Chapter 4
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.
Thus in my dream the golden reign Of Reason filled the world again, And all mankind confessed her sway, From Walnut Creek to San Jose.
THE UNFALLEN BRAVE
Not all in sorrow and in tears, To pay of gratitude's arrears The yearly sum-- Not prompted, wholly by the pride Of those for whom their friends have died, To-day we come.
Another aim we have in view Than for the buried boys in blue To drop a tear: Memorial Day revives the chin Of Barnes, and Salomon chimes in-- That's why we're here.
And when in after-ages they Shall pass, like mortal men, away, Their war-song sung, Then fame will tell the tale anew Of how intrepidly they drew The deadly tongue.
Then cull white lilies for the graves Of Liberty's loquacious braves, And roses red. Those represent their livers, these The blood that in unmeasured seas They did not shed.
A CELEBRATED CASE
Way down in the Boom Belt lived Mrs. Roselle; A person named Petrie, he lived there as well; But Mr. Roselle he resided away-- Sing tooral iooral iooral iay.
Once Mrs. Roselle in her room was alone: The flesh of her flesh and the bone of her bone Neglected the wife of his bosom to woo-- Sing tooral iooral iooral ioo.
Then Petrie, her lover, appeared at the door, Remarking: "My dear; I don't love you no more." "That's awfully rough," said the lady, "on me-- Sing tooral iooral iooral iee."
"Come in, Mr. Petrie," she added, "pray do: Although you don't love me no more, I love you. Sit down while I spray you with vitriol now-- Sing tooral iooral iooral iow."
Said Petrie: "That liquid I know won't agree With my beauty, and then you'll no longer love me; So spray and be "--O, what a word he did say!-- Sing tooral iooral iooral iay.
She deluged his head and continued to pour Till his bonny blue eyes, like his love, were no more. It was seldom he got such a hearty shampoo-- Sing tooral iooral iooral ioo.
Then Petrie he rose and said: "Mrs. Roselle, I have an engagement and bid you farewell." "You see," she began to explain--but not he!-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral iee.
The Sheriff he came and he offered his arm, Saying, "Sorry I am for disturbin' you, marm, But business is business." Said she, "So they say-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral iay."
The Judge on the bench he looked awfully stern; The District Attorney began to attorn; The witnesses lied and the lawyers--O my!-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral iyi.
The chap that defended her said: "It's our claim That he loved us no longer and told us the same. What else than we did could we decently do?-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral ioo."
The District Attorney, sarcastic, replied: "We loved you no longer--that can't be denied. Not having no eyes we may dote on you now-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral iow."
The prisoner wept to entoken her fears; The sockets of Petrie were flooded with tears. O heaven-born Sympathy, bully for you!-- Sing tooral, iooral, iooral ioo.
Four jurors considered the prisoner mad, And four thought her victim uncommonly bad, And four that the acid was all in his eye-- Sing rum tiddy iddity iddity hi.
COUPLETS
Intended for Inscription on a Sword Presented to Colonel Cutting of the National Guard of California.
I am for Cutting. I'm a blade Designed for use at dress parade. My gleaming length, when I display Peace rules the land with gentle sway; But when the war-dogs bare their teeth Go seek me in the modest sheath. I am for Cutting. Not for me The task of setting nations free. Let soulless blades take human life, My softer metal shuns the strife. The annual review is mine, When gorgeous shopmen sweat and shine, And Biddy, tip-toe on the pave, Adores the cobble-trotting brave. I am for Cutting. 'Tis not mine To hew amain the hostile line; Not mine all pitiless to spread The plain with tumuli of dead. My grander duty lies afar From haunts of the insane hussar, Where charging horse and struggling foot Are grimed alike with cannon-soot. When Loveliness and Valor meet Beneath the trees to dance, and eat, And sing, and much beside, behold My golden glories all unfold! There formidably are displayed The useful horrors of my blade In time of feast and dance and ballad, I am for cutting chicken salad.
A RETORT
As vicious women think all men are knaves, And shrew-bound gentlemen discourse of slaves; As reeling drunkards judge the world unsteady And idlers swear employers ne'er get ready-- Thieves that the constable stole all they had, The mad that all except themselves are mad; So, in another's clear escutcheon shown, Barnes rails at stains reflected from his own; Prates of "docility," nor feels the dark Ring round his neck--the Ralston collar mark. Back, man, to studies interrupted once, Ere yet the rogue had merged into the dunce. Back, back to Yale! and, grown with years discreet, The course a virgin's lust cut short, complete. Go drink again at the Pierian pool, And learn--at least to better play the fool. No longer scorn the draught, although the font, Unlike Pactolus, waters not Belmont.
