ight, 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.

VI.--THE PEPTIC SYMPHONY.

A.--Andante (_smorzando_).
B.--Adagio (_crescendo_).