Chapter 4
Whenever one of them approached The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. "Strike out his testimony," quoth The learned judge: "This Court denies Its ear to stories which surprise. I hold that witnesses exempt From coaching all are in contempt." Both Prosecution and Defense Applauded the judicial sense, And the spectators all averred Such wisdom they had never heard: 'Twas plain the prisoner would be Found guilty in the first degree. Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed The nameless terrors in his breast. He felt remorseful, too, because He wasn't half they said he was. "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused On opportunities unused, "I might have easily become As wealthy as Methusalum." This journalist adorned, alas, The middle, not the Bible, class.
With equal skill the lawyers' pleas Attested their divided fees. Each gave the other one the lie, Then helped him frame a sharp reply.
Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, And lasted all the day and night. When once or oftener the roar Had silenced the judicial snore The speaker suffered for the sport By fining for contempt of court. Twelve jurors' noses good and true Unceasing sang the trial through, And even _vox populi_ was spent In rattles through a nasal vent. Clerk, bailiff, constables and all Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call To arms--his arms--and all fell in Save counsel for the Man of Sin. That thaumaturgist stood and swayed The wand their faculties obeyed-- That magic wand which, like a flame. Leapt, wavered, quivered and became A wonder-worker--known among The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue.
How long, O Lord, how long my verse Runs on for better or for worse In meter which o'ermasters me, Octosyllabically free!-- A meter which, the poets say, No power of restraint can stay;-- A hard-mouthed meter, suited well To him who, having naught to tell, Must hold attention as a trout Is held, by paying out and out The slender line which else would break Should one attempt the fish to take. Thus tavern guides who've naught to show But some adjacent curio By devious trails their patrons lead And make them think 't is far indeed. Where was I?
While the lawyer talked The rogue took up his feet and walked: While all about him, roaring, slept, Into the street he calmly stepped. In very truth, the man who thought The people's voice from heaven had caught God's inspiration took a change Of venue--it was passing strange! Straight to his editor he went And that ingenious person sent A Negro to impersonate The fugitive. In adequate Disguise he took his vacant place And buried in his arms his face. When all was done the lawyer stopped And silence like a bombshell dropped Upon the Court: judge, jury, all Within that venerable hall (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, And one or two whom death had freed) Awoke and tried to look as though Slumber was all they did not know.
And now that tireless lawyer-man Took breath, and then again began: "Your Honor, if you did attend To what I've urged (my learned friend Nodded concurrence) to support The motion I have made, this court May soon adjourn. With your assent I've shown abundant precedent For introducing now, though late, New evidence to exculpate My client. So, if you'll allow, I'll prove an _alibi_!" "What?--how?" Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't Deny your showing, and I grant The motion. Do I understand You undertake to prove--good land!-- That when the crime--you mean to show Your client wasn't _there_?" "O, no, I cannot quite do that, I find: My _alibi's_ another kind Of _alibi_,--I'll make it clear, Your Honor, that he isn't _here_." The Darky here upreared his head, Tranquillity affrighted fled And consternation reigned instead!
REBUKE.
When Admonition's hand essays Our greed to curse, Its lifted finger oft displays Our missing purse.
J.F.B.
How well this man unfolded to our view The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell-- This man whose own convictions none could tell, Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew The fair philosophies of doubt so well That while we listened to his words there fell Some that were strangely comforting, though true. Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, We said: "If so, by groping in the night, He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, How great our profit if he saw about His feet the highways leading to the light." Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust!
THE DYING STATESMAN.
It is a politician man-- He draweth near his end, And friends weep round that partisan, Of every man the friend.
Between the Known and the Unknown He lieth on the strand; The light upon the sea is thrown That lay upon the land.
It shineth in his glazing eye, It burneth on his face; God send that when we come to die We know that sign of grace!
Upon his lips his blessed sprite Poiseth her joyous wing. "How is it with thee, child of light? Dost hear the angels sing?"
"The song I hear, the crown I see, And know that God is love. Farewell, dark world--I go to be A postmaster above!"
For him no monumental arch, But, O, 'tis good and brave To see the Grand Old Party march To office o'er his grave!
THE DEATH OF GRANT.
Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compassion's plan, Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw.
Unbidden still the awful slope Walling us in we climb to gain Assurance of the shining plain That faith has certified to hope.
In vain!--beyond the circling hill The shadow and the cloud abide. Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide To trust the Record and be still.
To trust it loyally as he Who, heedful of his high design, Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, But wrought thy will unconsciously,
Disputing not of chance or fate, Nor questioning of cause or creed; For anything but duty's deed Too simply wise, too humbly great.
The cannon syllabled his name; His shadow shifted o'er the land, Portentous, as at his command Successive cities sprang to flame!
He fringed the continent with fire, The rivers ran in lines of light! Thy will be done on earth--if right Or wrong he cared not to inquire.
His was the heavy hand, and his The service of the despot blade; His the soft answer that allayed War's giant animosities.
Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, Fill, Father, with another light, That we may see with clearer sight Thy servant's soul in Paradise.
THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED.
Of Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) The Muse of History records That he'd get drunk as twenty lords.
He'd get so truly drunk that men Stood by to marvel at him when His slow advance along the street Was but a vain cycloidal feat.
And when 'twas fated that he fall With a wide geographical sprawl, They signified assent by sounds Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.
And yet this Mr. Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes When it was red or otherwise.
All malt, or spirituous, tope He loathed as cats dissent from soap; And cider, if it touched his lip, Evoked a groan at every sip.
But still, as heretofore explained, He not infrequently was grained. (I'm not of those who call it "corned." Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.)
Though truth to say, and that's but right, Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) Was what had put him in the mud, The only kind he used was blood!
Alas, that an immortal soul Addicted to the flowing bowl, The emptied flagon should again Replenish from a neighbor's vein.
But, Mr. Shanahan was so Constructed, and his taste that low. Nor more deplorable was he In kind of thirst than in degree;
For sometimes fifty souls would pay The debt of nature in a day To free him from the shame and pain Of dread Sobriety's misreign.
His native land, proud of its sense Of his unique inabstinence, Abated something of its pride At thought of his unfilled inside.
And some the boldness had to say 'Twere well if he were called away To slake his thirst forevermore In oceans of celestial gore.
But Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Knew that his thirst was mortal; so Remained unsainted here below--
Unsainted and unsaintly, for He neither went to glory nor To abdicate his power deigned Where, under Providence, he reigned,
But kept his Boss's power accurst To serve his wild uncommon thirst. Which now had grown so truly great It was a drain upon the State.
Soon, soon there came a time, alas! When he turned down an empty glass-- All practicable means were vain His special wassail to obtain.
In vain poor Decimation tried To furnish forth the needful tide; And Civil War as vainly shed Her niggard offering of red.
Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased Until he wished himself deceased, Invoked the firearm and the knife, But could not die to save his life!
He was so dry his own veins made No answer to the seeking blade; So parched that when he would have passed Away he could not breathe his last.
'Twas then, when almost in despair, (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) He saw as in a dream a way To wet afresh his mortal clay.
Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Saw freedom, and with joy and pride "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried.
Straight to the Aldermen went he, With many a "pull" and many a fee, And many a most corrupt "combine" (The Press for twenty cents a line
Held out and fought him--O, God, bless Forevermore the holy Press!) Till he had franchises complete For trolley lines on every street!
The cars were builded and, they say, Were run on rails laid every way-- Rhomboidal roads, and circular, And oval--everywhere a car--
Square, dodecagonal (in great Esteem the shape called Figure 8) And many other kinds of shapes As various as tails of apes.
No other group of men's abodes E'er had such odd electric roads, That winding in and winding out, Began and ended all about.
No city had, unless in Mars, That city's wealth of trolley cars. They ran by day, they flew by night, And O, the sorry, sorry sight!
And Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Incessantly, the Muse records, Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!
LAUS LUCIS.
Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the Mysteries of Antiquity."--_Vide the Newspapers, passim_.
Each to his taste: some men prefer to play At mystery, as others at piquet. Some sit in mystic meditation; some Parade the street with tambourine and drum. One studies to decipher ancient lore Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; Another swears that learning is but good To darken things already understood, Then writes upon Simplicity so well That none agree on what he wants to tell, And future ages will declare his pen Inspired by gods with messages to men. To found an ancient order those devote Their time--with ritual, regalia, goat, Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease And all the modern inconveniences; These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites And go to church for rational delights. So all are suited, shallow and profound, The prophets prosper and the world goes round. For me--unread in the occult, I'm fain To damn all mysteries alike as vain, Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon The Revelations of the good St. John.
1897.
NANINE.
We heard a song-bird trilling-- 'T was but a night ago. Such rapture he was rilling As only we could know.
This morning he is flinging His music from the tree, But something in the singing Is not the same to me.
His inspiration fails him, Or he has lost his skill. Nanine, Nanine, what ails him That he should sing so ill?
Nanine is not replying-- She hears no earthly song. The sun and bird are lying And the night is, O, so long!
TECHNOLOGY.
'Twas a serious person with locks of gray And a figure like a crescent; His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, But his smile was evanescent.
He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and With (likewise) a high falsetto; And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand As if it had been a stiletto.
His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, Came out of his head unblended, And the wonderful altitude of some Was exceptionally splendid.
While executing a shake of the head, With the hand, as it were, of a master, This agonizing old gentleman said: "'Twas a truly sad disaster!
"Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, Went down"--he paused and snuffled. A single tear was observed to fall, And the old man's drum was muffled.
"A very calamitous year," he said. And again his head-piece hoary He shook, and another pearl he shed, As if he wept _con amore._
"O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why Should these failures so affect you? With speculators in stocks no eye That's normal would ever connect you."
He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled In a sinister sort of manner. "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.'
