Chapter 2
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.