y, 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.

II.--THE BURDEN OF THE SONG.

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
sahti