I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what’s made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell’s probable. How the soot flies! This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of. Carpenter, when he’s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there’s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.
Sir?
Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I’ll order a complete man after a desirable pattern.
- Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks;
- then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel;
- then, legs with roots to ’em, to stay in one place;
- then, arms three feet through the wrist;
- no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains;
- and let me see—shall I order eyes to see outwards?
No, but put a skylight on top of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away.
Now, what’s he speaking about, and who’s he speaking to, I should like to know? Shall I keep standing here?
Aside.
’Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here’s one. No, no, no; I must have a lantern.
Ho, ho! That’s it, hey? Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.