored. The sympathetic Comstocks droop to hear, And Carson river sheds a viscous tear, Which sturdy tumble-bugs assail amain, With ready thrift, and urge along the plain. The jackass rabbit sorrows as he lopes; The sage-brush glooms along the mountain slopes; In rising clouds the poignant alkali, Tearless itself, makes everybody cry. Washoe canaries on the Geiger Grade Subdue the singing of their cavalcade, And, wiping with their ears the tears unshed, Grieve for their family's unlucky head. Virginia City intermits her trade And well-clad strangers walk her streets unflayed. Nay, all Nevada ceases work to weep And the recording angel goes to sleep. But in his dreams his goose-quill's creaking fount Augments the debits in the long account. And still the continents and oceans ring With royal torments of the Silver King! Incessant bellowings fill all the earth, Mingled with inextinguishable mirth. He roars, men laugh, Nevadans weep, beasts howl, Plash the affrighted fish, and shriek the fowl! With monstrous din their blended thunders rise, Peal upon peal, and brawl along the skies, Startle in hell the Sharons as they groan, And shake the splendors of the great white throne! Still roaring outward through the vast profound, The spreading circles of receding sound Pursue each other in a failing race To the cold confines of eternal space; There break and die along that awful shore Which God's own eyes have never dared explore-- Dark, fearful, formless, nameless evermore!

Look to the west! Against yon steely sky Lone Mountain rears its holy cross on high. About its base the meek-faced dead are laid To share the benediction of its shade. With crossed white hands, shut eyes and formal feet, Their nights are innocent, their days discreet. Sharon, some years, perchance, remain of life-- Of vice and greed, vulgarity and strife; And then--God speed the day if such His will-- You'll lie among the dead you helped to kill, And be in good society at last, Your purse unsilvered and your face unbrassed.

A MAN

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Casting to South his eye across the bourne Of his dominion (where the Palmiped, With leathers 'twixt his toes, paddles his marsh, Amphibious) saw a rising cloud of hats, And heard a faint, far sound of distant cheers Below the swell of the horizon. "Lo," Cried one, "the President! the President!" All footed webwise then took up the word-- The hill tribes and the tribes lacustrine and The folk riparian and littoral, Cried with one voice: "The President! He comes!" And some there were who flung their headgear up In emulation of the Southern mob; While some, more soberly disposed, stood still And silently had fits; and others made Such reverent genuflexions as they could, Having that climate in their bones. Then spake The Court Dunce, humbly, as became him: "Sire, If thou, as heretofore thou hast, wilt deign To reap advantage of a fool's advice By action ordered after nature's way, As in thy people manifest (for still Stupidity's the only wisdom) thou Wilt get thee straight unto to the border land To mark the President's approach with such Due, decent courtesy as it shall seem We have in custom the best warrant for."

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Eyeing the storm of hats which darkened all The Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahs Of an exulting people, answered not. Then some there were who fell upon their knees, And some upon their Governor, and sought Each in his way, by blandishment or force, To gain his action to their end. "Behold," They said, "thy brother Governor to South Met him even at the gateway of his realm, Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin, Backed like a rainbow--all things done in form Of due observance and respect. Shall we Alone of all his servitors refuse Swift welcome to our master and our lord?"

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Answered them not, but turned his back to them And as if speaking to himself, the while He started to retire, said: "He be damned!"

To that High Place o'er Portland's central block, Where the Recording Angel stands to view The sinning world, nor thinks to move his feet Aside and look below, came flocking up Inferior angels, all aghast, and cried: "Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Has said, O what an awful word!--too bad To be by us repeated!" "Yes, I know," Said the superior bird--"I heard it too, And have already booked it. Pray observe." Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fell Apart, o'ershadowing to right and left The Eastern and the Western world, he showed The newly written entry, black and big, Upon the credit side of thine account, Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.

Y'E FOE TO CATHAYE

O never an oathe sweares he,
And never a pig-taile jerkes;
With a brick-batte he ne lurkes
For to buste y'e crust, perdie,
Of y'e man from over sea,
A-synging as he werkes.
For he knows ful well, y's youth,
A tricke of exceeding worth:
And he plans withouten ruth
A conflagration's birth!

SAMUEL SHORTRIDGE

Like a worn mother he attempts in vain To still the unruly Crier of his brain: The more he rocks the cradle of his chin The more uproarious grows the brat within.

SURPRISED

"O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire: Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire."

"O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright-- I read through a millstone at dead of night."

"My son, O tell me, who are those men, Rushing like pigs to the feeding-pen?"

"Welcomers they of a statesman grand. They'll shake, and then they will pocket; his hand."

"Sagacious youth, with the wondrous eye, They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?"

"Because they've thrown up their hands until, O, They're so tired!--and dinners they've none to throw."

"My son, my son, though dull are mine ears, I hear a great sound like the people's cheers."

"He's thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes, For giving him lately that fine surprise."

"My memory fails as I near mine end; How _did_ they astonish their grateful friend?"

"By letting him buy, like apples or oats, With that which has made him so good, the votes Which make him so wise and grand and great. Now, father, please die, for 'tis growing late."

POSTERITY'S AWARD

I'd long been dead, but I returned to earth. Some small affairs posterity was making A mess of, and I came to see that worth Received its dues. I'd hardly finished waking, The grave-mould still upon me, when my eye Perceived a statue standing straight and high.

