There are a good many fictions in the world. I will mention one:--the
propeller Markerstown. The bulletins and placards of her owners soar
high in the realms of fancy; like Sirens, they sing delightful
songs,--and all about "the A 1 fast-sailing, commodious, first-class
steam-packet Markerstown." Such is the soaring fiction: now let us look
at the sore fact. The "A 1" is, I take it, simply the "Ai!" of the Greek
chorus new-vamped for modern wear,--a drear wail well suited to the
victims of the Markerstown. As to sailing qualities:--we know, of
course, that all speed is relative. For a sea-comet, the Markerstown
would be somewhat leisurely, though answering well for an oceanic fixed
star, having no perceptible motion. One man on board--the Captain--was
accommodated: the kidnapped all suffered. Whether the Markerstown should
be reckoned as first-class or last-class is a question depending simply
on where the counting begins, and which way it runs. "Steam-packet" she
was indeed, though not in the most desirable way. Her steam was "packit"
(_Scottice_) too close for safety, but lay quite too loose for speed.
The kidnapped were all "packit," and "weel packit." How I came to be one
of them, and how by this mystic union I halved my joys and doubled my
griefs, as the naughty ones say of wedlock, will soon appear.
One brilliant fancy-flight I forgot to mention. The craft in question
was boldly proclaimed as "new." New, indeed, she might have been: so
were once the Ark, the Argo, the Old Temeraire, the Constitution, and
sundry other hulks of celebrity. Yet it is not mere rhetoric to say,
that, if the eyes of the second and third Presidents of these United
States never, in their declining years, beheld the good ship
Markerstown, it was only from lack of wholesome curiosity.
This pleasing list of attractions was wont to make an occasional
trip--should I not rather say saunter?--to the New-World Levant, the
Yankee Eoethen. The time consumed was theoretically a day and a half,
but practically a day or two longer. Tired as I was of the sluttish
land, the clean sea had an inviting look. Dusty car and ringing rail
wore no Circean graces, when the long-haired mermaid, decked in robes of
comely green, looked out from her bower beneath the waves, and beckoned
me to come. What more welcome than her sea-green home? What sight finer
than the myriad diamond-sparkles in her eye? What sound sweeter than the
murmurs of her soothing, never-ceasing voice? What perfume so rare as
the crisp fragrance breathing from her robes? What so thrilling, so
magnetically ecstatic, as her tumultuous heaving, and the lithe,
undulating buoyancy of her mazy footfalls?
It is proper to state here, as an act of justice to others, and to save
myself from the charge of lunacy, that the Markerstown was a mere
interloper. Our covetous, good old uncle had set his eye on the regular
steamer of the line, and his greedy fingers had taken her away to Dixie,
where her decks were now swarming with blue coats and black heels. The
peaceful Markerstown, being exempt by reason of physical
disqualifications, tarried behind as home-guard substitute for her
warlike sister. Ignorant of the change, I secured my passage, paid for
my ticket, sent down my trunks, and presented myself at the gangway one
sweltering afternoon in the latter part of June, a few minutes before
the hour set for sailing. There was nothing in the aspect of things to
indicate a speedy departure. On the contrary, the tardy craft had just
arrived, and was intensely busy in letting off steam and discharging
cargo. The mate was quite sure--and so was I--that she wouldn't weigh
anchor before early next morning. The prospect was not enrapturing.
Confusion, dirt, pandemoniac noise, long delay, and over all a
blistering sun, were ill suited to bring peace to the embezzled seeker
after pleasure.
As a relief from the horrid din on deck, I made my way to the cabin. It
was a place well named, being cabined, cribbed, confined, in quite an
unprecedented degree. It was then and there that I first saw the subject
of this sketch,--the Peptic Martyr. Unknowingly, I was face to face with
my Man of Destiny. Shipmate, Philosopher, Martyr, Rhapsodist, Mentor,
Bon-Vivant, Duespeptos,--these are but a few of the various disks
which I came at last to see in this gem of first water. Even now, in
memory, the subject looms vast before me, and the freighted pen halts.
Bear with me: let us pause for one moment. Matter like this asks a new
strophe.