Romanza (_affettuoso_).
The Choral Gamut (_con espressione_).
Was that seething sun never again to plunge his lurid face beneath the
waves of old Ocean? Had some latter-day Joshua arisen, and with stern
fiat nailed him in mid-heavens, blazing forever? To me as slowly rolled
the westering orb down that final slope as ever turned the wheel of
Fortune to Murad the Unlucky. Perchance the sun-god had turned cook, and
now, burning with 'prentice zeal, and scoffing at Duespeptos and all
sound hygiene, was aiming to make of this terrestrial ball one
illimitable fry turned over and well done,--a fry ever doing and never
done, which should simmer and fizzle on eternally down the ages. An
abstract fry--let me here record it--suits me passing well; yet I like
not the concrete and personal broil. I trip gayly to a feast, prepared
to eat, but not, as in the supper of Polonius, to be eaten. I have very
little of the martyr-stuff about me. It is well, it is glorious, to read
of those fine things; but does any man relish the application of the
_Hoc age_? To beatified Lawrence I gladly pay meet tribute of tears and
praise. Let the luckless one ask of me no more; let him call only upon
the succulent; let him recruit among the full ranks of the adipose. Be
it mine to lay these spare-ribs athwart no gridiron more fervid than the
pavement of his own monumental Escurial. _Suum cuique._
So, albeit in a melting mood, I gazed listlessly upon the brazen
firmament, with no fellow-feeling for those hot culinary bars. The
broiling glow was not at all tempting: I think it would have staggered
even the gay salamander that is said to accept so thoroughly the gospel
of caloric. And what was the Markerstown without the Great Captain? What
was the Victory with no Nelson? Hence, like the patriarch, I went out to
meditate at the eventide. But, alack! there were no camels, no Rebekah,
no comfort. Even in subterranean grots there was nothing drawn but
Tropic's XXX. Every water-cock let on a geyser. But by-and-by Apollo
Archimagirus, wearying of gastronomy, stayed his hand, moistened the
fierce flames, jerked the half-fried earth out into free space, pocketed
his stew-pan, and flung himself supperless to bed. No more, for the
nonce at least, should that new Lycidas--the cosmical gridiron--flame in
the forehead of the evening sky. Anon came twilight, dusk, darkness, and
all the pleasant charities of deep night. Behind the veil of night are
sometimes done evil deeds. The snail has been known to start before his
time. Laying down these general postulates, I drew therefrom, late in
the sultry gloom, this particular inference: Caesar's shallop might
possibly breast the deep before dawn; and if Caesar was not on hand, she
would carry his fortunes, but not him. Forthwith, groping through the
obscurity, I found my fears without foundation. The shallop was
quiescent in a remarkable degree, and thoroughly tethered.
Deep darkness reigned throughout the little kingdom. Silence brooded
over all, save now and then when some vocal nose, informed by murky
visions of the night, brayed out its stertorous tale to the unheeding
air. At times a shrill, sharp pipe, screaming with gusts of horror,
split my unexpectant ear. With this wrangled fitfully the cracked
clarionet of some peevish brother. Ever and anon some vast nostril,
punctually thundering, hurled forth the relentless growl of the
bassoon,--a very mountain of sound, which crushed all before it, and
made the shuddering timbers crack and reel. A pensive flute vainly
poured, in swift recurring gushes, its rhythmic oil upon the roaring
billows. From some melodious swain came a freakish fiddling, which
leaped and danced like mad, now here, now there, like an audible
will-o'-the-wisp. A dolorous whistle chimed harmonies, and with regular
sibilation came to time, quavering out the chromatic moments of this
nasal hour. High over all floated a faint whisper,--a song-cloud rising
from the dream-mist of a peaceful breast,--a revelation timidly exhaled
to the disembodied spirits of the air. Its hazy lullaby breathed down as
from distant heights, and murmured of celestial rest. Its soul was like
a star, and dwelt apart.
Save this feeling symphony, all was still. No light shone upon the
tuneful beaks. Like Theseus, I picked my way along, guided by an
Ariadne's thread. My Ariadne was a slumbering orchestra deftly spinning
out a thick proboscis-chord of such stuff as dreams are made of. Taking
this web in my ear, I safely traversed the labyrinth, and meandered at
last into pen No. 1. In placing my foot on the edge of the under-world
crib, I unwittingly pressed some secret spring which straight swung wide
the portals of a precipitate dawn.