MV.6Cornell University LibraryPS 1097.A1 1909V.5The collected works of Ambrose Bierce.1924 021 998 830Cornell UniversityLibraryTheoriginal oftiiis bookis intine Cornell UniversityLibrary.Therearenoknowncopyrightrestrictions intheUnitedStatesontheuseofthetext.http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021998830THE COLLECTEDWORKSOF AMBROSE BIERCEVOLUMEVmmThepublishers certify that this editionofTHECOLLECTEDWORKSOFAMBROSEBIERCEconsistsoftwo hundred andfiftynumbered sets, auto-graphed by the author, and that the numberofthisset isImnfSaf%I L^mconwEj)BUCKBUTllSINamb;r.1911mxBifxstcicj'QUSrk?COFTBIOHT, 1911, BVTheNeale Publishing CompanyPREFACEMostof the verses in this volume are republished fromnewspapers and periodicals of the Pacific Coast. Natu-rally, the collection includes few not relating to per-sonsandeventsmoreor less familiar to the peopleofthatinteresting regionto whom, indeed, the volume maybe considered as especially addressed, though not with-out a hope that its contents may be found to have asufficient intrinsic interest to commend it to others.In answer to the familiar criticism that the authorhas dealt mostly with obscure persons, "unknown tofame," he begs leave to point out that he has donewhathe could to lessen the force of the objection by dispellingsome part of their obscurity and awarding them suchfame as he was able to bestow. If the work meet withacceptance commentators will doubtless be "raised up"to give them an added distinction and make expositionof the circumstances through which they took attention,whereby the work will have a growing interest to thosewith the patience to wait.Further to fortify this apologia, I quote from mypublishers the following relevant and judicious remarkson a kind of literature that is somewhat imperfectly un-derstood in this night of its neglect:"In all the most famous satires in our language the10 PREFACEvictims would now be unknown were it not that theyhave been preserved 'in amber' by the authors. Theen-lightened lover of satire cares little of whom it waswritten, but much for what is said, and more for howit is said. Noone but critics and commentators troubleshimself as to the personality of the always obscure heroof The Dunciad and the nobodies distinguished by thepens of Swift, Butler, Wolcott and the other mastersof English satire; yet the work of these men is noless read than it was in their day. The same is trueof Aristophanes, Horace and the other ancient censorsofmenandmanners."Regarding the repeated appearance of certain offend-ers in the skits and drolleries of this book, I can onlysay that during the considerable period covered by theauthor's efforts to reclaim them they manifested a de-plorable, and doubtless congenital, propensity to continu-ance in sin.CONTENTSPAGEAVALON19Cain21OneJudge 22An Obituarian23ACommuted Sentence.24.A Lifted Finger27Two Delegates29Matter for Gratitude..31ThreeKindsofaRogue33AMan37YeFoe to Cathaye40Samuel Shortridge40At a"National En-campment"40Theosophistry42Azrael44Competition45AVision of Doom46Genesis49Religious Progress50The Fall of MissLarkin51ARendezvous54YORICK54Stanford's Welcome56Posterity's Award58pageAnArt Critic 60The Spirit of a Sponge 60Ornithanthropos 61To E. S. Salomon 62Dennis Kearney65Finis ^ternitatis65The Veteran 68An "Exhibit" 68TheTransmigrations ofA Soul 70Indictment onEvidence73To AN Aspirant75Atthe W^hite House. .76Tidings of Good77AnActor79Famine'sRealm 80TheMackaiad 82ASong in Praise85APoet's Father 86ACoward87*ToMyLiars 88"Phil"Crimmins91Onthe Scales91Codex Honoris93ToW.H. L.B94Emancipation94CONTENTSPAGEjohndonkey95Hell 96By False Pretenses97Lucifer of the Torch.. 98"The Whirligig ofTime" 100ARailroad Lackey looThe Legatee 102"Died of a Rose"103ALiterary Hangman.. 104AttheEleventh HouR.104A Controversialist 105Mendax 106TheRetrospective B1RD.107TheOakland Dog 108The Unfallen Brave.. mACelebrated Case 112Couplets 114ARetort 116A Vision of Resurrec-tion 116MasterofThreeARTS..119Thersites 120ASociety Leader 121Expositor Veritatis 123The Troubadour 124AFinger onthe Lips.. 125Three Highwaymen 126To"Colonel"DanBurns 127George A. Knight 128PAGEUnarmed 130APolitical Violet 132The Subdued Editor... 134"Black Bart, Poh"...I36A"Scion of Nobility".138TheNightoftheElec-tion139The Convicts' Ball 140ToOne Detested 142The Boss's Choice143AMerciful Governor..144An Interpretation145A Soaring Toad 146AnUndressUniform . . .147The Perverted V1LLAGE.148Mr. Sheets149A Jack-At-All-Views...150MyLordPoet151To the Fool-Killer 15aOneandOneareTwo.154Montague Leverson .... 155The Woful Tale ofMr. Peters156Twin Unworthies159Art 160AWar Cry 160*In Dissuasion 161A Prediction 162Another Plan164APolitical Apostate..165Tinker Dick 168CONTENTSPAGEAPeacefulC0MMUNiTY.i6gWith a Book 170A Competitor170Generosity173Bats in Sunshine 17aA Wordtothe Unwise..i73OnthePlatform175Judge Not176Desperation177To Doo177To a Grabber178Memorial Day179*ADampened Ardor179AdairWelcker,Poet.. .180To a Word-Warrior...180ACulinary Candidate..183To One Acquitted184Content 185Atthe Observatory185The OleomargarineMan 187TheGenesis of CRIME...189Llewellyn Powell190The Sunset Gun 193The "Viduate Dame"..194FourofaKind195Reconciliation197AVision of Climate... 197A"Mass"Meeting. ... 199The NewDennis zooARational Anthem... 201pageIncivism 203Famine in Prosperity... 202An Epigrammatist203FiGLEAF203For President, LelandStanford205For Mayor 206AMinefor Reformers..207In Pickle207James Montague, P0ET..209ACheating Preacher..209A Crocodile211The American Party.. 2hUncoloneled213The Gates Ajar213To a Bully215ALand Fight218Compliance219Arboriculture219A Holiday220Rejected321Judex Judicatus 223Onthe Wedding of anAeronaut334AHasty Inference334A Voluptuary226Ad Cattonum326The National Guards-man 228ARear Elevation339CONTENTSPAGEIn Upper San Fran-cisco 330NiMROD 232TheNewDecalogue...233Ultra Crepidam234Censor Literarum234Borrowed Brains 236Ye Fyghtynge Seventh.337Indicted 238OvertheBorder239ToAN Insolent Attor-ney 240Accepted243APromised FastTRAIN.243From the Death-Column244The Farmer's Prayer.. 245Oneof the Saints 246AMilitary Incident. ..247Substance or Shadow..248TheCommitteeonPub-lic Morals250APlaywright250TheLeader ofthe Mi-nority 252California253George C. Perkins254To Either255Disappointment257The Valley of theShadowofTheft 258pageDownamongthe DeadMen259fThe Last Man 261Arbor Day263The Piute263Fame265One of the Redeemed.. 266A Critic 268A Question of Eligi-bility269Fleet Strother27aReciprocity272Californian SummerPictures276Slander.'278James L. Flood278Three Candidates forSenator279AGrowler 280Ad Moodium 281A Spade283The Van Nessiad284Valedictory286AFish Commissioner...289To a Stray Dog289In His Hand290A Demagogue291Ignis Fatuus292From Top to Bottom...293An Idler295TheDeadKing296CONTENTSPAGE PAGEAPatter Song 296 Contempt of Court. ...315A Caller 298 APartial Eclipse316The Shafter Shafted..299 THEMUMMERY317ToOneOutofFavor.. 300 TheTwo Cavees319Privation301 Metempsychosis 326ToOne in Custody 302 Slickens334.ForaRevised Version.. 303"Peaceful Expulsion"..341The Mormon QuESTioN.304 Aspirants Three346An Election Expense.. 305TheBirthoftheRAIL..3S6William F. Smith 306 ABad NidHT 36aJuventus Mundi307ON STONE371Two Guides307Loring Pickering373In Warning 308 A Water-Pirate374Apparition310 TheRev. Joseph Hemp-ACreditable Collision.3ii hill374An Emigrant313Others374BLACKBEETLESINAMBERAVALONI dreamed I was dreaming one morn as I layIn a garden with flowers teemingOnan island I lay, in a mystical bay,In the dream that I dreamed I wasdreaming.Theghost of a scenthad it followed methereFrom the place where I truly was resting?It filled like an anthem the aisles of the air,The presence of roses attesting.Yet I thought in the dream that I dreamed I dreamedThatthe placewas all barren of rosesThat it only seemed; and the place, I deemed.Wasthe Isle of Bedeviled Noses.Full manya seaman had testifiedHowall whosailed near were enchanted.And landed to search (and in searching died)For the roses the Sirens had planted.For the Sirens were dead, and the billows boomedIn the stead of their singing forever;But the roses bloomed on the graves of the doomed,Thoughmanhad discovered them never.1920 THECOLLECTEDWORKSI thought inmydream 'twas an idle tale,Adelusion that mariners cherishedThat the fragrance loading the conscious galeWasthe ghost of a garden long perished.Isaid, "Iwill Hyfrom this island ofwoes,"And acting on that decision,By that odor of rose I was led by the nose.For 'twas truly, ah! truly, Elysian.I ran, in mymadness, to seek out the sourceOfthe redolent riverdirectedBysomesupernatural, sinister forceTo a forest, dark, haunted, infected.And still as I threaded ('twas all in the dreamThat I dreamed I was dreaming) each turningThereweremanyascream and asudden gleamOfeyes all uncannily burning!The leaves were all wet with a horrible dewThat mirrored the red moon's crescent,Andall shapeswere fringed with a ghostly blue,Dim, wavering, phosphorescent.But the fragrance divine, coming strong and free,Ledmeoninmyresoluteseeking,Till!ah, joy!I could see, on the limbs of a tree,Mineenemies hanging and reeking!OFAMBROSEBIERCE 21CAINLord, shedThyh'ght upon his desert path,Andgild his branded brow, that noman spillHis forfeit life to balkThyholy willThat spares him for the ripening of wrath.Already, lo! the red sign is descried.To trembling jurors visibly revealed:The prison doors obediently yield.The bafBed hangman flings the cord aside.Powell, the brother's blood that marks your trailHark, how it cries against you from the ground,Likethe far baying of the tireless hound.Faith! to your ear it is no nightingale.What signifies the date upon a stone?To-morrow you shall die if not to-day.What matter when the Avenger choose to slay?Or soon or late the Devil gets his own.Thenceforth through all eternity you'll holdNoone advantage of the later death.Though you had granted Ralph another breathWouldhe to-day less silent He and cold?22 THECOLLECTEDWORKSEarthcaresnot, curst assassin, whenyoudie;You never will be readier than now.Wear, in God's name, that mark upon your brow,Andkeep the life you purchased with a lie!ONEJUDGEWallace, created on a noble planToshowus that aJudgecan be aMan;Through moral mire exhaling mortal stenchGod-guided sweet and foot-clean to the Bench;In salutation here and sign I liftAhand as free as,yoursfromlawless thrift,Aheartah, would I truly could proclaimMybosom lighted with so pure a flame!Alas, not love of justice movesmypenTo praise, or to condemn, myfellow men.Goodwill and ill its busy point incite:I do but gratify them when I write.In palliation, though, I'd humbly state,I love the righteous and the wicked hate.So, sir, although we differ we agree.Ourwork alike from persecution free.And Heaven, approving you, consents to me.Take, therefore, from this not all useless handThe crown of honornot in all the landOne honest man dissenting from the choice,Nor in approval one Fred Crocker's voice!OFAMBROSEBIERCE 23ANOBITUARIANAnewspaper Death-poet sat at his desk,Wrapped in appropriate gloom;His posture was pensive and picturesque,Like a raven charming a tomb.Enter a party a-drinking the cupOf sorrowand likewise of woe:"Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up.All wrote in the key of O."For the angels have called myold womanhenceFrom the strife^where she fit mighty free.It's a nickel a line? Condn the expense!For wealth is now little to me."The Bard of Mortality looked him throughIn the piercingest sort of a way:"It is much to methough it's little to youI've taken a wife to-day."Sohe twisted the tail of his mentalcowAndmadeher give down her flow.The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow-Therewasreams and reamses of woe.24 THECOLLECTEDWORKSThewidowermanwhichhadburied hiswifeGrewlily-like round each gill,For she turned in her grave and came back to life!Then he cruel ignored the bill.ThenSorrow she opened her gates a-wide,As likewise did also Woe,And the death-poet's song, as is heard inside,Is sang in the key of O.A COMMUTEDSENTENCEBoruck and Waterman upon their grillsIn Hades lay, with many a sigh and groan.Hotly disputing, for each swore his ownWereclearly keener than the other's ills.And truly each had much to boast ofboneAnd sinew, muscle, tallow, nerve and skin.Blood in the vein and marrowin the shin.Teeth, eyes and other organs (for the soulHas all of these and even a wagging chin)All blazed and coruscated like a coal!ForLower Sacramento, you remember.Hastrying weather, even in mid-December.Nowthis occurred in the far future. AllMankind had been a million ages dead.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 25Andeach to her reward above had sped,Eachto his punishment below,I callThat quite a just arrangement. As I said,BoruckandWatermanin warmest painCrackled and sizzed with all their might and main.For, whenon earth, they'd freed a scurvy hostOfcrooksfromthe State prison,whoagainHad robbed and ravaged the Pacific CoastAnd (such the felon's predatory nature)Even got themselves into the Legislature.So Waterman and Boruck lay and roaredIn Hades. It is true all other malesFelt the like flames and uttered equal wails.But did not sulifer them;whereas they boredEach one the other! But indeed my tale'sNot getting on at all. Theylay and brownedTill Boruck (who long since his teeth had groundAwayand spoke GumArabic and madeStump speeches even in praying) looked aroundAndsaid to Bob's incinerated shade:"YourExcellency, this is mightyhardonThe inventors of theunpardonable pardon."The other soul^his right hand all aflame.For 'twas with that he'd chiefly sinned, althoughHis tongue, too, like a wick was working woeTothe reserve of tallow in his frame26 THECOLLECTEDWORKSSaid, with a sputtering, uncertain flow,And with a gesture like a shaken torch:"Yes, but I'm sure we'll not much longer scorch.Although this climate is not good for Hope,Whose joyous wing 'twould singe, I think the porch'Of Hell we'll quit with a pacific slope.Last century I signified repentanceAndasked for commutation of our sentence."Evenashespoke, theformof SatanloomedIn sight, all crimson with reflection's fire,Like some tall tower or cathedral spireTouched by the dawn while all the earth is gloomedIn mists and shadows of the night-time. "Sire,"Said Waterman, his agitable wickStill sputtering, "what calls you back so quick?It scarcely was a century agoYou left us." "I have come to bring," said Nick,"St. Peter's answer (he is never slowIn correspondence) to your applicationForpardonpardonme!for commutation."Hesays that he's instructed to reply(And he has so instructed me) that sinLike yoursand this poor gentleman's who's inFor bad advice to youcomes rather high;But since, apparently, you both beginTo feel some pious promptings to the right,OFAMBROSEBIERCE27And fain would turn your faces to the light,Eternity seems all too long a term.So 'tis commuted to one-half. I'm quitePrepared, when that expires, to free the wormAnd quench the fire." And, civilly retreating,He left them holding their protracted meeting.ALIFTEDFINGER[The Chronicle did a great public service in whippingand his fellow-rascals out of office.M. H. deYoung's Newspaper.]What! you whip rascals?you, whose gutter bloodBears, in its dark, dishonorable flood,Enough of prison-birds' prolific germsTo serve a whole eternity of terms?You,- for whose bacic the rods and cudgels stroveEre yet the ax had hewn them from the grove?You, the De Young whose splendor bright and braveIs phosphorescence from another's graveTill now unknown, by any chance or luck.Even to the hearts at which you feebly struck?Youwhiparascal outof office?youWhose leadless weapon once ignobly blewIts smoke in six directions to assertYourlack of appetite for other's dirt?28 THECOLLECTEDWORKSPractice makes perfect: when for fame you thirst,Thenwhip a rascal. Whip a cripple first.Or, if for action you're less free thanbold(Your palms both brimming with dishonest gold)Entrust the castigation that you've planned,As once before, to woman's idle hand.So in your spirit shall two pleasures joinTo slake the sacred thirst for blood and coin.Blood? Souls have blood, even as the body hath.And, spilled, 'twill fertilize the field of wrath.Lo! in a purple gorge of yonder hills.Where o'er a grave a bird its day-song stills,Awoman'sblood, through roses ever red.Mutely appeals for vengeance on your head.Slandered to death to serve a sordid end,She called you murderer and called me friend.Now,mark you, libeler, this course if youDare to maintain, or rather to renew;If one short year's immunity has madeYou blink again the perils of your tradeThe ghastly sequence of the maddened "knave,"The hot encounter and the colder grave;If the grim, dismal lesson you ignoreWhile yet the stains are fresh uponyour floor,And calmly march upon the fatal brinkWith eyes averted to your trail of ink,Counting unkind the services of thoseOFAMBROSEBIERCE 29Whopull, to hold you back, your stupid nose,The day for you to die is not so far,Or, at the least, to live the thingyou are!Pregnant with possibilities of crime,And full of felons for all coming time,Your blood's too precious to be lightly spiltIn testimony to a venial guilt.Live to get whelpage andpreserve anameNopraise can sweeten and no lie unshame.Live to fulfill the vision that I seeDownthedimvistas of the time to be:Adream of clattering beaks and burning eyesOfhungryravens glooming all the skies;Adream of gleaming teeth and foetid breathOf jackals wrangling at the feast of death;Adream of broken necks and swollen tonguesThe whole world's gibbets loaded with De Youngs!TWODELEGATESIn that fair city by the inland seaWhere Blaine unhived his Presidential beeFrank Pixley's meeting with George Gorham sing.Celestial muse, and what events did springFromthe encounterof thosemightysonsOf thunder, and of slaughter, and of guns.30 THECOLLECTEDWORKSGreat Gorham first, his yearning tooth to sateAnd give him stomach for the day's debate,Entering a restaurant, with eager mienDemandsan ounce of bacon and a bean.The trembling waiter, by the statesman's eyeSmitten with terror, hastens to comply;Nor chairs nor tables can his speed retard.For famine's fixed and horrible regardHetakes for menace. Ashe shaking flew,Lo! the portentous Pixley heaved in view!Beforehimyawned invisible the cell.Unheard, behind, the warden's footsteps fell.Thrice in convention rising to his feet.He thrice had been thrust back into his seat;Thrice had protested, been reminded thriceThenation had no need of his advice.Balked of his will to set the people right.Hissoul wasgloomythough his hatwaswhite.So fierce his mien, with provident accordThewaiters swarmed him, thinking him a lord.Hespurned them, roaring grandly to their chief:"Give me (Fred Crocker pays) a leg of beef!"His wandering eye's deluminating flameFell upon Gorham and the crisis came!For Pixley scowled and darkness filled the roomTill Gorham's flashing orbs dispelled the gloom.The patrons of the place, by fear dismayed,Sprang to the street and left their scores unpaid.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 31So, when Jove thunders and his lightnings gleamTo sour the milk and curdle, too, the cream,Andstorm-clouds gather, o'er the shadowed hill,The ass forsakes his hay, the pig his swill.Hotlytheheroesnow fell totheir breathCameshort and hard, as in the throes of death.Theyclenchedtheirhands,theirweaponsbrandishedhigh,Cut, stabbed, and hewed, nor uttered any cry.But gnashed their teeth and struggled on! In brief,One ate his bacon, t'other one his beef.MATTERFORGRATITUDE[Especiallyshouldwebethankful for having escapedtheravages of the yellow scourge by which our neighbors havebeen so sorely afflicted.Governor Stoneman's ThanksgivingProclamation.']Bepleased,OLord, to take a people's thanksThatThine avenging sword has spared our ranksThatthou hast parted from our lips the cupAnd forced our neighbors' lips to drink it up.Father of Mercies, with a heart contriteWethankTheethatThougoestsouth to smite.Andsparest San Francisco's loins, to crackThylash on Hermosillo'sbleedingbackThat o'er our homes Thine awful angel spreadAfriendlywing,andGuaymasweepsinstead.32 THECOLLECTEDWORKSWepraise Thee, God, that Yellow Fever hereHis horrid banner has not dared to rear,Consumption's jurisdiction to contest.Her dagger deep in every second breast!Catarrh andAsthmaandCongestive ChillAttest Thy bounty and perform Thy w^ill.These native messengers obey Thy callThey summon singly, but they summon all.Not, as in Mexico's impested clime.Can Yellow Jack commit recurring crime.Wethank Thee that Thou killest all the time.Thytender mercies. Father, never end:Upon all headsThyblessings still descend,Though their forms vary. Here the sown seeds yieldAbundant grain that whitens all the fieldThere the smit corn stands barren on the plain.Thrift reapsbutstraw and Faminegleans in vain.Here the fat priest to the contented kingPoints to the harvest and the people singThere mothers eat their offspring. Well, at leastThou hast provided offspring for the feast.An earthquake here rolls harmless through the land,And Thou art good because the chimneys standThere templed cities sink into the sea.Anddampsurvivors, shrieking as they flee,Skip to the hills and hold a celebrationIn honor of Thy wise discrimination.