Black Beetles in Amber

FITCH a Pelter of Railrogues

PICKERING his Partner, an Enemy to Sin

OLD NICK a General Blackwasher

DEAD CAT a Missile

ANTIQUE EGG Another

RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance

Scene—The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.

Time—1875.

Gods! what a steep declivity! Below

I see the lazy dump-carts come and go,

Creeping like beetles and about as big.

The delving Paddies—

Case of infra dig.

Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips

Come with but scant propriety from lips

Fringed 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 astonish

The capitalist and—

FITCH (letting go):

Scat! (Exit Dead Cat.)

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 owe

The traitor one for leaving us!—some day

We'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!

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!

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.

There's nothing left but tar— wish I were a Yahoo.

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.

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?

Don't look at me that fashion!—look at Pick.

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!

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?

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.)

Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade,

And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.

God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start. Well, fate is fate—I guess I'll drive this cart. (Curtain.)

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.

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!

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?

'Tis I, be not afraid.

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.

My name's Pitts-Stevens, age just seventeen years;

Talking teetotaler, professional

Beauty.

What dost them here?

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!"

What are they?

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.

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!

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?

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!

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.)

My soul! My soul! I'll never get it back Unless I follow nimbly on his track. (Exit Mrs. Hayes.)

O my! he's such a beautiful young man! I'll follow, too, and catch him if I can. (Exit Pitts-Stevens.)

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.)

My friends, since '51 I have pursued

The evil tenor of my watery way,

Removing hills as by an act of faith—

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.

The rascally-assessment!

The murderous assessment!

The glorious assessment

That makes my mare to go!

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.

It breaks my jaw!

It qualms my maw!

It feeds my jaw,

It crams my maw,

It is my soul's salvation!

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!

"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.

It smashes my slate!

It is thievery straight!

But it's been the making of me!

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!

Plead, phantom.

You've the floor.

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.

Avaunt! you horrid and infernal cuss!

What dire distress have you prepared for us?

Were I a buzzard stooping from the sky

My craw with filth to fill,

Into your honorable body I

Would introduce a bill.

Defendant, hence, or, by the gods, I'll brain thee!—

Unless you saved some turneps to retain me.

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.)

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.

Digest my dog!

First square my claim for damages: the gold

Escaping with the slickens keeps me poor!

I merely would remark that if you'd grease

My itching palm it would more glibly glide

Into the public pocket.

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"?

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.

How'll that help us? Reports are not our style

Of provender!

Well, you can gnaw the file.

(Curtain.)

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

O monstrous thief!

To quote the words of Shakespeare as your own.

I know his work.

Who's Shakespeare?—what's his trade?

I've heard about the work o' that galoot

Till I'm jest sick!

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.

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.

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!"

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.

The State's advantage, sir, you may not see,

But think how good it is for me.

And me.

(Curtain.)

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.

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!

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.)

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.

Agreed.

Aye, truly, 'tis a greed—and one

The offices imperfectly will sate,

But I'll stand in.

Well, so 'tis understood,

As you're the junior member of the Trust,

Politically younger and undead,

Speak, Michael: what portfolio do you choose?

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.

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!

You once fought Stanford, too.

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!

I never have heard that!—did you, 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.)

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.)

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.)

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.)

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.)

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.

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!

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!

And yet this line of immigration has

Advantages superior to aught

That elsewhere offers: all these passengers,

If punched with care—

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?

Put it there,

Old son!

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.

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!

Hooray!

Hooray!

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—

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.)

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—

Here's more damned competition! (Curtain.)

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?

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?

O what a personable man!

(Blushes bashfully, drops her eyes and twists the corner of her apron.)

Yes, dear,

A very proper and alluring male,

And quite superior to Lubin Rroyd,

Who has, however, this distinct advantage—

He is alive.

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.

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.

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!

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.)

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!

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?

Thou dammid slut!

(Exit Smyler.)

O what a pretty man!

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.)

Hay? (Exit Needleson.)

Sweet, sweet male!

I yearn to play at Copenhagen with him!

(Blushes diligently and energetically.)

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.)