Part 17 (1/2)
ANOTHER PLAN
Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as ”our friend J.J.”
Weary of scribbling for daily bread, Weary of writing what n.o.body read, Slept one day at his desk and dreamed That an angel before him stood and beamed With compa.s.sionate eyes upon him there.
Editor Owen is not so fair In feature, expression, form or limb But glances like that are familiar to him; And so, to arrive by the shortest route At his visitor's will he said, simply: ”Toot.”
”Editor Owen,” the angel said, ”Scribble no more for your daily bread.
Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds, Weary of writing what n.o.body reads.
Eschew now the quill--in the coming years Homilize man through his idle ears.
Go lecture!” ”Just what I intended to do,”
Said Owen. The angel looked pained and flew.
Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as ”our friend J.J.”
Scribbling no more to supply his needs, Weary of writing what n.o.body reads, Pa.s.ses of life each golden year Speaking what n.o.body comes to hear.
A POLITICAL APOSTATE
Good friend, it is with deep regret I note The latest, strangest turning of your coat; Though any way you wear that mental clout The seamy side seems always to be out.
Who could have thought that you would e'er sustain The Southern shotgun's arbitrary reign!-- Your st.u.r.dy hand a.s.sisting to replace The broken yoke on a delivered race; The ballot's purity no more your care, With equal privilege to dark and fair.
To Yesterday a traitor, to To-day You're constant but the better to betray To-morrow. Your convictions all are naught But the wild a.s.ses of the world of thought, Which, flying mindless o'er the barren plain, Perceive at last they've nothing so to gain, And, turning penitent upon their track, Economize their strength by flying back.
Ex-champion of Freedom, battle-lunged, No more, red-handed, or at least red-tongued, Brandish the javelin which by others thrown Clove Sambo's heart to quiver in your own!
Confess no more that when his blood was shed, And you so sympathetically bled, The bow that spanned the mutual cascade Was but the promise of a roaring trade In offices. Your fingering now the trigger Shows that you _knew_ your Negro was a n.i.g.g.e.r!
_Ad hominem_ this _argumentum_ runs: Peace!--let us fire another kind of guns.
I grant you, friend, that it is very true The Blacks are ignorant--and sable, too.
What then? One way of two a fool must vote, And either way with gentlemen of note Whose villain feuds the fact attest too well That pedagogues nor vice nor error quell.
The fiercest controversies ever rage When Miltons and Salmasii engage.
No project wide attention ever drew But it disparted all the learned crew.
As through their group the cleaving line's prolonged With fiery combatants each field is thronged.
In battle-royal they engage at once For guidance of the hesitating dunce.
The t.i.tans on the heights contend full soon-- On this side Webster and on that Calhoun, The monstrous conflagration of their fight Startling the day and splendoring the night!
Both are unconquerable--_one_ is right.
Will't keep the pigmy, if we make him strong, From siding with a giant in the wrong?
When Genius strikes for error, who's afraid To arm poor Folly with a wooden blade?
O Rabelais, you knew it all!--your good And honest judge (by men misunderstood) Knew to be right there was but one device Less fallible than ignorance--the dice.