Why do you turn on the tears?”
“My mother is crazy on strawberry jam,
And my father has petrified ears.”
“Liverwort, Liverwort, why do you droop —
Why do you snuffle and scowl?”
“My brother has cockle-burs into his eyes,
And my sister has married an owl.”
“Simia, Simia, why do you laugh —
Why do you cackle and quake?”
“My son has a pollywog stuck in his throat,
And my daughter has bitten a snake.”
Slow sank the head of the Sponge out of sight,
Soaken with sea-water-then it was night.
The Moon had now risen for dinner to dress,
When sweetly the Pachyderm sang from his nest;
He sang through a pestle of silvery shape,
Encrusted with custard-empurpled with crape;
And this was the burden he bore on his lips,
And blew to the listening Sturgeon that sips
From the fountain of opium under the lobes
Of the mountain whose summit in buffalo robes
The winter envelops, as Venus adorns
An elephant’s trunk with a chaplet of thorns:
“Chasing mastodons through marshes upon stilts of light ratan,
Hunting spiders with a shotgun and mosquitoes with an axe,
Plucking peanuts ready roasted from the branches of the oak,
Waking echoes in the forest with our hymns of blessed bosh,
We roamed-my love and I.
By the margin of the fountain spouting thick with clabbered milk,
Under spreading boughs of bass-wood all alive with cooing toads,
Loafing listlessly on bowlders of octagonal design,
Standing gracefully inverted with our toes together knit,
We loved-my love and I.”
Hippopopotamus comforts his heart
Biting half-moons out of strawberry tart.
Epitaph on George Francis Train.
(Inscribed on a Pork-barrel.)
Beneath this casket rots unknown
A Thing that merits not a stone,
Save that by passing urchin cast;
Whose fame and virtues we express
By transient urn of emptiness,
With apt inscription (to its past
Relating-and to his): “Prime Mess.”
No honour had this infidel,
That doth not appertain, as well,
To altered caitiff on the drop;
No wit that would not likewise pass
For wisdom in the famished ass
Who breaks his neck a weed to crop,
When tethered in the luscious grass.
And now, thank God, his hateful name
Shall never rescued be from shame,
Though seas of venal ink be shed;
No sophistry shall reconcile
With sympathy for Erin’s Isle,
Or sorrow for her patriot dead,
The weeping of this crocodile.
Life’s incongruity is past,
And dirt to dirt is seen at last,
The worm of worm afoul doth fall.
The sexton tolls his solemn bell
For scoundrel dead and gone to-well,
It matters not, it can’t recall
This convict from his final cell.
Jerusalem, Old and New.
Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don John
Is a parson of high degree;
He holds forth of Sundays to marvelling crowds
Who wonder how vice can still be
When smitten so stoutly by Didymus Don —
Disciple of Calvin is he.
But sinners still laugh at his talk of the New
Jerusalem-ha-ha, te-he!
And biting their thumbs at the doughty Don–John —
This parson of high degree —
They think of the streets of a village they know,
Where horses still sink to the knee,
Contrasting its muck with the pavement of gold
That’s laid in the other citee.
They think of the sign that still swings, uneffaced
By winds from the salt, salt sea,
Which tells where he trafficked in tipple, of yore —
Don Dunkleton Johnny, D. D.
Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don John
Still plays on his fiddle — D. D.,
His lambkins still bleat in full psalmody sweet,
And the devil still pitches the key.
Communing with Nature.
One evening I sat on a heavenward hill,
The winds were asleep and all nature was still,
Wee children came round me to play at my knee,
As my mind floated rudderless over the sea.
I put out one hand to caress them, but held
With the other my nose, for these cherubim smelled.
I cast a few glances upon the old sun;
He was red in the face from the race he had run,
But he seemed to be doing, for aught I could see,
Quite well without any assistance from me.
And so I directed my wandering eye
Around to the opposite side of the sky,
And the rapture that ever with ecstasy thrills
Through the heart as the moon rises bright from the hills,
Would in this case have been most exceedingly rare,
Except for the fact that the moon was not there.
But the stars looked right lovingly down in the sea,
And, by Jupiter, Venus was winking at me!
The gas in the city was flaring up bright,
Montgomery Street was resplendent with light;
But I did not exactly appear to advance
A sentiment proper to that circumstance.
So it only remains to explain to the town
That a rainstorm came up before I could come down.
As the boots I had on were uncommonly thin
My fancy leaked out as the water leaked in.
Though dampened my ardour, though slackened my strain,
I’ll “strike the wild lyre” who sings the sweet rain!
Conservatism and Progress.
Old Zephyr, dawdling in the West,
Looked down upon the sea,
Which slept unfretted at his feet,
And balanced on its breast a fleet
That seemed almost to be
Suspended in the middle air,
As if a magnet held it there,
Eternally at rest.
Then, one by one, the ships released
Their folded sails, and strove
Against the empty calm to press
North, South, or West, or East,
In vain; the subtle nothingness
Was impotent to move.
Ten Zephyr laughed aloud to see: —
“No vessel moves except by me,
And, heigh-ho! I shall sleep.”
But lo! from out the troubled North
A tempest strode impatient forth,
And trampled white the deep;
The sloping ships flew glad away,
Laving their heated sides in spray.
The West then turned him red with wrath,
And to the North he shouted:
“Hold there! How dare you cross my path,
As now you are about it?”
The North replied with laboured breath —
His speed no moment slowing: —
“My friend, you’ll never have a path,
Unless you take to blowing.”
Inter Arma Silent Leges.
(An Election Incident.)
About the polls the freedmen drew,
To vote the freemen down;
And merrily their caps up-flew
As Grant rode through the town.
From votes to staves they next did turn,
And beat the freemen down;
/> Full bravely did their valour burn
As Grant rode through the town.
Then staves for muskets they forsook,
And shot the freemen down;
Right royally their banners shook
As Grant rode through the town.
Hail, final triumph of our cause!
Hail, chief of mute renown!
Grim Magistrate of Silent Laws,
A-riding freedom down!
Quintessence.
“To produce these spicy paragraphs, which have been unsuccessfully imitated by every newspaper in the State, requires the combined efforts of five able-bodied persons associated on the editorial staff of this journal.” — New York Herald.
Sir Muscle speaks, and nations bend the ear:
“Hark ye these Notes-our wit quintuple hear;
Five able-bodied editors combine
Their strength prodigious in each laboured line!”
O wondrous vintner! hopeless seemed the task
To bung these drainings in a single cask;
The riddle’s read-five leathern skins contain
The working juice, and scarcely feel the strain.
Saviours of Rome! will wonders never cease?
A ballad cackled by five tuneful geese!
Upon one Rosinante five stout knights
Ride fiercely into visionary fights!
A cap and bells five sturdy fools adorn,
Five porkers battle for a grain of corn,
Five donkeys squeeze into a narrow stall,
Five tumble-bugs propel a single ball!
Resurgam.
Dawns dread and red the fateful morn —
Lo, Resurrection’s Day is born!
The striding sea no longer strides,
No longer knows the trick of tides;
The land is breathless, winds relent,
All nature waits the dread event.
From wassail rising rather late,
Awarding Jove arrives in state;
O’er yawning graves looks many a league,
Then yawns himself from sheer fatigue.
Lifting its finger to the sky,
A marble shaft arrests his eye —
This epitaph, in pompous pride,
Engraven on its polished side:
“Perfection of Creation’s plan,
Here resteth Universal Man,
Who virtues, segregated wide,
Collated, classed, and codified,
Reduced to practice, taught, explained,
And strict morality maintained.
Anticipating death, his pelf
He lavished on this monolith;
Because he leaves nor kin nor kith
He rears this tribute to himself,
That Virtue’s fame may never cease.
Hic jacet-let him rest in peace!”
With sober eye Jove scanned the shaft,
Then turned away and lightly laughed
“Poor Man! since I have careless been
In keeping books to note thy sin,
And thou hast left upon the earth
This faithful record of thy worth,
Thy final prayer shall now be heard:
Of life I’ll not renew thy lease,
But take thee at thy carven word,
And let thee rest in solemn peace!”
THE END
“For my own part, I must confess to bear a very singular respect to this animal, by whom I take human nature to be most admirably held forth in all its qualities as well as operations; and, therefore, whatever in my small reading occurs concerning this, our fellow creature, I do never fail to set it down by way of commonplace; and when I have occasion to write upon human reason, politics, eloquence or knowledge, I lay my memorandums before me, and insert them with a wonderful facility of application.” — SWIFT.
COBWEBS FROM AN EMPTY SKULL
George Routledge and Sons, of London, published Cobwebs from an Empty Skull in 1874. The collection included everything from Bierce’s scarce second book, Nuggets and Dust, and more. Once again he used the pseudonym, Dod Grile. Many of the pieces had appeared earlier in American newspapers and journals and included prime examples of his sharp satire and often macabre fiction. His author acquaintances in England dubbed him “Bitter Bierce.” Bierce’s publisher solicited a review from noted American author, Samuel Clemens, who wrote this pithy, but unusable reply from his home in Hartford that April:
Gentlemen:
“Dod Grile” (Mr. Bierce) is a personal friend of mine, & I like him exceedingly — but he knows my opinion of the “Nuggets & Dust,” & so I do not mind exposing it to you. It is the vilest book that exists in print — or very nearly so. If you keep a “reader,” it is charity to believe he never really read that book, but framed his verdict upon hearsay.