A VISION OF RESURRECTION
I had a dream. The habitable earth-- Its continents and islands, all were bare Of cities and of forests. Naught remained Of its old aspect, and I only knew (As men know things in dreams, unknowing how) That this was earth and that all men were dead. On every side I saw the barren land, Even to the distant sky's inclosing blue, Thick-pitted all with graves; and all the graves Save one were open--not as newly dug, But rather as by some internal force Riven for egress. Tombs of stone were split And wide agape, and in their iron decay The massive mausoleums stood in halves. With mildewed linen all the ground was white. Discarded shrouds upon memorial stones Hung without motion in the soulless air. While greatly marveling how this should be I heard, or fancied that I heard, a voice, Low like an angel's, delicately strong, And sweet as music.
--"Spirit," it said, "behold The burial place of universal Man! A million years have rolled away since here His sheeted multitudes (save only some Whose dark misdeeds required a separate And individual arraignment) rose To judgment at the trumpet's summoning And passed into the sky for their award, Leaving behind these perishable things Which yet, preserved by miracle, endure Till all are up. Then they and all of earth, Rock-hearted mountain and storm-breasted sea, River and wilderness and sites of dead And vanished capitals of men, shall spring To flame, and naught shall be for evermore! When all are risen that wonder will occur. 'Twas but ten centuries ago the last But one came forth--a soul so black with sin, Against whose name so many crimes were set That only now his trial is at end. But one remains."
Straight, as the voice was stilled-- That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise And one came forth in grave-clothes. For a space He stood and gazed about him with a smile Superior; then laying off his shroud Disclosed his two attenuated legs Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly As by the weight of saintliness above, And so sprang upward and was lost to view Noting his headstone overthrown, I read: "Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch, Deacon and Editor--a holy man Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years And blessedness. The dead in Christ rise first."
MASTER OF THREE ARTS
Your various talents, Goldenson, command Respect: you are a poet and can draw. It is a pity that your gifted hand Should ever have been raised against the law. If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture, You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.
About your poetry I'm not so sure: 'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad, Whose hardy writers have not to endure The hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad: Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet) Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.
Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too-- Taught by the muses how to smite the harp And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp. But let me say, with no desire to taunt you, I never murder even the girls I want to.
I hold it one of the poetic laws To sing of life, not take. I've ever shown A high regard for human life because I have such trouble to support my own. And you--well, you'll find trouble soon in blowing Your private coal to keep it red and glowing.
I fancy now I see you at the Gate Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly, You cry: "Good sir, take pity on my state-- Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!" And Peter says: "O, that's all right--but, mister, You scribbled rhymes. In Hell I'll make you blister!"
THERSITES
So, in the Sunday papers _you_, Del Mar, Damn, all great Englishmen in English speech? I am no Englishman, but in my reach A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.
You are the man, if I mistake you not, Who lately with a supplicating twitch Plucked at the pockets of the London rich And paid your share-engraver all you got.
Because that you have greatly lied, because You libel nations, and because no hand Of officer is raised to bid you stand, And falsehood is unpunished of the laws,
I stand here in a public place to mark With level finger where you part the crowd-- I stand to name you and to cry aloud: "Behold mendacity's great hierarch!"
A SOCIETY LEADER
"The Social World"! O what a world it is-- Where full-grown men cut capers in the German, Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen! I wonder if our future Grant or Sherman, As these youths pass their time, is passing his-- If eagles ever come from painted eggs, Or deeds of arms succeed to deeds of legs.
I know they tell us about Waterloo: How, "foremost fighting," fell the evening's dancers. I don't believe it: I regard it true That soldiers who are skillful in "the Lancers" Less often die of cannon than of cancers. Moreover, I am half-persuaded, too, That David when he danced before the Ark Had the reporter's word to keep it dark.
Ed. Greenway, you fatigue. Your hateful name Like maiden's curls, is in the papers daily. You think it, doubtless, honorable fame, And contemplate the cheap distinction gaily, As does the monkey the blue-painted tail he Believes becoming to him. 'Tis the same With men as other monkeys: all their souls Crave eminence on any kind of poles. But cynics (barking tribe!) are all agreed That monkeys upon poles performing capers Are not exalted, they are only "treed." A glory that is kindled by the papers Is transient as the phosphorescent vapors That shine in graveyards and are seen, indeed, But while the bodies that supply the gas Are turning into weeds to feed an ass.
