Chapter 9
"The Chair was silent, but at last He hove up his proportions vast And stilled them tumults with a look By which the undauntedest was shook. He smiled sarcastical and said: 'If Argus was the Chair, instead Of me, he'd lack enough of eyes Each orator to recognize! And since, denied a hearing, you Might maybe undertake to do Each other harm before you cease, I've took some steps to keep the peace: I've ordered out--alas, alas, That Science e'er to such a pass Should come!--I've ordered out--the gas!'
"O if a tongue or pen of fire Was mine I could not tell entire What the ensuin' actions was. When swollered up in darkness' jaws We fit and fit and fit and fit, And everything we felt we hit! We gouged, we scratched and we pulled hair, And O, what words was uttered there! And when at last the day dawn came Three hundred Scientists was lame; Two hundred others couldn't stand, They'd been so careless handled, and One thousand at the very least Was spread upon the floor deceased! 'Twere easy to exaggerate, But lies is things I mortal hate.
"Such, friends, is the disaster sad Which has befel the Cal. Acad. And now the question is of more Importance than it was before: Shall vacancies among us be To idiots threw open free?"
FLEET STROTHER
What! you were born, you animated doll, Within the shadow of the Capitol? 'Twas always thought (and Bancroft so assures His trusting readers) it was reared in yours.
CALIFORNIAN SUMMER PICTURES
THE FOOT-HILL RESORT
Assembled in the parlor Of the place of last resort, The smiler and the snarler And the guests of every sort-- The elocution chap With rhetoric on tap; The mimic and the funny dog; The social sponge; the money-hog; Vulgarian and dude; And the prude; The adiposing dame With pimply face aflame; The kitten-playful virgin-- Vergin' on to fifty years; The solemn-looking sturgeon Of a firm of auctioneers; The widower flirtatious; The widow all too gracious; The man with a proboscis and a sepulcher beneath. One assassin picks the banjo, and another picks his teeth.
AT ANCHOR
The soft asphaltum in the sun; Betrays a tendency to run; Whereas the dog that takes his way Across its course concludes to stay.
THE IN-COMING CLIMATE
Now o' nights the ocean breeze Makes the patient flinch, For that zephyr bears a sneeze In every cubic inch. Lo! the lively population Chorusing in sternutation A catarrhal acclamation!
A LONG-FELT WANT
Dimly apparent, through the gloom Of Market-street's opaque simoom, A queue of people, parti-sexed, Awaiting the command of "Next!" A sidewalk booth, a dingy sign: "Teeth dusted nice--five cents a shine."
TO THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS
Wide windy reaches of high stubble field; A long gray road, bordered with dusty pines; A wagon moving in a "cloud by day." Two city sportsmen with a dove between, Breast-high upon a fence and fast asleep-- A solitary dove, the only dove In twenty counties, and it sick, or else It were not there. Two guns that fire as one, With thunder simultaneous and loud; Two shattered human wrecks of blood and bone! And later, in the gloaming, comes a man-- The worthy local coroner is he, Renowned all thereabout, and popular With many a remain. All tenderly Compiling in a game-bag the débris, He glides into the gloom and fades from sight. The dove, cured of its ailment by the shock, Has flown, meantime, on pinions strong and fleet, To die of age in some far foreign land.
SLANDER
FITCH:
"All vices you've exhausted, friend; So all the papers say."
PICKERING:
"Ah, what vile calumnies are penned!-- 'Tis just the other way."
JAMES L. FLOOD
As oft it happens in the youth of day That mists obscure the sun's imperfect ray, Who, as he's mounting to the dome's extreme, Smites and dispels them with a steeper beam, So you the vapors that begirt your birth Consumed, and manifested all your worth. But still one early vice obstructs the light And sullies all the visible and bright Display of mind and character. You write.
FOUR CANDIDATES FOR SENATOR
To flatter your way to the goad of your hope, O plausible Mr. Perkins, You'll need ten tons of the softest soap And butter a thousand firkins. The soap you could put to a better use In washing your hands of ambition Ere the butter's used for cooking your goose To a beautiful brown condition.