Bierce has written some admirable things — fugitive pieces — but none of them are among the “Nuggets.” There is humor in Dod Grile, but for every laugh that is in his book there are five blushes, ten shudders and a vomit. The laugh is too expensive.
Ys truly
Samuel L. Clemens
A first edition copy published in London by George Routledge and Sons in 1874
CONTENTS
FABLES OF ZAMBRI, THE PARSEE.
DIVERS TALES.
THE GRATEFUL BEAR.
THE SETTING SACHEM.
FEODORA.
THE LEGEND OF IMMORTAL TRUTH.
CONVERTING A PRODIGAL.
FOUR JACKS AND A KNAVE.
DR. DEADWOOD, I PRESUME.
NUT-CRACKING.
THE MAGICIAN’S LITTLE JOKE.
SEAFARING.
TONY ROLLO’S CONCLUSION.
NO CHARGE FOR ATTENDANCE.
PERNICKETTY’S FRIGHT.
JUNIPER.
FOLLOWING THE SEA.
A TALE OF SPANISH VENGEANCE.
MRS. DENNISON’S HEAD.
A FOWL WITCH.
THE CIVIL SERVICE IN FLORIDA.
A TALE OF THE BOSPHORUS.
JOHN SMITH, LIBERATOR
SUNDERED HEARTS.
THE EARLY HISTORY OF BATH.
THE FOLLOWING DORG.
SNAKING.
MAUD’S PAPA.
JIM BECKWOURTH’S POND.
STRINGING A BEAR.
The famous portrait of Bierce painted by John Herbert Evelyn Partington (1843-1899)
COBWEBS FROM AN EMPTY SKULL.
BY
DOD GRILE.
ILLUSTRATED WITH ENGRAVINGS BY DALZIEL BROTHERS.
To my friend,
SHERBURNE B. EATON.
PREFACE.
The matter of which this volume is composed appeared originally in the columns of “FUN,” when the wisdom of the Fables and the truth of the Tales tended to wholesomely diminish the levity of that jocund sheet. Their publication in a new form would seem to be a fitting occasion to say something as to their merit.
Homer’s “Iliad,” it will be remembered, was but imperfectly appreciated by Homer’s contemporaries. Milton’s “Paradise Lost” was so lightly regarded when first written, that the author received but twenty-five pounds for it. Ben Jonson was for some time blind to the beauties of Shakespeare, and Shakespeare himself had but small esteem for his own work.
Appearing each week in “FUN,” these Fables and Tales very soon attracted the notice of the Editor, who was frank enough to say, afterward, that when he accepted the manuscript he did not quite perceive the quality of it. The printers, too, into whose hands it came, have since admitted that for some days they felt very little interest in it, and could not even make out what it was all about. When to these evidences I add the confession that at first I did not myself observe anything extraordinary in my work, I think I need say no more: the discerning public will note the parallel, and my modesty be spared the necessity of making an ass of itself.
D.G.
FABLES OF ZAMBRI, THE PARSEE.
I.
A certain Persian nobleman obtaine
d from a cow gipsy a small oyster. Holding him up by the beard, he addressed him thus:
“You must try to forgive me for what I am about to do; and you might as well set about it at once, for you haven’t much time. I should never think of swallowing you if it were not so easy; but opportunity is the strongest of all temptations. Besides, I am an orphan, and very hungry.”
“Very well,” replied the oyster; “it affords me genuine pleasure to comfort the parentless and the starving. I have already done my best for our friend here, of whom you purchased me; but although she has an amiable and accommodating stomach, we couldn’t agree. For this trifling incompatibility — would you believe it? — she was about to stew me! Saviour, benefactor, proceed.”
“I think,” said the nobleman, rising and laying down the oyster, “I ought to know something more definite about your antecedents before succouring you. If you couldn’t agree with your mistress, you are probably no better than you should be.”
People who begin doing something from a selfish motive frequently drop it when they learn that it is a real benevolence.
II.
A rat seeing a cat approaching, and finding no avenue of escape, went boldly up to her, and said:
“Madam, I have just swallowed a dose of powerful bane, and in accordance with instructions upon the label, have come out of my hole to die. Will you kindly direct me to a spot where my corpse will prove peculiarly offensive?”
“Since you are so ill,” replied the cat, “I will myself transport you to a spot which I think will suit.”
So saying, she struck her teeth through the nape of his neck and trotted away with him. This was more than he had bargained for, and he squeaked shrilly with the pain.
“Ah!” said the cat, “a rat who knows he has but a few minutes to live, never makes a fuss about a little agony. I don’t think, my fine fellow, you have taken poison enough to hurt either you or me.”
So she made a meal of him.
If this fable does not teach that a rat gets no profit by lying, I should be pleased to know what it does teach.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 32