Chapter 8

O, justice, you have fled, to dwell In Mexico, unstrangled, Lest you should hang as high as--well, As Haman dangled.

(I know not if his cord he twanged, Or the King proved forgiving. 'Tis hard to think of Haman hanged, And Haymond living.)

Yes, as I said: in mortal fear To Mexico you journeyed; For you were on your trial here, And ill attorneyed.

The Law had long regarded you As an extreme offender. Religion looked upon you, too, With thoughts untender.

The Press to you was cold as snow, For sin you'd always call so. In Politics you were _de trop_, In Morals also.

All this is accurately true And, faith! there might be more said; But--well, to save your thrapple you Fled, as aforesaid.

You're down in Mexico--that's plain As that the sun is risen; For Daniel Burns, down there, his chain Drags round in prison.

ONE JUDGE

Wallace, created on a noble plan To show us that a Judge can be a Man; Through moral mire exhaling mortal stench God-guided sweet and foot-clean to the Bench; In salutation here and sign I lift A hand as free as yours from lawless thrift, A heart--ah, would I truly could proclaim My bosom lighted with so pure a flame! Alas, not love of justice moves my pen To praise, or to condemn, my fellow men. Good will and ill its busy point incite: I do but gratify them when I write. In palliation, though, I'd humbly state, I love the righteous and the wicked hate. So, sir, although we differ we agree, Our work alike from persecution free, And Heaven, approving you, consents to me. Take, therefore, from this not all useless hand The crown of honor--not in all the land One honest man dissenting from the choice, Nor in approval one Fred. Crocker's voice!

TO AN INSOLENT ATTORNEY

So, Hall McAllister, you'll not be warned-- My protest slighted, admonition scorned! To save your scoundrel client from a cell As loth to swallow him as he to swell Its sum of meals insurgent (it decries All wars intestinal with meats that rise) You turn your scurril tongue against the press And damn the agency you ought to bless. Had not the press with all its hundred eyes Discerned the wolf beneath the sheep's disguise And raised the cry upon him, he to-day Would lack your company, and you would lack his pay.

Talk not of "hire" and consciences for sale-- You whose profession 'tis to threaten, rail, Calumniate and libel at the will Of any villain who can pay the bill-- You whose most honest dollars all were got By saying for a fee "the thing that's not!" To you 'tis one, to challenge or defend; Clients are means, their money is an end. In my profession sometimes, as in yours Always, a payment large enough secures A mercenary service to defend The guilty or the innocent to rend. But mark the difference, nor think it slight: _We_ do not hold it proper, just and right; Of selfish lies a little still we shame And give our villainies another name. Hypocrisy's an ugly vice, no doubt, But blushing sinners can't get on without. Happy the lawyer!--at his favored hands Nor truth nor decency the world demands. Secure in his immunity from shame, His cheek ne'er kindles with the tell-tale flame. His brains for sale, morality for hire, In every land and century a licensed liar!

No doubt, McAllister, you can explain How honorable 'tis to lie for gain, Provided only that the jury's made To understand that lying is your trade. A hundred thousand volumes, broad and flat, (The Bible not included) proving that, Have been put forth, though still the doubt remains If God has read them with befitting pains. No Morrow could get justice, you'll declare, If none who knew him foul affirmed him fair. Ingenious man! how easy 'tis to raise An argument to justify the course that pays!

I grant you, if you like, that men may need The services performed for crime by greed,-- Grant that the perfect welfare of the State Requires the aid of those who in debate As mercenaries lost in early youth The fine distinction between lie and truth-- Who cheat in argument and set a snare To take the feet of Justice unaware-- Who serve with livelier zeal when rogues assist With perjury, embracery (the list Is long to quote) than when an honest soul, Scorning to plot, conspire, intrigue, cajole, Reminds them (their astonishment how great!) He'd rather suffer wrong than perpetrate. I grant, in short, 'tis better all around That ambidextrous consciences abound In courts of law to do the dirty work That self-respecting scavengers would shirk. What then? Who serves however clean a plan By doing dirty work, he is a dirty man!

ACCEPTED

Charles Shortridge once to St. Peter came. "Down!" cried the saint with his face aflame; "'Tis writ that every hardy liar Shall dwell forever and ever in fire!" "That's what I said the night that I died," The sinner, turning away, replied. "What! _you_ said that?" cried the saint--"what! what! _You_ said 'twas so writ? Then, faith, 'tis _not!_ I'm a devil at quoting, but I begin To fail in my memory. Pray walk in."

A PROMISED FAST TRAIN

I turned my eyes upon the Future's scroll And saw its pictured prophecies unroll.

I saw that magical life-laden train Flash its long glories o'er Nebraska's plain.

I saw it smoothly up the mountain glide. "O happy, happy passengers!" I cried.

For Pleasure, singing, drowned the engine's roar, And Hope on joyous pinions flew before.

Then dived the train adown the sunset slope-- Pleasure was silent and unseen was Hope.

Crashes and shrieks attested the decay That greed had wrought upon that iron way.

The rusted rails broke down the rotting ties, And clouds of flying spikes obscured the skies.

My coward eyes I drew away, distressed, And fixed them on the terminus to-West,

Where soon, its melancholy tale to tell, One bloody car-wheel wabbled in and fell!

ONE OF THE SAINTS

Big Smith is an Oakland School Board man, And he looks as good as ever he can; And he's such a cold and a chaste Big Smith That snowflakes all are his kin and kith. Wherever his eye he chances to throw The crystals of ice begin to grow; And the fruits and flowers he sees are lost By the singeing touch of a sudden frost. The women all shiver whenever he's near, And look upon _us_ with a look austere-- Effect of the Smithian atmosphere. Such, in a word, is the moral plan Of the Big, Big Smith, the School Board man. When told that Madame Ferrier had taught _Hernani_ in school, his fist he brought Like a trip-hammer down on his bulbous knee, And he roared: "Her Nanny? By gum, we'll see If the public's time she dares devote To the educatin' of any dam goat!" "You do not entirely comprehend-- _Hernani's_ a play," said his learned friend, "By Victor Hugo--immoral and bad. What's worse, it's French!" "Well, well, my lad," Said Smith, "if he cuts a swath so wide I'll have him took re'glar up and tried!" And he smiled so sweetly the other chap Thought that himself was a Finn or Lapp Caught in a storm of his native snows, With a purple ear and an azure nose. The Smith continued: "I never pursue Immoral readin'." And that is true: He's a saint of remarkably high degree, With a mind as chaste as a mind can be; But read!--the devil a word can he!

A MILITARY INCIDENT

Dawn heralded the coming sun-- Fort Douglas was computing The minutes--and the sunrise gun Was manned for his saluting.

The gunner at that firearm stood, The which he slowly loaded, When, bang!--I know not how it could, But sure the charge exploded!

Yes, to that veteran's surprise The gun went off sublimely, And both his busy arms likewise Went off with it, untimely.

Then said that gunner to his mate (He was from Ballyshannon): "Bedad, the sun's a minute late, Accardin' to this cannon!"

SUBSTANCE VERSUS SHADOW

So, gentle critics, you would have me tilt, Not at the guilty, only just at Guilt!-- Spare the offender and condemn Offense, And make life miserable to Pretense! "Whip Vice and Folly--that is satire's use-- But be not personal, for _that's_ abuse; Nor e'er forget what, 'like a razor keen, Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen.'" Well, friends, I venture, destitute of awe, To think that razor but an old, old saw, A trifle rusty; and a wound, I'm sure, That's felt not, seen not, one can well endure. Go to! go to!--you're as unfitted quite To give advice to writers as to write. I find in Folly and in Vice a lack Of head to hit, and for the lash no back; Whilst Pixley has a pow that's easy struck, And though good Deacon Fitch (a Fitch for luck!) Has none, yet, lest he go entirely free, God gave to him a corn, a heel to me. He, also, sets his face (so like a flint The wonder grows that Pickering doesn't skin't) With cold austerity, against these wars On scamps--'tis Scampery that _he_ abhors! Behold advance in dignity and state-- Grave, smug, serene, indubitably great-- Stanford, philanthropist! One hand bestows In alms what t'other one as justice owes. Rascality attends him like a shade, But closes, woundless, o'er my baffled blade, Its limbs unsevered, spirit undismayed. Faith! I'm for something can be made to feel, If, like Pelides, only in the heel. The fellow's self invites assault; his crimes Will each bear killing twenty thousand times! Anon Creed Haymond--but the list is long Of names to point the moral of my song. Rogues, fools, impostors, sycophants, they rise, They foul the earth and horrify the skies-- With Mr. Huntington (sole honest man In all the reek of that rapscallion clan) Denouncing Theft as hard as e'er he can!

