Black Beetles in Amber

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Black Beetles in Amber Page 13

by Ambrose Bierce

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 Dev
il 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 what 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?

  Why spring they not from out the plain?

  Where's Luning, Blythe and Michael Reese,

  Magee, who ran the Golden Fleece?

  Where's Asa Fisk? Jim Phelan, who

  Was thought to know a thing or two

  Of land which rose but never sank?

  Where's Con O'Conor of the Bank,

  And all who consecrated lands

  Of old by laying on of hands?

  I ask of them because their worth

  Was known in all they wished—the earth.

  Brisk boomers once, alert and wise,

  Why don't they rise, why don't they rise?"

  The man replied: "Reburied long

  With others of the shrouded throng

  In San Mateo—carted there

  And dumped promiscuous, anywhere,

  In holes and trenches—all misfits—

  Mixed up with one another's bits:

  One's back-bone with another's shin,

  A third one's skull with a fourth one's grin—

  Your eye was never, never fixed

  Upon a company so mixed!

  Go now among them there and blow:

  'Twill be as good as any show

  To see them, when they hear the tones,

  Compiling one another's bones!

  But here 'tis vain to sound and wait:

  Naught rises here but real estate.

  I own it all and shan't disgorge.

  Don't know me? I am Henry George."

  ARBOR DAY

  Hasten, children, black and white—

  Celebrate the yearly rite.

  Every pupil plant a tree:

  It will grow some day to be

  Big and strong enough to bear

  A School Director hanging there.

  THE PIUTE

  Unbeautiful is the Piute!

  Howe'er bedecked with bravery,

  His person is unsavory—

  Of soap he's destitute.

  He multiplies upon the earth

  In spite of all admonishing;

  All censure his astonishing

  And versatile unworth.

  Upon the Reservation wide

  We give for his inhabiting

  He goes a-jackass rabbiting

  To furnish his inside.

  The hopper singing in the grass

  He seizes with avidity:

  He loves its tart acidity,

  And gobbles all that pass.

  He penetrates the spider's veil,

  Industriously pillages

  The toads' defenseless villages,

  And shadows home the snail.

  He lightly runs to earth the quaint

  Red worm and, deftly troweling,

  He makes it with his boweling

  Familiarly acquaint.

  He tracks the pine-nut to its lair,

  Surrounds it with celerity,

  Regards it with asperity—

  Smiles, and it isn't there!

  I wish he'd open up a grin

  Of adequate vivacity

  And carrying capacity

  To take his Agent in.

  FAME

  He held a book in his knotty paws,

  And its title grand read he:

  "The Chronicles of the Kings" it was,

  By the History Companee.

  "I'm a monarch," he said

  (But a tear he shed)

  "And my picter here you see.

  "Great and lasting is my renown,

  However the wits may flout—

  As wide almost as this blessed town"

  (But he winced as if with gout).

  "I paid 'em like sin

  For to put me in,

  But it's O, and O, to be out!"

  ONE OF THE REDEEMED

  Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld

  A soul whose body Death had lately fell
ed.

  A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed:

  His step was joyous and his visage beamed.

  "Good morning, Peter." There was just a touch

  Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.

  The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree,

  And said: "You have the advantage, sir, of me."

  "Rénan of Paris," said the immortal part—

  "A master of the literary art.

  "I'm somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell,

  As controversialist and infidel."

  "That's of no consequence," the Saint replied,

  "Why, I myself my Master once denied.

  "No one up here cares anything for that.

  But is there nothing you were always at?

  "It seems to me you were accused one day

  Of something—what it was I can't just say."

  "Quite likely," said the other; "but I swear

  My life was irreproachable and fair."

  Just then a soul appeared upon the wall,

  Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.

  About his head a golden halo gleamed,

  As well befitted one of the redeemed.

  A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed,

  Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.

  His countenance, suffused with holy pride,

  Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.

  "Ah! that's the chap," said Peter, "who declares:

  'Rénan's a rake and drunkard—smokes and swears.'

  "Yes, that's the fellow—he's a preacher—came

  From San Francisco. Mansfield was his name."

  "Do you believe him?" said Rénan. "Great Scott!

  Believe? Believe the blackguard? Of course not!

  "Just walk right in and make yourself at home.

  And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.

  "He's only here because the Devil swore

  He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore."

  Resting his eyes one moment on that proof

  Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,

  And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he:

  "Thank you, monsieur,—I'll see if he'll have me."

  A CRITIC

  [Apparently the Cleveland Leader is not a good judge of poetry.

  The Morning Call

  That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot

  Each rhyming literary knacker scourges

  His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,

 

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