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 wha
t 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?
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 158