His Accidency

SHOWS THE ASS’ EARS THROUGH THE LION’S SKIN.
——
The Little Tin Jesus Shows the Animus of the Jew Original.

     If there were nothing else in the world that ought everlastingly to damn Anarchy it would be, and ought to be, the fact that it put Roosterpelter in the Presidential chair of the United States, and his Christian hypochrisy [sic], as manifested in his cowardly assault upon Miles, is the very thing that is making anarchists, and greatly increases the already existing probability that some anarchist will ventilate Rosy’s internal anatomy with a big pistol before his imperialistic reign of four years is over.
     Roosevelt is today the most marked instance of a religious hypocrite in the United States. He is a true and consistent disciple of Jesus Christ. J. C. claimed to be a King and that’s what Rosy wants to be. There was some excuse for believing in monarchy in the days of J. C., because nobody had ever then heard of a republic; but there is no excuse for Rosy putting on any such airs as that in this country, where J. C. and his ideas of things are back numbers, and J. C. will have to go way back and sit down.
     When J. C. went to argue a question he did it with a big ox-whip that he had made out of Kentucky hemp rope, and he kicked over all the money tables and pied all the missionary boxes scandalously.
     When Rosy wanted to argue a question with General Miles he waited until he got Miles into his own private residence, known as the “White House,” and when Rosy was surrounded by his friends and retainers, and when Miles knew that to dare utter a word of resentment was to send him to the penitentiary, then Rosy walked up to Miles and shook his fist in Miles’ face and insulted him as I would not insult a nigger who had stolen my hog, and as nobody but a coward would insult any man.
     To show my Infidel faith by my works I have swallowed more insult from Christian hypocrites than any man who ever lived in Kentucky, and there are many good men and good women who would have respected me more if I had killed some of these men; but if Miles had given Rosy a slap that would have knocked his dude spectacles and about a pint of his famous teeth into an indiscriminate medley and then announced himself a candidate for the next presidency of the United States, the Blue Grass Blade would have championed his cause.
     If Eddie No. 7, over in England, who struts around in a crown and a lot of women’s petticoats, with ermine on them, dragging on the ground, had, in Buckingham Palace, shaken his fist in the face of one of the highest officers in the British army, because that officer dared to criticise the administration, the Yanks would have reared up on their hind legs and pawed the air and howled about the insolence of “the effete monarchies of Europe”; and yet here is a fellow whose only fame was that of a bronco buster, and whose only military achievement was to follow a gang of niggers up a hill, and from a safe distance watch them clean out a gang of murderous Christian Spaniards, and this jackleg politician who has gotten to be President because an Anarchist killed McKinley, is piling on a lot of agony and airs that would make Eddy No. 7 blush to mention in his presence.
     Yes, we are in a hell of a fix to be blowing ourselves before these bloated monarchists about the beauties of our republican government!
     I knew that Roosevelt, to make himself solid with the Christians, had called Tom Paine a “filthy little Atheist,” but I was willing to forgive him for that when he had the manhood, as I mistakenly thought, to invite the negro, Booker T. Washington, to dine with him, and I said so, out bold and plain, in my paper; but when Roosterpelter saw he had probably done an unpopular thing he was afraid to back out, and he straddled by saying that it was only by accident that he entertained Booker T., but that if it were all to be done over again he would do it again—simply trying to carry water on both shoulders, and catch the votes both of those who were for and those who were against the Booker T. episode.
     I am writing this on Christmas night after having done some rough farm work today, and a negro man eighty years old has today called be [sic] “Mars Charlies” in wishing me the happiness of the season, and that is a sample of the way I stand among negroes who know me, and I am their friend; but I tell you my friends of the colored persuasion that Teddy’s episode with Booker was simply a scheme to catch the negro vote, and he would see Booker and every other nigger in the world in hell if Teddy thought that was the way to elect him.
     Religion and whisky are just alike; a little of either of them, on the dead quiet, when a man is evidently ashamed of it, may not hurt very much, but when you find a man blowing himself on the great amount of religion or of whisky that he can hold, you have found a man that you had better guard against.
     Roosterpelter was made President of the United States by the Anarchists; common decency and common sense and common justice would have suggested that, excepting extraordinary cases, he should have carried out the policy of his principal. But no sooner is Rooster in office than he begins to advertise himself all over the United States, just like one of these spirit-rapping doctors, to fix himself up for the next presidency, and one of these advertisements of himself represents him and his son walking to church with their eyes cast down in exactly that same hypocritical air that every cartoonist of Puritan hypocrisy has given to that gang that unfortunately made it safe across the ocean to Plymouth Rock. I reckon I have less regard for military honor than any other man in the United States. It’s the last of pea time, and I don’t want any of it in mine, and I don’t know any more than a fool what all this racket has been about among these big sea-fighting men; but my ancestors and my son have been soldiers and I never thought any less of them for it, but if I do ever make up my mind to go a soldiering, either as chaplain or fighter, I am not going under Miles until he gets a stick and wears Rosy’s hide until it won’t hold corn shucks.