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 33OGod, forgive them all, from Stoneman down,Thy smile who construe and expound Thy frown,Andfall with saintly grace upon their kneesTo render thanks whenThou dost only sneeze.THREEKINDSOFAROGUESharon, ambitious of immortal shame.Fame's dead-wall daubed with his illustrious name-Served in the Senate, for our sins, his time.Eachword a folly and each vote a crime;Law for our governance well skilled to makeBy knowledge gained in study how to break;Yet still by the presiding eye ignored,Whichonly sought himwhen too loud he snored.Auspicious thunder!whenhe woketo voteHestilled his own, to cut his country's, throat;That rite performed, fell off again to sleep,While statesmen ages dead awoke to weep!For sedentary service all unfit,Bylying long disqualified to sit,Wastingbelowas he decayed aloft,His seat grownharder as his brain grew soft.Heleft the hall he could not bring away,And grateful millions blessed the happy day!34 THECOLLECTEDWORKSWhate'er contention in that hall is heard,His sovereign State has still the final word:For disputatious statesmen when they roarStartle the ancient echoes of his snore,Whichfrom their dusty nooks expostulateAnd close with stormy clamor the debate.Tolow melodious thunders then they fade;Theirmurmuringlullabies all ears invade;Peace takes the Chair; the portal Silence keeps;Nomotion stirs the dark Lethean deepsWashoehas spoken and the Senate sleeps.IILo!the newSharonwith anewintent,Makingno laws, but keen to circumventThelaws of Nature (since he can't repeal)Thatbreak his failing body on the wheel.AsTantalus again and yet againTheelusivewaveendeavors to restrain.Toslake his awful thirst, so Sharon triesTo purchase happiness that age denies;Obtains the shadow, but the substance goes.Andhugs the thorn, but cannot keep the rose;For Dead Sea fruits bids prodigally, eats,And then, with tardy reformationcheats.Alert his faculties as three score yearsAndfour score vices will permit, he nearsDicing with Deaththe finish of the game,OFAMBROSEBIERCE 35And curses still his candle's wasting flame,The narrow circle of whose feeble glowDims and diminishes at every throw.Moments his losses, pleasures are his gains,Whicheven in his grasp revert to pains.The joy of graspingthat alone remains.IllRing up the curtain and the play protract!Behold our Sharon in his last mad act.With man long warring, quarreling with God,Hecrouchesnowbeneath awoman'srodPredestined for his back while yet it layClosed in an acorn which, one luckless day,Hestole, unconscious of its foetal twig.From the scant garner of a sightless pig.With bleeding shoulders pitilessly scored.Hebawls more lustily than once he snored.Thesympathetic "Comstocks" droop to hear,AndCarson river sheds a viscous tearWhich sturdy tumble-bugs assail amain.With ready thrift, and urge along the plain.The jackass rabbit sorrows as he lopes;The sage-brush glooms along the mountain slopes;In rising clouds the poignant alkali.Tearless itself, makes everybody cry."Washoe canaries" on the Geiger GradeSubdue the singing of their cavalcade,36 THECOLLECTEDWORKSAnd, wiping with their ears the tears unshed,Grieve for their family's unlucky head.Virginia City intermits her tradeAnd well-clad strangers walk her streets unflayed.Nay, all Nevada ceases work to weep,And the recording angel goes to sleep.But in his dreams his goose-quill's creaking fountAugments the debits in the long account.And still the continents and oceans ringWithroyal tormentsof the Silver King!Incessant bellowings fill all the earth,Mingled with inextinguishable mirth.He roars, men laugh, Nevadans weep, beasts howl,Plash the affrighted fish, and shriek the fowl!With monstrous din their blended thunders rise.Peal upon peal, and blare along the skies.Startle in hell the Sharons as they groan.And shake the splendors of the great white throne!Still roaring outward through the vast profound,The spreading circles of receding soundPursue each other in a failing raceTothe cold confines of eternal space;Therebreak and die along that awful shoreWhich God's own eyes have never dared exploreDark, fearful, formless, nameless evermore!Look to the west! Against yon steely skyLone Mountain rears its holy cross on high.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 37About its base the meek-faced dead are laidTo share the benediction of its shade.With crossed white hands, shut eyes and formal feet,Their nights are innocent, their days discreet.Sharon, some years, perchance, remain of lifeOf vice and greed, vulgarity and strife;AndthenGod speed the day if such His willYou'll lie amongthe dead you help to kill.Andbein goodsociety at last.Your purse unsilvered and your face unbrassed.AMANPennoyer, Governor of Oregon,Casting to South his eye across the bourneOf his dominion (where the Palmiped,With leathers 'twixt his toes, paddles his marsh.Amphibious) saw a rising cloud of hats,And heard a faint, far sound of distant cheersBelow the swell of the horizon. "Lo,"Cried one, "the President! the President!"All footed webwise then took up the wordThe hill tribes and the tribes lacustrineallThe folk riparian and littoral.Cried with one voice: "The President! He comes!"And some there were who flung their headgear up38 THECOLLECTEDWORKSInemulation of the Southern mob,While some, more soberly disposed, stood stillAnd silently had fits; and others madeSuch reverent genuflexions as they could,Having that climate in their bones. Then spakeThe Court Dunce, humbly, as became him: "Sire,Ifthou, asheretofore thou hast, wilt deignToreap advantage of a fool's adviceBy action ordered after nature's way,Asin thypeople manifest (for stillStupidity's the only virisdom) thouWilt get thee straight unto to the border landTomarkthe President's approach w^ith suchDue, decent courtesy as it shall seemWehave in custom the best warrant for."Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,Eyingthe storm of hatswhich darkened allThe Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahsOf an exulting people, answered not.Then some there were who fell upon their knees,Andsome upon their Governor, and soughtEach in his way, by blandishment or force,Togain his action to their end. "Behold,"Theysaid, "thy brother Governor to SouthMethim even at the gateway of his realm,Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin.Backed like a rainbowall things done in formOFAMBROSEBIERCE 39Of due observance and respect. Shall weAlone of all his servitors refuseSwiftwelcome to ourmaster andour lord?"Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,Answered them not, but turned his back to themAnd as if speaking to himself, the whileHestarted to retire, said: "Hebe damned!"To that High Place o'er Portland's central block,Wherethe Recording Angel stands to viewThesinning world, nor thinks to movehis feetAside and look below, came flocking upInferior angels, all aghast, and cried:"Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,Has said, Owhat an awful word!too badTobe by us repeated!" "Yes, I know,"Said the superior bird"I heard it too,And have already booked it. Pray observe."Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fellApart, o'ershadowing to right and leftThe Eastern and the Western world, he showedThe newly written entry, black and bigUpon the credit side of thine account,Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.40 THECOLLECTEDWORKSYEFOE TOCATHAYEOnever an oathe sweares he,Andnever a pig-taile jerkes;With a brick-battle he ne lurkesFor to bustey'=crust, perdie,Ofy* man from over sea,A-synging as hew^erkes.Forheknows ful vi^ell, y^ youth,Atricke of exceeding w^orth:Andhe plans writhouten ruthAconflagration's birth!SAMUELSHORTRIDGELike a w^ornmotherhe attempts in vainTostill the unruly Crier of his brain:Themoreherocks thecradleof his chin.The more uproarious grows the brat within.ATA "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT"You're grayer than one would have thought you:The climate you have over thereIn the East has apparently broughtyouDisorders affectingthe hair,Whichpardon meseems a bit spare.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 41You'll not take offence atmygivingExpression to notions like these.Youmighthave been stronger if livingOut here in our sanative breeze.It's unhealthy here for disease.No, I'm not so plump as a pullet,But that's the old wound, you see.Remember mypaunching a bullet?Andhow that it didn't agreeWith?well, honest hardtack for me.Just pass me the wineI've a hellyAndhorrible kind of drouth!Whena fellow has that in his bellyWhichdidn't go in at hismouthHe's hotter than all Down South!Great Scott! what a nasty day that wasWhenevery galoot in our crackDivision whodidn't lie flat wasDissuaded from further attackBythebullet's felicitous whack.'Twas there that our major slept underSomecannon of ours on the crest,Till they woke him by stilling their thunder.Andhe cursed them for breaking his rest,And died in the midst of his jest.42 THECOLLECTEDWORKSThatnightit was late in NovemberThedead seemed uncommonly chillTo the touch; and a chap I rememberWhotook it exceedingly illWhen I dragged myself over his bill.Well, comrades, I'm off nowgood morning.Your talk is as pleasant as pie,But, pardon me, oneword of warning:Speak little and seldom, say I.That's myway. God bless you. Good-bye.THEOSOPHISTRYSays Anderson, Theosophist:"Among the many that existIn modern halls.Somelived in ancient Egypt's clime,Andin theirchildhood sawtheprimeOf Karnak's walls."Ah, Anderson, if that is true'Tismyconviction, sir, that youAreoneof thoseThatonce resided by the NilePeer to the Sacred Crocodile,Heirto hiswoes.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 43Myjudgment is, the Holy CatMews through your larynx (and your hat)Thesemanyyears.Through you the Hallowed Onion bringsIts melancholy sense of things,Andmoves to tears.In you the Bull Divine againBellows and paws the dusty plain,Tonaturetrue.I challenge nothis ancient hate,But, loweringmyknurly pate,Lockhornswith you.And though Reincarnation proveAcreed too stubborn to remove,And all your schoolOfTheosophs I cannot scare,All the more earnestly I swearThatyxju're a fool!You'll say that this is mere abuseWithout, in frayingyou, a use.That's plain to seeWith only half an eye. Come, now,Be fair, be fair,consider howIt eases me.44 THECOLLECTEDWORKSAZRAELThemoon in the field of the keel-plowed mainWaswatching the growing tide;Aluminous peasant was driving his wain,And he offered my soul a ride.But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall,AndI fixed him fast withmyeye."Opeasant," I sangwith a dying fall,"Goleave me to sing and to die."Thewaterwasweltering roundmyfeet.Asprone on the beach they lay.I chantedmydeath-song loud and sweet:"Kioodle, ioodle, iay!"ThenI heard the swish of erecting earsWhich caught that enchanting strain.Theoceanwasswollenwith stormsof tearsThat fell from the shining swain."Opoet," leapt he to the soaken strand,"That ravishing song would makeThedevil a saint!" Heheld out his handAndsolemnly added: "Shake."Weshook. "I crave a victim, 3'ou see,"Hesaid"you came hither to die."OFAMBROSEBIERCE 45TheAngelof Death, 'twashe! 'twashe!Andthe victim he crove was I!'TwasI, FredEmersonBrooks, thebard;And he knocked me on the head.OLord! I thought it uncommonlyhard,For I didn'twant to be dead."You'll sing no worser for that," said heAnd he drove with my soul away.Odeath-song singers, be warnedbyme,Kioodle, ioodle, iay!COMPETITIONTheSeraphscameto Christand said: "Behold!The man, presumptuous and overbold.Whoboasted that his mercycould excelThine own, is dead and on his way to Hell."Gravely the Savior asked: "What did he doTomake his impious assertion true?""HewasaGovernor, releasing allThevilest felons ever held in thrall.No other mortal, since the dawn of time.Hasever pardoned such a mass of crime!"Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim:"YetI amvictor, for I pardonhim."46 THECOLLECTEDWORKSAVISIONOFDOOMI stood upon a hill. The setting sunWascrimson with a curse and a portent,Andscarce his angryray lit upthelandThatlaybelow, whoselurid gloom appearedFreaked with amoving mist, which, reeking upFromdim tarns hateful with somehorrid ban,Took shapes forbidden and without a name.Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reedsWith cries discordant, startled all the air.Andbodiless voices babbled in the gloomThe ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled.Andshrieks of women, andmen's curses. AllThese visible shapes, and soundsnomortal earHad ever heard, some spiritual senseInterpreted, though brokenly; for IWashaunted by a consciousness of crime.Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. AllThesethingsmalign, by sight and sound revealed,Weresin-begotten; that I knewno moreAndthat but dimly, as in dreadful dreamsThesleepy senses babble to the brainIrnperfect witness. As I stood, a voice.But whence it came I knew not, cried aloudSomewords to me in a forgotten tongue.Yet straight I knewme for a ghost forlorn.OFAMBROSEBIERCE47Returned from the illimited inane.Again, but in a language that I knew,As in reply to something which in meHad shaped itself a thought, but found no words,It spake from the dread mystery about:"Immortalshadowof amortalsoulThat perished with eternity, attend.Whatthou beholdest is as void as thou:Theshadowof a poet's dreamhimselfAs thou, his soul as thine, long dead,But not like thine outlasted by its shade.Hisdreamsalone survive eternityAs pictures in the unsubstantial void.Excepting thee and me (and we becauseThe poet wove us in his thought) remainsOf nature and the universe no partNor vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread,Unspeakable land about thy feet, with allIts desolation and its terrorslo!'Tis but a phantom world. So long agoThatGod and all the angels since have diedThatpoet lived^yourself long deadhis mindFilled with the light of a prophetic fire.And standing by the Western sea, aboveTheyoungest, fairestcity in theworld.Namedin another tongue than his for oneEnsainted, saw its populous domain48 THECOLLECTEDWORKSPlague-smitten with a nameless shame. For thereRed-handed murder rioted; and thereThe people gathered gold, nor cared to looseThe assassin's fingers from the victim's throat,But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed:'Am I mybrother's keeper? Let the Law^Lookto the matter.' But the Lawdid not.Andthere, Opitiful! the babe was slainWithin its mother's breast and the same graveHeldbabe andmother; and the people smiled,Still gathering gold, and said: 'TheLaw, the Law.'Then the great poet, touched upon the lipsWitha live coal from Truth's high altar, raisedHisarms to heaven andsanga song of doomSang of the time to be, when God should leanIndignant from theThroneand lift Hishand.And that foul city be no more!a tale,Adream, a desolation and a curce!Novestige of its glory should surviveIn fact or memory: its people dead,Its site forgotten, and its very nameDisputed.""Wastheprophecy fulfilled?"Thesullen disc of the declining sunWascrimsonwitha curse and a portent,Andscarce his angry ray lit up the landFreaked with a moving mist, which, reeking upOFAMBROSEBIERCEFromdim tarns hateful with a horrid ban,Took shapes forbidden and without a name.And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom.But not to mecame any voice again;And,coveringmyfacewith thin, dead hands,I wept, andwoke, and cried aloud to God!GENESISGod said: "Let there be Man," and from the clayAdam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away.Thematrix whence his body was obtained.Anempty man-shaped cavity, remainedAll unregarded from that early timeTill in amodernstorm it filled with slime.Now Satan, envying his Master's powerTomake the meathimself could but devour,Strolled to the place and, standing bythe pool.Exerted all his will to make a fool.Amiracle!from out that ancient holeRose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul."Togive him that I've not the power divine,"Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend himmine."Hebreathed it into him, avapor black.And to this day has never got it back.50 THECOLLECTEDWORKSRELIGIOUSPROGRESS[Every religion is important. When men rise aboveexisting conditions a new religion comes in, and it is betterthan the old one.Professor Hoivison.]Professor dear, I think it queerThat all these good religions('Twixt you and me, some two or threeAre schemes for plucking pigeons)I mean 'tis strange that everychangeOur poor minds to unfetterEntails a new religiontrueAs t' other one, and better.Fromeach in turn thetruthwelearn,Thatwoodor flesh or spiritMayjustly boast it rules the roastUntil wecease to fear it.Nay, once upon a time long goneManworshiped Cat and Lizard:His Godhe'd find in any kindOf beast, from a to izzard.Whenrisen above his early loveOf dirt and blood and slumber,Hepulled down these vain deities.And made one out of lumber.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 51"Farbetter thatthanevenacat,"The Howisons all shouted;"WhenGod is wood religion's good!"But one poor cynic doubted."A timber Godthat's very odd!"Said Progress, and inventedThe simple plan to worship Man,Who,kindly soul! consented.But soon our eye we lift asky,Our vows all unregarded,Andfind (at least so says the priest)The Truth=-and Man's discarded.Alongour line of march reclineDead gods devoid of feeling;Andthick about each sun-cracked loutDried Howisons are kneeling.THEFALLOFMISSLARKINHearmesing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have youunder-stand,Played accordions as well as any lady in the land;And I've often heard it stated that her fingering wassuch52 THECOLLECTEDWORKSThat Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with hertouch,Andthatbeastswereso affectedwhenher apparatusrangThat they dropped upon their haunches and deliriouslysang.This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine,Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine.She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyeswerewetWhenSallyandthe ranch-dogwereperforminga duetWhich I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sungAs to overtax the strength of any single human lung.That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale Ihave to tell,Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how SallyLarkin fell.One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek andsmartAchap as ever wandered there from any foreign part.Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at allobtrudeIt was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pureDude.Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous toseeThat he was a real Gent of an uncommon high degree.That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regardsOFAMBROSEBIERCE 53Onthis exquisite creation was, of course, upon thecards;But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blindTo her many charms of person and the merits of hermind.And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker withher dad.And acted in a manner that in general was bad.Oneevening't was in summershewasholding in herlapHeraccordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap,Leaningupagainst a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued,Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he wasa Dude.NowSally, whowas melancholy too, began to humAndelongate the accordion with a preluding thumb.Then sighs of amorosity she painfully exhaled.And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed."In the gloaming, Omy darling!" rose that wild im-passioned strain,Andher eyeswere fixed on his with an intensity of pain,Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gatecame round,And going into session strove to magnify the sound.He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rangWith the song that to his darling he impetuously sang!Thenthatmusingyouth, recalling all his soul fromotherscenes,54 THECOLLECTEDWORKSWhere his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers allDudines,From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er thegrog,Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interruptthe dog."ARENDEZVOUSNightly I putup this humble petition:"Forgive me,OFather of Glories,My sins of commission, my sins of omission,Mysins of the Mission Dolores!"YORICKHardbyanexcavated street one satIn solitary session on the sand;Andever and anon iie spake and spat.AndspakeagainayellowckuUin hand,Towhich that retrospective PioneerAddressed the fewremarksthat follow here:"Whoareyou? Didyoucome 'der blains agross,'Or'Hornaroundt'? In days o' '49Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern CrossOFAMBROSEBIERCE 55Fromthe Antar'tic Sea git upan' shine?Ordid you drive abull team 'all the wayFrom Pike,' with Mr.Joseph Bowers?say!"Wasyou in Frisco when the watercameUp to Montgum'ry street? and do you mindThe time when Peters run the faro gameJim Peters from old MississipbehindWellsFargo's, where he subsequent wasbustBySandy, as regards both bank and crust?"IwonderwasyouherewhenCaseyshotJamesKing o' William? Anddid you attendTheneck-tie dance ensuin'? / did not,Butj'ined the rush to GoCreekwithmyfriendEd'ard McGowan; for we was resolvedIn sech diversions not to be involved."Maybe I knowedyou; seems to meI've seedYourface afore. I don't forget a face.Butnames I disrememberI'm that breedOfowls. I'm talking some'at into space,An'maybemyremarks is too derned free,Seein' your name is unbeknown to me."Ther'wasa time, I reckon, when I knowedNighontoevery dern galoot in town.Thatwasas lateas '50. Nowshe'sgrowed56 THECOLLECTEDWORKSSurprisin'! Yes, mean' mypardner, Brown,Waswideacquainted. If ther' wasacussWedidn't know, the cause washeknowed us."Maybeyouhad that claim adjoinin' mineUpthar in Calaveras. Wasit youTowhichLongMarytook a mighty shine,An'throwed squar' off onJakethe Kangaroo?I guess if she could see yenowshe'd takeHerchance o' happiness along o' Jake."Youain't so purtynowas youwasthen:Yereyes is nothin' but twoprospect holes.An'womenwhichare hitched tobettermenWouldhardly for sech glances damn their souls.AsLengthie did. ByGod! I hope it's you,For" {kicks the skull) "I'm Jake the Kangaroo."STANFORD'SWELCOME"Oson of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:Beeyes, I pray, to thy dying sire.""Ofather, fear not, for mineeyes arebrightI read through a millstone at dead of night."OFAMBROSEBIERCE 57"Myson,Otell me,whoare those men,Rushing, like pigs to the feeding-pen?""Welcomersthey of a statesman grand.They'llshake, andthen theywill pocket, hishand.""Sagacious youth with the wondrous eye.They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?""Because they've thrown up their hands until, O,They're so tired!and dinners they've none tothrow.""Myson,myson, thoughdull aremineears,I hear a great sound like the people's cheers.""He's thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes.Forgivinghimlately thatfine surprise.""Mymemory fails as I near mine end;Howdid they astonish their grateful friend?""Byletting him buy, like apples or oats.Withthat which has madehim so good, the votesWhichmakehim so wise and grand and great.Now, father, please die, for 'tis growing late."58 THECOLLECTEDWORKSPOSTERITY'SAWARDI'd long been dead, but I returned to earth.Somesmall affairs posterity wasmakingAmessof, and I cameto seethatworthReceived its dues. I'd hardly finished waking.The grave-mould still upon me, when my eyePerceived a statue standing straight and high.'Twasacolossal figurebronzeandgoldNobly designed, in attitude commanding.Atogafrom its shoulders, fold on fold,Fell to the pedestal onwhich 'twas standing.Nobility it had and splendid grace,And all it should have hadexcept a face!It showed no features: not a trace nor signOfanyeyes or nose could be detectedOnthe smooth oval of its front no lineWhere sites for mouths are commonly selected.Allblankandblind its faultyhead it reared.Let this be said: 'twasgenerouslyeared.Seeing these things, I straight began to guessFor whom this mighty image was intended."Thehead," I cried, "is Upton's, and the dressIs Parson Bartlett's own. True, his cloak endedFlush with his lowest vertebra, but noSane sculptor ever made a toga so."OFAMBROSEBIERCE 59Thenon the