Chapter 6
Good friend, it is with deep regret I note The latest, strangest turning of your coat; Though any way you wear that mental clout The seamy side seems always to be out. Who could have thought that you would e'er sustain The Southern shotgun's arbitrary reign!-- Your sturdy hand assisting to replace The broken yoke on a delivered race; The ballot's purity no more your care, With equal privilege to dark and fair. To Yesterday a traitor, to To-day You're constant but the better to betray To-morrow. Your convictions all are naught But the wild asses of the world of thought, Which, flying mindless o'er the barren plain, Perceive at last they've nothing so to gain, And, turning penitent upon their track, Economize their strength by flying back.
Ex-champion of Freedom, battle-lunged, No more, red-handed, or at least red-tongued, Brandish the javelin which by others thrown Clove Sambo's heart to quiver in your own! Confess no more that when his blood was shed, And you so sympathetically bled, The bow that spanned the mutual cascade Was but the promise of a roaring trade In offices. Your fingering now the trigger Shows that you _knew_ your Negro was a nigger! _Ad hominem_ this _argumentum_ runs: Peace!--let us fire another kind of guns.
I grant you, friend, that it is very true The Blacks are ignorant--and sable, too. What then? One way of two a fool must vote, And either way with gentlemen of note Whose villain feuds the fact attest too well That pedagogues nor vice nor error quell. The fiercest controversies ever rage When Miltons and Salmasii engage. No project wide attention ever drew But it disparted all the learned crew. As through their group the cleaving line's prolonged With fiery combatants each field is thronged. In battle-royal they engage at once For guidance of the hesitating dunce. The Titans on the heights contend full soon-- On this side Webster and on that Calhoun, The monstrous conflagration of their fight Startling the day and splendoring the night! Both are unconquerable--_one_ is right. Will't keep the pigmy, if we make him strong, From siding with a giant in the wrong? When Genius strikes for error, who's afraid To arm poor Folly with a wooden blade? O Rabelais, you knew it all!--your good And honest judge (by men misunderstood) Knew to be right there was but one device Less fallible than ignorance--the dice. The time must come--Heaven expedite the day!-- When all mankind shall their decrees obey, And nations prosper in their peaceful sway.
TINKER DICK
Good Parson Dickson preached, I'm told, A sermon--ah, 'twas very old And very, very, bald! 'Twas all about--I know not what It was about, nor what 'twas not. "A Screw Loose" it was called.
Whatever, Parson Dick, you say, The world will get each blessed day Still more and more askew, And fall apart at last. Great snakes! What skillful tinker ever takes His tongue to turn a screw?
BATS IN SUNSHINE
Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think, A great divine, and I'm a great profane. You as a Congregationalist blink Some certain truths that I esteem a gain, And drop them in the coffers of my brain, Pleased with the pretty music of their chink. Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such A golden truth or two don't count for much.
You say that you've no patience with such stuff As by Rénan is writ, and when you read (Why _do_ you read?) have hardly strength enough To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough; For books cost money, and I'm told you care To lay up treasures Here as well as There.
I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake Your thrift for toleration. Never mind: Rénan in any case would hardly break His great, strong, charitable heart to find The bats and owls of your myopic kind Pained by the light that his ideas make. 'Tis Truth's best purpose to shine in at holes Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!
A WORD TO THE UNWISE
[Charles Main, of the firm of Main & Winchester, has ordered a grand mausoleum for his plot in Mountain View Cemetery.--_City Newspaper_.]
Charles Main, of Main & Winchester, attend With friendly ear the chit-chat of a friend Who knows you not, yet knows that you and he Travel two roads that have a common end.
We journey forward through the time allowed, I humbly bending, you erect and proud. Our heads alike will stable soon the worm-- The one that's lifted, and the one that's bowed.
You in your mausoleum shall repose, I where it pleases Him who sleep bestows; What matter whether one so little worth Shall stain the marble or shall feed the rose?
Charles Main, I had a friend who died one day. A metal casket held his honored clay. Of cyclopean architecture stood The splendid vault where he was laid away.
