ASPIRANTS THREEDRAMATIS PERSONF.QUICK:DE YOUNGa Brother to MushroomsDEAD:SWIFTan HeirloomESTEEa RelicIMMORTALS: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'llseeWho'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 anadjacent 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 yieldAnd 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, especiallyTheBrassica Celeritatis, namedForyoubecause 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 acircle of Red Fire on the grass; in the center the Spirit ofBroken Hopes, and round about, a Troupe of Coffins, dancingand 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 Hopesadvances, solemnly pointing at each of the Three Worthies inturn.)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 uponyou,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 feetWhere beyond the further seaA babe upon its mother's kneeIs gazing into skies afarAnd crying for a golden star.I'll drag a cloud across the blueAnd break that infant's heart in two!(Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and BlueFires. 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 goTo dwell with the Greatest of Gods;(Curtain falls to faint odor of mortality. Exit the Gas.)
DRAMATIS PERSONF.QUICK:DE YOUNGa Brother to MushroomsDEAD:SWIFTan HeirloomESTEEa RelicIMMORTALS: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'llseeWho'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 anadjacent 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 yieldAnd 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, especiallyTheBrassica Celeritatis, namedForyoubecause 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 acircle of Red Fire on the grass; in the center the Spirit ofBroken Hopes, and round about, a Troupe of Coffins, dancingand 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 Hopesadvances, solemnly pointing at each of the Three Worthies inturn.)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 uponyou,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 feetWhere beyond the further seaA babe upon its mother's kneeIs gazing into skies afarAnd crying for a golden star.I'll drag a cloud across the blueAnd break that infant's heart in two!(Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and BlueFires. 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 goTo dwell with the Greatest of Gods;(Curtain falls to faint odor of mortality. Exit the Gas.)