THE COMMITTEE ON PUBLIC MORALS

The Senate met in Sacramento city; On public morals it had no committee Though greatly these abounded. Soon the quiet Was broken by the Senators in riot. Now, at the end of their contagious quarrels, There's a committee but no public morals.

CALIFORNIA

[The Chinaman's Assailant was allowed to walk quietly away, although the street was filled with pedestrians.--_Newspaper_.]

Why should he not have been allowed To thread with peaceful feet the crowd Which filled that Christian street? The Decalogue he had observed, From Faith in Jesus had not swerved, And scorning pious platitudes, He saw in the Beatitudes A lamp to guide his feet.

He knew that Jonah downed the whale And made no bones of it. The tale That Ananias told He swore was true. He had no doubt That Daniel laid the lions out. In short, he had all holiness, All meekness and all lowliness, And was with saints enrolled.

'Tis true, some slight excess of zeal Sincerely to promote the weal Of this most Christian state Had moved him rudely to divide The queue that was a pagan's pride, And in addition certify The Faith by making fur to fly From pelt as well as pate?

But, Heavenly Father, thou dost know That in this town these actions go For nothing worth a name. Nay, every editorial ass, To prove they never come to pass Will damn his soul eternally, Although in his own journal he May read the printed shame.

From bloody hands the reins of pow'r Fall slack; the high-decisive hour Strikes not for liars' ears. Remove, O Father, the disgrace That stains our California's face, And consecrate to human good The strength of her young womanhood And all her golden years!

DE YOUNG--A PROPHECY

Running for Senator with clumsy pace, He stooped so low, to win at least a place, That Fortune, tempted by a mark so droll, Sprang in an kicked him to the winning pole.

TO EITHER

Back further than I know, in San Francisco dwelt a wealthy man. So rich was he That none could be Wise, good and great in like degree.

'Tis true he wrought, In deed or thought, But few of all the things he ought; But men said: "Who Would wish him to? Great souls are born to be, not do!"

One thing, indeed, He did, we read, Which was becoming, all agreed: Grown provident, Ere life was spent He built a mighty monument.

For longer than I know, in San Francisco lived a beggar man; And when in bed They found him dead-- "Just like the scamp!" the people said.

He died, they say, On the same day His wealthy neighbor passed away. What matters it When beggars quit Their beats? I answer: Not a bit.

They got a spade And pick and made A hole, and there the chap was laid. "He asked for bread," 'Twas neatly said: "He'll get not even a stone instead."

The years rolled round: His humble mound Sank to the level of the ground; And men forgot That the bare spot Was like (and was) the beggar's lot.

Forgotten, too, Was t'other, who Had reared the monument to woo Inconstant Fame, Though still his name Shouted in granite just the same.

That name, I swear, They both did bear The beggar and the millionaire. That lofty tomb, Then, honored--whom? For argument here's ample room.

I'll not debate, But only state The scamp first claimed it at the Gate. St. Peter, proud To serve him, bowed And showed him to the softest cloud.

DISAPPOINTMENT

The Senate woke; the Chairman's snore Was stilled, its echoes balking; The startled members dreamed no more, For Steele, who long had held the floor, Had suddenly ceased talking.

As, like Elijah, in his pride, He to his seat was passing, "Go up thou baldhead!" Reddy cried. Then six fierce bears ensued and tried To sunder him for "sassing."

Two seized his legs, and one his head, The fourth his trunk, to munch on; The fifth preferred an arm instead; The last, with rueful visage, said: "Pray what have _I_ for luncheon?"

Then to that disappointed bear Said Steele, serene and chipper, "My friend, you shall not lack your share: Look in the Treasury, and there You'll find his other flipper."

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF THEFT

In fair Yosemite, that den of thieves Wherein the minions of the moon divide The travelers' purses, lo! the Devil grieves, His larger share as leader still denied.

El Capitan, foreseeing that _his_ reign May be disputed too, beclouds his head. The joyous Bridal Veil is torn in twain And the crêpe steamer dangles there instead.

The Vernal Fall abates her pleasant speed And hesitates to take the final plunge, For rumors reach her that another greed Awaits her in the Valley of the Sponge.

The Brothers envy the accord of mind And peace of purpose (by the good deplored As honor among Commissioners) which bind That confraternity of crime, the Board.

The Half-Dome bows its riven face to weep, But not, as formerly, because bereft: Prophetic dreams afflict him when asleep Of losing his remaining half by theft.

Ambitious knaves! has not the upper sod Enough of room for every crime that crawls But you must loot the Palaces of God And daub your filthy names upon the walls?

DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN

Within my dark and narrow bed I rested well, new-laid: I heard above my fleshless head The grinding of a spade.

A gruffer note ensued and grew To harsh and harsher strains: The poet Welcker then I knew Was "snatching" my remains.

"O Welcker, let your hand be stayed And leave me here in peace. Of your revenge you should have made An end with my decease."

"Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan: I once, as you're aware, Was eminent in letters--known And honored everywhere.

"My splendor made all Berkeley bright And Sacramento blind. Men swore no writer e'er could write Like me--if I'd a mind.

"With honors all insatiate, With curst ambition smit, Too far, alas! I tempted fate-- I _published_ what I'd writ!

"Good Heaven! with what a hunger wild Oblivion swallows fame! Men who have known me from a child Forget my very name!

"Even creditors with searching looks My face cannot recall; My heaviest one--he prints my books-- Oblivious most of all.

"O I should feel a sweet content If one poor dun his claim Would bring to me for settlement, And bully me by name.

"My dog is at my gate forlorn; It howls through all the night, And when I greet it in the morn It answers with a bite!"

"O Poet, what in Satan's name To me's all this ado? Will snatching me restore the fame That printing snatched from you?"

"Peace, dread Remains; I'm not about To do a deed of sin. I come not here to hale you out-- I'm trying to get in."

THE LAST MAN

I dreamed that Gabriel took his horn On Resurrection's fateful morn, And lighting upon Laurel Hill Blew long, blew loud, blew high and shrill. The houses compassing the ground Rattled their windows at the sound. But no one rose. "Alas!" said he, "What lazy bones these mortals be!" Again he plied the horn, again Deflating both his lungs in vain; Then stood astonished and chagrined At raising nothing but the wind. At last he caught the tranquil eye Of an observer standing by-- Last of mankind, not doomed to die. To him thus Gabriel: "Sir, I pray This mystery you'll clear away. Why do I sound my note in vain? Why spring they not from out the plain? Where's Luning, Blythe and Michael Reese, Magee, who ran the _Golden Fleece?_ Where's Asa Fisk? Jim Phelan, who Was thought to know a thing or two Of land which rose but never sank? Where's Con O'Conor of the Bank, And all who consecrated lands Of old by laying on of hands? I ask of them because their worth Was known in all they wished--the earth. Brisk boomers once, alert and wise, Why don't they rise, why don't they rise?" The man replied: "Reburied long With others of the shrouded throng In San Mateo--carted there And dumped promiscuous, anywhere, In holes and trenches--all misfits-- Mixed up with one another's bits: One's back-bone with another's shin, A third one's skull with a fourth one's grin-- Your eye was never, never fixed Upon a company so mixed! Go now among them there and blow: 'Twill be as good as any show To see them, when they hear the tones, Compiling one another's bones! But here 'tis vain to sound and wait: Naught rises here but real estate. I own it all and shan't disgorge. Don't know me? I am Henry George."

ARBOR DAY

Hasten, children, black and white-- Celebrate the yearly rite. Every pupil plant a tree: It will grow some day to be Big and strong enough to bear A School Director hanging there.

THE PIUTE

Unbeautiful is the Piute! Howe'er bedecked with bravery, His person is unsavory-- Of soap he's destitute.

