METEMPSYCHOSISDRAMATIS PERSONF.ST. JOHNa Presidential CandidateMCDONALDa Defeated AspirantMRS. HAYESan Ex-PresidentPITTS-STEVENSa Water NymphScene—A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.ST. JOHN:Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarnAnd, quaffing copious potations, triedTo suck it dry; but ever as I pumpedIts waters into my distended skinThe labor of my zeal extruded themIn perspiration from my pores; and so,Rilling the marginal declivity,They fell again into their source. Ah, me!Could I but find within these ancient hillsSome long extinct volcano, by the rainsOf countless ages in its crater brimmedLike a full goblet, I would lay me downProne on the outer slope, and o'er its edgeArching my neck, I'd siphon out its storeAnd flood the valleys with my sweat for aye.So should I be accounted as a god,Even as Father Nilus is. What's that?Methought I heard some sawyer draw his fileWith jarring, stridulous cacophanyAcross his notchy blade, to set its teethAnd mine on edge. Ha! there it goes again!Song, within.Cold water's the milk of the mountains,And Nature's our wet-nurse. O then,Glue thou thy blue lips to her fountainsForever and ever, amen!ST. JOHN:Why surely there's congenial companyAloof—the spirit, I suppose, that guardsThis sacred spot; perchance some water-nymphWho laving in the crystal flood her limbsHas taken cold, and so, with raucous voiceAfflicts the sensitive membrane of mine earThe while she sings my sentiments.(Enter Pitts-Stevens.)Hello!What fiend is this?PITTS-STEVENS:'Tis I, be not afraid.ST. JOHN:And who, thou antiquated crone, art thou?I ne'er forget a face, but names I can'tSo well remember. I have seen thee oft.When in the middle season of the night,Curved with a cucumber, or knotted hardWith an eclectic pie, I've striven to keepMy head and heels asunder, thou has come,With sociable familiarity,Into my dream, but not, alas, to bless.PITTS-STEVENS:My name's Pitts-Stevens, age just seventeen years;Talking teetotaler, professionalBeauty.ST. JOHN:What dost thou here?PITTS-STEVENS:I'm come, fair sir,With paint and brush to blazon on these rocksThe merits of my master's nostrum—so:(Paints rapidly.)"McDonald's Vinegar Bitters!"ST. JOHN:What are they?PITTS-STEVENS:A woman suffering from widowhoodTook a full bottle and was cured. A manThere was—a murderer; the doctors allHad given him up—he'd but an hour to live.He swallowed half a glassful. He is dead,But not of Vinegar Bitters. A wee babeLay sick and cried for it. The mother gaveThat innocent a spoonful and it smoothedIts pathway to the tomb. 'Tis warrantedTo cause a boy to strike his father, makeA pig squeal, start the hair upon a stone,Or play the fiddle for a country dance.(Enter McDonald, reading a Sunday-school book.)Good morrow, sir; I trust you're well.MCDONALD:H'lo, Pitts!Observe, good friends, I have a volume hereMyself am author of—a noble bookTo train the infant mind (delightful task!)It tells how one Samantha Brown, age, six,A gutter-bunking slave to rum, was savedBy Vinegar Bitters, went to church and nowHas an account at the Pacific Bank.I'll read the whole work to you.ST JOHN:Heaven forbid!I've elsewhere an engagement.PITTS-STEVENS:I am deaf.MCDONALD(reading regardless):"Once on a time there lived"——(Enter Mrs. Hayes.)Behold our queen!ALL:Her eyes upon the groundBefore 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 hearThe sloshing lemonade!MRS. HAYES(to herself):Once, sitting in the White House, hard at workSigning State papers (Rutherford was there,Knitting some hose) a sudden glory fellUpon my paper. I looked up and sawAn angel, holding in his hand a rodWherewith he struck me. Smarting with the blowI rose and (cuffing Rutherford) inquired:"Wherefore this chastisement?" The angel said:"Four years you have been President, and stillThere's rum!"—then flew to Heaven. Contrite, I sworeSuch oath as lady Methodist might take,My second term should medicine my first.The people would not have it that way; soI seek some candidate who'll take my soul—My spirit of reform, fresh from my breast,And give me his instead; and thus equippedWith my imperious and fiery essence,Drive the Drink-Demon from the land and fillThe people up with water till their teethAre all afloat.(St. John discovers himself.)What,you?ST. JOHN:Aye, Madam, I'llSwap souls with you and lead the cold sea-greenAmphibians of Prohibition on,Pallid of nose and webbed of foot, swim-bladdered,Gifted with gills, invincible!MRS. HAYES:Enough,Stand forth and consummate the interchange.(While McDonald and Pitts-Stevens modestly turn theirbacks, the latter blushing a delicate shrimp-pink, St. John andMrs. Hayes effect an exchange of immortal parts. When thetransfer is complete McDonald turns and advances, uncorkinga bottle of Vinegar Bitters.)MCDONALD (chanting):Nectar compounded of simplesCocted in Stygian shades—Acids of wrinkles and pimplesFrom faces of ancient maids—Acrid precipitates sunkenFrom tempers of scolding wivesWhose 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 startson a dead run, energetically exclaiming. Exit St. John.)MRS. HAYES:My soul! My soul! I'll never get it backUnless I follow nimbly on his track.(Exit Mrs. Hayes.)PITTS-STEVENS:O my! he's such a beautiful young man!I'll follow, too, and catch him if I can.(Exit Pitts-Stevens.)MCDONALD:He scarce is visible, his dust so great!Methinks for so obscure a candidateHe runs quite well. But as for Prohibition—I mean myself to hold the first position.(Produces a pocket flask, topes a cruel quantity of double-distilledthunder-and-lightning out of it, smiles so grimly as todarken 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 wherryIn easy call.Upon a ripple of golden tippleThat tipsy ship'll convey you best.To king and cripple, the bottle's the nippleOf Nature's breast!(Curtain.)
DRAMATIS PERSONF.ST. JOHNa Presidential CandidateMCDONALDa Defeated AspirantMRS. HAYESan Ex-PresidentPITTS-STEVENSa Water NymphScene—A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.ST. JOHN:Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarnAnd, quaffing copious potations, triedTo suck it dry; but ever as I pumpedIts waters into my distended skinThe labor of my zeal extruded themIn perspiration from my pores; and so,Rilling the marginal declivity,They fell again into their source. Ah, me!Could I but find within these ancient hillsSome long extinct volcano, by the rainsOf countless ages in its crater brimmedLike a full goblet, I would lay me downProne on the outer slope, and o'er its edgeArching my neck, I'd siphon out its storeAnd flood the valleys with my sweat for aye.So should I be accounted as a god,Even as Father Nilus is. What's that?Methought I heard some sawyer draw his fileWith jarring, stridulous cacophanyAcross his notchy blade, to set its teethAnd mine on edge. Ha! there it goes again!Song, within.Cold water's the milk of the mountains,And Nature's our wet-nurse. O then,Glue thou thy blue lips to her fountainsForever and ever, amen!ST. JOHN:Why surely there's congenial companyAloof—the spirit, I suppose, that guardsThis sacred spot; perchance some water-nymphWho laving in the crystal flood her limbsHas taken cold, and so, with raucous voiceAfflicts the sensitive membrane of mine earThe while she sings my sentiments.