The record-union., 1899-03-26
tFor the Record-Unon.l
FAvORE CHARONIS.
cro B. Millard and Edward F. cahill, Fsqs., $ F,


Q stand with The Man With the Hoe And VIII
r The Psalm of Lie we shall find very inferior
e. indeed "-B. Millard, Sunday Examiner, Mare
Page 80.
lis (Bierces) work possesses the same enduring 9
of Pope. Swift and Juvenal, but in higher degr
-ahill, Sunday Examiner, March 10, 1899 Page
Dear Srs:
We here, across the Styx,
Would be in an almighty fix
If any week our fingers taper
Failed to secure your Sunday paper.
It lifts the Soul-like that days chimes
To hear you tell Old Earth's new crimes,
And scan its recent. ripest rhymes.
Nathless we've had "holy show"
About your Man" Sirs, with the Hoe"
None knew how far the thing would go,
Until we sent it down below
Most Of our Saints foul of it fell,
Till Byron cried: Remember He'll!
They'll like it there extremely we'll;
For there, you know, there's not few
Who love to read what isn't true
AS sorne of us once used to do
Tho this is strictly entire nous"
He spake. And, tho with praise I'd cramm'd,
The vote prevalG and Markham's damnd.
He wasn't, tho, without fight,
Which only ended, Sirs, tonight,
And that's just what I'd now indite.
This eve, March 10Th, just at six,
our Sunday issue cross'd the Styx
We read "The Worn-Out Workers." and
l haven't words at my command
10 tell you how our Ancient Bards
Ask'd where the Porter was who guards
The entrance to these fields Elysian,
Or whether he had lost his vision.
The meek and gentle Poe, Srs, swore
He'd take your paper: "Nevermore!"
And all the Shades OF all the Blest
The same resolve alas, expressed
| don't feel often very blue;
But this, | thought, quite settld you.
When 10! A wondrous change took place,
OF scorn, or pity, not one trace.
I've often look'd in daughters face,
But nee its moods saw there SO race;
And never knew its pow'r before
| heard, tonight, its grandest roar!
No words OF mine convey a notion
More than do dewdrops of the ocean
OF the cacophonous commotion
That, tllro' these lov'ly fields of ED,
In peal on peal like thunder sweId,
When you, Sirs in line or two,
So wonderful picture drew.
he folks downstairs soon heard the racket,
And Pluto sent special paquet
Desiring, gently, TO inquire
Were these Elysian Fields on fire?
We answered: Eyes; but fired with laughter,
That nothing e'er could quench hereafter"
hen, while his Messenger still stay'd,
Our Sages came from one deep shade
And to us all obe;sance made
IongelloW, Juvenal, Swift and Pope,
Men with whom none, here, care to COPE
Had come to hear what Mother Earth
Had sent that caused our wondrous mrth
we told them, Sirs, what he had said,
Wherein Longfelow how'd his head,
And Pope, as usual, went to bed
Swift stay'd, and, while all round him laughd
A beaker to "ObliyiOn" ouaffd
But Juyenal was mighty fierce
10 find he'd 'bested" been by Bierce.
He SAID Bierce was a gallant fellow;
Especially when grapes were mellow
And that, more mad than any halter,
lie beat the brains into batter
OF who dared say: Hes conquered all!
Let Juvenal before him fall!
Let Pope arise, and kiss his hand
In proof that he resigns command:
And let the mighty Irish Dean
At Blerce's feet henceforth be scent"
we roar'd, and roard, and roar'd again,
lou never saw such merry men.
But what, Sirs, tickl'd us the most
Was just glimpse of Markhan1's ghost!
gehosephat Is this the wight
That puts Longfeow out of sight?
That tells Giant, known to all:
Before me, Sir, you're very small:
We don't acknowledge you at all!
You've nothing done, as all should know.
| hat touches my immortal Hoe
Let all the World go still and praise you!
One verse OF mine would higher raise voul
Your Psalm of Lies as dead as David.
Before my Hoe no pow'r could save #
90 hide your poor, diminished head
90, Sir, like Pope, go straight to bed.
Henceiorth you're doubly, trebly, dead
I've spoken, Sir, and all is said
Nay Markharn's not OF such poor grit,
Nor ne. nor Berce, so scant of wit
AS not to dread their dearest friends
WE When each his powr, in praise, thus lends
Well-meaning, without any doubt.
put greatness needs no vulgar shout.
And that poor Critics poorly sped
VINO makes footstool of the dead.
Ihe mighty Dead, whose dust vet feeds E.
Each blade OF grass that from it breeds.
Enough: Or else these lines might pain us.
Yours truly, ANNIITS VIVA ~
hid