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THE MUMMERY
THE TWO CAVEES
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
FITCH a Pelter of RailroguesPICKERING his Partner, an Enemy to SinOLD NICK a General BlackwasherDEAD CAT a MissileANTIQUE EGG AnotherRAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower DistanceScene—The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.Time—1875.FITCH:
Gods! what a steep declivity! BelowI see the lazy dump-carts come and go,Creeping like beetles and about as big.The delving Paddies—PICKERING:
Case of infra dig.FITCH:
Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quipsCome with but scant propriety from lipsFringed with the blue-black evidence of age.'Twere well to cultivate a style more sage,For men will fancy, hearing how you pun,Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun.(Enter Dead Cat.)Here's one that thoughtfully has come to hand; Slant your fine eye below and see it land. (Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw.)DEAD CAT (singing):Merrily, merrily, round I go— Over and under and at.Swing wide and free, swing high and low The anti-monopoly cat!O, who wouldn't be in the place of me, The anti-monopoly cat? Designed to admonish, Persuade and astonishThe capitalist and—FITCH(letting go):Scat! (Exit Dead Cat.)PICKERING:
Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung!Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young.Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though'Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we oweThe traitor one for leaving us!—some dayWe'll get, if not his place, his cart away.Meantime fling missiles—any kind will do. (Enter Antique Egg.)Ha! we can give them an ovation, too!ANTIQUE EGG:
In the valley of the Nile, Where the Holy Crocodile Of immeasurable smile Blossoms like the early rose, And the Sacred Onion grows— When the Pyramids were new And the Sphinx possessed a nose, By a storkess I was laid In the cool papyrus shade, Where the rushes later grew, That concealed the little Jew, Baby Mose. Straining very hard to hatch, I disrupted there my yolk; And I felt my yellow streaming Through my white; And the dream that I was dreaming Of posterity was broke In a night. Then from the papyrus-patch By the rising waters rolled, Passing many a temple old, I proceeded to the sea. Memnon sang, one morn, to me, And I heard Cambyses sass The tomb of Ozymandias!FITCH:
O, venerablest orb of all the earth,God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw—I freely tender thee mine own. AlthoughAs a bad egg I am myself no slouch,Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and sayIf—whoop!— (Exit egg.) I've got the range.PICKERING: Hooray! hooray!A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,And deafening odors scream along the skies!Pelt 'em some more.FITCH:
There's nothing left but tar— wish I were a Yahoo.PICKERING:
Well, you are.But keep the tar. How well I recollect,When Mike was in with us—proud, strong, erect—Mens conscia recti—flinging mud, he stood,Austerely brave, incomparably good,Ere yet for filthy lucre he beganTo drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old NickAppeared and tarred us all with the same stick. (Enter Old Nick).I hope he won't return and use his artsTo make us part with our immortal parts.OLD NICK:
Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;For both your souls I wouldn't give a damn!I want my tar-pot—hello! where's the stick?FITCH:
Don't look at me that fashion!—look at Pick.PICKERING:
Forgive me, father—pity my remorse!Truth is—Mike took that stick to spank his horse.It fills my pericardium with griefThat I kept company with such a thief.(Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat and the tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culprit reproachfully and withdraws in tears.)FITCH (excitedly):O Pickering, come hither to the brink—There's something going on down there, I think!With many an upward smile and meaning winkThe navvies all are running from the cutLike lunatics, to right and left—PICKERING: Tut, tut—'Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke.Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke. (They sit and light cigars.)FITCH (singing): When first I met Miss Toughie I smoked a fine cigyar, An' I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.BOTH (singing): An' I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.FITCH (singing): I couldn't go to her, An' she wouldn't come to me; An' I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.BOTH (singing): An' I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.FITCH (singing): But purty soon I weakened An' lef' de dummy's bench, An' frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!BOTH (singing) An' frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!FITCH:
Is there not now a certain substance soldUnder the name of fulminate of gold,A high explosive, popular for blasting,Producing an effect immense and lasting?PICKERING:
Nay, that's mere superstition. Rocks are rentAnd excavations made by argument.Explosives all have had their day and season;The modern engineer relies on reason.He'll talk a tunnel through a mountain's flankAnd by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.(The earth trembles, a deep subterranean explosion is heard and a section of the bank as big as El Capitan starts away and plunges thunderously into the cut. A part of it strikes De Young's dumpcart abaft the axletree and flings him, hurtling, skyward, a thing of legs and arms, to descend on the distant mountains, where it is cold. Fitch and Pickering pull themselves out of the débris and stand ungraveling their eyes and noses.)FITCH:
Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade,And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.PICKERING:
God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start. Well, fate is fate—I guess I'll drive this cart. (Curtain.)METEMPSYCHOSIS
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ST. JOHN a Presidential CandidateMCDONALD a Defeated AspirantMRS. HAYES an Ex-PresidentPITTS-STEVENS a Water NymphScene—A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.ST. JOHN:
Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarnAnd, quaffing copious potations, triedTo suck it dry; but ever as I pumpedIts waters into my distended skinThe labor of my zeal extruded themIn perspiration from my pores; and so,Rilling the marginal declivity,They fell again into their source. Ah, me!Could I but find within these ancient hillsSome long extinct volcano, by the rainsOf countless ages in its crater brimmedLike a full goblet, I would lay me downProne on the outer slope, and o'er its edgeArching my neck, I'd siphon out its storeAnd flood the valleys with my sweat for aye.So should I be accounted as a god,Even as Father Nilus is. What's that?Methought I heard some sawyer draw his fileWith jarring, stridulous cacophanyAcross his notchy blade, to set its teethAnd mine on edge. Ha! there it goes again!Song, within. Cold water's the milk of the mountains, And Nature's our wet-nurse. O then, Glue thou thy blue lips to her fountains Forever and ever, amen!ST. JOHN:
Why surely there's congenial companyAloof—the spirit, I suppose, that guardsThis sacred spot; perchance some water-nymphWho laving in the crystal flood her limbsHas taken cold, and so, with raucous voiceAfflicts the sensitive membrane of mine earThe while she sings my sentiments. (Enter Pitts-Stevens.) Hello!What fiend is this?PITTS-STEVENS:
'Tis I, be not afraid.ST. JOHN:
And who, thou antiquated crone, art thou?I ne'er forget a face, but names I can'tSo well remember. I have seen thee oft.When in the middle season of the night,Curved with a cucumber, or knotted hardWith an eclectic pie, I've striven to keepMy head and heels asunder, thou has come,With sociable familiarity,Into my dream, but not, alas, to bless.PITTS-STEVENS:
My name's Pitts-Stevens, age just seventeen years;Talking teetotaler, professionalBeauty.ST. JOHN:
What dost them here?PITTS-STEVENS:
I'm come, fair sir,With paint and brush to blazon on these rocksThe merits of my master's nostrum—so: (Paints rapidly.)"McDonald's Vinegar Bitters!"ST. JOHN:
What are they?PITTS-STEVENS:
A woman suffering from widowhoodTook a full bottle and was cured. A manThere was—a murderer; the doctors allHad given him up—he'd but an hour to live.He swallowed half a glassful. He is dead,But not of Vinegar Bitters. A wee babeLay sick and cried for it. The mother gaveThat innocent a spoonful and it smoothedIts pathway to the tomb. 'Tis warrantedTo cause a boy to strike his father, makeA pig squeal, start the hair upon a stone,Or play the fiddle for a country dance.(Enter McDonald, reading a Sunday-school book.)Good morrow, sir; I trust you're well.MCDONALD:
H'lo, Pitts!Observe, good friends, I have a volume hereMyself am author of—a noble bookTo train the infant mind (delightful task!)It tells how one Samantha Brown, age, six,A gutter-bunking slave to rum, was savedBy Vinegar Bitters, went to church and nowHas an account at the Pacific Bank.I'll read the whole work to you.ST JOHN: Heaven forbid!I've elsewhere an engagement.PITTS-STEVENS: I am deaf.MCDONALD(reading regardless):"Once on a time there lived"——(Enter Mrs. Hayes.) Behold our queen!ALL:
Her eyes upon the ground Before her feet she low'rs,Walking, in thought profound, As 'twere, upon all fours.Her visage is austere, Her gait a high parade;At every step you hear The sloshing lemonade!MRS. HAYES (to herself):Once, sitting in the White House, hard at workSigning State papers (Rutherford was there,Knitting some hose) a sudden glory fellUpon my paper. I looked up and sawAn angel, holding in his hand a rodWherewith he struck me. Smarting with the blowI rose and (cuffing Rutherford) inquired:"Wherefore this chastisement?" The angel said:"Four years you have been President, and stillThere's rum!"—then flew to Heaven. Contrite, I sworeSuch oath as lady Methodist might take,My second term should medicine my first.The people would not have it that way; soI seek some candidate who'll take my soul—My spirit of reform, fresh from my breast,And give me his instead; and thus equippedWith my imperious and fiery essence,Drive the Drink-Demon from the land and fillThe people up with water till their teethAre all afloat. (St. John discovers himself.) What, you?ST. JOHN:
Aye, Madam, I'llSwap souls with you and lead the cold sea-greenAmphibians of Prohibition on,Pallid of nose and webbed of foot, swim-bladdered,Gifted with gills, invincible!MRS. HAYES:
Enough,Stand forth and consummate the interchange.(While McDonald and Pitts-Stevens modestly turn their backs, the latter blushing a delicate shrimp-pink, St. John and Mrs. Hayes effect an exchange of immortal parts. When the transfer is complete McDonald turns and advances, uncorking a bottle of Vinegar Bitters.)MCDONALD (chanting): Nectar compounded of simples Cocted in Stygian shades— Acids of wrinkles and pimples From faces of ancient maids— Acrid precipitates sunken From tempers of scolding wives Whose husbands, uncommonly drunken, Are commonly found in dives,— With this I baptize and appoint thee (to St. John.) To marshal the vinophobe ranks. In the name of Dambosh I anoint thee (pours the liquid down St. John's back.) As King of aquatical cranks!(The liquid blisters the royal back, and His Majesty starts on a dead run, energetically exclaiming. Exit St. John.)MRS. HAYES:
My soul! My soul! I'll never get it back Unless I follow nimbly on his track. (Exit Mrs. Hayes.)PITTS-STEVENS:
O my! he's such a beautiful young man! I'll follow, too, and catch him if I can. (Exit Pitts-Stevens.)MCDONALD:
He scarce is visible, his dust so great!Methinks for so obscure a candidateHe runs quite well. But as for Prohibition—I mean myself to hold the first position.(Produces a pocket flask, topes a cruel quantity of double-distilled thunder-and-lightning out of it, smiles so grimly as to darken all the stage and sings): Though fortunes vary let all be merry, And then if e'er a disaster befall, At Styx's ferry is Charon's wherry In easy call. Upon a ripple of golden tipple That tipsy ship'll convey you best. To king and cripple, the bottle's the nipple Of Nature's breast!(Curtain.)SLICKENS
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
HAYSEED a Granger
NOZZLE a Miner
RINGDIVVY a Statesman
FEEGOBBLE a Lawyer
JUNKET a Committee
Scene—Yuba Dam.
Feegobble, Ringdivvy, Nozzle.
NOZZLE:
My friends, since '51 I have pursuedThe evil tenor of my watery way,Removing hills as by an act of faith—RINGDIVVY:
Just so; the steadfast faith of those who hold,In foreign lands beyond the Eastern sea,The shares in your concern—a simple, blind,Unreasoning belief in dividends,Still stimulated by assessments which,When the skies fall, ensnaring all the larks,Will bring, no doubt, a very great return.ALL (singing): O the beautiful assessment, The exquisite assessment, The regular assessment, That makes the water flow.RINGDIVVY:
The rascally-assessment!FEEGOBBLE:
The murderous assessment!NOZZLE:
The glorious assessment That makes my mare to go!FEEGOBBLE:
But, Nozzle, you, I think, were on the pointOf making a remark about some rights—Some certain vested rights you have acquiredBy long immunity; for still the lawHolds that if one do evil undisturbedHis right to do so ripens with the years;And one may be a villain long enoughTo make himself an honest gentleman.ALL (singing): Hail, holy law, The soul with awe Bows to thy dispensation.NOZZLE:
It breaks my jaw!RINGDIVVY:
It qualms my maw!FEEGOBBLE:
It feeds my jaw, It crams my maw, It is my soul's salvation!NOZZLE:
Why, yes, I've floated mountains to the seaFor lo! these many years; though some, they say,Do strand themselves along the bottom landsAnd cover up a village here and there,And here and there a ranch. 'Tis said, indeed,The granger with his female and his youngDo not infrequently go to the dickensBy premature burial in slickens.ALL (singing): Could slickens forever Choke up the river, And slime's endeavor Be tried on grain, How small the measure Of granger's treasure, How keen his pain!RINGDIVVY:
"A consummation devoutly to be wished!"These rascal grangers would long since have beenSubmerged in slimes, to the last man of them,But for the fact that all their wicked tribesAffect our legislation with their bribes.ALL (singing): O bribery's great— 'Tis a pillar of State, And the people they are free.FEEGOBBLE:
It smashes my slate!NOZZLE:
It is thievery straight!RINGDIVVY:
But it's been the making of me!NOZZLE:
I judge by certain shrewd sensations hereIn these callosities I call my thumbs—thrilling sense as of ten thousand pins,Red-hot and penetrant, transpiercing allThe cuticle and tickling through the nerves—That some malign and awful thing draws near.(Enter Hayseed.)Good Lord! here are the ghosts and spooks of allThe grangers I have decently interred,Rolled into one!FEEGOBBLE:
Plead, phantom.RINGDIVVY:
You've the floor.HAYSEED:
From the margin of the river (Bitter Creek, they sometimes call it) Where I cherished once the pumpkin, And the summer squash promoted, Harvested the sweet potato, Dallied with the fatal melon And subdued the fierce cucumber, I've been driven by the slickens, Driven by the slimes and tailings! All my family—my Polly Ann and all my sons and daughters, Dog and baby both included— All were swamped in seas of slickens, Buried fifty fathoms under, Where they lie, prepared to play their Gentle prank on geologic Gents that shall exhume them later, In the dim and distant future, Taking them for melancholy Relics antedating Adam. I alone got up and dusted.NOZZLE:
Avaunt! you horrid and infernal cuss!What dire distress have you prepared for us?RINGDIVVY:
Were I a buzzard stooping from the sky My craw with filth to fill, Into your honorable body I Would introduce a bill.FEEGOBBLE:
Defendant, hence, or, by the gods, I'll brain thee!—Unless you saved some turneps to retain me.HAYSEED:
As I was saying, I got up and dusted,My ranch a graveyard and my business busted!But hearing that a fellow from the City,Who calls himself a Citizens' Committee,Was coming up to play the very dickens,With those who cover up our farms with slickens,And make himself—unless I am in error—To all such miscreants a holy terror,I thought if I would join the dialogueI maybe might get payment for my dog.ALL (Singing):O the dog is the head of Creation, Prime work of the Master's hand;He hasn't a known occupation, Yet lives on the fat of the land.Adipose, indolent, sleek and orbicular,Sun-soaken, door matted, cross and particular,Men, women, children, all coddle and wait on him,Then, accidentally shutting the gate on him,Miss from their calves, ever after, the rifted outMouthful of tendons that doggy has lifted out! (Enter Junket.)JUNKET:
Well met, my hearties! I must trouble youJointly and severally to provideA comfortable carriage, with relaysOf hardy horses. This Committee meansTo move in state about the country here.I shall expect at every place I stopGood beds, of course, and everything that's nice,With bountiful repast of meat and wine.For this Committee comes to sea and markAnd inwardly digest.HAYSEED:
Digest my dog!NOZZLE:
First square my claim for damages: the goldEscaping with the slickens keeps me poor!RINGDIVVY:
I merely would remark that if you'd greaseMy itching palm it would more glibly glideInto the public pocket.FEEGOBBLE:
Sir, the wheelsOf justice move but slowly till they're oiled.I have some certain writs and warrants here,Prepared against your advent. You recallThe tale of Zaccheus, who did climb a tree,And Jesus said: "Come down"?JUNKET:
Why, bless your souls!I've got no money; I but came to seeWhat all this noisy babble is about,Make a report and file the same away.NOZZLE, RINGDIVVY, FEEGOBBLE, HAYSEED:
How'll that help us? Reports are not our styleOf provender!JUNKET:
Well, you can gnaw the file.(Curtain.)"PEACEABLE EXPULSION"
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MOUNTWAVE a Politician
HARDHAND a Workingman
TOK BAK a Chinaman
SATAN a Friend to Mountwave
CHORUS OF FOREIGN VOTERS.
