The Hybrids, An Epi-comic Satire by An M. D. - HTML preview

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?

Relentless fate to thee unkind, O thou
 Of rigid oblong face and planished brow,
 With bony arms protruding down your side,
 In stiff conceit, unbending as your pride,
 What darling right hath been to thee denied?
 O prim propriety, dost grieve because
 Too quick relief from Indiana’s laws
 O’ertook your unconsidered application
 And left you cheerless on a drear plantation—
 A lonely leafless trunk in grim repose
 Amid divorce’s chill and loveless snows,
 Both vice and virtue flying from your soul
 As torrid summers fly the icy pole?
 Fastidious pink! whose hypersens’tive notion
 No suff’rance bore for animal emotion,
 Who pleaded, uncongenial elevation
 Had raised you o’er the master of creation—
 I’ll risk a random guess, incarnate fair,
 You rue the hour that made you as you are.

Perchance ’tis thou, O dusky sprite petite
 Of modest air and soulful murmurs sweet,
 Whose glad hosannas ring with joy complete
 To full admiring houses at your feet?
 Or thou, histronic dame, enkindling dreams
 Of olive groves, and burning orient beams?
 Ah! no, ye lucky ones! ye have the right
 To charm a list’ning world with dear delight
 And win two hundred dollars in a night.

Ah! ye sly cats, who licks the cream of life
 In character of widow, maid, or wife;
 Then, purring sweetly rub your silky skins
 In sweet cajol’ry on our rugged shins,
 ’Tis cruel, is it not? bareing to view
 Secrets deftly covered up by you?
 ’Tis cruel, is it not? to lift your paws
 And draw the velvet from your pitless claws?
 Cruel, to scout your immemorial claim
 To innocence, and block the cosy game
 You’ve played since Adam, our deluded sire,
 Raked chestnuts for his siren from the fire?
 What if we let you have your childish way
 To bear the heat and burden of a day—
 To rear the homes and fortresses and guard
 The nation with the nightly watch and ward?
 Ye’ll deem the compensation wondrous small
 To make the laws ye must enforce for all!

But why on man the awful burden load
 Of human miseries decreed of God?
 Why charge to him all sorrow since the fall
 When well ye know ’tis heritage of all?
 Hath woman’s fearful sorrow made you mad
 That ye exemption claim you never had?
 Such calumny unjust ’tis burning shame
 To heap on father’s, brother’s, husband’s name.
 Think ye to rear on fancies such as this
 The fallen altar of domestic bliss?
 Its temple reconstruct with sand and chaff?
 You’d better reconstruct yourselves by half!
 What need of all this stir, this noisy blow—
 This vain parade of wrongs, this empty show?
 Go back, ye rebels! seek your native air—
 Be happy in the way your mothers were!
 Go sit at Jesus’ feet, meek pupils there
 And wipe them with your penitential hair!
 That woman hath more wrongs, with man they cause,
 Than man, from being woman’s partner draws,
 Is false as——well, I would not wish to swear,
 But truth I’ll tell, for truth is only fair,
 And, since ye dare the reading of the roll
 Ye can’t complain when I display the scroll.
 Go through the town, inquire from street, to street,
 And this the truthful record ye shall meet.

A hundred men shall study day and night
 How best promote the family’s delight;
 And ten are sunk beneath the base control
 Of vice, in hopeless servitude of soul.

A hundred men shall gather worldly pelf,
 While each shall spend a tithe upon himself;
 And ten shall waste in drink and gambling hall
 Their children’s patrimony and their all.

A hundred men, with true parental care
 Their sons shall guide and guard their daughters fair;
 And ten shall school their brood in street and dust
 Regardless of their highest holiest trust.

A hundred men shall, in their av’rage rate,
 The manly part perform in home and state;
 And ten, by selfishness and devilish hate
 Humanity shall fairly desecrate.

Aforetime, woman dear, ’twas so with you,
 And shall be so again—for God is true,
 Nor will forget to gather, as of old,
 His wand’ring children in the heav’nly fold.
 When clothed upon ye are, in calmer hour,
 By soberness, and clad in reason’s pow’r,
 Ye’ll marvel at the mad delirium
 And weird delusions that with fever come.
 Then man shall, softened, bend his lofty pride—
 Then both restored shall journey side by side,
 And common love shall be the common guide.
 It’s not of swillers, sots and blocks, I talk;
 I mean good sturdy anglo-saxon stock.
 Let these arise, assume their rightful place,
 And justly stamp the occidental race—
 No more corrupt our honest mother tongue
 By mixing alienisms thick among
 The euphonies in which a Milton sung;
 Nor shapeless Puritanic mongrel breed
 By crop with Gallia’s atheistic creed.
 Let man be what omniscient God designed,
 And woman act the part of womankind.

FINIS.