Metempsychosis
St. John, a presidential candidate
McDonald, a defeated aspirant
Mrs. Hayes, a former president
Pitts-Sevens, a water nymph
Scene—A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.
St. John
Solus.
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 cacophony
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!
St. John
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?
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’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 hast 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, professional
Beauty.
St. John
What dost thou here?
Pitts-Stevens
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!”
St. John
What are they?
Pitts-Stevens
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.
McDonald
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 my 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, as a tree walking. Behold our queen!
All
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 plashing 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,
Giving 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?
St. John
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!
Mrs. Hayes
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, sagaciously drunken,
Rejoice in oblivious lives—
With this I baptize and appoint thee To St. John.
To marshal the vinophobe ranks.
In Neptune’s name 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 exclamatory. Exit St. John.
Mrs. Hayes
My soul! My soul! I’ll never get it back
Unless 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 wed him if I can. Exit Pitts-Stevens.
McDonald
Solus.
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.