Black Beetles in Amber

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by Ambrose Bierce


  Nature, not clearly understanding, tried

  To make a bird that on the air could ride.

  But naught could baffle the creative plan—

  Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man.

  Yet he had risen—to the bird a twin—

  Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.

  TO E.S. SALOMON

  Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against

  decorating the graves of Confederate dead.

  What! Salomon! such words from you,

  Who call yourself a soldier? Well,

  The Southern brother where he fell

  Slept all your base oration through.

  Alike to him—he cannot know

  Your praise or blame: as little harm

  Your tongue can do him as your arm

  A quarter-century ago.

  The brave respect the brave. The brave

  Respect the dead; but you—you draw

  That ancient blade, the ass's jaw,

  And shake it o'er a hero's grave.

  Are you not he who makes to-day

  A merchandise of old renown

  Which he persuades this easy town

  He won in battle far away?

  Nay, those the fallen who revile

  Have ne'er before the living stood

  And stoutly made their battle good

  And greeted danger with a smile.

  What if the dead whom still you hate

  Were wrong? Are you so surely right?

  We know the issue of the fight—

  The sword is but an advocate.

  Men live and die, and other men

  Arise with knowledges diverse:

  What seemed a blessing seems a curse,

  And Now is still at odds with Then.

  The years go on, the old comes back

  To mock the new—beneath the sun.

  Is nothing new; ideas run

  Recurrent in an endless track.

  What most we censure, men as wise

  Have reverently practiced; nor

  Will future wisdom fail to war

  On principles we dearly prize.

  We do not know—we can but deem,

  And he is loyalest and best

  Who takes the light full on his breast

  And follows it throughout the dream.

  The broken light, the shadows wide—

  Behold the battle-field displayed!

  God save the vanquished from the blade,

  The victor from the victor's pride!

  If, Salomon, the blessed dew

  That falls upon the Blue and Gray

  Is powerless to wash away

  The sin of differing from you.

  Remember how the flood of years

  Has rolled across the erring slain;

  Remember, too, the cleansing rain

  Of widows' and of orphans' tears.

  The dead are dead—let that atone:

  And though with equal hand we strew

  The blooms on saint and sinner too,

  Yet God will know to choose his own.

  The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,

  Who does not love the harmless dead

  With all his heart and all his head—

  May God forgive him—I shall not.

  When, Salomon, you come to quaff

  The Darker Cup with meeker face,

  I, loving you at last, shall trace

  Upon your tomb this epitaph:

  "Draw near, ye generous and brave—

  Kneel round this monument and weep:

  It covers one who tried to keep

  A flower from a dead man's grave."

  DENNIS KEARNEY

  Your influence, my friend, has gathered head—

  To east and west its tides encroaching spread.

  There'll be, on all God's foot-stool, when they meet,

  No clean spot left for God to set His feet.

  FINIS ÆTERNITATIS

  Strolling at sunset in my native land,

  With fruits and flowers thick on either hand,

  I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way,

  Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.

  "The apples all are gone from here," I said,

  "The roses perished and their spirits fled.

  I will go back." A voice cried out: "The man

  Is risen who eternally was dead!"

  I turned and saw an angel standing there,

  Newly descended from the heights of air.

  Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands

  A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.

  "Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,"

  I said. "Its chill was but a touch of frost.

  It made me gasp, but quickly I came through,

  With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost."

  'Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrust

  Grayed heads asky, and every dragging gust,

  In ashen valleys where my sons had reaped,

  Stirred in familiar river-beds the dust.

  Some heights, where once the traveler was shown

  The youngest and the proudest city known,

  Lifted smooth ridges in the steely light—

  Bleak, desolate acclivities of stone.

  Where I had worshiped at my father's tomb,

  Within a massive temple's awful gloom,

  A jackal slunk along the naked rock,

  Affrighted by some prescience of doom.

  Man's vestiges were nowhere to be found,

  Save one brass mausoleum on a mound

  (I knew it well) spared by the artist Time

  To emphasize the desolation round.

  Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun

  Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one.

  "Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud.

  "Eternity," the angel said, "is done.

  For man is ages dead in every zone;

  The angels all are dead but I alone;

  The devils, too, are cold enough at last,

  And God lies dead before the great white throne!

  'Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore

  When all are gone (as Gabriel did before,

  When I had throttled the last man alive)

  And swear Eternity shall be no more."