'Twas a colossal figure--bronze and gold-- Nobly designed, in attitude commanding. A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold, Fell to the pedestal on which 'twas standing. Nobility it had and splendid grace, And all it should have had--except a face!

It showed no features: not a trace nor sign Of any eyes or nose could be detected-- On the smooth oval of its front no line Where sites for mouths are commonly selected. All blank and blind its faulty head it reared. Let this be said: 'twas generously eared.

Seeing these things, I straight began to guess For whom this mighty image was intended. "The head," I cried, "is Upton's, and the dress Is Parson Bartlett's own." True, _his_ cloak ended Flush with his lowest vertebra, but no Sane sculptor ever made a toga so.

Then on the pedestal these words I read: "_Erected Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven_" (Saint Christofer! how fast the time had sped! Of course it naturally does in Heaven) "_To_ ----" (here a blank space for the name began) "_The Nineteenth Century's Great Foremost Man_!"

"_Completed_" the inscription ended, "_in The Year Three Thousand_"--which was just arriving. By Jove! thought I, 'twould make the founders grin To learn whose fame so long has been surviving-- To read the name posterity will place In that blank void, and view the finished face.

Even as I gazed, the year Three Thousand came, And then by acclamation all the people Decreed whose was our century's best fame; Then scaffolded the statue like a steeple, To make the likeness; and the name was sunk Deep in the pedestal's metallic trunk.

Whose was it? Gentle reader, pray excuse The seeming rudeness, but I can't consent to Be so forehanded with important news. 'Twas neither yours nor mine--let that content you. If not, the name I must surrender, which, Upon a dead man's word, was George K. Fitch!

AN ART CRITIC

Ira P. Rankin, you've a nasal name-- I'll sound it through "the speaking-trump of fame," And wondering nations, hearing from afar The brazen twang of its resounding jar, Shall say: "These bards are an uncommon class-- They blow their noses with a tube of brass!" Rankin! ye gods! if Influenza pick Our names at christening, and such names stick, Let's all be born when summer suns withstand Her prevalence and chase her from the land, And healing breezes generously help To shield from death each ailing human whelp! "What's in a name?" There's much at least in yours That the pained ear unwillingly endures, And much to make the suffering soul, I fear, Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.

So you object to Cytherea! Do, The picture was not painted, sir, for you! _Your_ mind to gratify and taste address, The masking dove had been a dove the less. Provincial censor! all untaught in art, With mind indecent and indecent heart, Do you not know--nay, why should I explain? Instruction, argument alike were vain-- I'll show you reasons when you show me brain.

THE SPIRIT OF A SPONGE

I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died, And for admission up at Heaven applied. "Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Massett said: "Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head, Opened the gates and said: "I'm glad to know you, And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you." "Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland, And was about to enter, hat in hand, When from a cloud below such fumes arose As tickled tenderly his conscious nose. He paused, replaced his hat upon his head, Turned back and to the saintly warden said, O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swear I smell some broiling going on down there!" So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell, Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.

ORNITHANTHROPOS

"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang As when Creation into being sprang! Nature, not clearly understanding, tried To make a bird that on the air could ride. But naught could baffle the creative plan-- Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man. Yet he had risen--to the bird a twin-- Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.

TO E.S. SALOMON

Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against
decorating the graves of Confederate dead.

What! Salomon! such words from you,
Who call yourself a soldier? Well,
The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration through.

Alike to him--he cannot know
Your praise or blame: as little harm
Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.

The brave respect the brave. The brave
Respect the dead; but _you_--you draw
That ancient blade, the ass's jaw,
And shake it o'er a hero's grave.

Are you not he who makes to-day
A merchandise of old renown
Which he persuades this easy town
He won in battle far away?

Nay, those the fallen who revile
Have ne'er before the living stood
And stoutly made their battle good
And greeted danger with a smile.

What if the dead whom still you hate
Were wrong? Are you so surely right?
We know the issue of the fight--
The sword is but an advocate.

Men live and die, and other men
Arise with knowledges diverse:
What seemed a blessing seems a curse,
And Now is still at odds with Then.

The years go on, the old comes back
To mock the new--beneath the sun.
Is _nothing_ new; ideas run
Recurrent in an endless track.

What most we censure, men as wise
Have reverently practiced; nor
Will future wisdom fail to war
On principles we dearly prize.

We do not know--we can but deem,
And he is loyalest and best
Who takes the light full on his breast
And follows it throughout the dream.

The broken light, the shadows wide--
Behold the battle-field displayed!
God save the vanquished from the blade,
The victor from the victor's pride!

If, Salomon, the blessed dew
That falls upon the Blue and Gray
Is powerless to wash away
The sin of differing from you.

Remember how the flood of years
Has rolled across the erring slain;
Remember, too, the cleansing rain
Of widows' and of orphans' tears.

The dead are dead--let that atone:
And though with equal hand we strew
The blooms on saint and sinner too,
Yet God will know to choose his own.

The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,
Who does not love the harmless dead
With all his heart and all his head--
May God forgive him--_I_ shall not.

When, Salomon, you come to quaff
The Darker Cup with meeker face,
I, loving you at last, shall trace
Upon your tomb this epitaph:

"Draw near, ye generous and brave--
Kneel round this monument and weep:
It covers one who tried to keep
A flower from a dead man's grave."

DENNIS KEARNEY

Your influence, my friend, has gathered head-- To east and west its tides encroaching spread. There'll be, on all God's foot-stool, when they meet, No clean spot left for God to set His feet.

