Chapter 7

O Abner Doble--whose "catarrhal name" Budd of that ilk might envy--'tis a rough Rude thing to say, but it is plain enough Your name is to be sneezed at: its acclaim Will "fill the speaking trump of future fame" With an impeded utterance--a puff Suggesting that a pinch or two of snuff Would clear the tube and somewhat disinflame. Nay, Abner Doble, you'll not get from me My voice and influence: I'll cheer instead, Some other man; for when my voice ascends a Tall pinnacle of praise, and at high C Sustains a chosen name, it shan't be said My influence is naught but influenza.

A CHEATING PREACHER

Munhall, to save my soul you bravely try, Although, to save my soul, I can't say why. 'Tis naught to you, to me however much-- Why, bless it! you might save a million such Yet lose your own; for still the "means of grace" That you employ to turn us from the place By the arch-enemy of souls frequented Are those which to ensnare us he invented! I do not say you utter falsehoods--I Would scorn to give to ministers the lie: They cannot fight--their calling has estopped it. True, I did not persuade them to adopt it. But, Munhall, when you say the Devil dwells In all the breasts of all the infidels-- Making a lot of individual Hells In gentlemen instinctively who shrink From thinking anything that you could think, You talk as I should if some world I trod Where lying is acceptable to God. I don't at all object--forbid it Heaven!-- That your discourse you temperately leaven With airy reference to wicked souls Cursing impenitent on glowing coals, Nor quarrel with your fancy, blithe and fine, Which represents the wickedest as mine. Each ornament of style my spirit eases: The subject saddens, but the manner pleases. But when you "deal damnation round" 'twere sweet To think hereafter that you did not cheat. Deal, and let all accept what you allot 'em. But, blast you! you are dealing from the bottom!

A CROCODILE

Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for you To blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead. By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knew How better is a grave-worm in the head Than brains like yours--how far more decent, too, A tomb in far Corea than a bed Where Peter lies with Peter, you would covet His happier state and, dying, learn to love it.

In the recesses of the silent tomb No Maunderings of yours disturb the peace. Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloom Of Hades audible, perforce must cease From troubling further; and that crack o' doom, Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall release In vain such shafts of wit as it can utter-- The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.

THE AMERICAN PARTY

Oh, Marcus D. Boruck, me hearty, I sympathize wid ye, poor lad! A man that's shot out of his party Is mighty onlucky, bedad! An' the sowl o' that man is sad.

But, Marcus, gossoon, ye desarve it-- Ye know for yerself that ye do, For ye j'ined not intendin' to sarve it, But hopin' to make it sarve you, Though the roll of its members wuz two.

The other wuz Pixley, an' "Surely," Ye said, "he's a kite that wall sail." An' so ye hung till him securely, Enactin' the role of a tail. But there wuzn't the ghost of a gale!

But the party to-day has behind it A powerful backin', I'm told; For just enough Irish have j'ined it (An' I'm m'anin' to be enrolled) To kick ye out into the cold.

It's hard on ye, darlint, I'm thinkin'-- So young--so American, too-- Wid bypassers grinnin' an' winkin', An' sayin', wid ref'rence to you: "Get onto the murtherin' Joo!"

Republicans never will take ye-- They had ye for many a year; An' Dimocrats--angels forsake ye!-- If ever ye come about here We'll brand ye and scollop yer ear!

UNCOLONELED

Though war-signs fail in time of peace, they say, Two awful portents gloom the public mind: All Mexico is arming for the fray And Colonel Mark McDonald has resigned! We know not by what instinct he divined The coming trouble--may be, like the steed Described by Job, he smelled the fight afar. Howe'er it be, he left, and for that deed Is an aspirant to the G.A.R. When cannon flame along the Rio Grande A citizen's commission will be handy.

THE GATES AJAR

The Day of Judgment spread its glare O'er continents and seas. The graves cracked open everywhere, Like pods of early peas.

Up to the Court of Heaven sped The souls of all mankind; Republicans were at the head And Democrats behind.

Reub. Lloyd was there before the tube Of Gabriel could call: The dead in Christ rise first, and Reub. Had risen first of all.

