Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  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?