When after lengthened ages of debating,
And after all the heavn’ly host were tired of waiting,
Th’ orig’nal plan was reached for man’s creating,
’Twas found before the work had far proceeded,
A rare, peculiar kind of dirt was needed;
No sooner known, than necessary orders
Were issued to the country’s farthest borders.
At once, in all the fields, by all the hovels,
Angels were seen with rocking pans and shovels,
Washing, sifting, like California miners,
In search of requisite amount of shiners.
At last, while in this digging, scratching, scraping,
Vast periods of time had been escaping,
Loud trumpet tones the heavn’ly rafters shaking,
Proclaimed the dough already for the baking.
The baker’s men, without regard to wages,
Had been experimenting all these ages,
With oven hot as ever they could stand in,
To learn the trade, to sort’o get their hand in,
By making beasts, ring-streaked, speck’d and striped
Before they undertook to build a biped.
With mould, and paste, and pepper all collected,
They now began the labor long projected.
The prentice first, a witless kind of flunkey,
A total failure made, and cooked a monkey.
Next him, an older, consequential brother,
In haste quite confident tossed in another,
But found with nothing in the world to hinder
He’d darkey made by burning to a cinder.
The foreman then with losses vexed and “stuffy”
Essayed his practiced hand, in manner “huffy.”
Still he brought out, if I dont tell a “whopper”
His cake in boastful style, done brown as copper.
’Tis true, this batch was overdone but little,
Yet, ruined in the temper, crisp and brittle.
Now, when he saw this shameful waste of batter,
The master thought ’twas time to end the matter.
He scrimped and scraped and gathered ev’ry portion
Lest he should also make a mere abortion.
Had just enough. All heaven was delighted
To see it drawn all smooth and clean and whited.
But when they’d crowned him first of human kings
To rule and govern sublunary things,
It seems they held a supplement’ry meeting
Wherein the project was advanced of now repeating
That process which had just so well succeeded,
And build a partner thought by Adam needed.
They deemed him not precisely in position,
Through accident of sexual condition,
T’ obey that wholesome social regulation
Which contemplates increase of population.
When first announced the notion vastly pleased them,
But soon they found, while blank amazement seized them,
Through heedlessness and lavish waste uncommon,
Not stock enough was left to make a woman.
Ingenious substitutes and plans were tendered
And e’en some jealousy was thus engendered
By their rejection; but of all suggested
Not one succeeded well when fairly tested.
The master thought, since nought could come of planting,
Could he from Adam steal the scion wanting,
(Which might be done by slumber o’er him wafting)
He’d try a kind of independent grafting;
Thus, with good luck, save Adam lots of trouble,
By furnishing, at no expense, his double.
Agreed to—since they could not do without it:
Still, having more or less of pain about it,
The scheme involved some shrewd and crafty trapping;
And that is why they took the good man napping.
Awful slumber! a most expensive lodging,
Creating debt no man succeeds in dodging.
A national debt foredoomed to last forever,
With tax not one evades, tho’ ne’er so clever.
Blind bard! who sweeter sung for want of eyes,
You blundered sadly once, to my surprise:
Sleeping (’tis true, the bible proves it so)
“Brought death into the world and all our woe.”
If aught is taught by Adam’s heavy fall
It teaches man should never sleep at all.
No Eve, no sin, this fearful uproar keeping;
No sin, no death; no death, no mourners weeping;
Had luckless Adam not been captured sleeping
But up and dressed in reasonable season,
It stands to unassisted human reason
No sinful woman would have lived to be
Prolific source of so much misery.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hail, rain, thunder, tempest and hurricane!
Howl and shriek! Split your throats! ye’ll blow in vain
To drown the whirlwind, furious and wild,
That burst, from tongue and eye, on this poor child.
Hags and witches! not such the woful flutter,
In your weird ranks, when mortal chanced to utter
Some magic spell, some scrap of holy writ
That sent you howling to th’ infernal pit.
Such hate unspeakable, such fiery blazes!
Lightning flashes! well-nigh their mem’ry crazes.
Mild inoffensive man! who humbly sought
The truth in singleness to sow, but brought
A bitter, bitter harvesting instead
Of hurtling wrath on his defenseless head;
A simple artless priest, ’twas plain to see
Or else, the heathen that you call “chinee”
His final fate, no chronicles reveal it
He pity left behind, tho’ few to feel it.
And now, in sable garments, slow uprose
A trafficker in apprehended woes,
Who thought to bring the uproar to a close,
By pacifying gesture bland and mild;
And smooth, with oil of grace, this ocean wild.
A goodly morsel of humanity,
Compound of arrogance and vanity.
Possessed of lordly form, imposing mien,
He dwells in conscious sanctity serene,
Amid conceded pow’rs; and seeks to charm
By soothing platitudes, all dread of harm
From souls awakened: and, crying peace, peace,
In pulpit stands a fox protecting geese—
Better, by indications of the jowls,
A heav’nly miller making carnal tolls.
Janus his name, a curiosity
A double faced, a rare monstrosity!
One visage ministers in things divine,
The other serves the devil genuine.
In keeping good his harp of “thousand strings,”
Could all at once discourse a dozen things.
While one with “devil’s dream” kept up a pother,
Old “coronation” rang right off the other;
To aid their cause he’d little inclination;
Yet never could resist the strong temptation
When woman sought his aid to gain salvation.
Of boats he knew—but feared to leave the craft
He paddled now, until the female raft
He saw at hand, could safely upward bear him,
In case his present owners wished to spare him;
Misdoubting lest this willow-wicker scow
A pirate prove, wood-hull and brazen prow,
In consequence by taking middle course
He fired, like breechless gun, with little force.
Quoth he: “Let discord cease! Behold the morn
Leads on the day when woman shall adorn
The dirty caucus—shall the noisy poll
Reduce obedient to her control—
With radiating purity illume
The dark recess where justice sits in gloom—
Shall penetrate unarmed his filthy lair
And tame the democratic grizzly bear;
With slender finger touch his tawny hide
And, Una-like, in triumph mount and ride—
Assume th’ appointed place as heav’nly guide,
And, first in penitence, as first in sin,
The resurrection of the race begin.
Our brother errs—no doubt with best intent;
For, ordination hath such cleansing lent,
To all who have its sprinklings underwent,
(Except to Henry Ward who never needed
Superfluous seal that from the church proceeded.)
To sin “non potest” in its strictest sense,
That is, with actual malice “in prepense.”
Tho’ human frailty may, at times, creep in
And give the merest semblance of a sin.
Yet priests themselves, like all, when myst’ries blind ’em,
Must needs interpret as they chance to find ’em.
To me the sacred word most plainly shows
A moment opportune the Maker chose,
When Adam, plunged in slumber’s deep repose,
Was freest from the carnal thoughts that fill
Our waking hours—as common grafters still
Scions select when winters downward force
The heated saps which through the body course,
For cooling and refining—so the shoot
With pulpy crop less passionate may fruit,
And purity with innocence divine,
Though earthly vase displayed, incarnate shine.
What sacrilegious mortal dare assert
God’s plan abortive? or in pride pervert
His manifest design? Do we not choose
The holiest to rule, the bad refuse?
Some superficial careless hist’ry skimmers
Read otherwise the feeble light that glimmers,
In records old, where rays uncertain play
Like “will-o-wisps” at night, to lead astray
The traveler belated, and pretend
The weak must ever to the mighty bend;
And gravely show, with self-complacent mien,
How in the annals of the world ’tis seen,
Of all the host that ruled by “right divine”
Scarce one in thousands own the female line.
Not so read I. ’Twas ever held, thou fool,
For logic good, “the exception proves the rule”
What rule, but woman’s rule could ever be
Intended by this just corollary?
To him who better logic brings than that is
I’ll freely give my next week sermon gratis.
Moreover who would father, mother leave
Except it were to serve a second Eve?
In truth, from truth we may not distant swerve
To say that cleave in Hebrew means “to serve.”
Nor deem this strange—in theologic lore
Are many things that might surprise you more.
But these are mostly kept for special use
To guard against heretical abuse;
To dazzle vulgar minds with grand display
And keep their curiosity at bay.
You’ll therefore please excuse—but count me one
You’re quite at liberty to lean upon;
And think yourselves most fortunate indeed
If you dont find you lean on broken reed—
For daily is my life this word fulfilling,
“The flesh is weak, and oft the spirit’s willing.”
At this he ceased his sophistries to spin,
His features shining with sardonic grin,
And went his way to other troubled pools
With cunning to bewilder other fools.
BOOK IV.
THE JUDGMENT.
AT last, when all had howled and shrieked their fill—
Her trumpet each had blowed, at freest will—
Had fought and wrangled to her topmost bent—
When wild tempestous fury all was spent,—
When sisters found no other theme to touch
But greatly marvelled they had done so much.
When seed for early sowing was exhausted
And summer crop of thought was brown and frosted—
A solemn hush like terror o’er them fell,
More melancholy far than fun’ral knell.
Just then, when trembling seized the stoutest form
Slow in that lull which heralds coming storm,
The frowsy Blunt arose—a staid old joker
Renowned for nought especial save as smoker.
A genial wight, who, were the truth confessed,
Of good intentions greater store possessed
Than politic discretion, in his breast.
His powder might be somewhat slow exploding,
His musket ne’ertheless was non-corroding.
If one would tempt its fire, I shouldn’t wonder,
Slow match he’d better use, then stand from under.
He, being stirred, displayed unwonted vigor
And showed himself successful humbug-digger.
With fervor boiling, hot with earnest passion
He polished up his theme in foll’wing fashion.
“Go, triumph! ye heralds of heavenly wrath!
Let wild desolation illumine your path!
Spread discord and blighting, unspeakable woe,
Dissension and turmoil wherever you go!
Sow, jealousy, envy, and causeless distrust;
Tread confidence, honor, and manhood in dust;
Aye, bawl yourself hoarser than ear-splitting gongs
To whine of injustice and shriek about wrongs—
Let decency blush at the tatters and rags
Your madness has clothed them in, vilest of hags—
Strut, stagger and bluster across the broad stage
All foaming and frothing in wildest of rage—
Go, blasting sweet maidenhood’s vision of bliss
And pois’ning the lip of affection’s pure kiss.
Go! Blow your tin bugles and rattle your pans,
And dance your vile dances, your shameless can-cans—
Rejoice in your conquests, and dream your weak dreams,
Ye cats paws of shrewder political schemes,
But listen ye shall to the teachings of sense
I offer in kindness and not for offence:
A foretaste of smartings you’ll certainly feel
When squadrons of metal shall rattle their steel,
And, cleaving your armor of dullness in twain
The gospel of soberness burn on your brain
To rankle while being and reason remain.
Your God-given powers are running to waste;
Dry ashes for apples shall pall on your taste;
False logic ye utter, delusion unsound:
Ye’re heaving up boulders that still will rebound;
Now rolleth the wheel still, the waters recede;
Ye are helpless and hopeless at uttermost need;
The weakest of children, ye fondly believe
The rain that is falling ye’ll catch in a sieve;
It may be, since marvels as marvels are o’er,
When water is frozen and water no more.
Yea! silly as daughters ambitious of yore
Like modern reformers, God’s work to review,
Who chopped up their father his youth to renew;
But found only left, when their work was complete,
Bones broken, heaps putrid of gristle and meat.
Your dreams are Utopian, your labors in vain;
The laws of Jehovah are fixed as the main—
Still, calmly to argue this question so wide
If men were consenting and suffrage were tried,
If woman to stations of honor were called,
To govern and legislate duly installed;
And edicts displeasing by her should be made,
Say where is the muscle to make them obeyed?
Ah! spitfires! nurse your wrath but ill concealed!
Ye may despise the rustic blade I wield;
But homely truths, your guilty conscience owns,
Hit hard, and oft, like honest country stones,
Their smitings shatter sinner’s rotten bones.
Ye blind, whose self-conceit, of envy born,
A glorious Holland’s teachings laugh to scorn,
Or hers whose genius bloomed in Afric’s night
And fruited in unequaled Pink and White.
Is it the throne or pow’r the throne behind
That makes the mass obedient and kind?
If leopards cling tenaciously to spots
And Ethiopians, the senseless sots,
At man’s command wont even change their skin
When white is cleaner far, will all within
By woman’s magic finger be remoulded
And mute rebellion sit with arms enfolded?
As well attempt to dip the ocean dry
Or paint away the color of the sky!
Or, (since ye deem all spots a deep disgrace)
A-tip-toe stand, and taking from his place
The sun, wash off the freckles from his face!
Ye say, as oft was said in times gone by
“The water drops wear stones”—I’ll not deny,
But merely hint to all good wives and “kinders”
Each drop that wears the stone is smashed to “flinders.”
“Cui bono,” is a simple short equation
Explained by rule of “cost and compensation,”
Which any one may cypher at his leisure;
Result, of course, according to his pleasure.
Come, tell me now, ye heartless parasites!
Come, say, who of you all have not your rights
Say, is it you, you shiftless gossip spinner,
Who scarcely cook your sweating husband’s dinner,
Who nurse pretended invalidities
And belch in proof your foul acidities;
Who simulate the pain you never bore
In lame excuse to gad the city o’er,
And only darken twice a day your door?
The proof is on your lazy padded bones!
’Tis in your gaddings o’er the paving stones!
Or is it you with sixteen yards of silk
Who never yet repaid your baby-milk,
You strutting figure blocks, who make display
Of fancy shams that honest toil must pay—
Whose father bends with age and waxes pale
To buy the flounces on your sluttish trail?
Or who but thou, with dainty waxen fingers
O’er whom a father’s fond affection lingers,
To soothe your pain and share your childish sorrows,
And pave the way for countless glad to-morrows—
Pays endless bills, expenses of tuition,
And finds his hopes but ashes in fruition,
When you repay his never-failing care
With black ingratitude, and bring despair?
Or you, you shameless wanton, holding high
Your head and leering with salacious eye—
Vampire! whose godless dissipations drain
Your cuckoled husband’s hourly shrinking vein,—
Who coin, in riot waste, his heart and brain
To guilty dollars;—lapping even now
The sweat that oozes from his aching brow
Whose boundless trust and love, by you betrayed,
In wild extravagance and pride, has made
Through silly gallantries,—you know it well—
A forger first, then inmate of a cell?