One can but wonder sometimes how it feels To _be_ an ass--a beast we beat condignly Because, like yours, his life is in his heels And he is prone to use them unbenignly. The ladies (bless them!) say you dance divinely. I like St. Vitus better, though, who deals His feet about him with a grace more just, And hops, not for he will, but for he must.
Doubtless it gratifies you to observe Elbowy girls and adipose mamas All looking adoration as you swerve This way and that; but prosperous papas Laugh in their sleeves at you, and their ha-has, If heard, would somewhat agitate your nerve. And dames and maids who keep you on their shelves Don't seem to want a closer tie themselves.
Gods! what a life you live!--by day a slave To your exacting back and urgent belly; Intent to earn and vigilant to save-- By night, attired so sightly and so smelly, With countenance as luminous as jelly, Bobbing and bowing! King of hearts and knave Of diamonds, I'd bet a silver brick If brains were trumps you'd never take a trick.
EXPOSITOR VERITATIS
I Slept, and, waking in the years to be, Heard voices, and approaching whence they came, Listened indifferently where a key Had lately been removed. An ancient dame Said to her daughter: "Go to yonder caddy And get some emery to scour your daddy."
And then I knew--some intuition said-- That tombs were not and men had cleared their shelves Of urns; and the electro-plated dead Stood pedestaled as statues of themselves. With famous dead men all the public places Were thronged, and some in piles awaited bases.
One mighty structure's high façade alone Contained a single monumental niche, Where, central in that steep expanse of stone, Gleamed the familiar form of Thomas Fitch. A man cried: "Lo! Truth's temple and its founder!" Then gravely added: "I'm her chief expounder."
TO "COLONEL" DAN. BURNS
They say, my lord, that you're a Warwick. Well, The title's an absurd one, I believe: You make no kings, you have no kings to sell, Though really 'twere easy to conceive You stuffing half-a-dozen up your sleeve. No, you're no Warwick, skillful from the shell To hatch out sovereigns. On a mare's nest, maybe, You'd incubate a little jackass baby.
I fancy, too, that it is naught but stuff, This "power" that you're said to be "behind The throne." I'm sure 'twere accurate enough To represent you simply as inclined To push poor Markham (ailing in his mind And body, which were never very tough) Round in an invalid's wheeled chair. Such menial Employment to low natures is congenial.
No, Dan, you're an impostor every way: A human bubble, for "the earth," you know, "Hath bubbles, as the water hath." Some day Some careless hand will prick your film, and O, How utterly you'll vanish! Daniel, throw (As fallen Woolsey might to Cromwell say) Your curst ambition to the pigs--though truly 'Twould make them greater pigs, and more unruly.
GEORGE A. KNIGHT
Attorney Knight, it happens so sometimes That lawyers, justifying cut-throats' crimes For hire--calumniating, too, for gold, The dead, dumb victims cruelly unsouled-- Speak, through the press, to a tribunal far More honorable than their Honors are,-- A court that sits not with assenting smile While living rogues dead gentleman revile,-- A court where scoundrel ethics of your trade Confuse no judgment and no cheating aid,-- The Court of Honest Souls, where you in vain May plead your right to falsify for gain, Sternly reminded if a man engage To serve assassins for the liar's wage, His mouth with vilifying falsehoods crammed, He's twice detestable and doubly damned!
Attorney Knight, defending Powell, you, To earn your fee, so energetic grew (So like a hound, the pride of all the pack, Clapping your nose upon the dead man's track To run his faults to earth--at least proclaim At vacant holes the overtaken game) That men who marked you nourishing the tongue, And saw your arms so vigorously swung, All marveled how so light a breeze could stir So great a windmill to so great a whirr! Little they knew, or surely they had grinned, The mill was laboring to raise the wind.
Ralph Smith a "shoulder-striker"! God, O hear This hardy man's description of thy dear Dead child, the gentlest soul, save only One, E'er born in any land beneath the sun. All silent benefactions still he wrought: High deed and gracious speech and noble thought, Kept all thy law, and, seeking still the right, Upon his blameless breast received the light.
"Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints," he cried Whose wrath was deep as his comparison wide-- Milton, thy servant. Nay, thy will be done: To smite or spare--to me it all is one. Can vengeance bring my sorrow to an end, Or justice give me back my buried friend? But if some Milton vainly now implore, And Powell prosper as he did before, Yet 'twere too much that, making no ado, Thy saints be slaughtered and be slandered too. So, Lord, make Knight his weapon keep in sheath, Or do Thou wrest it from between his teeth!
UNARMED
Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate, When Stephen M. White arrived in state.
"Admit me." "With pleasure," Peter said, Pleased to observe that the man was dead;
"That's what I'm here for. Kindly show Your ticket, my lord, and in you go."
White stared in blank surprise. Said he "I _run_ this place--just turn that key."
"Yes?" said the Saint; and Stephen heard With pain the inflection of that word.
But, mastering his emotion, he Remarked: "My friend, you're too d---- free;
"I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!" And, "Yes?" the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: "Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?"
The Saint replied: "Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below:
"Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.'"
Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part.
"Die, wretch!" he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their "silent tents" But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed--the briefest of his speeches: "I've left it in my other breeches!"
A POLITICAL VIOLET
Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease And talk as old friends do. You talk of anything you please, And I will talk of you.
You recently have said, I hear, That you would like to go To serve as Senator. That's queer! Have you told William Stow?
Once when the Legislature said: "Go, Stanford, and be great!" You lifted up your Jovian head And everlooked the State.
As one made leisurely awake, You lightly rubbed your eyes And answered: "Thank you--please to make A note of my surprise.
"But who are they who skulk aside, As to get out of reach, And in their clothing strive to hide Three thousand dollars each?
"Not members of your body, sure? No, that can hardly be: All statesmen, I suppose, are pure. What! there are rogues? Dear me!"
You added, you'll recall, that though You were surprised and pained, You thought, upon the whole, you'd go, And in that mind remained.
Now, what so great a change has wrought That you so frankly speak Of "seeking" honors once unsought Because you "scorned to seek"?
Do you not fear the grave reproof In good Creed Haymond's eye? Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof And pass you coldly by?
O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich Will rise from earth and point At you a scornful finger which May lack, perchance, a joint?
Go, Stanford, where the violets grow, And join their modest train. Await the work of William Stow And be surprised again.
THE SUBDUED EDITOR
Pope-choker Pixley sat in his den A-chewin' upon his quid. He thought it was Leo Thirteen, and then He bit it intenser, he did.
The amber which overflew from the cud Like rivers which burst out of bounds-- 'Twas peculiar grateful to think it blood A-gushin' from Papal wounds.
A knockin' was heard uponto the door Where some one a-waitin' was. "Come in," said the shedder of priestly gore, Arrestin' to once his jaws.
The person which entered was curly of hair And smilin' as ever you see; His eyes was blue, and uncommon fair Was his physiognomee.
And yet there was some'at remarkable grand-- And the editor says as he looks: "Your Height" (it was Highness, you understand, That he meant, but he spoke like books)--
"Your Height, I am in. I'm the editor man Of this paper--which is to say, I'm the owner, too, and it's alway ran In the independentest way!
"Not a damgaloot can interfere, A-shapin' my course for me: This paper's (and nothing can make it veer) Pixleian in policee!"
"It's little to me," said the sunny youth, "If journals is better or worse Where I am to home they won't keep, in truth, The climate is that perverse.
"I've come, howsomever, your mind to light With a more superior fire: You'll have naught hencefor'ard to do but write, While I sets by and inspire.
"We'll make it hot all round, bedad!" And his laughture was loud and free. "The devil!" cried Pixley, surpassin' mad. "Exactly, my friend--that's me."
So he took a chair and a feather fan, And he sets and sets and sets, Inspirin' that humbled editor man, Which sweats and sweats and sweats!
All unavailin' his struggles be, And it's, O, a weepin' sight To see a great editor bold and free Reducted to sech a plight!
"BLACK BART, Po8"
Welcome, good friend; as you have served your term, And found the joy of crime to be a fiction, I hope you'll hold your present faith, stand firm And not again be open to conviction.
Your sins, though scarlet once, are now as wool: You've made atonement for all past offenses, And conjugated--'twas an awful pull!-- The verb "to pay" in all its moods and tenses.
You were a dreadful criminal--by Heaven, I think there never was a man so sinful! We've all a pinch or two of Satan's leaven, But you appeared to have an even skinful.
Earth shuddered with aversion at your name; Rivers fled backward, gravitation scorning; The sea and sky, from thinking on your shame, Grew lobster-red at eve and in the morning.
But still red-handed at your horrid trade You wrought, to reason deaf, and to compassion. But now with gods and men your peace is made I beg you to be good and in the fashion.