Chapter 11
O moon that hast so oft surprised the deeds Whereby 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, boils That burn ambitions with defeated fires Are lifted into eminence. (_Sees De Young._) What? you! Faith, if I had suspected you would come From the fair world of politics wherein So lately you were whelped, and which, alas, I vainly to revisit strive, though still Rapped on the rotting head and bidden sleep Till Resurrection's morn,--if I had thought You would accept the challenge that I flung I would have seen you damned ere I came forth In 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 _see_ Who'll be Postmaster-General!
DE YOUNG:
We will-- I'll fight (for I am lame) with any blue And redolent remain that dares aspire To 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 spot Broods such a holy calm as none may break By clash of weapons, without sacrilege. (_Beats down their tongues with a bone._) Madmen! what profits it? For though you fought With such heroic skill that both survived, Yet neither should achieve the prize, for I Would wrest it from him. Let us not contend, But friendliwise by stipulation fix A slate for mutual advantage. Why, Having the pick and choice of seats, should we Forego them all but one? Nay, we'll take three, And part them so among us that to each Shall fall the fittest to his powers. In brief, Let us establish a Portfolio Trust.
ESTEE:
Agreed.
DE YOUNG:
Aye, truly, 'tis a greed--and one The 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 serve My interest; but since I have my pick, I'll take the War Department. It is known Throughout the world, from Market street to Pine, (For a Chicago journal told the tale) How in this hand I lately took my life And marched against great Buckley, thundering My mandate that he count the ballots fair! Earth heard and shrank to half her size! Yon moon, Which rivaled then a liver's whiteness, paused That night at Butchertown and daubed her face With sheep's blood! Then my serried rank I drew Back to my stronghold without loss. To mark My care in saving human life and limb, The Peace Society bestowed on me Its 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 fray Where 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 that Portfolio. 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 introduced Brave 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 devote My mind to agriculture and improve The breed of cabbages, especially The _Brassica Celeritatis_, named For _you_ because in days of long ago You sold it at your market stall,--and, faith, 'Tis said you were an honest huckster then. I'll be Attorney-General if you Prefer; 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 heard A score of Judges say that he is not.
SWIFT (_to Estee_):
You take the Interior. I might aspire To military station too, for once I led my party into Pixley's camp, And he paroled me. I defended, too, The State of Oregon against the sharp And bloody tooth of the Australian sheep. But I've an aptitude exceeding neat For 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 diplomat From 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 woo Fortune, 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, significant And 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 known How sweet it is to be an honest man I never would have stooped to turn my coat For public favor, as chameleons take The hue (as near as they can judge) of that Supporting them. Henceforth I'll buy With 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 do To make a third with such, a wicked two. _(Returns to his tomb.)_
DE YOUNG:
Prophetic dream! by some good angel sent To 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 make An 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 skin Nor 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 resound With 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 clods That 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 yet My ears have reached no sound of wheels; no note Melodious, of long, luxurious oaths Betokens the traditional dispute (Unsettled from the dawn of time) between The driver and off wheeler; no clear chant Nor carol of Wells Fargo's messenger Unbosoming his soul upon the air-- his prowess to the tender-foot, And how at divers times in sundry ways He strewed the roadside with our carcasses. Clearly, the stage will not come by to-night.
LELAND, THE KID:
I now remember that but yesterday I saw three ugly looking fellows start From Colfax with a gun apiece, and they Did seem on business of importance bent. Furtively casting all their eyes about And covering their tracks with all the care That business men do use. I think perhaps They were Directors of that rival line, The great Pacific Mail. If so, they have Indubitably taken in that coach, And we are overreached. Three times before This thing has happened, and if once again These outside operators dare to cut Our rates of profit I shall quit the road And take my money out of this concern. When robbery no longer pays expense It 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 usefulness Is yearly narrowing with the advance Of wealth and population on this coast. There's little left that any man can do Without some other fellow stepping in And doing it as well. If one essay To 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 plate You find, in session there, a graceless band Stuffing their coats with spoons, their skins with wine. And so it goes. Why even undertake To salt a mine and you will find it rich With noble specimens placed there before!