* * * * *
"The Railroad can't run Stanford." That is so-- The tail can't curl the pig; but then, you know, Inside the vegetable-garden's pale The pig will eat more cabbage than the tail.
* * * * *
When Sargent struts by all the lawmakers say: "Right--left!" It is fair to infer The right will get left, nor polar the day When he makes that thing to occur.
Not so, not so, 'tis a joke, that cry-- Foolish and dull and small: He so bores them for votes that they mean to imply He's a drill-Sargent, that is all.
* * * * *
Gods! what a sight! Astride McClure's broad back Estee jogs round the Senatorial track, The crowd all undecided, as they pass, Whether to cheer the man or cheer the ass. They stop: the man to lower his feet is seen And the tired beast, withdrawing from between, Mounts, as they start again, the biped's neck, And scarce the crowd can say which one's on deck.
A GROWLER
Judge Shafter, you're an aged man, I know, And learned too, I doubt not, in the law; And a head white with many a winter's snow (I wish, however that your heart would thaw) Claims reverence and honor; but the jaw That's always wagging with a word malign, Nagging and scolding every one in sight As harshly as a jaybird in a pine, And with as little sense of wrong and right As animates that irritable creature, Is not a very venerable feature.
You damn all witnesses, all jurors too (And swear at the attorneys, I suppose, But _that's_ commendable) "till all is blue"; And what it's all about, the good Lord knows, Not you; but all the hotter, fiercer glows Your wrath for that--as dogs the louder howl With only moonshine to incite their rage, And bears with more ferocious menace growl, Even when their food is flung into the cage. Reform, your Honor, and forbear to curse us. Lest all men, hearing you, cry: "_Ecce ursus_!"
AD MOODIUM
Tut! Moody, do not try to show To gentlemen and ladies That if they have not "Faith," they'll go Headlong to Hades.
Faith is belief; and how can I Have that by being willing? This dime I cannot, though I try, Believe a shilling.
Perhaps you can. If so, pray do-- Believe you own it, also. But what seems evidence to you I may not call so.
Heaven knows I'd like the Faith to think This little vessel's contents Are liquid gold. I see 'tis ink For writing nonsense.
Minds prone to Faith, however, may Come now and then to sorrow: They put their trust in truth to-day, In lies to-morrow.
No doubt the happiness is great To think as one would wish to; But not to swallow every bait, As certain fish do.
To think a snake a cord, I hope, Would bolden and delight me; But some day I might think a rope Would chase and bite me.
"Curst Reason! Faith forever blest!" You're crying all the season. Well, who decides that Faith is best? Why, Mr. Reason.
He's right or wrong; he answers you According to your folly, And says what you have taught him to, Like any polly.
AN EPITAPH
Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an Imp of Satan's getting, whom an Ancient legend says that woman Never bore--he owed his birth To Sin herself. From Hell to Earth She brought the brat in secret state And laid him at the Golden gate, And they named him Henry Vrooman. While with mortals here he stayed, His father frequently he played. Raised his birth-place and in other Playful ways begot his mother.
A SPADE
[The spade that was used to turn the first sod in the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad is to be exhibited at the New Orleans Exposition.--_Press Telegram_.]
Precursor of our woes, historic spade, What dismal records burn upon thy blade! On thee I see the maculating stains Of passengers' commingled blood and brains. In this red rust a widow's curse appears, And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears. Upon thy handle sanguinary bands Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands When first he wielded thee with vigor brave To cut a sod and dig a people's grave-- (For they who are debauched are dead and ought, In God's name, to be hid from sight and thought.) Within thee, as within a magic glass, I seem to see a foul procession pass-- Judges with ermine dragging in the mud And spotted here and there with guiltless blood; Gold-greedy legislators jingling bribes; Kept editors and sycophantic scribes; Liars in swarms and plunderers in tribes; They fade away before the night's advance, And fancy figures thee a devil's lance Gleaming portentous through the misty shade, While ghosts of murdered virtues shriek about my blade!
