Chapter 3
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."