He sat beside the Throne of Flame As, to the trumpet's sound, Four statesmen of the Party Came And ranged themselves around--

Pure spirits shining like the sun, From taint and blemish free-- Great William Stow was there for one, And George A. Knight for three.

Souls less indubitably white Approached with anxious air, Judge Blake at head of them by right Of having been a Mayor.

His ermine he had donned again, Long laid away in gums. 'Twas soiled a trifle by the stains Of politicians' thumbs.

Then Knight addressed the Judge of Heaven: "Your Honor, would it trench On custom here if Blake were given A seat upon the Bench?"

'Twas done. "Tom Shannon!" Peter cried. He came, without ado, _In forma pauperis_ was tried, And was acquitted, too!

Stow rose, remarking: "I concur." Lloyd added: "That suits _us_. I move Tom's nomination, sir, Be made unanimous."

TIDINGS OF GOOD

Old Nick from his place of last resort Came up and looked the world over. He saw how the grass of the good was short And the wicked lived in clover.

And he gravely said: "This is all, all wrong, And never by me intended. If to me the power should ever belong I shall have this thing amended."

He looked so solemn and good and wise As he made this observation That the men who heard him believed their eyes Instead of his reputation.

So they bruited the matter about, and each Reported the words as nearly As memory served--with additional speech To bring out the meaning clearly.

The consequence was that none understood, And the wildest rumors started Of something intended to help the good And injure the evil-hearted.

Then Robert Morrow was seen to smile With a bright and lively joyance. "A man," said he, "that is free from guile Will now be free from annoyance.

"The Featherstones doubtless will now increase And multiply like the rabbits, While jailers, deputy sheriffs, police, And writers will form good habits.

"The widows more easily robbed will be, And no juror will ever heed 'em, But open his purse to my eloquent plea For security, gain, or freedom."

When Benson heard of the luck of the good (He was eating his dinner) he muttered: "It cannot help _me_, for 'tis understood My bread is already buttered.

"My plats of surveys are all false, they say, But that cannot greatly matter To me, for I'll tell the jurors that they May lick, if they please, my platter."

ARBORICULTURE

[Californians are asking themselves how Joaquin Miller will make the trees grow which he proposes to plant in the form of a Maltese cross on Goat Island, in San Francisco Bay.--_New York Graphic_.]

You may say they won't grow, and say they'll decay-- Say it again till you're sick of the say, Get up on your ear, blow your blaring bazoo And hire a hall to proclaim it; and you May stand on a stump with a lifted hand As a pine may stand or a redwood stand, And stick to your story and cheek it through. But I point with pride to the far divide Where the Snake from its groves is seen to glide-- To Mariposa's arboreal suit, And the shaggy shoulders of Shasta Butte, And the feathered firs of Siskiyou; And I swear as I sit on my marvelous hair-- I roll my marvelous eyes and swear, And sneer, and ask where would your forests be To-day if it hadn't been for me! Then I rise tip-toe, with a brow of brass, Like a bully boy with an eye of glass; I look at my gum sprouts, red and blue, And I say it loud and I say it low: "They know their man and you bet they'll grow!"

A SILURIAN HOLIDAY

'Tis Master Fitch, the editor; He takes an holiday. Now wherefore, venerable sir, So resolutely gay?

He lifts his head, he laughs aloud, Odzounds! 'tis drear to see! "Because the Boodle-Scribbler crowd Will soon be far from me.

"Full many a year I've striven well To freeze the caitiffs out By making this good town a Hell, But still they hang about.

"They maken mouths and eke they grin At the dollar limit game; And they are holpen in that sin By many a wicked dame.

"In sylvan bowers hence I'll dwell My bruisèd mind to ease. Farewell, ye urban scenes, farewell! Hail, unfamiliar trees!"

Forth Master Fitch did bravely hie, And all the country folk Besought him that he come not nigh The deadly poison oak!

He smiled a cheerful smile (the day Was straightway overcast)-- The poison oak along his way Was blighted as he passed!

REJECTED

When Dr. Charles O'Donnell died They sank a box with him inside.

The plate with his initials three Was simply graven--"C.O.D."

That night two demons of the Pit Adown the coal-hole shunted it.

Ten million million leagues it fell, Alighting at the gate of Hell.