THE VAN NESSIAD
From end to end, thine avenue, Van Ness, Rang with the cries of battle and distress! Brave lungs were thundering with dreadful sound And perspiration smoked along the ground! Sing, heavenly muse, to ears of mortal clay, The meaning, cause and finish of the fray.
Great Porter Ashe (invoking first the gods, Who signed their favor with assenting nods That snapped off half their heads--their necks grown dry Since last the nectar cup went circling by) Resolved to build a stable on his lot, His neighbors fiercely swearing he should not. Said he: "I build that stable!" "No, you don't," Said they. "I can!" "You can't!" "I will!" "You won't!" "By heaven!" he swore; "not only will I build, But purchase donkeys till the place is filled!" "Needless expense," they sneered in tones of ice-- "The owner's self, if lodged there, would suffice." For three long months the awful war they waged: With women, women, men with men engaged, While roaring babes and shrilling poodles raged!
Jove, from Olympus, where he still maintains His ancient session (with rheumatic pains Touched by his long exposure) marked the strife, Interminable but by loss of life; For malediction soon exhausts the breath-- If not, old age itself is certain death. Lo! he holds high in heaven the fatal beam; A golden pan depends from each, extreme; This feels of Porter's fate the downward stress, That bears the destiny of all Van Ness. Alas! the rusted scales, their life all gone, Deliver judgment neither pro nor con: The dooms hang level and the war goes on. With a divine, contemptuous disesteem Jove dropped the pans and kicked, himself, the beam: Then, to decide the strife, with ready wit, The nickel that he did not care for it Twirled absently, remarking: "See it spin: Head, Porter loses; tail, the others win." The conscious nickel, charged with doom, spun round, Portentously and made a ringing sound, Then, staggering beneath its load of fate, Sank rattling, died at last and lay in state.
Jove scanned the disk and then, as is his wont, Raised his considering orbs, exclaiming: "Front!" With leisurely alacrity approached The herald god, to whom his mind he broached: "In San Francisco two belligerent Powers, Such as contended round great Ilion's towers, Fight for a stable, though in either class There's not a horse, and but a single ass. Achilles Ashe, with formidable jaw Assails a Trojan band with fierce hee-haw, Firing the night with brilliant curses. They With dark vituperation gloom the day. Fate, against which nor gods nor men compete, Decrees their victory and his defeat. With haste, good Mercury, betake thee hence And salivate him till he has no sense!"
Sheer downward shot the messenger afar, Trailing a splendor like a falling star! With dimming lustre through the air he burned, Vanished, nor till another sun returned. The sovereign of the gods superior smiled, Beaming benignant, fatherly and mild: "Is Destiny's decree performed, my lad?-- And has he now no sense?" "Ah, sire, he never had."
A FISH COMMISSIONER
Great Joseph D. Redding--illustrious name!-- Considered a fish-horn the trumpet of Fame. That goddess was angry, and what do you think? Her trumpet she filled with a gallon of ink, And all through the Press, with a devilish glee, She sputtered and spattered the name of J.D.
TO A STRAY DOG
Well, Towser (I'm thinking your name must be Towser), You're a decentish puppy as puppy dogs go, For you never, I'm sure, could have dined upon trowser, And your tail's unimpeachably curled just so.
But, dear me! your name--if 'tis yours--is a "poser": Its meaning I cannot get anywise at, When spoken correctly perhaps it is Toser, And means one who toses. Max Muller, how's that?
I ne'er was ingenious at all at divining A word's prehistorical, primitive state, Or finding its root, like a mole, by consigning Its bloom to the turnep-top's sorrowful fate.
And, now that I think of it well, I'm no nearer The riddle's solution than ever--for how's My pretty invented word, "tose," any clearer In point of its signification than "towse"?
So, Towser (or Toser), I mean to rename you In honor of some good and eminent man, In the light and the heat of whose quickening fame you May grow to an eminent dog if you can.
In sunshine like his you'll not long be a croucher: The Senate shall hear you--for that I will vouch. Come here, sir. Stand up. I rechristen you Goucher. But damn you! I'll shoot you if ever you gouch!