pedestal thesewords I read:"Erected Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven"(Saint Christofer! how fast the time had sped!Ofcourse it naturally does in Heaven)"To"(here a blank space for the name began)"TheNineteenth Century's GreatForemostMan!""Completed," the inscription ended,"inTheYearThree Thousand"whichwasjust arriving.By Jove! thought I, 'twould make the founders grinTo learn whose fame so long has been survivingToread the name posterity will placeIn thatblankvoid, andviewthe finished face.Even as I gazed, the year Three Thousand came,Andthen byacclamation all the peopleDecreed whose was our century's best fame;Thenscaffolded the statue like a steeple.Tomake the likeness; and the name was sunkDeep in the pedestal's metallic trunk.Whosewasit? Gentle reader, prayexcuseTheseeming rudeness, but I can't consent toBe so forehanded with important news.'Twas neither yours nor mine^let that content you,If not, the name I must surrender, which,Upon a dead man's word, was Deacon Fitch!60 THECOLLECTEDWORKSANARTCRITICIra P. Rankin, you've a nasal nameI'll sound it through "the speaking-trunip of fame,"And wondering nations, hearing from afarThe brazen twang of its resounding jar,Shall say: "These bards are an uncommon classTheyblow their noses with a tube of brass!"Soyouobject to Cytherea! Do,Thepicture was not painted, sir, for you!Yourmind to gratify and taste address.Themaskingdovehadbeen a dove the less.Provincial censor! all untaught in art.Withmind indecent and indecent heart.Doyou notknownay, whyshould I explain?Instruction, argument alikewere vainI'll showyou reasonswhenyou showmebrain.THESPIRITOFASPONGEI dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died.Andfor admission up at Heaven applied."Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Massett said:"Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head,OFAMBROSEBIERCE 61Opened the gates and said: "I'm glad to know you,Andwish we'd something better, sir, to show you.""Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland,Andwas about to enter, hat in hand,When from a cloud below such fumes aroseAs tickled tenderly his conscious nose.Hepaused, replaced his hat upon his head.Turnedbackand to the saintly warden said.O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swearI smell some broiling going on down there!"So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell.Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.ORNITHANTHROPOS"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rangAswhen Creation into being sprang!Nature, not clearly understanding, triedTomakea bird that on the air could ride.Butnaughtcould bafHe thecreative planDespite her efforts 'twas almost a man.Yet hehad risento the bird atwinHad she but fixed a wing upon his chin.62 THECOLLECTEDWORKSTOE. S. SALOMON,Whoin a MemorialDay oration protested bitterly againstdecorating the graves of Confederate dead.What! Salomon! such wordsfrom you,Whocall yourself asoldier? Well,TheSouthernbrotherwherehe fellSlept all yourbaseoration through.Alike to himhe cannot knowYour praise or blame: as little harmYour tongue can do him as your armAquarter-century ago.Thebrave respect the brave. ThebraveRespect the dead; but you^you drawThatancient blade, the ass's jaw.Andshake it o'er a hero's grave.Areyou nothewhomakesto-dayAmerchandise of old renownWhichhepersuades this easytownHewon in battle far away?Nay, those the fallenwhorevileHavene'er before the living stoodAndstoutlymade their battle goodAnd greeted danger with a smile.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 63Whatif the deadwhomstill you hateWere wrong? Are you so surely right?Weknow the issues of the fightThesword is but an advocate.Menlive anddie, andothermenArise with knowledges diverse:Whatseemed a blessing seems acurse,AndNowis still at odds with Then.Theyears go on, the old comesbackTomockthenewbeneath thesunIs nothingnew; ideas runRecurrent in an endless track.Whatmostwecensure,menaswiseHavereverently practised; norWillfuturewisdom fail towarOn principles we dearly prize.Wedo notknowwecan but deem,Andhe is loyalest and bestWhotakes the light full on his breastAnd follows it throughout the dream.Thebroken light, the shadowswideBehold the battle-field displayed!Godsave the vanquished from the blade.Thevictorfromthe victor's pride!64 THECOLLECTEDWORKSIf, Salomon, the blessed dewThat falls upon the BlueandGrayIs powerless to wash awayThesin of differing from you,Rememberhowthe flood of yearsHas rolled across the erring slain;Remember, too, the cleansing rainOfwidows' and of orphans' tears.The dead are deadlet that atone:Andthough with equal handwestrewThebloomson saint and sinner too.Yet God will know to choose his own.The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,Whodoes not love the harmless deadWith all his heart and all his headMayGod forgive him, / shall not.When, Salomon, you come to quaffTheDarkerCupwith meeker face,I, lovingyou at last, shall traceUponyour tomb this epitaph:"Drawnear, ye generous and braveKneel round this monument and weepFor one who tried in vain to keepAflower froma soldier's grave."OFAMBROSEBIERCE 65DENNISKEARNEYYour influence, my friends, has gathered headToeast and west its tides encroaching spread.There'll be, on all God's fool-stool, whentheymeet,Noclean spot left forHimto set His feet.FINIS ^TERNITATISStrolling at sunset in mynative land,With fruits and flowers thick on either hand,I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way.Emergingon a waste of rock and sand."The apples all are gone from here," I said,"Theroses perished and their spirits fled.I will go back." Avoice cried out: "The manIs risenwhoeternallywasdead!"I turned and saw an angel standing there,Newlydescended from the heights of air.Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his handsAnaked sword and golden trumpet bare.66 THECOLLECTEDWORKS"Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,"I said. "Its chill wasbut a touch of frost.It mademegasp, but quicicly I came through,With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost."'Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrustGrayedheads 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 shownTheyoungest and the proudest city known,Liftedsmooth ridges in the steely lightBleak, desolate acclivities of stone.Where I had worshiped at my father's tomb,Withina massive temple's awful gloom,Ajackal slunk along the naked rock.Affrighted by some prescience of doom.Man's vestiges were nowhere to be found,Saveone brass mausoleumon amound(Iknewit well) spared bythe artist TimeTo emphasize the desolation round.Into the stagnant sea the sullen sunSank behind bars of crimson, one by one."Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud."Eternity," the angel said, "is done.OFAMBROSEBIERCE67"Forman is ages dead in every zone;Theangels 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 shoreWhenall are gone (as Gabriel did before,WhenI had throttled the last manalive)Andswear Eternity shall be no more.""OAzraelOPrince of Death, declareWhy 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 mecreep again beneath the grass.Andknockyou atyonpompoustombofbrass.If ears are whatyou want, Charles Crocker's thereBetwixtthe greatest ears, the greatest ass."Herapped, and while the hollow echoes rang,Out at the door a curst hyena sprangAnd fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped,"Andclosed the brazen portalwith a bang.68 THECOLLECTEDWORKSTHEVETERANJohn Jackson, once a soldier bold,Hath still a martial feeling;So, when he sees a foe, behold!Hechargeshimwith stealing.Hecares nothowmuchgroundto-dayHegivesformentodoubthim;He'sused to givingground, theysay,Wholately foughtwithout him.When, for the battle to be won.Hisgallantrywasneeded.Theysay each time a loaded gunWentoffso, likewise, he did.And when discharged (for war's a sportSo hot he had to leave it)He made a very loud report,Butnoone did believe it.AN"EXHIBIT"Goldensonhanged!Well, HeavenforbidThat I should smile above him:Thoughtruth to tell, I never didExactly love him.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 69It can'tbewrong,though, to rejoiceThathis unpleasing capersAreended. Silent is his voiceIn all the papers.Nolonger he's ashow: no more,Bear-like, his den he's walking.Nolongercanhehold the floorWhen I'd be talking.Thelaws that govern jails are badIf such displays are lawful.Thefate of the assassin's sad.But ours is awful!What! shall a wretch condemned to dieIn shameupon the gibbetBeset before the public eyeAsan "exhibit"?Hislooks, his actions noted down,Hiswords, if lightorsolemn.Andall thishawkedabout thetownSomuchacolumn?The press, of course, will publish newsHowever it may get it;But blast the sheriff who'll abuseHis powers to let it!70 THECOLLECTEDWORKSNay, this is notingratitude;I'm no reporter, truly.Nor yet an editor. I'm rudePerhaps unrulyBecause I burnwithshameandrageBeyond my power of tellingTosee assassins in a cageAndkeepers yelling."Walkup!Walkup!" theshowmancries:"Observe the lion's poses,Hisstormymane, his glooming eyes,Hishold your noses!"Howlong, OLord, shall Lawand RightBe mocked for gain or glory.And angels weep as they reciteTheshameful story?THETRANSMIGRATIONSOFASOULWhat! Pixley, must I hearyou call the rollOfall the vices that infest yoursoul?Was'tnotenough that lately youdid bawlYourmoney-worship in the ears of all?Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tellThat though a miser you're a sot as well?OFAMBROSEBIERCE71Still must I hear howlow your taste has sunkFromgettingmoneydownto gettingdrunk?Whoworships money, damning all beside,Andshowshiscallouskneeswithpious pride,Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er scornsHisown possessions, be they coins or corns.You'vemoney, neighbor;hadyougentle birthYou'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 headScience and letters had their glory shed;If in the cavern of your skull the lightOf knowledge shone where now eternal nightBreeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughtsOf cerebration that you think are thoughtsBlack bats in cold and dismal corners hungThat squeak and gibber when you move your tongueYouwould not write, in Avarice's defense,Asenseless eulogyonlackof sense.Norshowyoureagerness to sacrificeAll noble virtues to one loathsome vice.You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shameToboast your weakness or your baseness name.Appraise the things you have, but measure notThe things denied to your unhappy lot.72 THECOLLECTEDWORKSHevalues manners lighter than a corkWhocombs his beard at table with a fork,Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake,The laws of taste condemn you to the stakeToexpiate, where all the world maysee,The crime of growing old disgracefully.Distinction, learning, birth and manners, too,All that distinguishes a man from you,Praydamn at will: all shining virtues gainAnadded luster from a rogue's disdain.Butspare theyoungthat proselyting sin,Atoper's apotheosis of gin.If not our young, at least our pigs mayclaimExemption from the spectacle of shame!Areyou not hewholately out of shapeBlew a brass trumpet to denounce the grape?Wholed the brave teetotalers afieldAndslew your leader underneath your shield?Swore that nomanshould drink unless he flungHimself across your body at the bung?Whovowed if you'd the power