But time would fail me to tell you of the myriad golden spangles so
thickly stitched into the hurrying web of those fustian hours. Oh! that
dim crepuscular time, when, with toe set to toe squarely on the scratch,
we stood up to one another, with eyes glaring through the gloaming, and
gave and took manfully, fighting out anew the old battles of the Bourbon
_vs._ China, of King James _vs._ Virginia, of Graham _vs._ Greece! I
could tell you of the siesta of the new Prometheus, when, perched on the
Mount Caucasus of a bleak chain-cable, he gave himself postprandially,
in full livery of seisin, to the vulturous sun. Wasted, yet daily
renewed, enduring, yet murmuring not, he hurled defiance at Fat, scoffed
at the vain rage of Jupiter Pinguis, and proffered to the world below a
new life in his fiery gift of stale bran-bread. Would you could have
heard that vesper hymn stealing hirsute through the mellow evening-air!
It sung the Peptic Saints and Martyrs, explored the bowels of old Time,
and at last died away in dulcet cadence as it chanted the glories of the
coming Age of Grits. Again, in the silent night-watches, did sage Mentor
become vocal, going over afresh the story of the Nervous and the Mucous,
classifying their victims, generalizing laws, discriminating the various
dyspepsies of the nations, and summing up at last the inestimable
benefits conferred by our modern dyspepsy on the character, the
literature, and the life of this nineteenth century.
Once more--for the last time--did the sable robe inwrap us.
Once more the night-blooming cereus oped its dank petals; and
amid its murky fragrance I sank to rest. When I woke, the
whank!--tick-a-lick!--whank!--tick-a-lick!--had ceased, and we were
safely moored. I leaped lightly to the shore, and, reverently stooping,
saluted with fond gratitude my Mother Earth. Rising, I beheld for the
last time the gaunt form of the Martyr standing on the deck,--a bar
sinister sable blazoned athwart the golden shield of the climbing sun.
And once more he lift up his voice:--
"Hullo! What! up killick an' off a'ready? Ye'r' bound to go it full
chisel any way,--don't mean to hev grass grow under your heels, that's
sartin. Wal, 't 's the early bird thet ketches the worm; an' it's the
early worm thet gits picked, too,--recollember that. I cal'late you
reckon the Markerstown's about played out, an' a'n't exackly wut she's
cracked up to be. It's pooty plain thet that 'ere blamed grease has ben
one too many for ye, arter all yer lingo. Ef a man will dance, he's got
to pay the fiddler. You can't go it on tick with Natur'; she's some on a
trade, an' her motto is, 'Down with the dosh.' Ef you think you can play
'possum, an' pull the wool over her eyes, jest try it on, that's all;
you'll find, my venerable hero, thet you're shinnin' a greased pole for
the sake of a bogus fo'pence-ha'penny on top.
"Now, young man, afore you hurry up your cakes much further, I've got
jest two words to say to ye. Don't cut it too fat, or you'll flummux by
the way, an' leave nuthin' but a grease-spot. Don't dawdle round doin'
nuthin' but stuffin' yerself to kill. Don't act like a gonus,--don't
hanker arter the flesh-pots. Wake up, peel your eyes, an' do suthin' for
a dyspeptic world, for sufferin' sinners, for yerself. Allers stick
close to Natur' an' hyg'ene. Drop yer nonsense, an' come over an' j'in
us, an' we'll make a new man of ye,--jest as good as wheat. You're on
the road to ruin now; but we'll take ye, an' build ye up, give ye tall
feed, an' warrant ye fust-cut health an' happiness. No cure, no pay. An'
look here, keep that 'ere card I gev ye continooally on hand, an'
peroose it day an' night. I tell ye it'll be the makin' on ye. An' don't
forgit 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. Ef you're in want o'
bran-bread at any time, let me know, an' I'm your man,--Rink by name,
an' Rink by natur'. An' ef so be you ever come within ten mile o' where
I hang out, jest tie right up on the spot, without the slightest
ceremony or delayance, an' take things puffickly free an' easy like.
Wal, my hearty, I see ye're on the skedaddle. Take keer o'
yerself,--yourn till death, N. Rink."