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- 11779
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.883Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11719
- text
- Then reseating thee, a little panting, and pressing one hand to thy
side: ‘Ay, stirring deeds beget stirring rhymes. But stirring rhymes
bestir overmuch the cardiac arteries in an old fellow like me. Well,
well,’ in reaction lapsing into a muffled mutter, a sort of audible
musing, ‘Well, well--they are gone, both gone, hero and bard--long ago.
_Sic transit._--They sleep, sleep.--_In pace, in pace--Requiescant!_’
And slowly removing thy gold-rimmed glasses and assiduously rubbing them
with thy ample handkerchief, in tone a bit tremulous, thou addressest
the mild gentleman thy hearer. ‘The heat of this unwonted season, sir,
would not be so inconvenient but for the confounded humidity dampening
one’s spectacles so. But where, where now was I? Astraying I’ve been:
Let me see----’ shutting thine eyes and clapping a hand to brow, ‘ah,
yes, yes--patriotism of boyhood. Well, such a spluttering blunderbuss as
I was speaking of a while ago, or rather such a _feu de joie in persona_
our venerable friend, Judge van Groot, inadvertently made himself as a
boy, recruiting his fagged patriotism on doughnuts and cider in one of
those booths which in _auld lang syne_ belted about our City Hall Park
every Fourth. I hear the sharp, quick percussion even now--see the lad
starting up, clapping his hands to his exploding powder-houses, and yet
more rapidly withdrawing them, till the booth-keeper put him out by
dashing a handy bucket of cider on his trowsers. That was--bless my
soul--nigh threescore years ago!--And now? Yesterday with one foot in
prunella, his Honour limped off to Saratoga, and, I dare say, sir,
without so much as a single powder-cracker in his vest pocket; nay, and
very likely never once recalling the circumstances that Saratoga as a
great Revolutionary battlefield, or giving name to one, is signally
associated with this blessed day.’ Then after a few moments of
meditative silence, ‘Myndert van Groot is--let me see--yes, about mine
own age. His bay-tree, though planted by the rivers of Burgundy, won’t
flourish more than a hundred years longer.--Well, well--_tempus_ does
_fugit_--_Memento mori!_--die we must--consign to dust--leave all!’
Here, settling back in thy chair, thine eyes fixed upon vacancy, thou
murmurest from thy Horace in quite other tones than those which late
rolled forth the Monterey stanza:--
‘The purple vineyard’s luscious stores,
Secured by trebly bolted doors,
Excite in vain your care;
Soon shall the rich and sparkling hoard
Flow largely o’er the festive board
Of your unsparing heir.’
Silence again. Then, suddenly brisking up, ‘But _à propos_, as the
Marquis says’; and, pulling out thy big watch, ‘ay, the lunch hour is at
hand. Tobias, hither, thou Rose of Sharon,’ summoning a ruddy-cheeked
young servitor, ‘go, see if the steward has ordered it as I directed,
kept that _Chambertin_ three leagues from his refrigerator and the
bottles in readiness to be gently immersed up to the neck--mind, up to
the neck in a water-cooler, the water of its natural temperature at this
season. Go, lad, it is important.’ Then turning to the quiet listener,
‘Sir, for myself I am not so particular about these matters, but the two
friends I expect to dine with me--Jerry Bland and Captain Don Tempest of
the Navy--well, you know them--are; and one must humour the peculiar
tastes of one’s friends, you know.’ Here, suddenly reminded that an
immediate courtesy was due. ‘Of course, my good sir, you will join us.
Nay, I insist upon it. Not good for a man to be alone, especially on the
immortal Fourth. Tobias, come back. Tut, he’s gone. William! Go, say we
will dine at the round table in the south-west corner, and let there be
four covers--four, mind.’
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- Chunk 21