you would fineTheSon of God for makingwater wine?All trails to odiumyoutread and boast,Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most.Oneday to be a miser you aspire,Thenext to wallow drunken in the mire;OFAMBROSEBIERCE 73The third, lo! you're a meritorious liar!Pray, in the catalogue of all your gracesHavetheft andcowardice nohonored places?Yield thee, great Satan^here's a rival nameWith all thy vices and but half thy shame!Quick to the letter of the precept, quickTothe example of the elder Nick;With as great talent as was e'er appliedTofool a teacherandto fogaguide;With slack allegiance and boundless greed,Topaunch the profit of a traitor deed.Heaims to make thy glory all his own,Andcrowd his master from the infernal throne!INDICTMENTONEVIDENCEBruceDouglas,nephewto a Scottish Earl,Sat in the City Prison, low in heartAnd spirits. Round him lay the forms of menMen of the people, of ignoble birthProneor supine in sleep; but sleep andheWere out: the Douglas was too drunk for sleep.And so he sat and moaned; and still his moanHadall the cadencesandstops of songRecurrentswellsandmeasured silencesWhichsought the ear as ocean's billows roll.74 THECOLLECTEDWORKSAteven spaces andwith matching speed,One after one ashore. Wherefore uproseAnold gray constable who in the mornAndblossom of his life had courted fameAs horse-reporter for a public print,And so was skilled in letters, and he spake,There to the sergeant, saying: "Surely, now,Theman's a poet. In his moan I hearThepulsing and the passion of the seaHearthe far beatingof the waterfall,Throbbing of noon-day insects in the grassAll rhythmic movements of the universeWhich poets echo in their thought and speech,Even in their inarticulate complaintsOf pain. Mylife I'll hazard that the man'sAbard disguised to look a gentleman."So, bringing his effects, which had till thenLain unconsideredfrom his pockets pluckedAnd tossed asideall curiously theyExplored the papers. Odes and odes . there were,And every ode in praise of some fair sceneIn a fair land; and the fair land was thisOur California. From the snowy peaksThat glitter in the skies of Siskiyou,Down to the golden margin where the landSlips underneath the San Diegan bay;Andfrom the dim Sierra, far acrossTowhereold Ocean bears upon his breastOFAMBROSEBIERCE 75TheMongolhorde returning to its own,Its native landand its dearhouseholdgods,Bruce Douglas, nephewof a Scottish Earl,Hadsungthe beauty of the Golden State!Sothen theClerk, splittingtheBookof Doom,Charged him therein with murder, arson, rape,Theft, libel, mayhem and intent to leaveThe Stateandso defraudhis creditorsWithvagrancy, extortion and assaultFelonious, obtainingcash byfalsePretenseswith infanticideeven him,BruceDouglas,nephewof a ScottishEarl.TO ANASPIRANTWhat! you a Senator?you, Mike de Young?Still reeking of the gutter whenceyou sprung?Sir, if all Senators weresuch as youTheirhands so slender and so crimson too(Shaped to the pocket for commercialwork,Forliterary, fitted to the dirk)So black their hearts, so lily-white their liversThe toga's touch would give a man the shivers!76 THECOLLECTEDWORKSATTHEWHITEHOUSEAmongthe notablesoneday that cameTosee the President wasonewhosenameWasknownfromPorto Rico to Luzon,Although it wasn't Smith nor even John.Renownedin field andcouncil too, for heHadtilled the soil andbeen a school trustee.Occasionally, just to pass the time.Heworked at patriotism andscowled at crime;Wentupand down the land denouncing thoseWholoved him little as the country's foes;Predicted famine when they scorned his story,Andfor the ensuing harvestclaimed the glory.Hisnameindeed was famous, but becauseMymemory'sweak I knownot what it was.ThePresident he came that day to seeWasas illustrious in his wayas he.His name a household wordthat is to sayMendamnedhim roundly to begin the day,Deploredhim in the fireside's rosy lightAndgrunted disesteem throughout the night.Not all mensome, the sons of pious mothers.Prayed for him daily as upon him others.Sleek, snug, self-righteous, cunning as a rat,Afish in fervor and in faith a cat,OFAMBROSEBIERCE 77Obscureby nature, he had ne'er been greatIf Fortune had not kicked him into state.Hisname? Goask Posterity, notmeFrom words opprobrious my page is free.So they were marriedno I mean they met;Foraught Iknowtheyare in session yet,There in theWhite House, for each swore the placeBelongedtohimbyGod'saboundinggrace.But, O, mayHetake measures to preventIf both at once theywould be President.TIDINGSOFGOODOldNickfromhis placeoflast resortCameupandlooked the worldover.Hesaw how the grass of the good was shortAndthe wicked lived in clover.Andhe gravely said: "This is all, all wrong.Andnever bymeintended.If tomethe powereverbelongI shall have this thing amended."Helooked so solemnand goodandwiseAshemadethisobservationThatthemenwhoheardhimbelieved their eyesInstead of hisreputation.78 THECOLLECTEDWORKSSo they bruited the matter about, and eachReported the words as nearlyAs memory servedwith additional speechTobring out the meaning clearly.Theconsequencewasthat noneunderstood,And the wildest rumors startedOf something intended to help the goodAndinjure the evil-hearted.ThenRobertMorrowwasseen to smileWith a bright and lively joyance."A man," said he, "that is free from guileWill now be free from annoyance."TheFeatherstones doubtless will nowincreaseAnd multiply like the rabbits.While jailers, deputy sheriffs, police,And writers will form good habits."The widows more easily robbed will be,Andno juror will ever heed 'em.Butopen his purse to myeloquent pleaForsecurity, gain, or freedom."When Benson heard of the luck of the good(Hewaseating his dinner) hemuttered:"It cannot help me, for 'tis understoodMybread is already buttered.OFAMBROSEBIERCE79"Myplats ofsurveys are all false, theysay,But that cannot greatly matterTome, for I'll tell the jurors that theyMaylick, if they please, myplatter."ANACTORSome one ('tis hardly new) has oddly saidThe color of a trumpet's blare is red;AndJosephEmmettthinksthe crimsonshameOnwoman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.Themore the red storm rises round her noseThemorehereyes averted seekher toes,Hefancies all the louder he can hearThetube resounding in his spacious ear,And, all his varied talents to exert.Deepens his dullness to display his dirt.Andwhenthe gallery's applauding crowd.And gentlemen below, with hisses loud.In hot contention (these his art to crown.And those his naked nastiness to drown)Makesuch a din that cheeks erewhile aflameGrow white and in their fear forget their shame.With impudence imperial, sublime.Unmoved,thepatient actorbides his time,Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.80 THECOLLECTEDWORKSWhenall the place is silent as amouseOneslow, suggestive gesture clears the house!FAMINE'SREALMTohim inwhomthe love of Nature hasImperfectly supplanted the desireAnddread necessity of food, your shore,Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over allYoursunnylevel, fromTamaletownTowhere the Pestuary's fragrant slime,With dead dogs studded, bears its azure fleet,Broods the still menace of starvation. BonesOfmenandwomen bleach along the waysAndpampered vultures sleep upon the trees.It is aland of death, for FaminethereHolds sovereignty; though some there be her swayWhochallenge, and intrenched in larders live.Drawing their sustentation from abroad.Butwoeto him, the stranger! Heshall dieAsdie the early righteous in the budAndpromiseof their prime. He, venturesomeTopenetrate the wilds rectangularOf grass-grown ways luxuriant of blooms,Frequented of the bee and of the blithe,Bold squirrel, strays with heedless feet afarFrom human habitation and is lostOFAMBROSEBIERCE 81In mid-Broadway. There hunger seizes him,And (careless man! deeming God's providenceExtendsso far) hehas notwherewithalTo bate its urgency. Then, lo! appearsArestauranta mealerya placeWhere poison battles famine, and the two,Likefish-hawkswarringin the upperskyFor that which one has taken from the deep.Managebetween them to dispatch the prey.Heenters andleaves hope behind. ThereendsHis history. Anon his bones, clean-pickedBybuzzards (with the bones himself had picked,Incautious) line thehighway. O,myfriends,Of all felonious and deadlywiseDevices of the Enemyof Souls,Planted along the ways of life to snareMan'smortal and immortal part alike,TheOakland restaurant is chief. It livesThatmanmaydie. It flourishes that lifeMaywither. Its foundation stones reposeOnhumanhearts and hopes. I've seen in itCrabsstewed in milkand salad offered upWithdressing so unholily compoundThatit included flourandsugar! Yea,I've eaten dog there!dog, as I'm a man.Dogseethed in sewage of the town! NomoreThyhand. Dyspepsia, assumes the penAndscrawls a tortured "Finis" on the page.82 THECOLLECTEDWORKSTHE MACKAIADMackay's hot wrath to Bonynge, direful springOfblows unnumbered, heavenly goddess, singThat wrath which hurled to Hellman's office floorTwoheroes, mutually smeared with gore,Whosehair 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 Bonyngecomesuponthe sceneAndasks the favorof 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,Aschild of nature; and his suit hewon.Nomore the Sovereign, wearied with his plea,From slumber's chain her faculties can free.Lowand more low the royal eyelids creep,She gives the assenting nod and falls asleep.Straightway the Bonynges all invade the CourtAnd telegrkph the news to every port.Beneath the seas, red-hot, the tidings fly.Thecables crinkle and the fishes fry!Theworld, awaking like a startled bat,Exclaims: "A Bonynge? What the devil's that?"Mackay,meanwhile, to envy all attent,OFAMBROSEBIERCE 83Untaughtto spare, unableto relent,Walks in our town on needles and on pins,Andin amean, revengeful spiritgrins!Sing, muse, what next to break the peace occurredWhat act uncivil, what unfriendly word?Thegod of Bosh ascending from his pool.Wheresincecreation he hasplayed the fool,Clove theblue slush, as other gods the sky.And, waiting but a moment's space to dry,Touched Bonynge with his finger-tip. "O son,"He said, "alike of nature and a gun,Knowest not Mackay's insufferable sin?Hast thou not heard that he doth stand and grin?Arise! assert thy manhood, and attestTheuncommercial spirit in thy breast.Avenge thine honor, for by Jove I swearThou shalt not else bemypeculiar care!"Hespake, andere his worshipercould kneelHad dived into his slush pool, head and heel.Full of the god and to revenges nerved.Andconscious of a will that never swerved,Bonynge set sail: our world beyond the waveAsgladlytookhim as the other gave.NewYork received him, but a shudder ranThrough all the western coast, which knew the man;And science said the seismic agitationWasdue to mutable equilibration.84 THECOLLECTEDWORKSOgoddess, singwhatBonynge next essayed.Didhe unscabbard the avenging blade,Thelong spear brandish and porrect the shield,Havoc the town and devastate the field?Hissacred thirst for blood did he allayByhalving the unfortunate Mackay?Small were the profit and the joy to himTohewa base-born person, limbfrom limb.Letvulgar souls to lowrevenge incline,Thatof diviner spirits is divine.Bonynge at noonday stood in public placesAnd (with regard to the Mackays) made faces!Before those formidablefrownsandscowlsThedogs fled, tail-tucked, with affrighted howls,And horses, terrified, with flying feetO'erthrew the apple-stands along the street,Involving the metropolis in vastFinancial ruin! Men themselves, aghast,Retreated east andwestandnorthandsouthBefore the menace of that twisted mouth.Till Jove, in answer to their prayers, sent NightToveil the dreadful visage from their sight!Such were the causes of the horrid strifeThemother-wrongs that nourished it to life,O,for a quill froman archangel'swing!O, for a voice that's adequate to singThesplendor and the terror of the fray.