THE MUMMERY
THE TWO CAVEESDRAMATIS PERSONF.FITCHa Pelter of RailroguesPICKERINGhis Partner, an Enemy to SinOLD NICKa General BlackwasherDEAD CATa MissileANTIQUE EGGAnotherRAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower DistanceScene—The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.Time—1875.FITCH:Gods! what a steep declivity! BelowI see the lazy dump-carts come and go,Creeping like beetles and about as big.The delving Paddies—PICKERING:Case ofinfra dig.FITCH:Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quipsCome with but scant propriety from lipsFringed 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 lowThe anti-monopoly cat!O, who wouldn't be in the place of me,The anti-monopoly cat?Designed to admonish,Persuade and astonishThe capitalist and—FITCH(letting go):Scat!(Exit Dead Cat.)PICKERING: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 oweThe traitor one for leaving us!—some dayWe'll get, if not his place, his cart away.Meantime fling missiles—any kind will do.(Enter Antique Egg.)Ha! we can give them anovation, too!ANTIQUE EGG:In the valley of the Nile,Where the Holy CrocodileOf immeasurable smileBlossoms like the early rose,And the Sacred Onion grows—When the Pyramids were newAnd the Sphinx possessed a nose,By a storkess I was laidIn 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 streamingThrough my white;And the dream that I was dreamingOf posterity was brokeIn a night.Then from the papyrus-patchBy the rising waters rolled,Passing many a temple old,I proceeded to the sea.Memnon sang, one morn, to me,And I heard Cambyses sassThe tomb of Ozymandias!FITCH:O, venerablest orb of all the earth,God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw—I freely tender thee mine own. AlthoughAs a bad egg I am myself no slouch,Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and sayIf—whoop!—(Exit egg.)I've got the range.PICKERING:Hooray! hooray!A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,And deafening odors scream along the skies!Pelt 'em some more.FITCH:There's nothing left but tar—wish I were a Yahoo.PICKERING:Well, you are.But keep the tar. How well I recollect,When Mike was in with us—proud, strong, erect—Mens conscia recti—flinging mud, he stood,Austerely brave, incomparably good,Ere yet for filthy lucre he beganTo drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old NickAppeared and tarred us all with the same stick.(Enter Old Nick).I hope he won't return and use his artsTo make us part with our immortal parts.OLD NICK:Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;For both your souls I wouldn't give a damn!I want my tar-pot—hello! where's the stick?FITCH:Don't look atmethat fashion!—look at Pick.PICKERING:Forgive me, father—pity my remorse!Truth is—Mike took that stick to spank his horse.It fills my pericardium with griefThat I kept company with such a thief.(Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat andthe tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culpritreproachfully 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 winkThe navvies all are running from the cutLike 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 ToughieI smoked a fine cigyar,An' I was on de dummyAnd she was in de cyar.BOTH (singing):An' I was on de dummyAnd she was in de cyar.FITCH (singing):I couldn't go to her,An' she wouldn't come to me;An' I was as oneasyAs a gander on a tree.BOTH (singing):An' I was as oneasyAs a gander on a tree.FITCH (singing):But purty soon I weakenedAn' lef' de dummy's bench,An' frew away a ten-cent weedTo win a five-cent wench!BOTH (singing)An' frew away a ten-cent weedTo win a five-cent wench!FITCH:Is there not now a certain substance soldUnder the name of fulminate of gold,A high explosive, popular for blasting,Producing an effect immense and lasting?PICKERING:Nay, that's mere superstition. Rocks are rentAnd 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 flankAnd by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.(The earth trembles, a deep subterranean explosion is heardand a section of the bank as big as El Capitan starts away andplunges thunderously into the cut. A part of it strikes DeYoung's dumpcart abaft the axletree and flings him, hurtling,skyward, a thing of legs and arms, to descend on the distantmountains, where it is cold. Fitch and Pickering pull themselvesout of the dibris and stand ungraveling their eyes andnoses.)FITCH:Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade,And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.PICKERING:God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start.Well, fate is fate—I guess I'll drive this cart.(Curtain.)
DRAMATIS PERSONF.FITCHa Pelter of RailroguesPICKERINGhis Partner, an Enemy to SinOLD NICKa General BlackwasherDEAD CATa MissileANTIQUE EGGAnotherRAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower DistanceScene—The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.Time—1875.
FITCH:Gods! what a steep declivity! BelowI see the lazy dump-carts come and go,Creeping like beetles and about as big.The delving Paddies—PICKERING:Case ofinfra dig.FITCH:Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quipsCome with but scant propriety from lipsFringed 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 lowThe anti-monopoly cat!O, who wouldn't be in the place of me,The anti-monopoly cat?Designed to admonish,Persuade and astonishThe capitalist and—FITCH(letting go):Scat!(Exit Dead Cat.)
PICKERING: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 oweThe traitor one for leaving us!—some dayWe'll get, if not his place, his cart away.Meantime fling missiles—any kind will do.(Enter Antique Egg.)Ha! we can give them anovation, too!ANTIQUE EGG:In the valley of the Nile,Where the Holy CrocodileOf immeasurable smileBlossoms like the early rose,And the Sacred Onion grows—When the Pyramids were newAnd the Sphinx possessed a nose,By a storkess I was laidIn 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 streamingThrough my white;And the dream that I was dreamingOf posterity was brokeIn a night.Then from the papyrus-patchBy the rising waters rolled,Passing many a temple old,I proceeded to the sea.Memnon sang, one morn, to me,And I heard Cambyses sassThe tomb of Ozymandias!FITCH:O, venerablest orb of all the earth,God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw—I freely tender thee mine own. AlthoughAs a bad egg I am myself no slouch,Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and sayIf—whoop!—(Exit egg.)I've got the range.PICKERING:Hooray! hooray!A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,And deafening odors scream along the skies!Pelt 'em some more.FITCH:There's nothing left but tar—wish I were a Yahoo.PICKERING:Well, you are.But keep the tar. How well I recollect,When Mike was in with us—proud, strong, erect—Mens conscia recti—flinging mud, he stood,Austerely brave, incomparably good,Ere yet for filthy lucre he beganTo drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old NickAppeared and tarred us all with the same stick.(Enter Old Nick).I hope he won't return and use his artsTo make us part with our immortal parts.OLD NICK:Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;For both your souls I wouldn't give a damn!I want my tar-pot—hello! where's the stick?FITCH:Don't look atmethat fashion!—look at Pick.PICKERING:Forgive me, father—pity my remorse!Truth is—Mike took that stick to spank his horse.It fills my pericardium with griefThat I kept company with such a thief.(Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat andthe tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culpritreproachfully 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 winkThe navvies all are running from the cutLike 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 ToughieI smoked a fine cigyar,An' I was on de dummyAnd she was in de cyar.BOTH (singing):An' I was on de dummyAnd she was in de cyar.FITCH (singing):I couldn't go to her,An' she wouldn't come to me;An' I was as oneasyAs a gander on a tree.BOTH (singing):An' I was as oneasyAs a gander on a tree.FITCH (singing):But purty soon I weakenedAn' lef' de dummy's bench,An' frew away a ten-cent weedTo win a five-cent wench!BOTH (singing)An' frew away a ten-cent weedTo win a five-cent wench!FITCH:Is there not now a certain substance soldUnder the name of fulminate of gold,A high explosive, popular for blasting,Producing an effect immense and lasting?PICKERING:Nay, that's mere superstition. Rocks are rentAnd 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 flankAnd by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.(The earth trembles, a deep subterranean explosion is heardand a section of the bank as big as El Capitan starts away andplunges thunderously into the cut. A part of it strikes DeYoung's dumpcart abaft the axletree and flings him, hurtling,skyward, a thing of legs and arms, to descend on the distantmountains, where it is cold. Fitch and Pickering pull themselvesout of the dibris and stand ungraveling their eyes andnoses.)FITCH:Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade,And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.PICKERING:God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start.Well, fate is fate—I guess I'll drive this cart.(Curtain.)