(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 debris and stand ungraveling their eyes and noses.)

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.)

METEMPSYCHOSIS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

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.

ST. JOHN: 

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!

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 has come,
With sociable familiarity,
Into my dream, but not, alas, to bless.