Analysis of The Scurril Press

Ambrose Bierce 1842 (Meigs County) – 1914 (Chihuahua)



OM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I've slept right through
The night-a rather clever thing to do.
How soundly women sleep _(looks at his wife.)
They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life
Is woman when she lies with folded tongue,
Its toil completed and its day-song sung.
(_Thump_) That's the morning paper. What a bore
That it should be delivered at the door.
There ought to be some expeditious way
To get it _to_ one. By this long delay
The fizz gets off the news _(a rap is heard)_.
That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird;
She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul.
_(Gets up and takes it in.)_ Upon the whole
The system's not so bad a one. What's here?
Gad, if they've not got after-listen dear
_(To sleeping wife)_-young Gastrotheos! Well,
If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell
She'll shriek again-with laughter-seeing how
They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow
'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup
With Mrs. Thing.

WIFE _(briskly, waking up)_:
With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right.

JONESMITH (_continuing to 'seek the light'_):
What's this about old Impycu? That's good!
Grip-that's the funny man-says Impy should
Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps.
I knew old Impy when he had the 'stamps'
To buy us all out, and he wasn't then
So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen
Is just a tickler!-and the world, no doubt,
Is better with it than it was without.
What? thirteen ladies-Jumping Jove! we know
Them nearly all!-who gamble at a low
And very shocking game of cards called 'draw'!
O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw!
Let's see what else (_wife snores_). Well, I'll be blest!
A woman doesn't understand a jest.
Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds
To take a fling at _me_, condemn him! (_reads_):
Tom Jonesmith-my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!-_Of
the new Shavings Bank_-the man's gone mad!
That's libelous; I'll have him up for that-_Has
had his corns cut_. Devil take the rat!
What business is 't of his, I'd like to know?
He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low
And scurril things our papers have become!
You skim their contents and you get but scum.
Here, Mary, (_waking wife_) I've been attacked
In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact!

WIFE (_reading it_): How wicked! Who do you
Suppose 't was wrote it?

JONESMITH: Who? why, who
But Grip, the so-called funny man-he wrote
Me up because I'd not discount his note.
(_Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie-
He'll think of one that's better by and by-
Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads
A lively measure on it-kicks the shreds
And patches all about the room, and still
Performs his jig with unabated will._)

WIFE (_warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn_):
Dear, do be careful of that second corn.

STANLEY.
Noting some great man's composition vile:
A head of wisdom and a heart of guile,
A will to conquer and a soul to dare,
Joined to the manners of a dancing bear,
Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey
Of various Nature's compensating sway,
Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff,
To praise the one and at the other laugh,
Yearn all in vain and impotently seek
Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak
The sycophantic worship of the weak.
Not so the wise, from superstition free,
Who find small pleasure in the bended knee;
Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad,
And willing in the king to find the cad-
No reason seen why genius and conceit,
The power to dazzle and the will to cheat,
The love of daring and the love of gin,
Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin.
To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still,
Despite your cradling in a tub for swill.
Your peasant manners can't efface the mark
Of light you drew across the Land of Dark.

In you the extremes of character are wed,
To serve the quick and villify the dead.
Hero and clown! O, man of many sides,
The Muse of Truth adores you and derides,
And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray
Upon your head of gold and feet of clay.


Scheme AABBCCDDEEFGHHXXIIJJXX FX GKKLXMMNNOOPPQQXLBRLXOOSSTT AX AUUVVWWXH MX YZZ1 1 EE2 2 3 3 3 YYRR4 4 5 5 XX6 6 7 7 8 8 EE
Poetic Form
Metre 111111111 0101010111 11010111111 1101010101 1101111101 1101001111 1101010101 1111010101 111110101 1111111101 011101101111 110111101 111101111 111011010101 0101110111 1111110101 111011111 1101111 1101110101 1101101101 11111110101 1101 11101011 1001011111 111101 11011111 110101111 1110010101 111111101 1111101101 1101110111 110100111 1101111101 1111010111 1101110101 0101011111 111111111 1111111111 010100101 011101101 1101110111 1111101011 011010111 11001111111 111110101 11011111111 1101111111 0111010101 1111001111 110111101 0111111101 111110111 011111 1111 1101110111 1101110111 111101001 1111110101 1101010101 0101011101 0101010101 011110101 11101111 1111011101 10 101110101 0111000111 0111000111 1101010101 101010101 1100101001 11100101 1101010101 1101011 1101001111 001010101 110110101 1111000101 110101101 0100011101 1101110001 01011000111 0111000111 1111000101 1111010101 01110000111 1101010101 1111010111 01001110011 11010101 1001111101 0111011001 0101000101 0111110111
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 3,834
Words 714
Sentences 65
Stanzas 8
Stanza Lengths 22, 2, 27, 2, 9, 2, 24, 6
Lines Amount 94
Letters per line (avg) 32
Words per line (avg) 8
Letters per stanza (avg) 374
Words per stanza (avg) 88
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

3:44 min read
102

Ambrose Bierce

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce was an American editorialist, journalist, short story writer, fabulist, and satirist. more…

All Ambrose Bierce poems | Ambrose Bierce Books

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