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 85The scattered hair, the coat-tails all astray,Theparted collars and the gouts of goreReeking and smoking on the banker's floor,The interlocking limbs, embraces dire,Revolvingbodiesinderangedattire!Vain, vain the trial: 'tis vouchsafed to noneTosing twomillionaires rolled into one!Myhand and pen their ofHces refuse,And hoarse and hoarser grows the weary muse.Alone remains, to tell of the event.Abandoned, lost andvariously rent.TheBonyngenethermost habiliment.ASONG IN PRAISEHail, blessed Blunder! golden idol, hail!-Clay-footed deity of all who fail.Celestial image, let thy glory shine,Thy feet concealing, but a lamp to mine.Letme, at seasonsopportune and fit.By turns adore thee and by turns commit.In thy high service let me ever be(Yetnever serve thee asmycritics me)Happyand fallible, content to feelI blunder chiefly when to thee I kneel.Butbest felicity is histhypraise86 THECOLLECTEDWORKSWhoutters unaware in works and waysWholaborare est orare proves,And feels they suasion wheresoe'er he moves,Serving thy purpose, not thine altar, still,And working, for he thinks it his, thy will.If such a life with blessings be not fraught,I envy Peter Robertson for naught.APOET'SFATHERWelcker, I'm told, can boast a father greatAnd honored in the service of the State.Public Instruction all his mind employsHeguides its methodsand itswageenjoys.Prime Pedagogue, imperious and grand,Hewaves his ferule o'er a studiouslandWhere humming youths, intent upon the page.Thirsting for knowledge with a noble rage,Drinkdrythewhole PierianspringandaskTo slake their fervor at his private flask.Arrested by the terror of his frown,The vaulting spit-ball drops untimely down;The fly impaled on the tormenting pinStills in his awful glance its dizzy din;Beneath that stern regard the chewing-gumWhichwrithed and squeaked between the teeth is dumb;Obedient to his will the dunce-cap fliesOFAMBROSEBIERCE87Toperchuponthebrowsofthe unwise;Thesupple switch forsakes the parent woodTo settle where 'twill do the greatest good,Puissant still, as when of old it stroveWith Solomon for spitting on the stove.Learned Professor, variously great,Guide, guardian, instructor of the StateQuick to discern and zealous to correctThe faults that mar the public intellectFrom where of Siskiyou the northern boundIs frozen eternal to the sunless groundTowhere in San Diego's torrid climeTheswarthy Greaser swelters in his grimeBeneath your stupid nose can you not seeThe dunce whom once you dandled on your knee?Omightymasterof athousand schools.Stop teaching wisdom, or stop breeding fools.ACOWARDWhenMarriot, distressed byan "attack,"Hasthestrange insolence to answerbackHehides behind a name that is a lie.Andoutofshadowfalters his reply.God knows him, thoughidentified alikeBy hardihood to rise and fear to strike,88 THECOLLECTEDWORKSAndfitly to rebuke his sins decrees,That, hide from others with what care he please.Night sha'n't be black enough nor earth so wideThatfrom himself himself can ever hide!Hard fate indeed to feel at every breathHis burden of identity till death!Nomoment's respite from the immortal load,Tothink himself a serpent or a toad,Ordream, with a divine, ecstatic glow.He's long been dead and canonized a crow!TOMYLIARSAttend, mine enemies of all degrees,From sandlot orators and other fleasTo fallen gentlemen and rising loutsWhobabble slander at your drinking bouts.And, filled with unfamiliar wine, beginLies drowned, ere born, in more congenial gin.But most attend, ye persons of the pressWho live (though why, yourselves alone can guess)In hope deferred, ambitious still to shineByhatingmeat half acent a lineLike drones amongthe bees of brighter wing.Sunless to shine andimpotentto sting.Toestimate in easy verse I'll tryThecontroversial valueof a lie.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 89So lend your earsGod knows you have enough!I mean to teach, and if I can't I'll cuff.Alie is wicked, so the priests declare;But that to us is neither here nor there.'Tis worse than wicked, it is vulgar too;N'importewith that we've nothing here to do.If 'twere artistic I wouldlie till death.Andshapea falsehood withmylatest breath,Parrhasius never moredid pity lack,The while his model writhed upon the rack.ThanIshouldfor myadversary'spain,(Who, stabbed with fibs again and yet again,Wouldvainly seek to movemystubborn heart)If slander were, and wit were not, an art.Theill-bred and illiterate can lieAs fast as you, and faster far than I.Shall I compete, then, in a strife accurstWhereAllen Forman is an easy first.Andwhere the second prize is rightly flungToCharleyShortridge or toMikedeYoung?In mental combat but a single endInspires the formidable to contend.Notby the rawrecruit's ambition fired.Bywhomfoul blows, though harmless, are admired;Not by the coward's zeal, who, on his kneeBehindtheboleofhis protectingtree,90 THECOLLECTEDWORKSSo curves his musket that the bark it fits,And, firing, blowsthe weapon into bits;Butwith the noble aim of one whose heartValues his foeman for he loves his artTheveteran debatermoves afield,Untaught to libel as untaught to yield.Dear foeman mine, I've but this end in viewThatto preventwhichmostyou wish to do.What,then, areyoumosteager to be at?Tohate me? Nay, I'll help you, sir, at that.Thisonlypassion doesyoursoul inspire:Youwish to scorn me. Sir, you shall admire.'Tis not enoughmyneighbors that youschoolInthebelief that I'm a rogueor fool;ThatsmalladvantageyouwouldgladlytradeFor what one moment would yourself persuade.Write, then, your largest and your longest lie:Yousha'n't believe it, howsoe'er you try.No falsehood you can tell, no evil do,Shall turn mefrom the truth to injure you,So all yourwar is barren of effect;I findmyvictoryin your respect.What profit have you if the world you setAgainst me? For the world will soon forgetIt thoughtmethis or that; but I'll retainAvivid picture of your moral stain,Andcherish till mymemoryexpireOFAMBROSEBIERCE 91Thesweet, soft consciousness that you're a h'ar.Is it your triumph, then, to prove that youWill do the thing that I wouldscorn to do?Godgrant that I forever he exemptFrom such advantage as my foe's contempt."PHIL"CRIMMINSStill as heclimbed into the public viewHischarmsof person moreapparent grew.Till the pleased world that watched his airy graceSawnothing ofhimbuthis nether faceForgot his follies with his head's retreat,Andblessed his virtues as it viewed their seat.ONTHESCALESTheproverb hath it. Waterman:"There never is great loss withoutSome little gain." 'Tis Nature's planOf restitution, I've no doubt;As sometimes a repentant thiefRestores, for conscience's relief,Some ten per cent., or thereabout,Ofall thelootwithwhichhe ran.92 THECOLLECTEDWORKSDearGovernor,whenyouwere illYou lost, they say, some twenty pound;But, museandponderas I will.Andcast mysearching thoughts around,I find in that great loss no gainUnless indeed in heart and brainYousuffered it; but I'll be boundThat they are unaffected still.For still you're foolish and absurd.And still malicious and perverseAs ever; and in truth I've heardThat since recovering you're worse.The inference, I think, is fair:Youlost notwhatwebestcouldspare:Yourcharacter remains to curseTheState until you're sepulchred.'Tis true there's measurably lessOfyouto packandyou're aloadBut chiefly that concerns, I guess,The patient beast that you bestrodeWhen, booted, spurred and gloved and all,Youled MarkBoruckfrom the stall,Toride himon that rocky road,Political unrighteousness.In gain to Boruck, though, wescanAloss to every honest soul,It aids the weekly Harridan,OFAMBROSEBIERCE 93His thoroughbred-and-butter foal.Toend: the weight whose loss we mourn,FromWaterman by illness torn,Wasmostly waterit were drollTolearn he'd twenty pounds of man!CODEXHONORISJacob Jacobs, of Oakland, he swore:"Dat Solomon MartinI'll haf his gore!"Solomon Martin, of Oakland, he said:"Of Shacob Shacobs der bleed I vill shed!"So they met, with seconds and surgeon at call,And fought with pistol and powder andallWasdone in good faith,as before I said.They fought with pistol and powder andshedTears, Omy friends, for each other they marredFighting with pistol and powder and lard!For the lead had been stolen away, every trace.And Christian hog-product supplied its place.ThentheshadeofMosesindignantarose:"Quvicker dan lighdnings go vosh yer glose!"Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, they say.Applied for a pension the following day.SolomonMartin,ofOakland, I hear.Willcall himself Colonel formanyayear.94 THECOLLECTEDWORKSTOW.H. L. B.Refrain, dull orator, from speaking out.For silence deepens whenyou raise the shout;But when you hold your tongue we hear, at least,Your noise in mastering that little beast.EMANCIPATIONBehold! thedaysofmiracleat lastReturnif ever they were truly past:From sinful creditors' unholy greedThechurch called Calvary at last is freedSocalled for there the Savior's crucified,Roberts and Carmany on either side.Thecircling contribution-box no moreProvokes the nod and simulated snore;Nomorethe Lottery, no more the Fair,Lures the reluctant dollar from its lair,Nor Ladies' Lunches at a bit a biteDestroythe health yet spare the appetite.While thrifty sisters o'er the cauldron stoopToservetheirGodwithzeal, their friendswithsoup,And all the brethren mendicate the earthWithviewless placards:"We'vebeenso frombirth!"OFAMBROSEBIERCE 95Sureof his wage, the pastornowcan lendHiswhole attention to his latter end,Remarkingwithamartyr'sprescient thrillTheHempmaturingon the cheerless Hill.The holy brethren, lifting pious palms.Pourout their gratitude in prayer and psalms,ChantDeProfundis, meaning "out of debt,"And dance like mador would if they were let.Deeply disguised (a deacon newly deadSupplied the means) Jack Satan holds his headAs high as any and as loudly singsHis jubilate till each rafter rings."Rejoice, ye ever faithful," bellows he,"The debt is lifted and the temple free!"Thensays, aside, with gentle cachination:"I have a mortgageon thecongregation."JOHNDONKEY[There isn't a man living who does not have at least asneaking reverence for a horse-shoe.Evening PostJlThusthe poor ass whose appetite has ne'erKnown than the thistle any sweeter fareThinks all the world eats thistles. Thusthe clown.Thewit and Mentor of the country town,Grins through the collar of a horse and thinks96 THECOLLECTEDWORKSOthers for pleasure do as he for drinks,Thoughsecretly, becauseunwillingstillIn public to attest their lack of skill.Each dunce whose life and mind all follies marBelieves as he is all men living areHis vices theirs, their understandings his;Naught that heknowsnot, all he fancies, is.How odd that any mind such stuff should boast!Hownatural to write it in the Post!HELLThe friends who stood aboutmybedLookeddownuponmyface and said:"God's will be donethe fellow's dead."Whenfrommybody I was freeI straightway felt myself, ah me!Sinkdownwardto the life to be.Full twenty centuries I fell,And then alighted. "Here you dwellFor aye," a Voice cried"this is Hell!"Alandscape lay about my feet.Wheretrees were green and flowers sweet.The climate was devoid of heat.OFAMBROSEBIERCE97The sun lookeddown with gentle beam,Uponthebosom of the stream,Norsaw I any sign of steam.Thewatersbythe skywere tinged,Thehills with light andcolor fringed.Birds warbled on the wing unsinged."Ah, no, this is not Hell," I cried;"The preachers ne'er so greatly lied.This is Earth's spirit glorified!"Good souls do not in Hades dwell.And, look, there'sJohn P. Irish!" "Well,"TheVoicesaid, "that's what makesit Hell."BYFALSEPRETENSESJohn S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wieldsThe quill his tributary body yields;Theauthor of an operathat is,All but the music and libretto's his:Awork renowned, whose formidable name.Linked with his own, repels the assault of fameFrom the high vantage of a dusty shelf.Secure from all the world except himself;Whotold the tale of "Culture" in a screedThat some might understand if all would read;Master of poesy and lord of prose,98 THECOLLECTEDWORKSDowered, like a setter, with a double nose;That one for Erato, for Clio this;He flushes bothnot his fault if we miss;Judge of the painter's art, who'll straight proclaimThehue of any color you can name,Andknowsa painting with acanvasbackDistinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;This thinker and philosopher, whose workIs famousfromCommercialstreet toTurk,Hasnowa fortune, of his pen the meed.Awomanleft it himwhocouldnotread,Andso wentdown to death's eternal nightSweetlyunconscious that thewretchcould write.LUCIFER OF THE TORCHOReverend Ravlin, once with sounding lungYoushook the bloody banner of your tongue.Urged all the fiery boycotters afieldAndswore you'd rather see them die than yield.Alas,howbrief the time,howgreat thechange !Yourdogsofwarare ailing all of mange;Theloose leash dangles fromyour finger-tips,Buttheloud "havoc" dies uponyour lips.Nospirit animates your feeble clayYou'd rather yield than even run away.In vain McGlashan labors to inspireOFAMBROSEBIERCE 99Vourpallid nostril with his breath of fire:Thelight of battle's faded fromyour faceYoukeep the peace,John Chinaman his place.ORavlin, whatcold water, thrownbywhom,Upon the kindling Boycott's ruddybloom.Hasslaked yourparchingblood-thirst and allayedTheflash andshimmerof yourlingual blade?Yoursalaryyour salary's unpaid!In theold days,whenChristwithscourgesdraveTheRavlinsheadlong from the Temple's nave,Eachboreupon his pelt themarkdivineThe Boycott's red authenticating sign.Birth-marked forever in surviving hurts.Glowingandsmartingunderneath their shirts,Successive Ravlinshaverevenged their shame'Byblowing every coal and flinging flame.Andyou, the latest (mayyoube the last!)Endorsed with that hereditary, vastAndmonstrous rubric, wouldthe feud prolong,Save that cupidity forbids the wrong.In strife you preferably pass your daysButbrawlnomomentlonger than it pays.Byshoutingwhennomore youcan inciteThedogs to put the timid sheep to flightToload, for you, the brambleswith their fleece,Youcackleconcord to congenial geese.Putpinches of goodwill upon their tailsAndpluckthemwith a touch that never fails.100 THECOLLECTEDWORKS"THEWHIRLIGIGOFTIME"Dr. Jewell speaks of BalaamAndhis vices, to assail 'em.Ancientenmitieshowcruel!BalaamcudgeledonceaJewell.ARAILROADLACKEYBenTruman, you're a genius and can write,Thoughonewould not suspect it from your looks.Youlack that certain spareness which is quiteDistinctive of the persons who make books.Youshow the workmanship of Stanford's cooksAbout the region of the appetite.Wheregeniuses are singularly slight.Yourfriends the Chinamen are understood.Indeed, to speak of you as "belly good."Still, you can writespell, too, I understandThoughhowtwo such accomplishments can go,Likesentimental schoolgirls, hand in handIs more than I can ever hope to know.Tohave one talent good enough to showHas always been sufficient to commandThe veneration of the brilliant bandOf railroad scholars, who themselves, indeed,Although they cannot write, can mostly read.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 101There'sTowne,with Fillmore,Goodmanand SteveGageNed Curtis of Napoleonic face,Whoused to dash his name on glory's page,"A. M." appended to denote his placeAmong the learned. Nowthe last faint traceOfNap, is all obliterate with age,And Ned's degree less precious than his wage.Hesays: "I done it," with his every breath."Thoucanst not say I did it," says Macbeth.Goodland! how I run on! I quite forgotWhomthis wasmeant to be about; for whenI think upon that odd, unearthly lotNotquite Creed Haymonds,yet notwhollymenI'm dominated bymy rebel penThat, like the stubborn bird from which 'twas got,Goeswaddling forward if I will or not.Toleave your comrades, Ben, I'm now content:I'll meet them later if I don't repent.You've writ a letter, I observenay, more.You've published itto say how good you thinkThe coolies, and invite them to come o'erIn thicker quantity. Perhaps you drinkNocorporation's wine, but love its ink;Orwhenyousigned awayyoursoul andsworeOn railrogue battle-fields to shed your goreYoumentally reserved the right to shedThe raiment of your character instead.102 THECOLLECTEDWORKSYou're naked, anyhow: unragged you standIn frank and stark simplicity of shame.And here upon your flank, in letters grand.The iron has marked you with your owner's name-Needless, for nonewould steal andnone reclaim.But "eland $tanford" is a pretty brand,Wroughtby an artist with a cunninghand.Butcomethis naked unreserve is flat:Don your habilimentyou're fat, you're fat!THELEGATEEIn fair SanFrancisco a goodman did dwell,Andhewroteout a will, for he didn't feel well.Said he: "It is proper, whenmakinga gift.Tostimulate virtuebycomfortingthrift."Sohe left all his property, legal andstraight.To"the cursedest rascal in all of the State."Butthenameherefused to insert, for, saidhe:"Let eachmanconsider himself legatee."In duecourse of time that philanthropist died,Andall San Francisco, and Oakland besideSave only the lawyerscame each with his claim.The lawyers preferring to manage the same.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 103Thecaseswere tried in DepartmentThirteen;JudgeMurphypresided, sedate and serene,Butcouldn't quite specify, legal and straight,Thecursedest rascal in all of the State.Andso heremarked to them, little and bigToclaimants:"Youskip!" andtolawyers:"Youdig!'They tumbled, tumultuous, out of his courtAndleft himvictorious, holdingthe fort.'Twas then that he said: "It is plain to mymindThisproperty's ownerlesshowcan I findThecursedest rascal in all of the State?"Sohe took it himself, whichwas legal and straight."DIEDOF AROSE"Areporterhewas, andhe wrote, wrotehe:"The grave was covered as thick as could beWith floral tributes"which reading.Theeditormanhesaid, he did so:"For 'floral tributes' he's got for to go,For I hold the same misleading."Thenhe called himin and he pointed sweetToabloominggarden across the street.Inquiring: "What'sthem a-growing?"The reporter chap said: "Why, where's your eyes?Them's floral tributes!" "Arise, arise,"The editor said, "and be going."104 THECOLLECTEDWORKSALITERARY HANGMANBeneath his coatof dirt great Neilson lovesTo hide the avenging rope.Hehandles all he touches without gloves,Excepting soap.AT THEELEVENTHHOURAs through the blue expanse he skimsOnjoyous wrings, the lateFrank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims,Both bound for Heaven's high gate.In life they loved and (God knows whyAlover so should sue)Heslew her, on the gallows highDied piousand they flew.Her pinions were bedraggled, soiledAndtorn as by a gale.While his were brightall freshly oiledThe feathers of his tail.Hervisage, too, wasstained andwornAnd menacing and grim;His sweet and mildyou would have swornThat she had murdered him.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 105When they'd arrived before the gateHesaid to her: "Mydear,'Tis hard once more to separate,But you can't enter here."For you, unluckily, were sentSo quickly to the graveYou had no notice to repent.Nortime your soul to save."(( yTis true," said she, "and I should wailIn Helleven now,but ILingered about the county jailTosee a Christian die.''ACONTROVERSIALISTI've sometimes wished that Ingersoll were wiseTohold his tongue, nor rail against the skies;For when he's made a point some pious dunceLike Bartlett of the Bulletin "replies."I brandish no iconoclastic fist.Norenter the debate an atheist;Butwhen theysay there is aGodI askWhy Bartlett, then, is suffered to exist.106 THECOLLECTEDWORKSEven infidels that logic might resent,Saying: "There's no place for his punishmentThat's worse than earth." Buthumbly I submitThat he's himself a hell wherever sent.MENDAXHighLord of Liars, Senex, unto theeLet meaner mortalsbend the subject knee!Thine is mendacity's imperial crown.Alike by genius, action and renown.Noman, since wordscould set a cheek aflame,E'er lied so greatly with so little shame!Obadold man, mustthyremainingyearsBepassed in leading idiots by their earsThineown (which Justice, if she ruled the roastWould fasten to the penitential post)Still waggingsympatheticallyhungOnthe same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?Thoudog of darkness, dost thou hope to stayTime's dread advance till thou hasthad thy day?Dost think the Strangler will release his holdBecause, forsooth, some fibs remain untold?No, nobeneath thy multiplyingloadOfyears thou canst not tarryon the roadTodabble in the blood thyleaden feetHave pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat.OFAMBROSEBIERCE 107Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt,Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guiltStraight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink,Thylife washedout as with awaveof ink.But if this prophecybe not fulfilled.Andthouwho killest patience be not killed;If age assail in vain and vice attackOnlyby folly to be beaten back;Yet Nature can this consolation give:Therogueswhodie not arecondemned to live!THERETROSPECTIVEBIRDHiscaw is a cackle, his eye is dim,Andhemopes all dayonthelowest limb;Notawordsays he, but hesnaps his billAnd twitches his palsied head, as a quill,Theultimate plumeof his pride andhope,Quitshisnowfeatherless nose-o'-the-Pope,Leaving that eminence brown and bare.Exposedto the PrinceofthePowerof theAir.Andhe sits andhethinks: "I'man old, old man,Matelessandchickless, the last ofmyclan.ButI'd give the half of the daysgonebyToperchoncemoreon the branches high.Andhearmygreat-grand-daddy'scomical croaksIn authorized versions of Bulletin jokes."108 THECOLLECTEDWORKSTHEOAKLANDDOGI lay one happy night in bedAnd dreamed that all the dogs were dead.They'd all been taken outandshotTheirbodiesstrewedeach vacantlot.O'er all the earth, from Berkeley downToSanLeandro's ancient town,Andout in space as far as NilesI saw their mortal parts in piles.Onestack upreared its ridge so highAgainst theazureof the skyThatsome good soul, with pious views,Putup a steeple and sold pews.Nowagging tail the scene relieved:I never in mylife conceived(I swear it on the Decalogue!)Such penury of living dog.Thebarking and the howling stilled.Thesnarlingwith the snarler killed.All nature seemed to hold its breath:Thesilencewasas deep as death.True, candidates were all a roarOnevery platform, as before;OFAMBROSEBIERCE 109A