Chapter 10
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. Although As a bad egg I am myself no slouch, Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch. Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and say If--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 began To drive a cart as Stanford's hired man, That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick. _(Enter Old Nick)_. I hope he won't return and use his arts To 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 grief That 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 wink The navvies all are running from the cut Like 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 sold Under 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 rent And 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 flank And 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 Candidate_ MCDONALD _a Defeated Aspirant_ MRS. HAYES _an Ex-President_ PITTS-STEVENS _a Water Nymph_
_Scene_--A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.
ST. JOHN:
Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarn And, quaffing copious potations, tried To suck it dry; but ever as I pumped Its waters into my distended skin The labor of my zeal extruded them In 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 hills Some long extinct volcano, by the rains Of countless ages in its crater brimmed Like a full goblet, I would lay me down Prone on the outer slope, and o'er its edge Arching my neck, I'd siphon out its store And 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 file With jarring, stridulous cacophany Across his notchy blade, to set its teeth And 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 company Aloof--the spirit, I suppose, that guards This sacred spot; perchance some water-nymph Who laving in the crystal flood her limbs Has taken cold, and so, with raucous voice Afflicts the sensitive membrane of mine ear The 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't So well remember. I have seen thee oft. When in the middle season of the night, Curved with a cucumber, or knotted hard With an eclectic pie, I've striven to keep My 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, professional Beauty.
ST. JOHN:
What dost thou here?
PITTS-STEVENS:
I'm come, fair sir, With paint and brush to blazon on these rocks The merits of my master's nostrum--so: _(Paints rapidly.)_ "McDonald's Vinegar Bitters!"
ST. JOHN:
What are they?
PITTS-STEVENS:
A woman suffering from widowhood Took a full bottle and was cured. A man There was--a murderer; the doctors all Had 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 babe Lay sick and cried for it. The mother gave That innocent a spoonful and it smoothed Its pathway to the tomb. 'Tis warranted To cause a boy to strike his father, make A 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 here Myself am author of--a noble book To train the infant mind (delightful task!) It tells how one Samantha Brown, age, six, A gutter-bunking slave to rum, was saved By Vinegar Bitters, went to church and now Has 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 work Signing State papers (Rutherford was there, Knitting some hose) a sudden glory fell Upon my paper. I looked up and saw An angel, holding in his hand a rod Wherewith he struck me. Smarting with the blow I rose and (cuffing Rutherford) inquired: "Wherefore this chastisement?" The angel said: "Four years you have been President, and still There's rum!"--then flew to Heaven. Contrite, I swore Such oath as lady Methodist might take, My second term should medicine my first. The people would not have it that way; so I seek some candidate who'll take my soul-- My spirit of reform, fresh from my breast, And give me his instead; and thus equipped With my imperious and fiery essence, Drive the Drink-Demon from the land and fill The people up with water till their teeth Are all afloat.
(_St. John discovers himself_.) What, _you_?
ST. JOHN:
Aye, Madam, I'll Swap souls with you and lead the cold sea-green Amphibians 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 candidate He 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 pursued The 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 point Of making a remark about some rights-- Some certain vested rights you have acquired By long immunity; for still the law Holds that if one do evil undisturbed His right to do so ripens with the years; And one may be a villain long enough To 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 sea For lo! these many years; though some, they say, Do strand themselves along the bottom lands And cover up a village here and there, And here and there a ranch. 'Tis said, indeed, The granger with his female and his young Do not infrequently go to the dickens By 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 been Submerged in slimes, to the last man of them, But for the fact that all their wicked tribes Affect 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 here In these callosities I call my thumbs-- thrilling sense as of ten thousand pins, Red-hot and penetrant, transpiercing all The 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 all The 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 dialogue I 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 out Mouthful of tendons that doggy has lifted out! (_Enter Junket_.)
JUNKET:
Well met, my hearties! I must trouble you Jointly and severally to provide A comfortable carriage, with relays Of hardy horses. This Committee means To move in state about the country here. I shall expect at every place I stop Good beds, of course, and everything that's nice, With bountiful repast of meat and wine. For this Committee comes to sea and mark And inwardly digest.
HAYSEED:
Digest my dog!
NOZZLE:
First square my claim for damages: the gold Escaping with the slickens keeps me poor!
RINGDIVVY:
I merely would remark that if you'd grease My itching palm it would more glibly glide Into the public pocket.
FEEGOBBLE:
Sir, the wheels Of justice move but slowly till they're oiled. I have some certain writs and warrants here, Prepared against your advent. You recall The 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 see What 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 style Of 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 nominate Some certain wrongs you suffer. Men like you Imperfectly are sensible of all The miseries they actually feel. Hence, Providence has prudently raised up Clear-sighted men like me to diagnose Their cases and inform them where they're hurt. The wounds of honest workingmen I've made A specialty, and probing them's my trade.
HARDHAND:
Well, Mister, s'pose you let yer bossest eye Camp on my mortal part awhile; then you Jes' toot my sufferin's an' tell me what's The fashionable caper now in writhes-- The very swellest wiggle.
MOUNTWAVE:
Well, my lad, 'Tis plain as is the long, conspicuous nose Borne, ponderous and pendulous, between The 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 dlum An' 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 tongues Sound 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 galoot Till I'm jest sick!
TOK BAK:
Go Sunny school--you'll know Mo' 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. Josh He 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 rest The sainted statesman who upon the field Of honor have at various times laid down Their 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 he Would send regrets, or I had not been here.
ESTEE: