Duespeptos was sitting on a common mohair sofa, surrounded by some
half-dozen or more of his fellow-victims. It is stated that
Themistocles, before his ocean-raid at Salamis, sacrificed three young
men to Bacchus the Devourer. The Markerstown, in sailing out upon the
great deep, immolated at least twelve, old and young, as a festive
holocaust to Neptune the Nauseator. Here in their sacrificial crate were
the luckless scapegoats, sad-eyed prey of the propeller. It was easy to
see, at the first glance, that the Martyr was the central sun round
which clustered the planets of propitiation. Born king, he asserted his
kingship, and all yielded from the beginning to his sway. Ears and
mouths opened toward him the liege. Upon the magnet of his voice hung
the eager atoms. There was a filmy, distant look in the eyes of the
listeners, as of men rapt with the mystic utterances of a seer. My
entrance unheralded broke up the monologue, whatever it was. But seeing
the true sacrificial look on my brow, all at once, from chief to sutler,
confessed a brother. To me then turning, Duespeptos, king of men,
spoke winged words:--
"'Pears t' me, stranger, you look kind o' streaked. Ken I do anythin'
for ye? Wal, I s'pose th' old tub's caught you too, so we ken jest count
y' in along o' this 'ere crowd. Reg'lar fix, now, a'n't it? 'T's wut I
call pooty kinky. Dern'd 'f I'd 'a' come, 'f I'd 'a' known th' old
butter-box was goin' to be s' frisky. Lively's a young colt now, a'n't
she? Kicks up her heels, an' scampers off te'ble smart, don't she? 'S
never seen an ekul yit for punctooality an' speed. When she doos tech
the loocifer, an' cooks up her steam in her high old pepper-box, jest
you mind me, boys, there'll be a high old time. Wun't say much, but
there'll be fizzin', sure,--mebby suthin' more,--mebby reg'lar snorter,
a jo-fired jolly good bust-up. Mebby th' wun't be no weepin' an'
gahnishin' o' teeth about these parts along towards mornin'. Who knows?
Natur' will work. Th' old scow's got to go accordin' to law,--that's one
sahtisfahction, sartin. 'S a cause for all these things. An' ef she doos
kind o' rip an' tear, she's got to go b' Gunter. She's bound to foller
her constitootion as she understan's it, an' to stan' up for the great
principal of ekul freedom for all. Hope they'll be keerful to save some
o' the pieces. 'S a good deal o' comfort 'n these loose fragments. 'S
nuthin' like the raael odds an' ends--the Simon-pure, ginooine
article--to bind up the broken heart an' make the mourners joyful. No
tellin' how much good they do in restorin' gratitood to Providence, an'
smoothin' things over,--kind o' make matters easy, you know.
Interestin', too, to hev in the house,--pleasin' ornaments on the
mantel-piece to show to friends an' vis'ters. They allers like to hear
the story 'n connection with the native specimens, an' everybody feels
happified an' thankful. Yes, after all, th'r' is a master lot of solid
comfort in a raael substantial accident right in the buzzum of a
family,--none o' your three-cent fizzles, but a true-blue afflictin'
dispensation. 'S a heap o' pleasin' an' valooable associations
a-clusterin' round."
Here the vocal one paused for an instant, to draw breath, and rally for
another raid. Feeling his little army now well in hand, he burned for
fresh conquests. In glancing triumphantly around, his eye fell on a
certain benign smile then flitting over the face of his predestined
Satellite. Complacently nodding thereto, straightway the Peptic spoke:--
"I s'pose this 'ere group 's all insured, everythin' right an' tight an'
all square up t' the hub. Suthin' hahnsum for the widders an' orphans.
These little nest-eggs allers sort o' handy,--grease the ways, an' slick
things up ship-shape. Survivors bless the rod, an' fix up everythin'
round the house in apple-pie order. I hev known men that was so te'ble
pertickler allers to save the Company, that nuthin' ever did, n' ever
could happen. An' the despairin' friends kep' waitin' an' waitin', but
't was no sort o' use; they never got a red. 'T's wut I call bein'
desput keerful, an' sailin' pooty consid'able close to the wind. 'T's
like old Deacon Skillins's hoss, down to Mudville, that was so dreffle
conscientious he couldn't eat oats. No accountin' for tastes. Free
country, anyhow. Ef anybody likes to be fussy an' ructious 'n little
things, why, there's nuthin' to hender him from hevin' his own way. But
it don't exackly hev an hon'able look to common-sense folks.
"Ef the clipper's a free-agent, she'll blow up, sure, jest to git out o'
sin an' misery. But ef so be she's bonyfihd predestined, she'll hev to
travel in the vale o' puhbation a spell longer, 'cause her cup a'n't
full yit, not by a long chalk. S'posin' she doos start out mellifloous,
what then? Don't imagine, my feller-sinners, that the danger's all
over,--no, it's only jest begun. Things ahead 's a good deal wuss. Steam
's pooty bad, but 't a'n't a circumstahnce to the blamed grease. 'T's
the grease that doos the mischief, an' plays the dickens with human
natur'. Down in th' army, they say, biscuits kills more'n bullets; an'
it's gospil truth, every word on 't, perticklerly ef the biscuits is
hot, an' pooty wal fried up in grease. Fryin' 's the great mortal sin,
the parient of all misery. The hull world's full of it, but the sea 's a
master sight fuller 'n the land. Somehow 'nother, grease takes kind o'
easy to salt water,--sailors wun't hev nothin' but a fry. Jest you give
'em plenty o' fat, an' they wun't ask no favors o' nobody. These 'ere
puhpellers 's the wust sinners of 'em all, an' somehow hev a good deal
more 'n their own share o' fat. They kind o' borrer from mackerellers
an' side-wheelers both together, an' mix 't all up 't oncet. My friends,
ef you a'n't desput anxious to see glory from this 'ere deck, be
virtoous, an' observe the golden rule: Don't tech, don't g' nigh the
p'is'n upus-tree of gravy; beware o' the dorg called hot biscuits; take
keer o' the grease, an' the stomach'll take keer of itself. Fact is, my
beloved brethren, I've ben a fust-chop dyspeptic for the best part o' my
life, an' I'm pooty wal posted in what I'm talkin' about. What I don't
know on this 'ere subjick a'n't wuth knowin'."