Shapes of Clay Part 1

Shapes of Clay.

by Ambrose Bierce.

PREFACE.

Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that part the names of real persons being used without their a.s.sent, it seems fit that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems well to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface of another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its character. I quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:"

"Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in now republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, except with reference to those who since my first censure of them have pa.s.sed away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may easily seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been omitted from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any considerable part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth which by this attempt to preserve some of it I have a.s.sumed, their permanent suppression is impossible, and it is only a question of when and by whom they will be republished. Some one will surely search them out and put them in circulation.

"I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work collected in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one whose work, necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed to challenge as unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined before time has effaced the evidence. For the death of a man of whom I have written what I may venture to think worthy to live I am no way responsible; and however sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent that it shall affect my literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not accept the remarkable doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should spare the sinner, were bound to let the life of his work be coterminous with that of his subject his were a lot of peculiar hardship.

"Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, as all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms of applied satire--my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown by abundant instance and example."

In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless to cla.s.sify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic,"

"Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; and I entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without disappointment to that of his author.

AMBROSE BIERCE.

THE Pa.s.sING SHOW.

I.

I know not if it was a dream. I viewed A city where the restless mult.i.tude, Between the eastern and the western deep Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude.

Colossal palaces crowned every height; Towers from valleys climbed into the light; O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes Hung in the blue, barbarically bright.

But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day Touched the black ma.s.ses with a grace of gray, Dim spires of temples to the nation's G.o.d Studding high s.p.a.ces of the wide survey.

Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep.

The gardens greened upon the builded hills Above the tethered thunders of the mills With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills.

A hewn acclivity, reprieved a s.p.a.ce, Looked on the builder's blocks about his base And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race.

"'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed Your s.h.a.ggy fathers in their nakedness, While on their foeman's offal they caroused."

Ships from afar afforested the bay.

Within their huge and chambered bodies lay The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed The hardy argosies to far Cathay.

Beside the city of the living spread-- Strange fellowship!--the city of the dead; And much I wondered what its humble folk, To see how bravely they were housed, had said.

Noting how firm their habitations stood, Broad-based and free of perishable wood-- How deep in granite and how high in bra.s.s The names were wrought of eminent and good,

I said: "When gold or power is their aim, The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare When they would conquer an abiding fame."

From the red East the sun--a solemn rite-- Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height Above the dead; and then with all his strength Struck the great city all aroar with light!

II.

I know not if it was a dream. I came Unto a land where something seemed the same That I had known as 't were but yesterday, But what it was I could not rightly name.

It was a strange and melancholy land.

Silent and desolate. On either hand Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, And dead above it seemed the hills to stand,

Grayed all with age, those lonely hills--ah me, How worn and weary they appeared to be!

Between their feet long dusty fissures clove The plain in aimless windings to the sea.

One hill there was which, parted from the rest, Stood where the eastern water curved a-west.

Silent and pa.s.sionless it stood. I thought I saw a scar upon its giant breast.

The sun with sullen and portentous gleam Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam.

It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, That desert in its cold, uncanny light; No soul but I alone to mark the fear And imminence of everlasting night!

All presages and prophecies of doom Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, And in the midst of that accursed scene A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb.

ELIXER VITAE.

Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) Sealed upon my senses with so deep A stupefaction that men thought me dead.

The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; I saw mankind in dim procession sweep Through life, oblivion at each extreme.

Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing.

The generations came with dance and song, And each observed me curiously there.

Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer."

Some said I was a saint, and some a bear-- These all were women. So the young and gay, Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, Doddered at last on failing limbs away; Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, Fell into its abysses and were strangled.

At last a generation came that walked More slowly forward to the common tomb, Then altogether stopped. The women talked Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; And one cried out: "We are immortal now-- How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!"

So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped From its fair shoulders, and but men alone Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, Enough of room remained in every zone, And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne.

Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks Their bread-and-b.u.t.ter in it gladly sopped) 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe.

Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, And crumbled all to powder in the waking.

CONVALESCENT.

What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame Or canting Pharisee no more defame?