  "O Azrael—O Prince of Death, declare

  Why conquered I the grave?" I cried. "What rare,

  Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?"

  "You've been revived," he said, "to hear me swear."

  "Then let me creep again beneath the grass,

  And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass.

  If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker's there—

  Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass."

  He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang,

  Out at the door a curst hyena sprang

  And fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped,"

  And closed the brazen portal with a bang.

  THE VETERAN

  John Jackson, once a soldier bold,

  Hath still a martial feeling;

  So, when he sees a foe, behold!

  He charges him—with stealing.

  He cares not how much ground to-day

  He gives for men to doubt him;

  He's used to giving ground, they say,

  Who lately fought with—out him.

  When, for the battle to be won,

  His gallantry was needed,

  They say each time a loaded gun

  Went off—so, likewise, he did.

  And when discharged (for war's a sport

  So hot he had to leave it)

  He made a very loud report,

  But no one did believe it.

  AN "EXHIBIT"

  Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid

  That I should smile above him:

  Though truth to tell, I never did

  Exactly love him.
<
br />   It can't be wrong, though, to rejoice

  That his unpleasing capers

  Are ended. Silent is his voice

  In all the papers.

  No longer he's a show: no more,

  Bear-like, his den he's walking.

  No longer can he hold the floor

  When I'd be talking.

  The laws that govern jails are bad

  If such displays are lawful.

  The fate of the assassin's sad,

  But ours is awful!

  What! shall a wretch condemned to die

  In shame upon the gibbet

  Be set before the public eye

  As an "exhibit"?—

  His looks, his actions noted down,

  His words if light or solemn,

  And all this hawked about the town—

  So much a column?

  The press, of course, will publish news

  However it may get it;

  But blast the sheriff who'll abuse

  His powers to let it!

  Nay, this is not ingratitude;

  I'm no reporter, truly,

  Nor yet an editor. I'm rude

  Because unruly—

  Because I burn with shame and rage

  Beyond my power of telling

  To see assassins in a cage

  And keepers yelling.

  "Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:

  "Observe the lion's poses,

  His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.

  His—hold your noses!"

  How long, O Lord, shall Law and Right

  Be mocked for gain or glory,

  And angels weep as they recite

  The shameful story?

  THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL

  What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll

  Of all the vices that infest your soul?

  Was't not enough that lately you did bawl

  Your money-worship in the ears of all?[A]

  Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tell

  That though a miser you're a sot as well?

  Still must I hear how low your taste has sunk—

  From getting money down to getting drunk?[B]

  Who worships money, damning all beside,

  And shows his callous knees with pious pride,

  Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er scorns

  His own possessions, be they coins or corns.

  You've money, neighbor; had you gentle birth

  You'd know, as now you never can, its worth.

  You've money; learning is beyond your scope,

  Deaf to your envy, stubborn to your hope.

  But if upon your undeserving head

  Science and letters had their glory shed;

  If in the cavern of your skull the light

  Of knowledge shone where now eternal night

  Breeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughts

  Of cerebration that you think are thoughts—

  Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung

  That squeak and gibber when you move your tongue—

  You would not write, in Avarice's defense,

  A senseless eulogy on lack of sense,

  Nor show your eagerness to sacrifice

  All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.

  You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shame

  To boast your weakness or your baseness name.

  Appraise the things you have, but measure not

  The things denied to your unhappy lot.

  He values manners lighter than a cork

  Who combs his beard at table with a fork.

  Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake,

  The laws of taste condemn you to the stake

  To expiate, where all the world may see,

  The crime of growing old disgracefully.

  Religion, learning, birth and manners, too,

  All that distinguishes a man from you,

  Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain

  An added luster from a rogue's disdain.

  But spare the young that proselyting sin,

  A toper's apotheosis of gin.

  If not our young, at least our pigs may claim

  Exemption from the spectacle of shame!

  Are you not he who lately out of shape

  Blew a brass trumpet to denounce the grape?—

  Who led the brave teetotalers afield

  And slew your leader underneath your shield?—

  Swore that no man should drink unless he flung

  Himself across your body at the bung?

  Who vowed if you'd the power you would fine

  The Son of God for making water wine?

  All trails to odium you tread and boast,

  Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most.

  One day to be a miser you aspire,

  The next to wallow drunken in the mire;

  The third, lo! you're a meritorious liar![C]

  Pray, in the catalogue of all your graces,

  Have theft and cowardice no honored places?

  Yield thee, great Satan—here's a rival name

  With all thy vices and but half thy shame!

  Quick to the letter of the precept, quick

  To the example of the elder Nick;

  With as great talent as was e'er applied

  To fool a teacher and to fog a guide;

  With slack allegiance and boundless greed,

  To paunch the profit of a traitor deed,

  He aims to make thy glory all his own,

  And crowd his master from the infernal throne!

  [Footnote A: We are not writing this paragraph for any other purpose than to protest against this never ending cant, affectation, and hypocrisy about money. It is one of the best things in this world—better than religion, or good birth, or learning, or good manners.—The Argonaut.]

  [Footnote B: Now, it just occurs to us that some of our temperance friends will take issue with us, and say that this is bad doctrine, and that it is ungentlemanly to get drunk under any circumstances or under any possible conditions. We do not think so.—The same.]

  [Footnote C: The man or woman who, for the sake of benefiting others, protecting them in their lives, property, or reputation, sparing their feelings, contributing to their enjoyment, or increasing their pleasures, will tell a lie, deserves to be rewarded.—The same.]

  AN ACTOR

  Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly said

  The color of a trumpet's blare is red;

  And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame

  On woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.

  The more the red storm rises round her nose—

  The more her eyes averted seek her toes,

  He fancies all the louder he can hear

  The tube resounding in his spacious ear,

  And, all his varied talents to exert,

  Darkens his dullness to display his dirt.

  And when the gallery's indecent crowd,

  And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,

  In hot contention (these his art to crown,

  And those his naked nastiness to drown)

  Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflame

  Grow white and in their fear forget their shame,

  With impudence imperial, sublime,

  Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,

  Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,

  Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.

  When all the place is silent as a mouse

  One slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!

  FAMINE'S REALM

  To him in whom the love of Nature has

  Imperfectly supplanted the desire

  And dread necessity of food, your shore,

  Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over all

  Your sunny level, from Tamaletown

  To where the Pestuary's fragrant slime,

  With dead dogs studded, bears its ailing fleet,
<
br />   Broods the still menace of starvation. Bones

  Of men and women bleach along the ways

  And pampered vultures sleep upon the trees.

  It is a land of death, and Famine there

  Holds sovereignty; though some there be her sway

  Who challenge, and intrenched in larders live,

  Drawing their sustentation from abroad.

  But woe to him, the stranger! He shall die

  As die the early righteous in the bud

  And promise of their prime. He, venturesome

  To penetrate the wilds rectangular

  Of grass-grown ways luxuriant of blooms,

  Frequented of the bee and of the blithe,

  Bold squirrel, strays with heedless feet afar

  From human habitation and is lost

  In mid-Broadway. There hunger seizes him,

  And (careless man! deeming God's providence

  Extends so far) he has not wherewithal

  To bate its urgency. Then, lo! appears

  A mealery—a restaurant—a place

  Where poison battles famine, and the two,

  Like fish-hawks warring in the upper sky

  For that which one has taken from the deep,

  Manage between them to dispatch the prey.

  He enters and leaves hope behind. There ends

  His history. Anon his bones, clean-picked

  By buzzards (with the bones himself had picked,

  Incautious) line the highway. O, my friends,

  Of all felonious and deadlywise

  Devices of the Enemy of Souls,

  Planted along the ways of life to snare

  Man's mortal and immortal part alike,

  The Oakland restaurant is chief. It lives

  That man may die. It flourishes that life

  May wither. Its foundation stones repose

  On human hearts and hopes. I've seen in it

  Crabs stewed in milk and salad offered up

  With dressing so unholily compound

  That it included flour and sugar! Yea,

  I've eaten dog there!—dog, as I'm a man,

  Dog seethed in sewage of the town! No more—

  Thy hand, Dyspepsia, assumes the pen

  And scrawls a tortured "Finis" on the page.

  THE MACKAIAD

  Mackay's hot wrath to Bonynge, direful spring

  Of blows unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing—

  That wrath which hurled to Hellman's office floor

  Two heroes, mutually smeared with gore,

  Whose hair in handfuls marked the dire debate,

 

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