HELL'S ACOLYTE
O'er a city Saturnalian, when the feast was at its height,
Cried the demon of the riot, riding on the howling night.
Cried aloud in gleeful frenzy, "Who would wish to be divine,
When as fiend he reigns the master of unnumbered slaves of wine?"
Swept he o'er the noisome brothel where the Bacchanalians brawled,
Mingled with its maudlin wantons where with libertines they sprawled;
Hovered o'er the wine-room's riot where his dupes carnival held,
While the ribald song's wild chorus on the night's mad frenzy swelled.
Gloated as he perched above them, and his voice rang out in pride—
"Oh, my master! I have triumphed, I, thy fiend of drink," he cried.
"Master thou whose cause I cherish, Master thou who reign'st in hell,
Am I worthy of thy kinship? In thy cause have I done well?
"Fiend of drink am I, remorseless, ruling, worshipped everywhere—
Boon companion of the novice, prop of every wreck's despair.
Moods have I to meet the many, costumes fit for any state,
To the brutalized or polished I can be a fitting mate.
"Where patrician faces gather, clothed am I in bright champagne,
Sparkling gloriously golden, beading to an amorous strain.
Eyes grow bright as lips caress me; fevers burn within the veins;
I repay their love with madness, laughing as I forge their chains.
"Now, in ruby robes translucent, dance I in the goblet bright,—
Wanton of the wine-glass, weaving dreams with mirages bedight.
O'er the wastes of wine I lure men, till on sands of quenchless thirst,
Lo, my red simoom engulfs them, helpless, raving, and accurst!
"Ere the sun-god, swiftly rising, swings his flaming sword of day,
Gin-gowned for the assignation, wait I for my quivering prey,—
Wait I for my faithful lovers, they who crave my morning kiss,
Abject, pleading for my favour, for my warmth, reviving bliss.
"Sweet to me their hast'ning footsteps at the well-remembered hour,
And I sparkle with elation, conscious of my mastering power.
Sweet each lover's supplication for the balm he would obtain;
Like a maiden in her beauty reign I 'midst my servile train.
"Ne'er was queen of story olden wooed as I by mortal man;
Ne'er had king in ages golden court so cosmopolitan;
Not for wealth of my surroundings do they tribute to me pay,
For they love me all as faithful in dim dens where I hold sway.
"What a court is this, my master! Here I watch life's strange parade—
Here I view the grotesque pageant of mankind in masquerade—
Maskers from the grimy army tipple with the titled peer;
Every walk of life commingling, great and lowly, all are here.
"That fine fellow, deep imbibing, with the classic brow and chin,
Was an actor great and famous—sweet it was his love to win.
What a world of fine expression had he in his mobile face!
On the stage great were his triumphs ere I brought him to disgrace.
"He who rends the night with laughter, he with curls of glossy jet,
Wrote a poem of wondrous beauty, and he reigned a social pet
Till I touched his vibrant heart-strings with the madness of desire;
Now he sings no more of beauty, dimmed is his poetic fire.
"Now his songs are dark and gloomy, broken are his symphonies,
And the bright thought halts and falters, glides along,
then stops and flees;
Now he craves but for my kisses, all his hopes are wrapped in me,
Thus, a wreck, he rhymes unreason 'midst his ragged company.
"I have lured the pale religieux from his height of snowy dreams
By the sweet Circean measures of my strange, soul-haunting themes—
Strangled love and filial duty by the witchery of my charms—
Quenched the genius of a million, passion-drowned within my arms.
"From his love of virgin beauty, I have led the trusting swain
Till he sank in my morasses—till he sought her not again;
I have watched her fading, drooping like a rose in chilling dawn,
Waiting for love's warmth that came not, ever paling, sinking wan.
"And unto her heart's slow breaking as she guessed her lover's plight,
I have whispered to her, dreaming of him in the restless night:
'Maiden, of thy lover dreaming, practising thy girlish arts,
I could teach thee subtle secrets, philter give that love imparts.
"'But my joy is in the breaking, not the mending of a heart,
So I'll keep thy truant lover by my wiles from thee apart;
I will drag him down to ruin, into gulfs where misery dwells;
Where I lead he, too, shall follow, by my power that compels.
"'When a wreck he reels through passion, for my charms I'll
take his health,
Goad him down to sin's abysses, steal from him his scanty wealth.
Know, O maiden, this remember, never more shall he be free;
He, thy lover whom thou dream'st of, yet shall kill for love of me.'
"Thus fair womankind I torture, through that love for man they bear,
Till from cheeks the roses vanish, till gray-tinged is raven hair;
While my poison, slowly filtering, stains the fonts of purity,
And they sink by man polluted, tainted to obscurity.
"I am Drink, the fiend remorseless, all that's mortal is my prey;
These mad lovers 'neath me reeling are my playthings of to-day.
Each to-morrow brings new victims, each to-day a grave I fill;
He who loves me truest, fondest, with a demon's joy I kill."
So hell's acolyte satanic, where the tinkling glasses gleamed,
Told the story of his triumphs to that other Master Fiend;
While the laughter, wild, discordant, broke amidst the
streaming lights,
In the nearing midnight hour on that ribald night of nights.
Told how when, in prisons lonely, men, repenting all too late,
Wake in frightful desolation, cursing at their woeful fate;
Wake to awful understanding of hands red with bloody stains,
Wake to hear his voice exultant crying in their clearing brains—
"Mortal, who in drunken frenzy consummated thy red deed,
Now awakened and in terror, now, oh, now I take my meed—
Satiate my hate with gloating, as remorse shrieks in thy brain,
When thy bloodshot eyes protruding read thy doom in that red stain!"
Told of bright homes rent and broken, of sweet maidens downward drawn;
There recited stories sombre of the lives he held in pawn;
Till the bright lamps dimmed and darkened, till each
maudlin wretch sought home,
Leaving, in the darkness gloating, Drink's dread demon throned alone.
COPPER JOHNNY[[1]]
You have seen him on the street
Every day,
Heard the shuffle of his feet
On the way,
Heard his piercing voice so shrill,
Calling out with right good will,
Through a ragged, whiskered jaw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."[[2]]
All the city knows him well,
For he's queer;
Half a century—quite a spell—
He's been here.
Spent his life 'mong paper boys,
Shared their hardships and their joys,
Winter blast and springtime thaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny is his name,
Poor old chap;
He's a cripple with a cane
And a pack.
Selling papers is his trade,
Makes a living without aid,
Never broke but music's law,
Crying "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
There's a kind of wistful look
On his face;
Could we read it as a book
We might trace
Memories of a loved one, sweet,
Her who helps his weary feet,
As to fill Need's hungry maw
He calls "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny's gray and old,
Partly blind;
And his face is rough in mold,
But it's kind;
And his eyes are blue and pale,
Bleached by many a stormy gale;
Cracked, his voice, with many a flaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
We have missed him, for his place
None can fill,
And we long to see his face,
But he's ill.
He was strange and old and talked,
Muttered always as he walked.
Strangest newsie one e'er saw,
With "Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Maybe Johnny won't get well,
Who can tell!
He's been sick for quite a spell
Since he fell,
Crushed beneath the horses' feet,
As he called upon the street
Through the evening gray and raw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Should God take him up from here,
This I know:
There'll be flowers on his bier,
Not for show;
And the Lord who loves the poor
Will grant Johnny this, I'm sure,
Right to shout 'neath Heaven's law,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
[[1]] John McDowell, known as Copper Johnny, for many years a newsboy of Ottawa, was knocked down by a horse near the Russell House, Sparks Street. He was in the hospital when this appreciation was written.
[[2]] Johnny pronounced Le Temps—"Le Taw".