LELAND, THE KID:
And yet this line of immigration has Advantages superior to aught That 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. Instead Of stopping passengers, let's carry them. Instead of crying out: "Throw up your hands!" Let's say: "Walk up and buy a ticket!" Why Should we unwieldy goods and bullion take, Watches and all such trifles, when we might Far better charge their value three times o'er For carrying them to market?
LELAND, THE KID:
Put it there, Old son!
HAPPY HUNTY:
You take the cake, my dear. We'll build A mighty railroad through this pass, and then The 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 is No petty, slouching, opposition scheme, To be bought off like honest men and fools; Mine eye prophetic pierces through the mists That cloud the future, and I seem to see A well-devised and executed scheme Of 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 blood From widows' famished carcasses, the bread From 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 measure The glittering treasure! Ah! blessèd to heap up the gold Untold That flows in a wide And deepening tide-- Rolled, rolled, rolled From multifold sources, Converging its courses Upon our--
LELAND, THE KID:
Just wait a bit, my pards, I thought I heard A sneaking grizzly cracking the dry twigs. Such an intrusion might deprive the State Of 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 mission On 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 light Litter the place! Methinks that every skull Is a most lifelike portrait of my Sen, Drawn by the hand of Death; each fleshless pate, Cursed with a ghastly grin to eyes unrubbed With love's magnetic ointment, seems to mine To smile an amiable smile like his Whose amiable smile I--I alone Am able to distinguish from his leer! See how the gathering coyotes flit Through the lit spaces, or with burning eyes Star 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 down My limbs, as they were public roads, impart A singularly interesting chill. The circumstance and passion of the time, The cast and manner of the place--the spirit Of this confederate environment, Command the rights we come to celebrate Obedient 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 miss Some 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 remains Was the boss singer back in '72, And used to allers git invites to go Down to Swellmont and sing at every feed. In t'other Villiam's time, that was, afore The 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 bird That struts before the female of its kind, Warbling to cave her down the bank) piped high His 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 State You'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 same That stalks with aspect horrible among Small 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 seems Prolific 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.)_
ON STONE
_As in a dream, strange epitaphs I see, Inscribed on yet unquarried stone, Where wither flowers yet unstrown-- The Campo Santo of the time to be_.
A WREATH OF IMMORTELLES
* * * * *
LORING PICKERING
_(After Pope)_
Here rests a writer, great but not immense, Born destitute of feeling and of sense. No power he but o'er his brain desired-- How not to suffer it to be inspired. Ideas unto him were all unknown, Proud of the words which, only, were his own. So unreflecting, so confused his mind, Torpid in error, indolently blind, A fever Heaven, to quicken him, applied, But, rather than revive, the sluggard died.
* * * * *
A WATER-PIRATE
Pause, stranger--whence you lightly tread Bill Carr's immoral part has fled. For him no heart of woman burned, But all the rivers' heads he turned. Alas! he now lifts up his eyes In torment and for water cries, Entreating that he may procure One drop to cool his parched McClure!
* * * * *
C.P. BERRY
Here's crowbait!--ravens, too, and daws Flock hither to advance their caws, And, with a sudden courage armed, Devour the foe who once alarmed-- In life and death a fair deceit: Nor strong to harm nor good to eat. King bogey of the scarecrow host, When known the least affrighting most, Though light his hand (his mind was dark) He left on earth a straw Berry mark.
* * * * *
THE REV. JOSEPH
He preached that sickness he could floor By prayer and by commanding; When sick himself he sent for four Physicians in good standing. He was struck dead despite their care, For, fearing their dissension, He secretly put up a prayer, Thus drawing God's attention.
* * * * *