"For she has went down in a howlin' squall, And my heart is nigh to breakin'-- Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all Will never need undertakin'!
"I'm in the business myself," said he, "And you've mistook my expression; For I uses the technical terms, you see, Employed in my perfession."
That old undertaker has joined the throng On the other side of the River, But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," And a tape-line makes me shiver.
A REPLY TO A LETTER.
O nonsense, parson--tell me not they thrive And jubilate who follow your dictation. The good are the unhappiest lot alive-- I know they are from careful observation. If freedom from the terrors of damnation Lengthens the visage like a telescope, And lacrymation is a sign of hope, Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope Contentedly without your lantern's light; And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap.
You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, With many a million others of my kidney. Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed With sinners--worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss To simulate respect for Genesis-- Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss.
Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, Must go to--beg your pardon, sir--perdition, The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, But count it sin of the sort called omission The groan to smother or the tear to stay Or fail to--what is that they live by?--pray. So down they flop, and the whole serious race is Put by divine compassion on a praying basis.
Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, And you look down upon us out of Heaven. In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, Dash downward through the glimmering profound, Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out!
Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, With less of ink than incoherence fraught Befits the folly that it tries to utter. Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: You suffer from impediment of thought.
When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, Bears witness how my anger I can tame: I've called you everything except your hateful name!
TO OSCAR WILDE.
Because from Folly's lips you got Some babbled mandate to subdue The realm of Common Sense, and you Made promise and considered not--
Because you strike a random blow At what you do not understand, And beckon with a friendly hand To something that you do not know,
I hold no speech of your desert, Nor answer with porrected shield The wooden weapon that you wield, But meet you with a cast of dirt.
Dispute with such a thing as you-- Twin show to the two-headed calf? Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, 'T is more than half the world can do.
1882.
PRAYER.
Fear not in any tongue to call Upon the Lord--He's skilled in all. But if He answereth my plea He speaketh one unknown to me.
A "BORN LEADER OF MEN."
Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh Is a statesman of world-wide fame, With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh To glorify somebody's name-- Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters To succor the country from divers disasters Portentous to Mr. Mahosh.
Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee Is in the political swim. He cares not a button for men, not he: Great principles captivate him-- Principles cleverly cut out and fitted To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, And fought for by Mr. Cabee.
Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse Holds office the most of his life. For men nor for principles cares he a curse, But much for his neighbor's wife. The Ship of State leaks, but _he_ doesn't pump any, Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse.
TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.
O Liberty, God-gifted-- Young and immortal maid-- In your high hand uplifted; The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and shore, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming That Law shall be no more.
Austere incendiary, We're blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite?
Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth? Your mask and dirk for riches? Your chains for wit and worth?
Perhaps, you've brought the halters You used in the old days, When round religion's altars You stabled Cromwell's bays?
Behind you, unsuspected, Have you the axe, fair wench, Wherewith you once collected A poll-tax from the French?
America salutes you-- Preparing to disgorge. Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George.
1894
AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.
Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. One place it never comes, and that is here. Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: The hollower they are they ring the more. Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, No trinket-laden vegetable come, No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. No shrilling children shall their voices rear. Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer!
No presents, if you please--I know too well What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell (I know not if he did) yet might have told Of present-giving in the days of old, When Early Man with gifts propitiated The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude Advantage from the taker's gratitude. Since thus the Gift its origin derives (How much of its first character survives You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, My pocket buttoned--with my soul inside. I save my money and I save my pride.
Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy To give me appetite; and as for drink, About a half a jug of blood, I think, Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine Fretting the satin surface of its flood. O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood!
Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan Even in his demonium would ban?
No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. Enough you have of jester, player, priest: I as the skeleton attend your feast, In the mad revelry to make a lull With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. However you my services may flout, Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, I mean to hold in customary state, My dismal revelry and celebrate My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom And cultivate an oasis of gloom.
BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT.
Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; Justice denied, authority abused, And the one honest person the accused-- Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears.
AN EPITAPH.
Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- So small a tenant of so big a house! He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,-- What poetry he'd written but for lack Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" The genius of his purse no longer draws The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, Though riddances of worms improve his brains. All his no talents to the earth revert, And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!"
THE POLITICIAN.
"Let Glory's sons manipulate The tiller of the Ship of State. Be mine the humble, useful toil To work the tiller of the soil."
AN INSCRIPTION
For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who Made it Beautiful.
Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear Good folk he lived and moved among in peace-- Guarded on either hand by the police, With soldiers in his front and in his rear.
FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS.
The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, Dashes damnation upon bad and good; The health of all the upas trees impairs By exhalations deadlier than theirs; Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad-- The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale The horrid aspergillus of her tail! From every saturated hair, till dry, The spargent fragrances divergent fly, Deafen the earth and scream along the sky!
Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife Of urban odors to ungladden life-- Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire The flesh to torture and the soul to fire-- Where all the "well defined and several stinks" Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks-- Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk.
A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON."