THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL

       Table of Contents

      What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll

       Of all the vices that infest your soul?

       Was't not enough that lately you did bawl

       Your money-worship in the ears of all?[A]

       Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tell

       That though a miser you're a sot as well?

       Still must I hear how low your taste has sunk—

       From getting money down to getting drunk?[B]

       Who worships money, damning all beside,

       And shows his callous knees with pious pride,

       Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er scorns

       His own possessions, be they coins or corns.

       You've money, neighbor; had you gentle birth

       You'd know, as now you never can, its worth.

       You've money; learning is beyond your scope,

       Deaf to your envy, stubborn to your hope.

       But if upon your undeserving head

       Science and letters had their glory shed;

       If in the cavern of your skull the light

       Of knowledge shone where now eternal night

       Breeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughts

       Of cerebration that you think are thoughts—

       Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung

       That squeak and gibber when you move your tongue—

       You would not write, in Avarice's defense,

       A senseless eulogy on lack of sense,

       Nor show your eagerness to sacrifice

       All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.

       You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shame

       To boast your weakness or your baseness name.

       Appraise the things you have, but measure not

       The things denied to your unhappy lot.

       He values manners lighter than a cork

       Who combs his beard at table with a fork.

       Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake,

       The laws of taste condemn you to the stake

       To expiate, where all the world may see,

       The crime of growing old disgracefully.

       Religion, learning, birth and manners, too,

       All that distinguishes a man from you,

       Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain

       An added luster from a rogue's disdain.

       But spare the young that proselyting sin,

       A toper's apotheosis of gin.

       If not our young, at least our pigs may claim

       Exemption from the spectacle of shame!

       Are you not he who lately out of shape

       Blew a brass trumpet to denounce the grape?—

       Who led the brave teetotalers afield

       And slew your leader underneath your shield?—

       Swore that no man should drink unless he flung

       Himself across your body at the bung?

       Who vowed if you'd the power you would fine

       The Son of God for making water wine?

       All trails to odium you tread and boast,

       Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most.

       One day to be a miser you aspire,

       The next to wallow drunken in the mire;

       The third, lo! you're a meritorious liar![C]

       Pray, in the catalogue of all your graces,

       Have theft and cowardice no honored places?

       Yield thee, great Satan—here's a rival name

       With all thy vices and but half thy shame!

       Quick to the letter of the precept, quick

       To the example of the elder Nick;

       With as great talent as was e'er applied

       To fool a teacher and to fog a guide;

       With slack allegiance and boundless greed,

       To paunch the profit of a traitor deed,

       He aims to make thy glory all his own,

       And crowd his master from the infernal throne!