Nick looked upon it with surprise, A night-storm darkening his eyes.

"They've sent this rubbish, C.O.D.-- I'll never pay a cent!" said he.

JUDEX JUDICATUS

Judge Armstrong, when the poor have sought your aid, To be released from vows that they have made In haste, and leisurely repented, you, As stern as Rhadamanthus (Minos too, And Æeacus) have drawn your fierce brows down And petrified them with a moral frown! With iron-faced rigor you have made them run The gauntlet of publicity--each Hun Or Vandal of the public press allowed To throw their households open to the crowd And bawl their secret bickerings aloud. When Wealth before you suppliant appears, Bang! go the doors and open fly your ears! The blinds are drawn, the lights diminished burn, Lest eyes too curious should look and learn That gold refines not, sweetens not a life Of conjugal brutality and strife-- That vice is vulgar, though it gilded shine Upon the curve of a judicial spine. The veiled complainant's whispered evidence, The plain collusion and the no defense, The sealed exhibits and the secret plea, The unrecorded and unseen decree, The midnight signature and--_chink! chink! chink!_-- Nay, pardon, upright Judge, I did but think I heard that sound abhorred of honest men; No doubt it was the scratching of your pen.

O California! long-enduring land, Where Judges fawn upon the Golden Hand, Proud of such service to that rascal thing As slaves would blush to render to a king-- Judges, of judgment destitute and heart, Of conscience conscious only by the smart From the recoil (so insight is enlarged) Of duty accidentally discharged;-- Invoking still a "song o' sixpence" from The Scottish fiddle of each lusty palm, Thy Judges, California, skilled to play This silent music, through the livelong-day Perform obsequious before the rich, And still the more they scratch the more they itch!

ON THE WEDDING OF AN AËRONAUT

Aëronaut, you're fairly caught, Despite your bubble's leaven: Out of the skies a lady's eyes Have brought you down to Heaven!

No more, no more you'll freely soar Above the grass and gravel: Henceforth you'll walk--and she will chalk The line that you're to travel!

A HASTY INFERENCE

The Devil one day, coming up from the Pit, All grimy with perspiration, Applied to St. Peter and begged he'd admit Him a moment for consultation.

The Saint showed him in where the Master reclined On the throne where petitioners sought him; Both bowed, and the Evil One opened his mind Concerning the business that brought him:

"For ten million years I've been kept in a stew Because you have thought me immoral; And though I have had my opinion of you, You've had the best end of the quarrel.

"But now--well, I venture to hope that the past With its misunderstandings we'll smother; And you, sir, and I, sir, be throned here at last As equals, the one to the other."

"Indeed!" said the Master (I cannot convey A sense of his tone by mere letters) "What makes you presume you'll be bidden to stay Up here on such terms with your betters?"

"Why, sure you can't mean it!" said Satan. "I've seen How Stanford and Crocker you've nourished, And Huntington--bless me! the three like a green Umbrageous great bay-tree have flourished.

They are fat, they are rolling in gold, they command All sources and well-springs of power; You've given them houses, you've given them land-- Before them the righteous all cower."

"What of that?" "What of that?" cried the Father of Sin; "Why, I thought when I saw you were winking At crimes such as theirs that perhaps you had been Converted to my way of thinking."

A VOLUPTUARY

Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throng Which crowds to claim distinction in my song? Fresh from "the palms and temples of the South," The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth: Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale, And that the odor of a spicy tale. Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea (No finer one did Kubla Khan decree) Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost stand With joys and mysteries on either hand, Dost keep a poet to report the rites And sing the tale of those Elysian nights? Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young. I'm no great bard, but--I can hold my tongue.

AD CATTONUM

I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are, Nor very clearly why; but you go far To show that you are many things beside A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide; But what they are I hardly could explain Without afflicting you with mental pain. Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo-- Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!) Points to an origin--perhaps Maltese, Perhaps Angoran--where the wicked cease From fiddling, and the animals that grow The strings that groan to the tormenting bow Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned To give their name and nature to mankind. With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies; The test is--Did you ever sell tamales?

