wicked, it is vulgar too; N'importe—with that we've nothing here to do. If 'twere artistic I would lie till death, And shape a falsehood with my latest breath. Parrhasius never more did pity lack, The while his model writhed upon the rack, Than I for my collaborator's pain, Who, stabbed with fibs again and yet again, Would vainly seek to move my stubborn heart If slander were, and wit were not, an art. The ill-bred and illiterate can lie As fast as you, and faster far than I. Shall I compete, then, in a strife accurst Where Allen Forman is an easy first, And where the second prize is rightly flung To Charley Shortridge or to Mike de Young? In mental combat but a single end Inspires the formidable to contend. Not by the raw recruit's ambition fired, By whom foul blows, though harmless, are admired; Not by the coward's zeal, who, on his knee Behind the bole of his protecting tree, So curves his musket that the bark it fits, And, firing, blows the weapon into bits; But with the noble aim of one whose heart Values his foeman for he loves his art The veteran debater moves afield, Untaught to libel as untaught to yield. Dear foeman mine, I've but this end in view—   That to prevent which most you wish to do. What, then, are you most eager to be at? To hate me? Nay, I'll help you, sir, at that. This only passion does your soul inspire:   You wish to scorn me. Well, you shall admire.    'Tis not enough my neighbors that you school In the belief that I'm a rogue or fool; That small advantage you would gladly trade For what one moment would yourself persuade. Write, then, your largest and your longest lie:   You sha'n't believe it, howsoe'er you try. No falsehood you can tell, no evil do, Shall turn me from the truth to injure you. So all your war is barren of effect; I find my victory in your respect. What profit have you if the world you set Against me? For the world will soon forget It thought me this or that; but I'll retain A vivid picture of your moral stain, And cherish till my memory expire The sweet, soft consciousness that you're a liar Is it your triumph, then, to prove that you Will do the thing that I would scorn to do? God grant that I forever be exempt From such advantage as my foe's contempt. 

   "PHIL" CRIMMINS 

   Still as he climbed into the public view His charms of person more apparent grew, Till the pleased world that watched his airy grace Saw nothing of him but his nether face—   Forgot his follies with his head's retreat, And blessed his virtues as it viewed their seat. 

 

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