Peters, that rhetorical young man.
And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show,
By involuntary silence testified their overthrow—
Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief,
Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief.
O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold
As to entertain opinions that he didn’t care to hold.
One day—’twas in pursuance of a pedagogic plan
For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man—
Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained
That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained)
Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate
Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate
On the question, “Which is better, as a serviceable gift,
Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?”
The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met
At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet.
They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove,
And the non-committal barman on their differences throve.
And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way:
You’ll have the more to back your word the less you have to say.
Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink
Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think.
On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel
Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well—
All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear.
Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear,
And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn’t lift
The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift.
The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled,
The question he proceeded in extenso to unfold:
“Resolved—The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach
Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech.”
This simple proposition he expounded, word by word,
Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard.
Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain—
The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain.
Beginning at a period before Creation’s morn,
He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn.
As down the early centuries of pre-historic time
He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme,
And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay,
Had risen and like an earthquake, “reeled unheededly away,”
And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve,
Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve,
A noise arose outside—the door was opened with a bang
And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating “G’lang!”
Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink
An ancient ass—the property it was of Mr. Fink.
Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread,
Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped!
It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown
Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone.
Then spake old Ebenezer: “Gents, I heern o’ this debate
On w’ether v’ice or y’ears is best the mind to elevate.
Now ’yer’s a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme:
He has ’em both, I’m free to say, oncommonly extreme.
He wa’n’t invited for to speak, but he will not refuse
(If t’other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views.”
Ere merriment or anger o’er amazement could prevail,
He cut the string that held the stone on that canary’s tail.
Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight,
Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite.
With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid,
Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then—to put it mildly—brayed!
He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills,
And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills.
’Tis said that awful bugle-blast—to make the story brief—
Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf!
Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred
’Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard
That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel,
A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel,
Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well.
To My Laundress
Saponacea, wert thou not so fair
I’d curse thee for thy multitude of sins—
For sending home my clothes all full of pins,
A shirt occasionally that’s a snare
And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where,
The Lord knows why—a sock whose outs and ins
None know, nor where it ends nor where begins,
And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share.
But when I mark thy lilies how they grow,
And the red roses of thy ripening charms,
I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming.
I’ll never pay thee, but I’d gladly go
Into the magic circle of thine arms,
Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming.
Fame
One thousand years I slept beneath the sod,
My sleep in 1901 beginning,
Then, by the action of some scurvy god
Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
I was revived and given another inning.
On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd—
A formless multitude of men and women,
Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud
I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in;
And, pointing at me, one said: “Let’s put him in!”
Then each turned on me with an evil look,
As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook.
“Nay, good Posterity,” I cried, “forbear!
If that’s a jail I fain would be remaining
Outside, for truly I should little care
To catch my death of cold. I’m just regaining
The life lost long ago by my disdaining
To take precautions against draughts like those
That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting
Old structure.” Then an aged wight arose
From a chair of state in which he had been sitting,
And with preliminary coughing, spitting
And wheezing, said: “ ’Tis not a jail, we’re sure,
Whate’er it may have been when it was newer.
“ ’Twas found two centuries ago, o’ergrown
With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated;
And in restoring it we found a stone
Set here and there in the dilapidated
And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated
Big characters, with certain uncouth names,
Which we conclude were borne of old by awful
Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games—
Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful,
And orators less sensible than jawful.
So each ten years we add to the long row
A name, the most unworthy that we know.”
“But why,” I asked,
