Black Beetles in Amber Part 5

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 a.s.sa.s.sin'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 ingrat.i.tude; 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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-wors.h.i.+p 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 wors.h.i.+ps money, d.a.m.ning 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 n.o.ble 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 d.a.m.n at will: all s.h.i.+ning virtues gain An added l.u.s.ter 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 bra.s.s trumpet to denounce the grape?-- Who led the brave teetotalers afield And slew your leader underneath your s.h.i.+eld?-- 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 G.o.d 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 circ.u.mstances 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 s.p.a.cious 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 sh.o.r.e, 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, 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 gra.s.s-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 G.o.d'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, a.s.sumes the pen And scrawls a tortured "Finis" on the page.

THE MACKAIAD

Mackay's hot wrath to Bonynge, direful spring Of blows unnumbered, heavenly G.o.ddess, sing-- That wrath which hurled to h.e.l.lman's office floor Two heroes, mutually smeared with gore, Whose hair in handfuls marked the dire debate, And riven coat-tails testified their hate.

Sing, muse, what first their indignation fired, What words augmented it, by whom inspired.

First, the great Bonynge comes upon the scene And asks the favor of the British Queen.

Suppliant he stands and urges all his claim: His wealth, his portly person and his name, His habitation in the setting sun, As child of nature; and his suit he won.

No more the Sovereign, wearied with his plea, From slumber's chain her faculties can free.