A dozen years, and lo! the roots of grass Had burst asunder all the joints; the brass, The gilded ornaments, the carven stones Lay tumbled all together in a mass.
A dozen years! That taxes your belief. Make it a thousand if the time's too brief. 'Twill be the same to you; when you are dead You cannot even count your days of grief.
Suppose a pompous monument you raise Till on its peak the solar splendor blaze While yet about its base the night is black; But will it give your glory length of days?
Say, when beneath your rubbish has been thrown, Some rogue to reputation all unknown-- Men's backs being turned--should lift his thieving hand, Efface your name and substitute his own.
Whose then would be the monument? To whom Would be the fame? Forgotten in your gloom, Your very name forgotten--ah, my friend, The name is all that's rescued by the tomb.
For memory of worth and work we go To other records than a stone can show. These lacking, naught remains; with these The stone is needless for the world will know.
Then build your mausoleum if you must, And creep into it with a perfect trust; But in the twinkling of an eye the plow Shall pass without obstruction through your dust.
Another movement of the pendulum, And, lo! the desert-haunting wolf shall come, And, seated on the spot, shall howl by night O'er rotting cities, desolate and dumb.
ON THE PLATFORM
When Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the hum Of Mammon's distracting and wearisome strife To stand and deliver a lecture on "Some Conditions of Intellectual Life," I cursed the offender who gave him the hall To lecture on any conditions at all!
But he rose with a fire divine in his eye, Haranguing with endless abundance of breath, Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high, And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death. And I thought in my dream: "These conditions, no doubt, Are bad for the life he was talking about."
So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream): "Get off of the platform!--it isn't the kind!" But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam, And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind. And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced, That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!
A DAMPENED ARDOR
The Chinatown at Bakersfield Was blazing bright and high; The flames to water would not yield, Though torrents drenched the sky And drowned the ground for miles around-- The houses were so dry.
Then rose an aged preacher man Whom all did much admire, Who said: "To force on you my plan I truly don't aspire, But streams, it seems, might quench these beams If turned upon the fire."
The fireman said: "This hoary wight His folly dares to thrust On _us_! 'Twere well he felt our might-- Nay, he shall feel our must!" With jet of wet and small regret They laid that old man's dust.
ADAIR WELCKER, POET
The Swan of Avon died--the Swan Of Sacramento'll soon be gone; And when his death-song he shall coo, Stand back, or it will kill you too.
TO A WORD-WARRIOR
Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand That strove to cut the country's throat, Cannot forgive the hands that smote Applauding in a distant land,--
Applauding carelessly, as one The weaker willing to befriend Until the quarrel's at an end, Then learn by whom it was begun.
When North was pitted against South Non-combatants on either side In calculating fury vied, And fought their foes by word of mouth.
That devil's-camisade you led With formidable feats of tongue. Upon the battle's rear you hung-- With Samson's weapon slew the dead!
So hot the ardor of your soul That every fierce civilian came, His torch to kindle at your name, Or have you blow his cooling coal.
Men prematurely left their beds And sought the gelid bath--so great The heat and splendor of your hate Of Englishmen and "Copperheads."
King Liar of deceitful men, For imposition doubly armed! The patriots whom your speaking charmed You stung to madness with your pen.
There was a certain journal here, Its English owner growing rich-- Your hand the treason wrote for which A mob cut short its curst career.
If, Pixley, you had not the brain To know the true from false, or you To Truth had courage to be true, And loyal to her perfect reign;
If you had not your powers arrayed To serve the wrong by tricksy speech, Nor pushed yourself within the reach Of retribution's accolade,
I had not had the will to go Outside the olive-bordered path Of peace to cut the birch of wrath, And strip your body for the blow.
Behold how dark the war-clouds rise About the mother of our race! The lightnings gild her tranquil face And glitter in her patient eyes.
Her children throng the hither flood And lean intent above the beach. Their beating hearts inhibit speech With stifling tides of English blood.
"Their skies, but not their hearts, they change Who go in ships across the sea"-- Through all centuries to be The strange new land will still be strange.