MOUNTWAVE:
My friend, I beg that you will lend your ears(I know 'tis asking a good deal of you)While I for your instruction nominateSome certain wrongs you suffer. Men like youImperfectly are sensible of allThe miseries they actually feel.Hence, Providence has prudently raised upClear-sighted men like me to diagnoseTheir cases and inform them where they're hurt.The wounds of honest workingmen I've madeA specialty, and probing them's my trade.HARDHAND:
Well, Mister, s'pose you let yer bossest eyeCamp on my mortal part awhile; then youJes' toot my sufferin's an' tell me what'sThe fashionable caper now in writhes—The very swellest wiggle.MOUNTWAVE:
Well, my lad,'Tis plain as is the long, conspicuous noseBorne, ponderous and pendulous, betweenThe elephant's remarkable eye-teeth (Enter Tok Bak.)That Chinese competition's what ails you.BOTH (Singing): O pig-tail Celestial, O barbarous bestial, Abominable Chinee! Simian fellow man, Primitive yellow man, Joshian devotee! Shoe-and-cigar machine, Oleomargarine You are, and butter are we— Fat of the land are we, Salt of the earth; In God's image planned to be— Noble in birth! You, on the contrary, Modeled upon very Different lines indeed, Show in conspicuous, Base and ridiculous Ways your inferior breed. Wretched apology, Shame of ethnology, Monster unspeakably low! Fit to be buckshotted— Be you 'steboycotted. Vanish—vamoose—mosy—Go!TOK BAK:
You listen me! You beatee the big dlumAn' tell me go to Flowly Kingdom Come.You all too muchee fool. You chinnee heap.Such talkee like my washee—belly cheap! (Enter Satan.)You dlive me outee clunty towns all way;Why you no tackle me Safflisco, hay?SATAN:
Methought I heard a murmuring of tonguesSound through the ceiling of the hollow earth,As if the anti-coolie ques——ha! friends,Well met. You see I keep my ancient word:Where two or three are gathered in my name,There am I in their midst.MOUNTWAVE:
O monstrous thief!To quote the words of Shakespeare as your own.I know his work.HARDHAND:
Who's Shakespeare?—what's his trade?I've heard about the work o' that galootTill I'm jest sick!TOK BAK:
Go Sunny school—you'll knowMo' Bible. Bime by pleach—hell-talkee. Tell'Bout Abel—mebby so he live too cheap.He mebby all time dig on lanch—no dlink,No splee—no go plocession fo' make vote—No sendee money out of clunty fo'To helpee Ilishmen. Cain killum. JoshHe catchee at it, an' he belly mad—Say: "Allee Melicans boycottee Cain."Not muchee—you no pleachee that:You all same lie.MOUNTWAVE:
This cuss must be expelled. (Draws pistol.)MOUNTWAVE, HARDHAND, SATAN (singing): For Chinese expulsion, hurrah! To mobbing and murder, all hail! Away with your justice and law— We'll make every pagan turn tail.CHORUS OF FOREIGN VOTERS:
Bedad! oof dot tief o'ze vorld— Zat Ivan Tchanay vos got hurled In Hella, da debil he say: "Wor be yer return pairmit, hey?" Und gry as 'e shaka da boot: "Zis haythen haf nevaire been oot!"HARDHAND:
Too many cooks are working at this broth—I think, by thunder, t'will be mostly froth!I'm cussed ef I can sarvy, up to date,What good this dern fandango does the State.MOUNTWAVE:
The State's advantage, sir, you may not see,But think how good it is for me.SATAN:
And me.(Curtain.)ASPIRANTS THREE
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
QUICK:
DE YOUNG a Brother to Mushrooms
DEAD:
SWIFT an Heirloom
ESTEE a Relic
IMMORTALS: THE SPIRIT OF BROKEN HOPES. THE AUTHOR.
MISCELLANEOUS: A TROUPE OF COFFINS. THE MOON. VARIOUS COLORED FIRES.
Scene—The Political Graveyard at Bone Mountain.
DE YOUNG:
This is the spot agreed upon. Here restThe sainted statesman who upon the fieldOf honor have at various times laid downTheir own, and ended, ignominious,Their lives political. About me, lo!Their silent headstones, gilded by the moon,Half-full and near her setting—midnight. Hark!Through the white mists of this portentous night(Which throng in moving shapes about my way,As they were ghosts of candidates I've slain,To fray their murderer) my open ear,Spacious to maw the noises of the world,Engulfs a footstep. (Enter Estee from his tomb.) Ah, 'tis he, my foe,True to appointment; and so here we fight—Though truly 'twas my firm belief that heWould send regrets, or I had not been here.ESTEE:
O moon that hast so oft surprised the deedsWhereby I rose to greatness!—tricksy orb,The type and symbol of my politics,Now draw my ebbing fortunes to their flood,As, by the magic of a poultice, boilsThat burn ambitions with defeated firesAre lifted into eminence. (Sees De Young.) What? you!Faith, if I had suspected you would comeFrom the fair world of politics whereinSo lately you were whelped, and which, alas,I vainly to revisit strive, though stillRapped on the rotting head and bidden sleepTill Resurrection's morn,—if I had thoughtYou would accept the challenge that I flungI would have seen you damned ere I came forthIn the night air, shroud-clad and shivering,To fight so mean a thing! But since you're here,Draw and defend yourself. By gad, we'll seeWho'll be Postmaster-General!DE YOUNG:
We will—I'll fight (for I am lame) with any blueAnd redolent remain that dares aspireTo wreck the Grand Old Grandson's cabinet.Here's at you, nosegay!(They draw tongues and are about to fight, when from an adjacent whited sepulcher, enter Swift.)SWIFT:
Hold! put up your tongues!Within the confines of this sacred spotBroods such a holy calm as none may breakBy clash of weapons, without sacrilege. (Beats down their tongues with a bone.)Madmen! what profits it? For though you foughtWith such heroic skill that both survived,Yet neither should achieve the prize, for IWould wrest it from him. Let us not contend,But friendliwise by stipulation fixA slate for mutual advantage. Why,Having the pick and choice of seats, should weForego them all but one? Nay, we'll take three,And part them so among us that to eachShall fall the fittest to his powers. In brief,Let us establish a Portfolio Trust.ESTEE:
Agreed.DE YOUNG:
Aye, truly, 'tis a greed—and oneThe offices imperfectly will sate,But I'll stand in.SWIFT:
Well, so 'tis understood,As you're the junior member of the Trust,Politically younger and undead,Speak, Michael: what portfolio do you choose?DE YOUNG:
I've thought the Postal service best would serveMy interest; but since I have my pick,I'll take the War Department. It is knownThroughout the world, from Market street to Pine,(For a Chicago journal told the tale)How in this hand I lately took my lifeAnd marched against great Buckley, thunderingMy mandate that he count the ballots fair!Earth heard and shrank to half her size! Yon moon,Which rivaled then a liver's whiteness, pausedThat night at Butchertown and daubed her faceWith sheep's blood! Then my serried rank I drewBack to my stronghold without loss. To markMy care in saving human life and limb,The Peace Society bestowed on meIts leather medal and the title, too,Of Colonel. Yes, my genius is for war. Good land!I naturally dote on a brass band!(Sings.)O, give me a life on the tented field, Where the cannon roar and ring,Where the flag floats free and the foemen yield And bleed as the bullets sing.But be it not mine to wage the frayWhere matters are ordered the other way, For that is a different thing.O, give me a life in the fierce campaign— Let it be the life of my foe:I'd rather fall upon him than the plain; That service I'd fain forego.O, a warrior's life is fine and free,But a warrior's death—ah me! ah me! That's a different thing, you know.ESTEE:
Some claim I might myself advance to thatPortfolio. When Rebellion raised its head,And you, my friends, stayed meekly in your shirts,I marched with banners to the party stump,Spat on my hands, made faces fierce as death,Shook my two fists at once and introducedBrave resolutions terrible to read!Nay, only recently, as you do know,I conquered Treason by the word of mouth,And slew, with Samson's weapon, the whole South!SWIFT:
You once fought Stanford, too.ESTEE:
Enough of that—Give me the Interior and I'll devoteMy mind to agriculture and improveThe breed of cabbages, especiallyThe Brassica Celeritatis, namedFor you because in days of long agoYou sold it at your market stall,—and, faith,'Tis said you were an honest huckster then.I'll be Attorney-General if youPrefer; for know I am a lawyer too!SWIFT:
I never have heard that!—did you, De Young?DE YOUNG:
Never, so help me! And I swear I've heardA score of Judges say that he is not.SWIFT (to Estee):You take the Interior. I might aspireTo military station too, for onceI led my party into Pixley's camp,And he paroled me. I defended, too,The State of Oregon against the sharpAnd bloody tooth of the Australian sheep.But I've an aptitude exceeding neatFor bloodless battles of diplomacy.My cobweb treaty of Exclusion once,Through which a hundred thousand coolies sailed,Was much admired, but most by Colonel Bee.Though born a tinker I'm a diplomatFrom old Missouri, and I—ha! what's that?(Exit Moon. Enter Blue Lights on all the tombs, and a circle of Red Fire on the grass; in the center the Spirit of Broken Hopes, and round about, a Troupe of Coffins, dancing and singing.)CHORUS OF COFFINS:
Two bodies dead and one alive— Yo, ho, merrily all! Now for boodle strain and strive— Buzzards all a-warble, O! Prophets three, agape for bread; Raven with a stone instead— Providential raven! Judges two and Colonel one— Run, run, rustics, run! But it's O, the pig is shaven, And oily, oily all!(Exeunt Coffins, dancing. The Spirit of Broken Hopes advances, solemnly pointing at each of the Three Worthies in turn.)SPIRIT OF BROKEN HOPES:
Governor, Governor, editor man,Rusty, musty, spick-and-span,Harlequin, harridan, dicky-dout,Demagogue, charlatan—o, u, t, OUT! (De Young falls and sleeps.) Antimonopoler, diplomat, Railroad lackey, political rat, One, two, three—SCAT! (Swift falls and sleeps.)Boycotting chin-worker, working to wooFortune, the fickle, to smile upon you,Jo-coated acrobat, shuttle-cock—SHOO! (Estee falls and sleeps.) Now they lie in slumber sweet, Now the charm is all complete, Hasten I with flying feet Where beyond the further sea A babe upon its mother's knee Is gazing into skies afar And crying for a golden star. I'll drag a cloud across the blue And break that infant's heart in two!(Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and Blue Fires. Re-enter Moon.)ESTEE (waking):Why, this is strange! I dreamed I know not what,It seemed that certain apparitions were,Which sang uncanny words, significantAnd yet ambiguous—half-understood—Portending evil; and an awful spook,Even as I stood with my accomplices,Counted me out, as children do in play.Is that you, Mike?DE YOUNG(waking):It was.SWIFT(waking): Am I all that?Then I'll reform my ways.(Reforms his ways.)Ah! had I knownHow sweet it is to be an honest manI never would have stooped to turn my coatFor public favor, as chameleons takeThe hue (as near as they can judge) of thatSupporting them. Henceforth I'll buyWith money all the offices I need,And know the pleasure of an honest life,Or stay forever in this dismal place.Now that I'm good, it will no longer doTo make a third with such, a wicked two.(Returns to his tomb.)DE YOUNG:
Prophetic dream! by some good angel sentTo make me with a quiet life content.The question shall no more my bosom irk,To go to Washington or go to work.From Fame's debasing struggle I'll withdraw,And taking up the pen lay down the law.I'll leave this rogue, lest my example makeAn honest man of him—his heart would break.(Exit De Young.)ESTEE:
Out of my company these converts flee,But that advantage is denied to me:My curst identity's confining skinNor lets me out nor tolerates me in.Well, since my hopes eternally have fled,And, dead before, I'm more than ever dead,To find a grander tomb be now my task,And pack my pork into a stolen cask.(Exit, searching. Loud calls for the Author, who appears,bowing and smiling.)AUTHOR(singing):Jack Satan's the greatest of gods, And Hell is the best of abodes.'Tis reached, through the Valley of Clods, By seventy different roads. Hurrah for the Seventy Roads!Hurrah for the clods that resoundWith a hollow, thundering sound! Hurrah for the Best of Abodes!We'll serve him as long as we've breath— Jack Satan the greatest of gods.To all of his enemies, death!— A home in the Valley of Clods. Hurrah for the thunder of clodsThat smother the soul of his foe!Hurrah for the spirits that go To dwell with the Greatest of Gods;(Curtain falls to faint odor of mortality. Exit the Gas.)THE BIRTH OF THE RAIL
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
LELAND, THE KID a Road Agent
COWBOY CHARLEY Same Line of Business
HAPPY HUNTY Ditto in All Respects
SOOTYMUG a Devil
Scene—the Dutch Flat Stage Road, at 12 P.M., on a Night of 1864.