It matters very little, though, my boy, If you're from Chile or from Illinois; You can't, because you serve a foreign land, Spit with impunity on ours, expand, Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit, All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet, Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain And, for security, invoke disdain. Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe, No matter whence they come nor whom they serve-- The laws of courtesy; and these forbid You to malign, as recently you did, As servant of another State, a State Wherein your duties all are concentrate; Branding its Ministers as rogues--in short, Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.

Chileno or American, 'tis one-- Of any land a citizen, or none-- If like a new Thersites here you rail, Loading with libels every western gale, You'll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump Impinging with a salutary thump. 'Twill make you civil or 'twill make you jump!

THE NATIONAL GUARDSMAN

I'm a gorgeous golden hero And my trade is taking life. Hear the twittle-twittle-tweero Of my sibillating fife And the rub-a-dub-a-dum Of my big bass drum! I'm an escort strong and bold, The Grand Army to protect. My countenance is cold And my attitude erect. I'm a Californian Guard And my banner flies aloft, But the stones are O, so hard! And my feet are O, so soft!

THE BARKING WEASEL

You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hath A painted beard. Quite likely that is true, And sure 'tis natural you spend your wrath On what has been least merciful to you. By Taylor's chin, if I am not mistaken, You like a rat have recently been shaken.

To wear a beard of artificial hue May be or this or that, I know not what; But, faith, 'tis better to be black-and-blue In beard from dallying with brush and pot Than to be so in body from the beating That hardy rogues get when detected cheating.

You're whacked about the mazzard rather more Of late than any other man in town. Certes your vulnerable back is sore And tender, too, your corrigible crown. In truth your whole periphery discloses More vivid colors than a bed of posies!

You call it glory! Put your tongue in sheath!-- Scars got in battle, even if on the breast, May be a shameful record if, beneath, A robber heart a lawless strife attest. John Sullivan had wounds, and Paddy Ryan-- Nay, as to that, even Masten has, and Bryan.

'Tis willingly conceded you've a knack At holding the attention of the town; The worse for you when you have on your back What did not grow there--prithee put it down! For pride kills thrift, and you lack board and lodging, Even while the brickbats of renown you're dodging.

A REAR ELEVATION

[He can speak with his eyes, his hands, arms, legs, body--nay, with his very bones, for he turned the broad of his back upon us in "Conrad," the other night, and his shoulder-blades spoke to us a volume of hesitation, fear, submission, desperation--everything which could haunt a man at the moment of inevitable detection.--_A "Dramatic Critic."_]

Once Moses (in Scripture the story is told) Entreated the favor God's face to behold. Compassion divine the petition denied Lest vision be blasted and body be fried. Yet this much, the Record informs us, took place: Jehovah, concealing His terrible face, Protruded His rear from behind a great rock, And edification ensued without shock. So godlike Salvini, lest worshipers die, Averting the blaze of his withering eye, Tempers his terrors and shows to the pack Of feeble adorers the broad of his back. The fires of their altars, which, paled and declined Before him, burn all the more brightly behind. O happy adorers, to care not at all Where fawning may tickle or lip-service fall!

IN UPPER SAN FRANCISCO

I heard that Heaven was bright and fair, And politicians dwelt not there.

'Twas said by knowing ones that they Were in the Elsewhere--so to say.

So, waking from my last long sleep, I took my place among the sheep.

I passed the gate--Saint Peter eyed Me sharply as I stepped inside.

He thought, as afterward I learned, That I was Chris, the Unreturned.

The new Jerusalem--ah me, It was a sorry sight to see!

The mansions of the blest were there, And mostly they were fine and fair;

But O, such streets!--so deep and wide, And all unpaved, from side to side!

And in a public square there grew A blighted tree, most sad to view.

From off its trunk the bark was ripped-- Its very branches all were stripped!

An angel perched upon the fence With all the grace of indolence.

"Celestial bird," I cried, in pain, "What vandal wrought this wreck? Explain."

He raised his eyelids as if tired: "What is a Vandal?" he inquired.

"This is the Tree of Life. 'Twas stripped By Durst and Siebe, who have shipped

"The bark across the Jordan--see?-- And sold it to a tannery."

"Alas," I sighed, "their old-time tricks! That pavement, too, of golden bricks--

"They've gobbled that?" But with a scowl, "You greatly wrong them," said the fowl:

"'Twas Gilleran did that, I fear-- Head of the Street Department here."