(Enter Pitts-Stevens.)Hello!What fiend is this?PITTS-STEVENS:'Tis I, be not afraid.ST. JOHN:And who, thou antiquated crone, art thou?I ne'er forget a face, but names I can'tSo well remember. I have seen thee oft.When in the middle season of the night,Curved with a cucumber, or knotted hardWith an eclectic pie, I've striven to keepMy head and heels asunder, thou has come,With sociable familiarity,Into my dream, but not, alas, to bless.PITTS-STEVENS:My name's Pitts-Stevens, age just seventeen years;Talking teetotaler, professionalBeauty.ST. JOHN:What dost thou here?PITTS-STEVENS:I'm come, fair sir,With paint and brush to blazon on these rocksThe merits of my master's nostrum—so:(Paints rapidly.)"McDonald's Vinegar Bitters!"ST. JOHN:What are they?PITTS-STEVENS:A woman suffering from widowhoodTook a full bottle and was cured. A manThere was—a murderer; the doctors allHad given him up—he'd but an hour to live.He swallowed half a glassful. He is dead,But not of Vinegar Bitters. A wee babeLay sick and cried for it. The mother gaveThat innocent a spoonful and it smoothedIts pathway to the tomb. 'Tis warrantedTo cause a boy to strike his father, makeA pig squeal, start the hair upon a stone,Or play the fiddle for a country dance.(Enter McDonald, reading a Sunday-school book.)Good morrow, sir; I trust you're well.MCDONALD:H'lo, Pitts!Observe, good friends, I have a volume hereMyself am author of—a noble bookTo train the infant mind (delightful task!)It tells how one Samantha Brown, age, six,A gutter-bunking slave to rum, was savedBy Vinegar Bitters, went to church and nowHas an account at the Pacific Bank.I'll read the whole work to you.ST JOHN:Heaven forbid!I've elsewhere an engagement.PITTS-STEVENS:I am deaf.MCDONALD(reading regardless):"Once on a time there lived"——(Enter Mrs. Hayes.)Behold our queen!ALL:Her eyes upon the groundBefore 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 hearThe sloshing lemonade!MRS. HAYES(to herself):Once, sitting in the White House, hard at workSigning State papers (Rutherford was there,Knitting some hose) a sudden glory fellUpon my paper. I looked up and sawAn angel, holding in his hand a rodWherewith he struck me. Smarting with the blowI rose and (cuffing Rutherford) inquired:"Wherefore this chastisement?" The angel said:"Four years you have been President, and stillThere's rum!"—then flew to Heaven. Contrite, I sworeSuch oath as lady Methodist might take,My second term should medicine my first.The people would not have it that way; soI seek some candidate who'll take my soul—My spirit of reform, fresh from my breast,And give me his instead; and thus equippedWith my imperious and fiery essence,Drive the Drink-Demon from the land and fillThe people up with water till their teethAre all afloat.(St. John discovers himself.)What,you?ST. JOHN:Aye, Madam, I'llSwap souls with you and lead the cold sea-greenAmphibians of Prohibition on,Pallid of nose and webbed of foot, swim-bladdered,Gifted with gills, invincible!MRS. HAYES:Enough,Stand forth and consummate the interchange.(While McDonald and Pitts-Stevens modestly turn theirbacks, the latter blushing a delicate shrimp-pink, St. John andMrs. Hayes effect an exchange of immortal parts. When thetransfer is complete McDonald turns and advances, uncorkinga bottle of Vinegar Bitters.)MCDONALD (chanting):Nectar compounded of simplesCocted in Stygian shades—Acids of wrinkles and pimplesFrom faces of ancient maids—Acrid precipitates sunkenFrom tempers of scolding wivesWhose 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 startson a dead run, energetically exclaiming. Exit St. John.)MRS. HAYES:My soul! My soul! I'll never get it backUnless I follow nimbly on his track.(Exit Mrs. Hayes.)PITTS-STEVENS:O my! he's such a beautiful young man!I'll follow, too, and catch him if I can.(Exit Pitts-Stevens.)MCDONALD:He scarce is visible, his dust so great!Methinks for so obscure a candidateHe runs quite well. But as for Prohibition—I mean myself to hold the first position.(Produces a pocket flask, topes a cruel quantity of double-distilledthunder-and-lightning out of it, smiles so grimly as todarken 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 wherryIn easy call.Upon a ripple of golden tippleThat tipsy ship'll convey you best.To king and cripple, the bottle's the nippleOf Nature's breast!(Curtain.)