IN HIS HAND
De Young (in Chicago the story is told) "Took his life in his hand," like a warrior bold, And stood before Buckley--who thought him behind, For Buckley, the man-eating monster is blind. "Count fairly the ballots!" so rang the demand Of the gallant De Young, with his life in his hand. 'Tis done, and the struggle is ended. No more He havocs the battle-field, gilt with the gore Of slain reputations. No more he defies His "lying opponents" with deadlier lies. His trumpet is hushed and his belt is unbound-- His enemies' characters cumber the ground. They bloat on the war-plain with ink all asoak, The fortunate candidates perching to croak. No more he will charge, with a daring divine, His foes with corruption, his friends by the line. The thunders are stilled of the horrid campaign, De Young is triumphant, and never again Will he need, with his life in his hand, to roar: "Count fair or, by G----, I will die on your floor!" His life has been spared, for his sins to atone, And the hand that he took it in washed with cologne.
A DEMAGOGUE
"Yawp, yawp, yawp! Under the moon and sun. It's aye the rabble, And I to gabble, And hey! for the tale that is never done.
"Chant, chant, chant! To woo the reluctant vote. I would I were dead And my say were said And my song were sung to its ultimate note.
"Stab, stab, stab! Ah! the weapon between my teeth-- I'm sick of the flash of it; See how the slash of it Misses the foeman to mangle the sheath!
"Boom, boom, boom! I'm beating the mammoth drum. My nethermost tripes I blow into the pipes-- It's oh! for the honors that never come!"
'Twas the dolorous blab Of a tramping "scab"-- 'Twas the eloquent Swift Of the marvelous gift-- The wild, weird, wonderful gift of gab!
IGNIS FATUUS
Weep, weep, each loyal partisan, For Buckley, king of hearts; A most accomplished man; a man Of parts--of foreign parts.
Long years he ruled with gentle sway, Nor grew his glory dim; And he would be with us to-day If we were but with him.
Men wondered at his going off In such a sudden way; 'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff He would remain to prey.
Since he is gone we're all agreed That he is what men call A crook: his very steps, indeed, Are bent--to Montreal.
So let our tears unhindered flow, Our sighs and groans have way: It matters not how much we Oh!-- The devil is to pay.
FROM TOP TO BOTTOM
[Japan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, "most of whom," says a Christian missionary, "are grossly ignorant, and many of them lead scandalous lives."]
O Buddha, had you but foreknown The vices of your priesthood It would have made you twist and moan As any wounded beast would. You would have damned the entire lot And turned a Christian, would you not?
There were no Christians, I'll allow, In your day; that would only Have brought distinction. Even now A Christian might feel lonely. All take the name, but facts are things As stubborn as the will of kings.
The priests were ignorant and low When ridiculed by Lucian; The records, could we read, might show The same of times Confucian. And yet the fact I can't disguise That Deacon Rankin's good and wise.
'Tis true he is not quite a priest, Nor more than half a preacher; But he exhorts as loud at least As any living creature. And when the plate is passed about He never takes a penny out.
From Buddha down to Rankin! There,-- I never did intend to. This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear, Such subjects to descend to. When from the humming-bird I've wrung A plume I'll write of Mike de Young.
AN IDLER
Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?--who Had nothing better in this world to do? Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase? Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot, Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot, Stir his compassion and inspire his arms To hide from human eyes its faded charms?
If not to works of piety inclined, Then recreation might have claimed his mind. The harmless game that shows the feline greed To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A] Is better sport than victimizing Creed; And a far livelier satisfaction comes Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B] If neither worthy work nor play command This gentleman of leisure's heart and hand, Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift By hope of profit to some deed of thrift. Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin, No tin to mend, no glass to be put in, No housewife worthy of a morning visit, Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit? Lo! the blind sow's precarious pursuit Of the aspiring oak's familiar fruit!-- 'Twould more advantage any man to steal This easy victim's undefended meal Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so Expose the state to his narcotic flow!
[Footnote A: "Pussy Wants a Corner."]
[Footnote B: "Simon Says Thumbs Up."]