The Island Mother holds in gage The souls of sons she never saw; Superior to law, the law Of sympathetic heritage.
Forgotten now the foolish reign Of wrath which sundered trivial ties. A soldier's sabre vainly tries To cleave a spiritual chain.
The iron in our blood affines, Though fratricidal hands may spill. Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill, Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?
A CULINARY CANDIDATE
A cook adorned with paper cap, Or waiter with a tray, May be a worthy kind of chap In his way, But when we want one for Recorder, Then, Mr. Walton, take our order.
THE OLEOMARGARINE MAN
Once--in the county of Marin, Where milk is sold to purchase gin-- Renowned for butter and renowned For fourteen ounces to the pound-- A bull stood watching every turn Of Mr. Wilson with a churn, As that deigning worthy stalked About him, eying as he walked, El Toro's sleek and silken hide, His neck, his flank and all beside; Thinking with secret joy: "I'll spread That mammal on a slice of bread!"
Soon Mr. Wilson's keen concern To get the creature in his churn Unhorsed his caution--made him blind To the fell vigor of bullkind, Till, filled with valor to the teeth, He drew his dasher from its sheath And bravely brandished it; the while He smiled a dark, portentous smile; A deep, sepulchral smile; a wide And open smile, which, at his side, The churn to copy vainly tried; A smile so like the dawn of doom That all the field was palled in gloom, And all the trees within a mile, As tribute to that awful smile, Made haste, with loyalty discreet, To fling their shadows at his feet. Then rose his battle-cry: "I'll spread That mammal on a slice of bread!"
To such a night the day had turned That Taurus dimly was discerned. He wore so meek and grave an air It seemed as if, engaged in prayer This thunderbolt incarnate had No thought of anything that's bad: This concentrated earthquake stood And gave his mind to being good. Lightly and low he drew his breath-- This magazine of sudden death! All this the thrifty Wilson's glance Took in, and, crying, "Now's my chance!" Upon the bull he sprang amain To put him in his churn. Again Rang out his battle-yell: "I'll spread That mammal on a slice of bread!"
Sing, Muse, that battle-royal--sing The deeds that made the region ring, The blows, the bellowing, the cries, The dust that darkened all the skies, The thunders of the contest, all-- Nay, none of these things did befall. A yell there was--a rush--no more: El Toro, tranquil as before, Still stood there basking in the sun, Nor of his legs had shifted one-- Stood there and conjured up his cud And meekly munched it. Scenes of blood Had little charm for him. His head He merely nodded as he said: "I've spread that butterman upon A slice of Southern Oregon."
GENESIS
God said, "Let there be Crime," and the command Brought Satan, leading Stoneman by the hand. "Why, that's Stupidity, not Crime," said God-- "Bring what I ordered." Satan with a nod Replied, "This is _one_ element--when I The _other_--Opportunity--supply In just equivalent, the two'll affine And in a chemical embrace combine And Crime result--for Crime can only be Stupiditate of Opportunity." So leaving Stoneman (not as yet endowed With soul) in special session on a cloud, Nick to his sooty laboratory went, Returning soon with t'other element. "Here's Opportunity," he said, and put Pen, ink, and paper down at Stoneman's foot. He seized them--Heaven was filled with fires and thunders, And Crime was added to Creation's wonders!
LLEWELLEN POWELL
Villain, when the word is spoken, And your chains at last are broken When the gibbet's chilling shade Ceases darkly to enfold you, And the angel who enrolled you As a master of the trade Of assassination sadly Blots the record he has made, And your name and title paints In the calendar of saints; When the devils, dancing madly In the midmost Hell, are very Multitudinously merry-- Then beware, beware, beware!--- Nemesis is everywhere! You shall hear her at your back, And, your hunted visage turning, Fancy that her eyes are burning Like a tiger's on your track! You shall hear her in the breeze Whispering to summer trees. You shall hear her calling, calling To your spirit through the storm When the giant billows form And the splintered lightning, falling Down the heights of Heaven, appalling, Splendors all the tossing seas! On your bed at night reclining, Stars into your chamber shining As they roll around the Pole, None their purposes divining, Shall appear to search your soul, And to gild the mark of Cain That burns into your tortured brain! And the dead man's eyes shall ever Meet your own wherever you, Desperate, shall turn you to, And you shall escape them never!
By your heritage of guilt; By the blood that you have spilt; By the Law that you have broken; By the terrible red token That you bear upon your brow; By the awful sentence spoken And irrevocable vow Which consigns you to a living Death and to the unforgiving Furies who avenge your crime Through the periods of time; By that dread eternal doom Hinted in your future's gloom, As the flames infernal tell Of their power and perfection In their wavering reflection On the battlements of Hell; By the mercy you denied, I condemn your guilty soul In your body to abide, Like a serpent in a hole!
THE SUNSET GUN.
Off Santa Cruz the western wave Was crimson as with blood: The sun was sinking to his grave Beneath that angry flood.
Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout, Then shouted, "Ho! lads; run-- The powder and the ball bring out To fire the sunset gun.
"That punctual orb did ne'er omit To keep, by land or sea, Its every engagement; it Shall never wait for me."
Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand, Ready with charge and prime, The lanyard in the gunner's hand. Sir Walter waits the time.
The glowing orb sinks in the sea, And clouds of steam aspire, Then fade, and the horizon's free. Sir Walter thunders: "Fire!"
The gunner pulls--the lanyard parts And not a sound ensues. The beating of ten thousand hearts Was heard at Santa Cruz!
Off Santa Cruz the western wave Was crimson as with blood; The sun, with visage stern and grave, Came back from out the flood.
THE "VIDUATE DAME"
'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystanders For her acts are light and free.
In a seven-ounce costume The widow of Thomas Blythe, Y-perched high on the window ledge, The difficult can-can tryeth.
Ten constables they essay To bate the dame's halloing. With the widow of Thomas Blythe Their hands are overflowing,
And they cry: "Call the National Guard To quell this parlous muss-- For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe Are upon the spree and us!"
O long shall the eerie tale be told By that posse's surviving tithe; And with tears bedewed he'll sing this rude Ballàd of the widow of Thomas Blythe.
FOUR OF A KIND
ROBERT F. MORROW
Dear man! although a stranger and a foe To soft affection's humanizing glow; Although untaught how manly hearts may throb With more desires than the desire to rob; Although as void of tenderness as wit, And owning nothing soft but Maurice Schmitt; Although polluted, shunned and in disgrace, You fill me with a passion to embrace! Attentive to your look, your smile, your beck, I watch and wait to fall upon your neck. Lord of my love, and idol of my hope, You are my Valentine, and I'm A ROPE.
ALFRED CLARKE JR.
Illustrious son of an illustrious sire-- Entrusted with the duty to cry "Fire!" And call the engines out, exert your power With care. When, looking from your lofty tower, You see a ruddy light on every wall, Pause for a moment ere you sound the call: It may be from a fire, it may be, too, From good men's blushes when they think of you.
JUDGE RUTLEDGE
Sultan of Stupids! with enough of brains To go indoors in all uncommon rains, But not enough to stay there when the storm Is past. When all the world is dry and warm, In irking comfort, lamentably gay, Keeping the evil tenor of your way, You walk abroad, sweet, beautiful and smug, And Justice hears you with her wonted shrug, Lifts her broad bandage half-an-inch and keeps One eye upon you while the other weeps.
W.H.L. BARNES
Happy the man who sin's proverbial wage Receives on the instalment plan--in age. For him the bulldog pistol's honest bark Has naught of terror in its blunt remark. He looks with calmness on the gleaming steel-- If e'er it touched his heart he did not feel: Superior hardness turned its point away, Though urged by fond affinity to stay; His bloodless veins ignored the futile stroke, And moral mildew kept the cut in cloak. Happy the man, I say, to whom the wage Of sin has been commuted into age. Yet not _quite_ happy--hark, that horrid cry!-- His cruel mirror wounds him in the eye!
RECONCILIATION
Stanford and Huntington, so long at outs, Kissed and made up. If you have any doubts Dismiss them, for I saw them do it, man; And then--why, then I clutched my purse and ran.
A VISION OF CLIMATE
I dreamed that I was poor and sick and sad, Broken in hope and weary of my life; My ventures all miscarrying--naught had For all my labor in the heat and strife. And in my heart some certain thoughts were rife Of an unsummoned exit. As I lay Considering my bitter state, I cried: "Alas! that hither I did ever stray. Better in some fair country to have died Than live in such a land, where Fortune never (Unless he be successful) crowns Endeavor."
Then, even as I lamented, lo! there came A troop of Presences--I knew not whence Nor what they were: thought cannot rightly name What's known through spiritual evidence, Reported not by gross material sense. "Why come ye here?" I seemed to cry (though naught My sleeping tongue did utter) to the first-- "What are ye?--with what woful message fraught? Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burst Some sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures, I'm sure I'd know you if ye had but features."
Some subtle organ noted the reply (Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone): "The Finest Climate in the World am I, From Siskiyou to San Diego known-- From the Sierra to the sea. The zone Called semi-tropical I've pulled about And placed it where it does most good, I trust. I shake my never-failing bounty out Alike upon the just and the unjust." "That's very true," said I, "but when 'tis shaken My share by the unjust is ever taken."
"Permit me," it resumed, "now to present My eldest son, the Champagne Atmosphere, And others to rebuke your discontent-- The Mammoth Squash, Strawberry All the Year, The fair No Lightning--flashing only here-- The Wholesome Earthquake and Italian Sky, With its Unstriking Sun; and last, not least, The Compos Mentis Dog. Now, ingrate, try To bring a better stomach to the feast: When Nature makes a dance and pays the piper, To be unhappy is to be a viper!"
"Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine (And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill) I yet am poor and sick and sad. Ye shine With more of splendor than of heat: for still, Although my will is warm, my bones are chill." "Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze-- Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O then Join the wild chorus clamoring our praise-- Throw up your beaver and throw down you pen!" "Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking, And I, awakening, fell straight a-working.
A "MASS" MEETING
It was a solemn rite as e'er Was seen by mortal man. The celebrants, the people there, Were all Republican.
There Estee bent his grizzled head, And General Dimond, too, And one--'twas Reddick, some one said, Though no one clearly knew.
I saw the priest, white-robed and tall (Assistant, Father Stow)-- He was the pious man men call Dan Burns of Mexico.
Ah, 'twas a high and holy rite As any one could swear. "What does it mean?" I asked a wight Who knelt apart in prayer.
"A mass for the repose," he said, "Of Colonel Markham's"----"What, Is gallant Colonel Markham dead? 'Tis sad, 'tis sad, God wot!"
"A mass"--repeated he, and rose To go and kneel among The worshipers--"for the repose Of Colonel Markham's tongue."
FOR PRESIDENT, LELAND STANFORD
Mahomet Stanford, with covetous stare, Gazed on a vision surpassingly fair: Far on the desert's remote extreme A mountain of gold with a mellow gleam Reared its high pinnacles into the sky, The work of _mirage_ to delude the eye. Pixley Pasha, at the Prophet's feet Piously licking them, swearing them sweet, Ventured, observing his master's glance, To beg that he order the mountain's advance. Mahomet Stanford exerted his will, Commanding: "In Allah's name, hither, hill!" Never an inch the mountain came. Mahomet Stanford, with face aflame, Lifted his foot and kicked, alack! Pixley Pasha on the end of the back. Mollified thus and smiling free, He said: "Since the mountain won't come to me, I'll go to the mountain." With infinite pains, Camels in caravans, negroes in trains, Warriors, workmen, women, and fools, Food and water and mining tools He gathered about him, a mighty array, And the journey began at the close of day. All night they traveled--at early dawn Many a wearisome league had gone. Morning broke fair with a golden sheen, Mountain, alas, was nowhere seen! Mahomet Stanford pounded his breast, Pixley Pasha he thus addressed: "Dog of mendacity, cheat and slave, May jackasses sing o'er your grandfather's grave!"
FOR MAYOR