COWBOY CHARLEY:
My boss, I fear she is delayed to-night.Already it is past the hour, and yetMy ears have reached no sound of wheels; no noteMelodious, of long, luxurious oathsBetokens the traditional dispute(Unsettled from the dawn of time) betweenThe driver and off wheeler; no clear chantNor carol of Wells Fargo's messengerUnbosoming his soul upon the air—his prowess to the tender-foot,And how at divers times in sundry waysHe strewed the roadside with our carcasses.Clearly, the stage will not come by to-night.LELAND, THE KID:
I now remember that but yesterdayI saw three ugly looking fellows startFrom Colfax with a gun apiece, and theyDid seem on business of importance bent.Furtively casting all their eyes aboutAnd covering their tracks with all the careThat business men do use. I think perhapsThey were Directors of that rival line,The great Pacific Mail. If so, they haveIndubitably taken in that coach,And we are overreached. Three times beforeThis thing has happened, and if once againThese outside operators dare to cutOur rates of profit I shall quit the roadAnd take my money out of this concern.When robbery no longer pays expenseIt loses then its chiefest charm for me,And I prefer to cheat—you hear me shout!HAPPY HUNTY:
My chief, you do but echo back my thoughts:This competition is the death of trade.'Tis plain (unless we wish to go to work)Some other business we must early find.What shall it be? The field of usefulnessIs yearly narrowing with the advanceOf wealth and population on this coast.There's little left that any man can doWithout some other fellow stepping inAnd doing it as well. If one essayTo pick a pocket he is sure to feel(With what disgust I need not say to you)Another hand inserted in the same.You crack a crib at dead of night, and lo!As you explore the dining-room for plateYou find, in session there, a graceless bandStuffing their coats with spoons, their skins with wine.And so it goes. Why even undertakeTo salt a mine and you will find it richWith noble specimens placed there before!LELAND, THE KID:
And yet this line of immigration hasAdvantages superior to aughtThat elsewhere offers: all these passengers,If punched with care—COWBOY CHARLEY:
Significant remark!It opens up a prospect wide and fair,Suggesting to the thoughtful mind—my mind—A scheme that is the boss lay-out. InsteadOf stopping passengers, let's carry them.Instead of crying out: "Throw up your hands!"Let's say: "Walk up and buy a ticket!" WhyShould we unwieldy goods and bullion take,Watches and all such trifles, when we mightFar better charge their value three times o'erFor carrying them to market?LELAND, THE KID:
Put it there,Old son!HAPPY HUNTY:
You take the cake, my dear. We'll buildA mighty railroad through this pass, and thenThe stage folk will come up to us and squeal,And say: "It is bad medicine for both:What will you give or take?" And then we'll sell.COWBOY CHARLEY:
Enlarge your notions, little one; this isNo petty, slouching, opposition scheme,To be bought off like honest men and fools;Mine eye prophetic pierces through the mistsThat cloud the future, and I seem to seeA well-devised and executed schemeOf wholesale robbery within the law(Made by ourselves)—great, permanent, sublime,And strong to grapple with the public throat—Shaking the stuffing from the public purse,The tears from bankrupt merchants' eyes, the bloodFrom widows' famished carcasses, the breadFrom orphans' mouths!HAPPY HUNTY:
Hooray!LELAND, THE; KID:
Hooray!ALL:
Hooray!(They tear the masks from their faces, and discharging their shotguns, throw them into the chapparal. Then they join hands, dance and sing the following song:)Ah! blessèd to measureThe glittering treasure! Ah! blessèd to heap up the gold UntoldThat flows in a wideAnd deepening tide— Rolled, rolled, rolledFrom multifold sources,Converging its courses Upon our—LELAND, THE KID:
Just wait a bit, my pards, I thought I heardA sneaking grizzly cracking the dry twigs.Such an intrusion might deprive the StateOf all the good that we intend it. Ha!(Enter Sootymug. He saunters carelessly in and gracefully leans his back against a redwood.)SOOTYMUG:
My boys, I thought I heard Some careless revelry,As if your minds were stirred By some new devilry.I too am in that line. Indeed, the missionOn which I come—HAPPY HUNTY:
Here's more damned competition! (Curtain.)A BAD NIGHT
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
VILLIAM a Sen
NEEDLESON a Sidniduc
SMILER a Scheister
KI-YI a Trader
GRIMGHAST a Spader
SARALTHIA a Love-lorn Nymph
NELLIBRAC a Sweetun
A BODY; A GHOST; AN UNMENTIONABLE THING; SKULLS; HOODOOS; ETC.
Scene—a Cemetery in San Francisco.
Saralthia, Nellibrac, Grimghast.
SARALTHIA:
The red half-moon is dipping to the west,And the cold fog invades the sleeping land.Lo! how the grinning skulls in the level lightLitter the place! Methinks that every skullIs a most lifelike portrait of my Sen,Drawn by the hand of Death; each fleshless pate,Cursed with a ghastly grin to eyes unrubbedWith love's magnetic ointment, seems to mineTo smile an amiable smile like hisWhose amiable smile I—I aloneAm able to distinguish from his leer!See how the gathering coyotes flitThrough the lit spaces, or with burning eyesStar the black shadows with a steadfast gaze!About my feet the poddy toads at play,Bulbously comfortable, try to hop,And tumble clumsily with all their warts;While pranking lizards, sliding up and downMy limbs, as they were public roads, impartA singularly interesting chill.The circumstance and passion of the time,The cast and manner of the place—the spiritOf this confederate environment,Command the rights we come to celebrateObedient to the Inspired Hag—The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter,Who rules all destinies from Minna street,A dollar a destiny. Here at this grave,Which for my purposes thou, Jack of Spades— (To Grimghast)Corrupter than the thing that reeks below—Hast opened secretly, we'll work the charm.Now what's the hour? (Distant clock strikes thirteen.) Enough—hale forth the stiff!(Grimghast by means of a boat-hook stands the coffin on end in the excavation; the lid crumbles, exposing the remains of a man.)Ha! Master Mouldybones, how fare you, sir?THE BODY:
Poorly, I thank your ladyship; I missSome certain fingers and an ear or two.There's something, too, gone wrong with my inside,And my periphery's not what it was.How can we serve each other, you and I?NELLIBRAC:
O what a personable man!(Blushes bashfully, drops her eyes and twists the corner of her apron.)SARALTHIA:
Yes, dear,A very proper and alluring male,And quite superior to Lubin Rroyd,Who has, however, this distinct advantage—He is alive.GRIMGHAST:
Missus, these yer remainsWas the boss singer back in '72,And used to allers git invites to goDown to Swellmont and sing at every feed.In t'other Villiam's time, that was, aforeThe gent that you've hooked onto bought the place.THE BODY(singing):Down among the sainted dead Many years I lay;Beetles occupied my head, Moles explored my clay.There we feasted day and night— I and bug and beast;They provided appetite And I supplied the feast.The raven is a dicky-bird,SARALTHIA(singing):The jackal is a daisy,NELLIBRAC(singing):The wall-mouse is a worthy third,A SPOOK(singing):But mortals all are crazy.CHORUS OF SKULLS:
O mortals all are crazy, Their intellects are hazy;In the growing moon they shake their shoon And trip it in the mazy. But when the moon is waning, Their senses they're regaining: They fall to prayer and from their hair Remove the straws remaining.SARALTHIA:
That's right, Rogues Gallery, pray keep it up:Your song recalls my Villiam's "Auld Lang Syne,"What time he came and (like an amorous birdThat struts before the female of its kind,Warbling to cave her down the bank) piped highHis cracked falsetto out of reach. Enough—Now let's to business. Nellibrac, sweet child,St. Cloacina's future devotee,The time is ripe and rotten—gut the grip!(Nellibrac brings forward a valise and takes from it five articles of clothing, which, one by one, she lays upon the points of a magic pentagram that has thoughtfully inscribed itself in lines of light on the wet grass. The Body holds its late lamented nose.)NELLIBRAC(singing): Fragrant socks, by Villiam's toes Consecrated to the nose; Shirt that shows the well worn track Of the knuckles of his back, Handkerchief with mottled stains, Into which he blew his brains; Collar crying out for soap— Prophet of the future rope; An unmentionable thing It would sicken me to sing.UNMENTIONABLE THING(aside):What! I unmentionable? Just you wait!In all the family journals of the StateYou'll sometime see that I'm described at length,With supereditorial grace and strength.SARALTHIA(singing): Throw them in the open tomb They will cause his love to bloom With an amatory boom!CHORUS OF INVISIBLE HOODOOS:
Hoodoo, hoodoo, voudou-vet Villiam struggles in the net! By the power and intent Of the charm his strength is spent! By the virtue in each rag Blessed by the Inspired Hag He will be a willing victim Limp as if a donkey kicked him! By this awful incantation We decree his animation— By the magic of our art Warm the cockles of his heart, Villiam, if alive or dead, Thou Saralthia shalt wed!(They cast the garments into the grave and push over the coffin. Grimghast fills up the hole. Hoodoos gradually become apparent in a phosphorescent light about the grave, holding one another's back-hair and dancing in a circle.)HOODOO SONG AND DANCE:
O we're the larrikin hoodoos! The chirruping, lirruping hoodoos! We mix things up that the Fates ordain, Bring back the past and the present detain, Postpone the future and sometimes tether The three and drive them abreast together— We rollicking, frolicking hoodoos! To us all things are the same as none And nothing is that is under the sun. Seven's a dozen and never is then, Whether is what and what is when, A man is a tree and a cuckoo a cow For gold galore and silver enow To magical, mystical hoodoos!SARALTHIA:
What monstrous shadow darkens all the place,(Enter Smyler.)Flung like a doom athwart—ha!—thou?Portentous presence, art thou not the sameThat stalks with aspect horrible amongSmall youths and maidens, baring snaggy teeth,Champing their tender limbs till crimson spume,Flung from, thy lips in cursing God and man,Incarnadines the land?SMYLER:
Thou dammid slut!(Exit Smyler.)NELLIBRAC:
O what a pretty man!SARALTHIA
Now who is next?Of tramps and casuals this graveyard seemsProlific to a fault!(Enter Needleson, exhaling, prophetically, an odor of decayed eggs and, actually, one of unlaundried linen. He darts an intense regard at an adjacent marble angel and places his open hand behind his ear.)NEEDLESON:
Hay? (Exit Needleson.)NELLIBRAC:
Sweet, sweet male!I yearn to play at Copenhagen with him!(Blushes diligently and energetically.)CHORUS OF SKULLS:
Hoodoos, hoodoos, disappear— Some dread deity draws near!(Exeunt Hoodos.) Smitten with a sense of doom, The dead are cowering in the tomb, Seas are calling, stars are falling And appalling is the gloom! Fragmentary flames are flung Through the air the trees among! Lo! each hill inclines its head— Earth is bending 'neath his thread!(On the contrary, enter Villiam on a chip, navigating an odor of mignonette. Saralthia springs forward to put him in her pocket, but he is instantly retracted by an invisible string. She falls headlong, breaking her heart. Reënter Villiam, Needleson, Smyler. All gather about Saralthia, who loudly laments her accident. The Spirit of Tar-and Feathers, rising like a black smoke in their midst, executes a monstrous wink of graphic and vivid significance, then contemplates them with an obviously baptismal intention. The cross on Lone Mountain takes fire, splendoring the Peninsula. Tableau. Curtain.)