FINIS ÆTERNITATIS

Strolling at sunset in my native land, With fruits and flowers thick on either hand, I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way, Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.

"The apples all are gone from here," I said, "The roses perished and their spirits fled. I will go back." A voice cried out: "The man Is risen who eternally was dead!"

I turned and saw an angel standing there, Newly descended from the heights of air. Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.

"Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed," I said. "Its chill was but a touch of frost. It made me gasp, but quickly I came through, With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost."

'Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrust Grayed heads asky, and every dragging gust, In ashen valleys where my sons had reaped, Stirred in familiar river-beds the dust.

Some heights, where once the traveler was shown The youngest and the proudest city known, Lifted smooth ridges in the steely light-- Bleak, desolate acclivities of stone.

Where I had worshiped at my father's tomb, Within a massive temple's awful gloom, A jackal slunk along the naked rock, Affrighted by some prescience of doom.

Man's vestiges were nowhere to be found, Save one brass mausoleum on a mound (I knew it well) spared by the artist Time To emphasize the desolation round.

Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one. "Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud. "Eternity," the angel said, "is done.

For man is ages dead in every zone; The angels all are dead but I alone; The devils, too, are cold enough at last, And God lies dead before the great white throne!

'Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore When all are gone (as Gabriel did before, When I had throttled the last man alive) And swear Eternity shall be no more."

"O Azrael--O Prince of Death, declare Why conquered I the grave?" I cried. "What rare, Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?" "You've been revived," he said, "to hear me swear."

"Then let me creep again beneath the grass, And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass. If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker's there-- Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass."

He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang, Out at the door a curst hyena sprang And fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped," And closed the brazen portal with a bang.

THE VETERAN

John Jackson, once a soldier bold,
Hath still a martial feeling;
So, when he sees a foe, behold!
He charges him--with stealing.

He cares not how much ground to-day
He gives for men to doubt him;
He's used to giving ground, they say,
Who lately fought with--out him.

When, for the battle to be won,
His gallantry was needed,
They say each time a loaded gun
Went off--so, likewise, he did.

And when discharged (for war's a sport
So hot he had to leave it)
He made a very loud report,
But no one did believe it.

AN "EXHIBIT"

Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid
That I should smile above him:
Though truth to tell, I never did
Exactly love him.

It can't be wrong, though, to rejoice
That his unpleasing capers
Are ended. Silent is his voice
In all the papers.

No longer he's a show: no more,
Bear-like, his den he's walking.
No longer can he hold the floor
When I'd be talking.

The laws that govern jails are bad
If such displays are lawful.
The fate of the assassin's sad,
But ours is awful!

What! shall a wretch condemned to die
In shame upon the gibbet
Be set before the public eye
As an "exhibit"?--

His looks, his actions noted down,
His words if light or solemn,
And all this hawked about the town--
So much a column?

The press, of course, will publish news
However it may get it;
But blast the sheriff who'll abuse
His powers to let it!

Nay, this is not ingratitude;
I'm no reporter, truly,
Nor yet an editor. I'm rude
Because unruly--

Because I burn with shame and rage
Beyond my power of telling
To see assassins in a cage
And keepers yelling.

"Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:
"Observe the lion's poses,
His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.
His--hold your noses!"

How long, O Lord, shall Law and Right
Be mocked for gain or glory,
And angels weep as they recite
The shameful story?

THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL

What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll Of all the vices that infest your soul? Was't not enough that lately you did bawl Your money-worship in the ears of all?[A] Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tell That though a miser you're a sot as well? Still must I hear how low your taste has sunk-- From getting money down to getting drunk?[B]

Who worships money, damning all beside, And shows his callous knees with pious pride, Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er scorns His own possessions, be they coins or corns. You've money, neighbor; had you gentle birth You'd know, as now you never can, its worth.

You've money; learning is beyond your scope, Deaf to your envy, stubborn to your hope. But if upon your undeserving head Science and letters had their glory shed; If in the cavern of your skull the light Of knowledge shone where now eternal night Breeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughts Of cerebration that you think are thoughts-- Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung That squeak and gibber when you move your tongue-- You would not write, in Avarice's defense, A senseless eulogy on lack of sense, Nor show your eagerness to sacrifice All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.

You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shame To boast your weakness or your baseness name. Appraise the things you have, but measure not The things denied to your unhappy lot. He values manners lighter than a cork Who combs his beard at table with a fork. Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake, The laws of taste condemn you to the stake To expiate, where all the world may see, The crime of growing old disgracefully.

Religion, learning, birth and manners, too, All that distinguishes a man from you, Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain An added luster from a rogue's disdain. But spare the young that proselyting sin, A toper's apotheosis of gin. If not our young, at least our pigs may claim Exemption from the spectacle of shame!

Are you not he who lately out of shape Blew a brass trumpet to denounce the grape?-- Who led the brave teetotalers afield And slew your leader underneath your shield?-- Swore that no man should drink unless he flung Himself across your body at the bung? Who vowed if you'd the power you would fine The Son of God for making water wine?

All trails to odium you tread and boast, Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most. One day to be a miser you aspire, The next to wallow drunken in the mire; The third, lo! you're a meritorious liar![C] Pray, in the catalogue of all your graces, Have theft and cowardice no honored places?