THE DEAD KING
Hawaii's King resigned his breath-- Our Legislature guffawed. The awful dignity of death Not any single rough awed. But when our Legislators die All Kings, Queens, Jacks and Aces cry.
A PATTER SONG
There was a cranky Governor-- His name it wasn't Waterman. For office he was hotter than The love of any lover, nor Was Boruck's threat of aiding him Effective in dissuading him-- This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.
To citrus fairs, _et cætera_, He went about philandering, To pride of parish pandering. He knew not any better--ah, His early education had Not taught the abnegation fad-- The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering!
He conjured up, _ad libitum_, With postures energetical, One day (this is prophetical) His graces, to exhibit 'em. He straddled in each attitude, Four parallels of latitude-- The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unæsthetical! An ancient cow, perceiving that His powers of agility Transcended her ability (A circumstance for grieving at) Upon her horns engrafted him And to the welkin wafted him-- The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!
A CALLER
"Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well." Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail, He entered that serene assassin's cell And hung his hat and coat upon a nail. "I think that life in this secluded spot Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?"
"Well, yes," said Goldenson, "I can't complain: Life anywhere--provided it is mine-- Agrees with me; but I observe with pain That still the people murmur and repine. It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt, To see a persecuted man grow stout."
"O no, 'tis not your growing stout," said Death, "Which makes these malcontents complain and scold-- They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath. What they object to is your growing old. And--though indifferent to lean or fat-- I don't myself entirely favor _that_."
With brows that met above the orbs beneath, And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared, And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth, The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered: "O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuage Your spongy passion for the blood of age?"
Death with a clattering convulsion, drew His coat on, hatted his unmeated pow, Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through, Turned and made answer: "I will _show_ you how. I'm going to the Bench you call Supreme And tap the old women who sit there and dream."
THE SHAFTER SHAFTED
Well, James McMillan Shafter, you're a Judge-- At least you were when last I knew of you; And if the people since have made you budge I did not notice it. I've much to do Without endeavoring to follow, through The miserable squabbles, dust and smudge, The fate of even the veteran contenders Who fight with flying colors and suspenders. Being a Judge, 'tis natural and wrong That you should villify the public press-- Save while you are a candidate. That song Is easy quite to sing, and I confess It wins applause from hearers who have less Of spiritual graces than belong To audiences of another kidney-- Men, for example, like Sir Philip Sidney.
Newspapers, so you say, don't always treat The Judges with respect. That may be so And still no harm done, for I swear I'll eat My legs and in the long hereafter go, Snake-like, upon my belly if you'll show All Judges are respectable and sweet. For some of them are rogues and the world's laughter's Directed at some others, for they're Shafters.
THE MUMMERY
THE TWO CAVEES
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
FITCH _a Pelter of Railrogues_ PICKERING _his Partner, an Enemy to Sin_ OLD NICK _a General Blackwasher_ DEAD CAT _a Missile_ ANTIQUE EGG _Another_ RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance
_Scene_--The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.
_Time_--1875.
FITCH:
Gods! what a steep declivity! Below I see the lazy dump-carts come and go, Creeping like beetles and about as big. The delving Paddies--
PICKERING:
Case of _infra dig._
FITCH:
Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips Come with but scant propriety from lips Fringed with the blue-black evidence of age. 'Twere well to cultivate a style more sage, For men will fancy, hearing how you pun, Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun.
(_Enter Dead Cat._)
Here's one that thoughtfully has come to hand; Slant your fine eye below and see it land. (_Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw._)
DEAD CAT (_singing_):
Merrily, merrily, round I go-- Over and under and at. Swing wide and free, swing high and low The anti-monopoly cat!
O, who wouldn't be in the place of me, The anti-monopoly cat? Designed to admonish, Persuade and astonish The capitalist and--
FITCH _(letting go):_
Scat! _(Exit Dead Cat.)_
PICKERING:
Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung! Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young. Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though 'Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we owe The traitor one for leaving us!--some day We'll get, if not his place, his cart away. Meantime fling missiles--any kind will do. _(Enter Antique Egg.)_ Ha! we can give them an _ovation_, too!
ANTIQUE EGG: