Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  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

  Sho
uld 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 Herbe
rt 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,