Yield thee, great Satan--here's a rival name With all thy vices and but half thy shame! Quick to the letter of the precept, quick To the example of the elder Nick; With as great talent as was e'er applied To fool a teacher and to fog a guide; With slack allegiance and boundless greed, To paunch the profit of a traitor deed, He aims to make thy glory all his own, And crowd his master from the infernal throne!

[Footnote A: We are not writing this paragraph for any other purpose than to protest against this never ending cant, affectation, and hypocrisy about money. It is one of the best things in this world--better than religion, or good birth, or learning, or good manners.--_The Argonaut_.]

[Footnote B: Now, it just occurs to us that some of our temperance friends will take issue with us, and say that this is bad doctrine, and that it is ungentlemanly to get drunk under any circumstances or under any possible conditions. We do not think so.--_The same_.]

[Footnote C: The man or woman who, for the sake of benefiting others, protecting them in their lives, property, or reputation, sparing their feelings, contributing to their enjoyment, or increasing their pleasures, will tell a lie, deserves to be rewarded.--_The same_.]

AN ACTOR

Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly said The color of a trumpet's blare is red; And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame On woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame. The more the red storm rises round her nose-- The more her eyes averted seek her toes, He fancies all the louder he can hear The tube resounding in his spacious ear, And, all his varied talents to exert, Darkens his dullness to display his dirt. And when the gallery's indecent crowd, And gentlemen below, with hisses loud, In hot contention (these his art to crown, And those his naked nastiness to drown) Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflame Grow white and in their fear forget their shame, With impudence imperial, sublime, Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time, Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed, Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed. When all the place is silent as a mouse One slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!

FAMINE'S REALM

To him in whom the love of Nature has Imperfectly supplanted the desire And dread necessity of food, your shore, Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over all Your sunny level, from Tamaletown To where the Pestuary's fragrant slime, With dead dogs studded, bears its ailing fleet, Broods the still menace of starvation. Bones Of men and women bleach along the ways And pampered vultures sleep upon the trees. It is a land of death, and Famine there Holds sovereignty; though some there be her sway Who challenge, and intrenched in larders live, Drawing their sustentation from abroad. But woe to him, the stranger! He shall die As die the early righteous in the bud And promise of their prime. He, venturesome To penetrate the wilds rectangular Of grass-grown ways luxuriant of blooms, Frequented of the bee and of the blithe, Bold squirrel, strays with heedless feet afar From human habitation and is lost In mid-Broadway. There hunger seizes him, And (careless man! deeming God's providence Extends so far) he has not wherewithal To bate its urgency. Then, lo! appears A mealery--a restaurant--a place Where poison battles famine, and the two, Like fish-hawks warring in the upper sky For that which one has taken from the deep, Manage between them to dispatch the prey. He enters and leaves hope behind. There ends His history. Anon his bones, clean-picked By buzzards (with the bones himself had picked, Incautious) line the highway. O, my friends, Of all felonious and deadlywise Devices of the Enemy of Souls, Planted along the ways of life to snare Man's mortal and immortal part alike, The Oakland restaurant is chief. It lives That man may die. It flourishes that life May wither. Its foundation stones repose On human hearts and hopes. I've seen in it Crabs stewed in milk and salad offered up With dressing so unholily compound That it included flour and sugar! Yea, I've eaten dog there!--dog, as I'm a man, Dog seethed in sewage of the town! No more-- Thy hand, Dyspepsia, assumes the pen And scrawls a tortured "Finis" on the page.

THE MACKAIAD

Mackay's hot wrath to Bonynge, direful spring Of blows unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing-- That wrath which hurled to Hellman's office floor Two heroes, mutually smeared with gore, Whose hair in handfuls marked the dire debate, And riven coat-tails testified their hate. Sing, muse, what first their indignation fired, What words augmented it, by whom inspired.

First, the great Bonynge comes upon the scene And asks the favor of the British Queen. Suppliant he stands and urges all his claim: His wealth, his portly person and his name, His habitation in the setting sun, As child of nature; and his suit he won. No more the Sovereign, wearied with his plea, From slumber's chain her faculties can free. Low and more low the royal eyelids creep, She gives the assenting nod and falls asleep. Straightway the Bonynges all invade the Court And telegraph the news to every port. Beneath the seas, red-hot, the tidings fly, The cables crinkle and the fishes fry! The world, awaking like a startled bat, Exclaims: "A Bonynge? What the devil's that?" Mackay, meanwhile, to envy all attent, Untaught to spare, unable to relent, Walks in our town on needles and on pins, And in a mean, revengeful spirit--grins!

Sing, muse, what next to break the peace occurred-- What act uncivil, what unfriendly word? The god of Bosh ascending from his pool, Where since creation he has played the fool, Clove the blue slush, as other gods the sky, And, waiting but a moment's space to dry, Touched Bonynge with his finger-tip. "O son," He said, "alike of nature and a gun, Knowest not Mackay's insufferable sin? Hast thou not heard that he doth stand and grin? Arise! assert thy manhood, and attest The uncommercial spirit in thy breast. Avenge thine honor, for by Jove I swear Thou shalt not else be my peculiar care!" He spake, and ere his worshiper could kneel Had dived into his slush pool, head and heel. Full of the god and to revenges nerved, And conscious of a will that never swerved, Bonynge set sail: the world beyond the wave As gladly took him as the other gave. New York received him, but a shudder ran Through all the western coast, which knew the man; And science said that the seismic action Was owing to an asteroid's impaction.

O goddess, sing what Bonynge next essayed. Did he unscabbard the avenging blade, The long spear brandish and porrect the shield, Havoc the town and devastate the field? His sacred thirst for blood did he allay By halving the unfortunate Mackay? Small were the profit and the joy to him To hew a base-born person, limb from limb. Let vulgar souls to low revenge incline, That of diviner spirits is divine. Bonynge at noonday stood in public places And (with regard to the Mackays) made faces! Before those formidable frowns and scowls The dogs fled, tail-tucked, with affrighted howls, And horses, terrified, with flying feet O'erthrew the apple-stands along the street, Involving the metropolis in vast Financial ruin! Man himself, aghast, Retreated east and west and north and south Before the menace of that twisted mouth, Till Jove, in answer to their prayers, sent Night To veil the dreadful visage from their sight!

Such were the causes of the horrid strife-- The mother-wrongs which nourished it to life. O, for a quill from an archangel's wing! O, for a voice that's adequate to sing The splendor and the terror of the fray, The scattered hair, the coat-tails all astray, The parted collars and the gouts of gore Reeking and smoking on the banker's floor, The interlocking limbs, embraces dire, Revolving bodies and deranged attire!

Vain, vain the trial: 'tis vouchsafed to none To sing two millionaires rolled into one! My hand and pen their offices refuse, And hoarse and hoarser grows the weary muse. Alone remains, to tell of the event, Abandoned, lost and variously rent, The Bonynge nethermost habiliment.

A SONG IN PRAISE

Hail, blessed Blunder! golden idol, hail!-- Clay-footed deity of all who fail. Celestial image, let thy glory shine, Thy feet concealing, but a lamp to mine. Let me, at seasons opportune and fit, By turns adore thee and by turns commit. In thy high service let me ever be (Yet never serve thee as my critics me) Happy and fallible, content to feel I blunder chiefly when to thee I kneel. But best felicity is his thy praise Who utters unaware in works and ways-- Who _laborare est orare_ proves, And feels thy suasion wheresoe'er he moves, Serving thy purpose, not thine altar, still, And working, for he thinks it his, thy will. If such a life with blessings be not fraught, I envy Peter Robertson for naught.

A POET'S FATHER

Welcker, I'm told, can boast a father great And honored in the service of the State. Public Instruction all his mind employs-- He guides its methods and its wage enjoys. Prime Pedagogue, imperious and grand, He waves his ferule o'er a studious land Where humming youth, intent upon the page, Thirsting for knowledge with a noble rage, Drink dry the whole Pierian spring and ask To slake their fervor at his private flask. Arrested by the terror of his frown, The vaulting spit-ball drops untimely down; The fly impaled on the tormenting pin Stills in his awful glance its dizzy din; Beneath that stern regard the chewing-gum Which writhed and squeaked between the teeth is dumb; Obedient to his will the dunce-cap flies To perch upon the brows of the unwise; The supple switch forsakes the parent wood To settle where 'twill do the greatest good, Puissant still, as when of old it strove With Solomon for spitting on the stove Learned Professor, variously great, Guide, guardian, instructor of the State-- Quick to discern and zealous to correct The faults which mar the public intellect From where of Siskiyou the northern bound Is frozen eternal to the sunless ground To where in San Diego's torrid clime The swarthy Greaser swelters in his grime-- Beneath your stupid nose can you not see The dunce whom once you dandled on your knee? O mighty master of a thousand schools, Stop teaching wisdom, or stop breeding fools.

A COWARD

When Pickering, distressed by an "attack," Has the strange insolence to answer back He hides behind a name that is a lie, And out of shadow falters his reply. God knows him, though--identified alike By hardihood to rise and fear to strike, And fitly to rebuke his sins decrees, That, hide from others with what care he please, Night sha'n't be black enough nor earth so wide That from himself himself can ever hide! Hard fate indeed to feel at every breath His burden of identity till death!-- No moment's respite from the immortal load, To think himself a serpent or a toad, Or dream, with a divine, ecstatic glow, He's long been dead and canonized a crow!

TO MY LIARS

Attend, mine enemies of all degrees, From sandlot orators and sandlot fleas To fallen gentlemen and rising louts Who babble slander at your drinking bouts, And, filled with unfamiliar wine, begin Lies drowned, ere born, in more congenial gin. But most attend, ye persons of the press Who live (though why, yourselves alone can guess) In hope deferred, ambitious still to shine By hating me at half a cent a line-- Like drones among the bees of brighter wing, Sunless to shine and impotent to sting. To estimate in easy verse I'll try The controversial value of a lie. So lend your ears--God knows you have enough!-- I mean to teach, and if I can't I'll cuff.

A lie is wicked, so the priests declare; But that to us is neither here nor there. 'Tis worse than wicked, it is vulgar too; _N'importe_--with that we've nothing here to do. If 'twere artistic I would lie till death, And shape a falsehood with my latest breath. Parrhasius never more did pity lack, The while his model writhed upon the rack, Than I for my collaborator's pain, Who, stabbed with fibs again and yet again, Would vainly seek to move my stubborn heart If slander were, and wit were not, an art. The ill-bred and illiterate can lie As fast as you, and faster far than I. Shall I compete, then, in a strife accurst Where Allen Forman is an easy first, And where the second prize is rightly flung To Charley Shortridge or to Mike de Young?

In mental combat but a single end Inspires the formidable to contend. Not by the raw recruit's ambition fired, By whom foul blows, though harmless, are admired; Not by the coward's zeal, who, on his knee Behind the bole of his protecting tree, So curves his musket that the bark it fits, And, firing, blows the weapon into bits; But with the noble aim of one whose heart Values his foeman for he loves his art The veteran debater moves afield, Untaught to libel as untaught to yield. Dear foeman mine, I've but this end in view-- That to prevent which most you wish to do. What, then, are you most eager to be at? To hate me? Nay, I'll help you, sir, at that. This only passion does your soul inspire: You wish to scorn me. Well, you shall admire.

'Tis not enough my neighbors that you school In the belief that I'm a rogue or fool; That small advantage you would gladly trade For what one moment would _yourself_ persuade. Write, then, your largest and your longest lie: _You_ sha'n't believe it, howsoe'er you try. No falsehood you can tell, no evil do, Shall turn me from the truth to injure you. So all your war is barren of effect; I find my victory in your respect. What profit have you if the world you set Against me? For the world will soon forget It thought me this or that; but I'll retain A vivid picture of your moral stain, And cherish till my memory expire The sweet, soft consciousness that you're a liar Is it _your_ triumph, then, to prove that you Will do the thing that I would scorn to do? God grant that I forever be exempt From such advantage as my foe's contempt.

"PHIL" CRIMMINS

Still as he climbed into the public view His charms of person more apparent grew, Till the pleased world that watched his airy grace Saw nothing of him but his nether face-- Forgot his follies with his head's retreat, And blessed his virtues as it viewed their seat.

CODEX HONORIS

Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, he swore: "Dat Solomon Martin--I'll haf his gore!" Solomon Martin, of Oakland, he said: "Of Shacob Shacobs der bleed I vill shed!" So they met, with seconds and surgeon at call, And fought with pistol and powder and--all Was done in good faith,--as before I said, They fought with pistol and powder and--shed Tears, O my friends, for each other they marred Fighting with pistol and powder and--lard! For the lead had been stolen away, every trace, And Christian hog-product supplied its place. Then the shade of Moses indignant arose: "Quvicker dan lighdnings go vosh yer glose!" Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, they say, Applied for a pension the following day. Solomon Martin, of Oakland, I hear, Will call himself Colonel for many a year.

TO W.H.L.B.

Refrain, dull orator, from speaking out, For silence deepens when you raise the shout; But when you hold your tongue we hear, at least, Your noise in mastering that little beast.

EMANCIPATION

Behold! the days of miracle at last Return--if ever they were truly past: From sinful creditors' unholy greed The church called Calvary at last is freed-- So called for there the Savior's crucified, Roberts and Carmany on either side.

The circling contribution-box no more Provokes the nod and simulated snore; No more the Lottery, no more the Fair, Lure the reluctant dollar from its lair, Nor Ladies' Lunches at a bit a bite Destroy the health yet spare the appetite, While thrifty sisters o'er the cauldron stoop To serve their God with zeal, their friends with soup, And all the brethren mendicate the earth With viewless placards: "We've been _so_ from birth!"

Sure of his wage, the pastor now can lend His whole attention to his latter end, Remarking with a martyr's prescient thrill The Hemp maturing on the cheerless Hill. The holy brethren, lifting pious palms, Pour out their gratitude in prayer and psalms, Chant _De Profundis_, meaning "out of debt," And dance like mad--or would if they were let.

Deeply disguised (a deacon newly dead Supplied the means) Jack Satan holds his head As high as any and as loudly sings His _jubilate_ till each rafter rings. "Rejoice, ye ever faithful," bellows he, "The debt is lifted and the temple free!" Then says, aside, with gentle cachination: "I've got a mortgage on the congregation."

JOHNDONKEY

[There isn't a man living who does not have at least a
sneaking reverence for a horse-shoe.--_Evening Post_.]

Thus the poor ass whose appetite has ne'er Known than the thistle any sweeter fare Thinks all the world eats thistles. Thus the clown, The wit and Mentor of the country town, Grins through the collar of a horse and thinks Others for pleasure do as he for drinks, Though secretly, because unwilling still In public to attest their lack of skill. Each dunce whose life and mind all follies mar Believes as he is all men living are-- His vices theirs, their understandings his; Naught that he knows not, all he fancies, _is_. How odd that any mind such stuff should boast! How natural to write it in the _Post_!

HELL

The friends who stood about my bed Looked down upon my face and said: "God's will be done--the fellow's dead."

When from my body I was free I straightway felt myself, ah me! Sink downward to the life to be.

Full twenty centuries I fell, And then alighted. "Here you dwell For aye," a Voice cried--"this is Hell!"

A landscape lay about my feet, Where trees were green and flowers sweet. The climate was devoid of heat.

The sun looked down with gentle beam Upon the bosom of the stream, Nor saw I any sign of steam.

The waters by the sky were tinged, The hills with light and color fringed. Birds warbled on the wing unsinged.

"Ah, no, this is not Hell," I cried; "The preachers ne'er so greatly lied. This is Earth's spirit glorified!

"Good souls do not in Hades dwell, And, look, there's John P. Irish!" "Well," The Voice said, "that's what makes it Hell."

BY FALSE PRETENSES

John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wields The quill his tributary body yields; The author of an opera--that is, All but the music and libretto's his: A work renowned, whose formidable name, Linked with his own, repels the assault of fame From the high vantage of a dusty shelf, Secure from all the world except himself;-- Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screed That all might understand if some would read;-- Master of poesy and lord of prose, Dowered, like a setter, with a double nose; That one for Erato, for Clio this; He flushes both--not his fault if we miss;-- Judge of the painter's art, who'll straight proclaim The hue of any color you can name, And knows a painting with a canvas back Distinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;-- This thinker and philosopher, whose work Is famous from Commercial street to Turk, Has got a fortune now, his talent's meed. A woman left it him who could not read, And so went down to death's eternal night Sweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.

LUCIFER OF THE TORCH

O Reverend Ravlin, once with sounding lung You shook the bloody banner of your tongue, Urged all the fiery boycotters afield And swore you'd rather follow them than yield, Alas, how brief the time, how great the change!-- Your dogs of war are ailing all of mange; The loose leash dangles from your finger-tips, But the loud "havoc" dies upon your lips. No spirit animates your feeble clay-- You'd rather yield than even run away. In vain McGlashan labors to inspire Your pallid nostril with his breath of fire: The light of battle's faded from your face-- You keep the peace, John Chinaman his place. O Ravlin, what cold water, thrown by whom Upon the kindling Boycott's ruddy bloom, Has slaked your parching blood-thirst and allayed The flash and shimmer of your lingual blade? Your salary--your salary's unpaid!

In the old days, when Christ with scourges drave The Ravlins headlong from the Temple's nave, Each bore upon his pelt the mark divine-- The Boycott's red authenticating sign. Birth-marked forever in surviving hurts, Glowing and smarting underneath their shirts, Successive Ravlins have revenged their shame By blowing every coal and flinging flame. And you, the latest (may you be the last!) Endorsed with that hereditary, vast And monstrous rubric, would the feud prolong, Save that cupidity forbids the wrong. In strife you preferably pass your days-- But brawl no moment longer than it pays. By shouting when no more you can incite The dogs to put the timid sheep to flight To load, for you, the brambles with their fleece, You cackle concord to congenial geese, Put pinches of goodwill upon their tails And pluck them with a touch that never fails.

THE "WHIRLIGIG OF TIME"

Dr. Jewell speaks of Balaam And his vices, to assail 'em. Ancient enmities how cruel!-- Balaam cudgeled once a Jewell.

A RAILROAD LACKEY

Ben Truman, you're a genius and can write, Though one would not suspect it from your looks. You lack that certain spareness which is quite Distinctive of the persons who make books. You show the workmanship of Stanford's cooks About the region of the appetite, Where geniuses are singularly slight. Your friends the Chinamen are understood, Indeed, to speak of you as "belly good."

Still, you can write--spell, too, I understand-- Though how two such accomplishments can go, Like sentimental schoolgirls, hand in hand Is more than ever I can hope to know. To have one talent good enough to show Has always been sufficient to command The veneration of the brilliant band Of railroad scholars, who themselves, indeed, Although they cannot write, can mostly read.

There's Towne and Fillmore, Goodman and Steve Gage, Ned Curtis of Napoleonic face, Who used to dash his name on glory's page "A.M." appended to denote his place Among the learned. Now the last faint trace Of Nap. is all obliterate with age, And Ned's degree less precious than his wage. He says: "I done it," with his every breath. "Thou canst not say I did it," says Macbeth.

Good land! how I run on! I quite forgot Whom this was meant to be about; for when I think upon that odd, unearthly lot-- Not quite Creedhaymonds, yet not wholly men-- I'm dominated by my rebel pen That, like the stubborn bird from which 'twas got, Goes waddling forward if I will or not. To leave your comrades, Ben, I'm now content: I'll meet them later if I don't repent.

You've writ a letter, I observe--nay, more, You've published it--to say how good you think The coolies, and invite them to come o'er In thicker quantity. Perhaps you drink No corporation's wine, but love its ink; Or when you signed away your soul and swore On railrogue battle-fields to shed your gore You mentally reserved the right to shed The raiment of your character instead.

You're naked, anyhow: unragged you stand In frank and stark simplicity of shame. And here upon your flank, in letters grand, The iron has marked you with your owner's name. Needless, for none would steal and none reclaim. But "£eland $tanford" is a pretty brand, Wrought by an artist with a cunning hand But come--this naked unreserve is flat: Don your habiliment--you're fat, you're fat!

THE LEGATEE

In fair San Francisco a good man did dwell, And he wrote out a will, for he didn't feel well, Said he: "It is proper, when making a gift, To stimulate virtue by comforting thrift."

So he left all his property, legal and straight, To "the cursedest rascal in all of the State." But the name he refused to insert, for, said he; "Let each man consider himself legatee."

In due course of time that philanthropist died, And all San Francisco, and Oakland beside-- Save only the lawyers--came each with his claim The lawyers preferring to manage the same.

The cases were tried in Department Thirteen, Judge Murphy presided, sedate and serene, But couldn't quite specify, legal and straight, The cursedest rascal in all of the State.

And so he remarked to them, little and big-- To claimants: "You skip!" and to lawyers: "You dig!" They tumbled, tumultuous, out of his court And left him victorious, holding the fort.

'Twas then that he said: "It is plain to my mind This property's ownerless--how can I find The cursedest rascal in all of the State?" So he took it himself, which was legal and straight.

"DIED OF A ROSE"

A reporter he was, and he wrote, wrote he:
"The grave was covered as thick as could be
With floral tributes"--which reading,
The editor man he said, he did so:
"For 'floral tributes' he's got for to go,
For I hold the same misleading."
Then he called him in and he pointed sweet
To a blooming garden across the street,
Inquiring: "What's them a-growing?"
The reporter chap said: "Why, where's your eyes?
Them's floral tributes!" "Arise, arise,"
The editor said, "and be going."

A LITERARY HANGMAN

Beneath his coat of dirt great Neilson loves
To hide the avenging rope.
He handles all he touches without gloves,
Excepting soap.

AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

As through the blue expanse he skims
On joyous wings, the late
Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims,
Both bound for Heaven's high gate.

In life they loved and (God knows why
A lover so should sue)
He slew her, on the gallows high
Died pious--and they flew.

Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled
And torn as by a gale,
While his were bright--all freshly oiled
The feathers of his tail.

Her visage, too, was stained and worn
And menacing and grim;
His sweet and mild--you would have sworn
That _she_ had murdered _him_.

When they'd arrived before the gate
He said to her: "My dear,
'Tis hard once more to separate,
But _you_ can't enter here.

"For you, unluckily, were sent
So quickly to the grave
You had no notice to repent,
Nor time your soul to save."

"'Tis true," said she, "and I should wail
In Hell even now, but I
Have lingered round the county jail
To see a Christian die."

A CONTROVERSIALIST

I've sometimes wished that Ingersoll were wise To hold his tongue, nor rail against the skies; For when he's made a point some pious dunce Like Bartlett of the _Bulletin_ "replies."

I brandish no iconoclastic fist, Nor enter the debate an atheist; But when they say there is a God I ask Why Bartlett, then, is suffered to exist.

Even infidels that logic might resent, Saying: "There's no place for his punishment That's worse than earth." But humbly I submit That he would make a hell wherever sent.

MENDAX

High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee! Thine is mendacity's imperial crown, Alike by genius, action and renown. No man, since words could set a cheek aflame E'er lied so greatly with so little shame! O bad old man, must thy remaining years Be passed in leading idiots by their ears-- Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast Would fasten to the penitential post) Still wagging sympathetically--hung the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?

Thou dog of darkness, dost thou hope to stay Time's dread advance till thou hast had thy day? Dost think the Strangler will release his hold Because, forsooth, some fibs remain untold? No, no--beneath thy multiplying load Of years thou canst not tarry on the road To dabble in the blood thy leaden feet Have pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat Of reputations margining thy way, Nor wander from the path new truth to slay. Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt, Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guilt-- Straight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink, Thy life washed out as with a wave of ink. But if this prophecy be not fulfilled, And thou who killest patience be not killed; If age assail in vain and vice attack Only by folly to be beaten back; Yet Nature can this consolation give: The rogues who die not are condemned to live!

THE RETROSPECTIVE BIRD

His caw is a cackle, his eye is dim, And he mopes all day on the lowest limb; Not a word says he, but he snaps his bill And twitches his palsied head, as a quill, The ultimate plume of his pride and hope, Quits his now featherless nose-of-the-Pope, Leaving that eminence brown and bare Exposed to the Prince of the Power of the Air. And he sits and he thinks: "I'm an old, old man, Mateless and chickless, the last of my clan, But I'd give the half of the days gone by To perch once more on the branches high, And hear my great-grand-daddy's comical croaks In authorized versions of _Bulletin_ jokes."

THE OAKLAND DOG

I lay one happy night in bed And dreamed that all the dogs were dead. They'd all been taken out and shot-- Their bodies strewed each vacant lot.

O'er all the earth, from Berkeley down To San Leandro's ancient town, And out in space as far as Niles-- I saw their mortal parts in piles.

One stack upreared its ridge so high Against the azure of the sky That some good soul, with pious views, Put up a steeple and sold pews.

No wagging tail the scene relieved: I never in my life conceived (I swear it on the Decalogue!) Such penury of living dog.

The barking and the howling stilled, The snarling with the snarler killed, All nature seemed to hold its breath: The silence was as deep as death.

True, candidates were all in roar On every platform, as before; And villains, as before, felt free To finger the calliope.

True, the Salvationist by night, And milkman in the early light, The lonely flutist and the mill Performed their functions with a will.

True, church bells on a Sunday rang The sick man's curtain down--the bang Of trains, contesting for the track, Out of the shadow called him back.

True, cocks, at all unheavenly hours, Crew with excruciating powers, Cats on the woodshed rang and roared, Fat citizens and fog-horns snored.

But this was all too fine for ears Accustomed, through the awful years, To the nocturnal monologues And day debates of Oakland dogs.

And so the world was silent. Now What else befell--to whom and how? _Imprimis_, then, there were no fleas, And days of worth brought nights of ease.

Men walked about without the dread Of being torn to many a shred, Each fragment holding half a cruse Of hydrophobia's quickening juice.

They had not to propitiate Some curst kioodle at each gate, But entered one another's grounds, Unscared, and were not fed to hounds.

Women could drive and not a pup Would lift the horse's tendons up And let them go--to interject A certain musical effect.

Even children's ponies went about, All grave and sober-paced, without A bulldog hanging to each nose-- Proud of his fragrance, I suppose.

Dog being dead, Man's lawless flame Burned out: he granted Woman's claim, Children's and those of country, art-- all took lodgings in his heart.

When memories of his former shame Crimsoned his cheeks with sudden flame He said; "I know my fault too well-- They fawned upon me and I fell."

Ah! 'twas a lovely world!--no more I met that indisposing bore, The unseraphic cynogogue-- The man who's proud to love a dog.