He multiplies upon the earth In spite of all admonishing; All censure his astonishing And versatile unworth.

Upon the Reservation wide We give for his inhabiting He goes a-jackass rabbiting To furnish his inside.

The hopper singing in the grass He seizes with avidity: He loves its tart acidity, And gobbles all that pass.

He penetrates the spider's veil, Industriously pillages The toads' defenseless villages, And shadows home the snail.

He lightly runs to earth the quaint Red worm and, deftly troweling, He makes it with his boweling Familiarly acquaint.

He tracks the pine-nut to its lair, Surrounds it with celerity, Regards it with asperity-- Smiles, and it isn't there!

I wish he'd open up a grin Of adequate vivacity And carrying capacity To take his Agent in.

FAME

He held a book in his knotty paws, And its title grand read he: "The Chronicles of the Kings" it was, By the History Companee. "I'm a monarch," he said (But a tear he shed) "And my picter here you see.

"Great and lasting is my renown, However the wits may flout-- As wide almost as this blessed town" (But he winced as if with gout). "I paid 'em like sin For to put me in, But it's O, and O, to be out!"

ONE OF THE REDEEMED

Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld A soul whose body Death had lately felled.

A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed: His step was joyous and his visage beamed.

"Good morning, Peter." There was just a touch Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.

The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree, And said: "You have the advantage, sir, of me."

"Rénan of Paris," said the immortal part-- "A master of the literary art.

"I'm somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell, As controversialist and infidel."

"That's of no consequence," the Saint replied, "Why, I myself my Master once denied.

"No one up here cares anything for that. But is there nothing you were always at?

"It seems to me you were accused one day Of _something_--what it was I can't just say."

"Quite likely," said the other; "but I swear My life was irreproachable and fair."

Just then a soul appeared upon the wall, Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.

About his head a golden halo gleamed, As well befitted one of the redeemed.

A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed, Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.

His countenance, suffused with holy pride, Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.

"Ah! that's the chap," said Peter, "who declares: 'Rénan's a rake and drunkard--smokes and swears.'

"Yes, that's the fellow--he's a preacher--came From San Francisco. Mansfield was his name."

"Do you believe him?" said Rénan. "Great Scott! Believe? Believe the blackguard? Of course _not!_

"Just walk right in and make yourself at home. And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.

"He's only here because the Devil swore He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore."

Resting his eyes one moment on that proof Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,

And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he: "Thank you, monsieur,--I'll see if he'll have _me_."

A CRITIC

[Apparently the Cleveland _Leader_ is not a good judge of poetry.--_The Morning Call_.]

That from _you_, neighbor! to whose vacant lot Each rhyming literary knacker scourges His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot, As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?

Admonished by the stimulating goad, How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances-- Its cart before it--eager to unload The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.

Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out The tail-board of his curst imagination, Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt, Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.

To improve your property, the vile cascade Your thrift invites--to make a higher level. In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid, Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.

"Rubbish may be shot here"--familiar sign! I seem to see it in your every column. You have your wishes, but if I had mine 'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.

A QUESTION OF ELIGIBILITY

It was a bruised and battered chap The victim of some dire mishap, Who sat upon a rock and spent His breath in this ungay lament:

"Some wars--I've frequent heard of such-- Has beat the everlastin' Dutch! But never fight was fit by man To equal this which has began In our (I'm in it, if you please) Academy of Sciences. For there is various gents belong To it which go persistent wrong, And loving the debates' delight Calls one another names at sight. Their disposition, too, accords With fighting like they all was lords! Sech impulses should be withstood: 'Tis scientific to be good.

"'Twas one of them, one night last week, Rose up his figure for to speak: 'Please, Mr. Chair, I'm holding here A resolution which, I fear, Some ancient fossils that has bust Their cases and shook off their dust To sit as Members here will find Unpleasant, not to say unkind.' And then he read it every word, And silence fell on all which heard. That resolution, wild and strange, Proposed a fundamental change, Which was that idiots no more Could join us as they had before!

"No sooner was he seated than The members rose up, to a man. Each chap was primed with a reply And tried to snatch the Chairman's eye. They stomped and shook their fists in air, And, O, what words was uttered there!