"What! what!" cried I--"you let such chaps Come here? You've Satan, too, perhaps."

"We had him, yes, but off he went, Yet showed some purpose to repent;

"But since your priests and parsons filled The place with those their preaching killed"--

(Here Siebe passed along with Durst, Psalming as if their lungs would burst)--

"He swears his foot no more shall press ('Tis cloven, anyhow, I guess)

"Our soil. In short, he's out on strike-- But devils are not all alike."

Lo! Gilleran came down the street, Pressing the soil with broad, flat feet!

NIMROD

There were brave men, some one has truly said, Before Atrides (those were mostly dead Behind him) and ere you could e'er occur Actaeon lived, Nimrod and Bahram-Gur. In strength and speed and daring they excelled: The stag they overtook, the lion felled. Ah, yes, great hunters flourished before you, And--for Munchausen lived--great talkers too. There'll be no more; there's much to kill, but--well, _You_ have left nothing in the world to tell!

CENSOR LITERARUM

So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chin To say that here, and here, we press-folk ail. 'Tis a great thing an editor to skin And hang his faulty pelt upon a nail (If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail) And, for an admonition against sin, Point out its maculations with a rod, And act, in short, the gentleman of God.

'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sport By comment, critical or merely rude; But you, too, have, according to report, Despite your posing as a holy dude, Imperfect spiritual pulchritude For so severe a judge. May't please the court, We shall appeal and take our case at once Before that higher court, a taller dunce.

Sir, what were _you_ without the press? What spreads The fame of your existence, once a week, From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads, Warning the people you're about to wreak Upon the human ear your Sunday freak?-- Whereat the most betake them to their bed Though some prefer to slumber in the pews And nod assent to your hypnotic views.

Unhappy man! can you not still your tongue When (like a luckless brat afflict with worms, By cruel fleas intolerably stung, Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms? Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung? No preaching better were, the sun beneath, If you had nothing there behind your teeth.

BORROWED BRAINS

Writer folk across the bay Take the pains to see and say-- All their upward palms in air: "Joaquin Miller's cut his hair!" Hasten, hasten, writer folk-- In the gutters rake and poke, If by God's exceeding grace You may hit upon the place Where the barber threw at length Samson's literary strength. Find it, find it if you can; Happy the successful man! He has but to put one strand In his beaver's inner band And his intellect will soar As it never did before! While an inch of it remains He will noted be for brains, And at last ('twill so befall) Fit to cease to write at all.

THE FYGHTYNGE SEVENTH

It is the gallant Seventh-- It fyghteth faste and free! God wot the where it fyghteth I ne desyre to be.

The Gonfalon it flyeth, Seeming a Flayme in Sky; The Bugel loud yblowen is, Which sayeth, Doe and dye!

And (O good Saints defende us Agaynst the Woes of Warr) Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly To smyte the Foeman sore!

With divers kinds of Riddance The smoaking Earth is wet, And all aflowe to seaward goe The Torrents wide of Sweat!

The Thunder of the Captens, And eke the Shouting, mayketh Such horrid Din the Soule within The boddy of me quayketh!

Who fyghteth the bold Seventh? What haughty Power defyes? Their Colonel 'tis they drubben sore, And dammen too his Eyes!

INDICTED

Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk (That is to say, 'twas I did all the talking) About the manner of your moral walk: How devious the trail you made in stalking, On level ground, your law-protected game-- "Another's Dollar" is, I think, its name.

Your crooked course more recently is not So blamable; for, truly, you have stumbled On evil days; and 'tis your luckless lot To traverse spaces (with a spirit humbled, Contrite, dejected and divinely sad) Where, 'tis confessed, the walking's rather bad.

Jordan, the song says, is a road (I thought It was a river) that is hard to travel; And Dublin, if you'd find it, must be sought Along a highway with more rocks than gravel. In difficulty neither can compete With that wherein you navigate your feet.

As once George Gorham said of Pixley, so I say of you: "The prison yawns before you, The turnkey stalks behind!" Now will you go? Or lag, and let that functionary floor you? To change the metaphor--you seem to be Between Judge Wallace and the deep, deep sea!

OVER THE BORDER