“THE SONG OF THE HERO TO HIS SWORD.
“‘Foe Smiter! To the light thy blade I draw,
To gaze enraptured on thy glitt’ring sheen:
I see thee still, thou gem without a flaw!
Sharp, strong, and shining, as thou’st ever been
Since that proud day when first the spoilers came,
Reddening my own fair land with blood and flame,
With vig’rous arm I pluck’d thee from thy sheath,
And made thee drink the crimson draught of death!
“‘Death Dealer! Here I have thee once again!
I see thy fatal lightning flashing near,
As round me rise the spirits of the slain,
And the dark shadows, shudd’ring, disappear.
Who ever stood unscathed before thy path?
Who ever lived to babble of thy wrath?
Annihilation must thy deeds proclaim,
And conquest grant thy memory to fame!
“‘Fame Winner! Let me grasp thee firmer yet;
New fields are to be fought, new foes to dare;
I must have glory ere the sun hath set;
I yearn new triumphs, noble spoils to share.
See where th’ insulting enemy advance!
And as they come, with dark and scornful glance,
Waving thy brilliant steel I seek the fray,
And pierce the quiv’ring flesh that stops my way!’”
“By all that’s glorious, ’tis a noble strain!” exclaimed Oriel, while his brilliant eyes flashed with excitement; “a strain fit to stir the heart to noble deeds. I feel my soul thrilled with an heroic spirit that would do battle even with the fierce enemy—Death! Give me a fair field and a good cause—a band of warlike brothers moved by the same mighty impulse as that by which I am now excited—and let us have fit weapons and enough of them, and we would sweep the oppressors of the world from the earth, like rotten reeds before a whirlwind. Wisely did the ancients honour their bards above all human greatness. Well was it that they gave them precedence and dignity and wealth in abundance—the gold chain round the neck, and the seat of honour near the throne. If they possessed but the power you have evinced, they were worthy of the first place and the richest gifts: for they must have been the leading spirits of the age—the movers of armies—the winners of triumph. What nature, with the common energies of manhood, could resist such a stimulus? Stone walls, the crushing iron, and the penetrating steel—would these be as obstacles in its way? Straws! Had I lived in those days, the leader of a warlike generation, and heard a song such as you have sung, I should have felt inclined to have exalted the bard above my own dignity, knowing that his influence upon the dispositions over which I ruled could be rendered far more effective for the purposes that gave me supremacy, than my own.”
“I expected it would move you in some measure,” said Zabra, gazing with affectionate interest upon the flushed cheek of his patron.
“Move me! would a mælstrom move me?” cried the young merchant. “It seems to have stirred the sluggish blood in every hidden vein and artery. My brain throbs as if it would move up the scalp in which it is confined, and the pulsations of my heart appear to have acquired the action of a boiling torrent.”
“I am afraid I have done mischief,” observed the musician anxiously; “I did not count upon producing so violent an effect. Let me undo the evil I have created by singing to you some lyric of an opposite tendency.”
“Where got you this power?” asked his companion, fixing a searching glance upon the lustrous eyes before him. “By what means gained you the rare art which you practise with such wondrous effect? Your’s is no common skill for the ignorant to admire; it is an influence which the most tutored in worldly wisdom must feel and worship. You never could have gained it while employed in the laborious idleness of a page. You are too young to have acquired it by study. What mystery is this you have gathered around you which gives you such a mastery over the affections of your associates?”
A slight tremor passed over the graceful form of the young musician: his eyes shrunk before the earnest gaze of Oriel Porphyry, and, shaded by their long dark lashes, were fixed upon the floor.
“I will tell you;” said he at length. “Although great care was taken with my education, from a very early age I was left much to my own inclinations; and being gifted with an extraordinary love for knowledge, and a rare facility in its acquirement, and a powerful tendency towards that knowledge which was most ennobling, I rapidly obtained a degree of intelligence which was rarely found even in a more mature period of life. There were two particular objects of study to which I for years dedicated an intense degree of attention: these were music and poetry. Music was a source of the most exquisite gratification to me at all times, and I applied diligently to make myself master of all its difficulties. In this, after constant application, superintended by the best masters, I succeeded, so as to be able to create at pleasure any effect I was desirous of producing. In the study of poetry I had no teachers, excepting the only teacher capable of giving instruction—Nature. I went amid the stir of leaves in the heart of the primeval forest; I stood beneath the dazzling glances of the countless eyes of heaven; I looked down upon the waters of the great deep, till I knew how to interpret its mighty voices; and the whisper of the wind to the blushing flower became to me a lesson full of an exquisite and impressive eloquence. There was not a sound in the air—a light upon the skies—a splendour on the earth—or a motion in the sea, that did not assist me in my study; for there were beauty and truth and power; and these are the constituents of all natural poetry. But there was something still wanting to breathe the spirit of life into the new conceptions that had been created in my nature. This I found; and from that time there has been a gladness in what I knew, and a purpose in what I did. Now let me remove the too powerful impression I have produced, by something more in accordance with my own sympathies. You shall hear ‘The Poet’s Song to his Mistress.’”
A symphony, full of the most touching interest, preceded a melody so impassioned, yet so sweet in its expression, and harmonised in so rich and masterly a manner, that the young merchant had soon all his faculties engaged in deep and earnest attention.
“That I should love thee is not strange,
For excellence doth love create;
But that my love should die or change
Can never be—’tis not in Fate:
For as thy worth, in heaven’s bright view,
Must ever hold its glorious stature;
Shall not that bliss which from it grew
Partake of its immortal nature?
“Nor can exist a taint of schism
In these fond feelings thou hast made;
For, like the colours in the prism,
They cannot change, they never fade.
Thus is it, then, sweet friend! my love
From thy fond worth Time ne’er can sever;
And must a natural goodness prove:
Things made from gold are sterling ever.”
At the conclusion of this song, which Zabra sang with a thrilling pathos which must have reached the heart of his auditor, the two friends were interrupted by a message from the captain, to acquaint Oriel that a pilot had come on board to conduct the vessel up the river to Canton; and that if he wished to observe the Chinese coast, there was now an excellent opportunity. All thought of poetry and music seemed forgotten for the time; for the musician and the young merchant immediately hastened upon deck.
The Albatross was passing Macao, and steering her course towards Whampoa; and a group were on the quarter-deck noticing the appearance of the country, the junks and other strange vessels they were passing, and making observations upon what they saw.
“We are approaching a people,” said Fortyfolios, “who, if they are not the most ancient that exist, lay claim to an antiquity of which few could boast. They are the most extraordinary race on the globe, and the most unchangeable in their habits. Though they preceded the rest of the world in the march of civilisation; though they invented the arts of printing, and of manufacturing silk fabrics and porcelain goods; though they discovered the composition of gunpowder and the use of the magnetic compass; they have never progressed beyond these advances. Thousands of years have passed—nations that were not then in existence, in intelligence have left them far behind—and still they remain exactly as they were, and are not only indifferent to the improvements around them, but look upon all other nations as barbarians unworthy of their association. In vain have they been conquered: conquest could make no change in their habits or opinions. Among the most celebrated of their masters were the Manchews, a people doubtless so called from their attachment to cannibalism, by whom they were held in subjection for several centuries; and the English, who made a conquest of their empire when in the zenith of their greatness. Their subjugation by the latter was caused by their own pride and insolence. The Chinese were so impressed with an opinion of their own superior greatness, that they behaved to all foreigners who visited their shores for the purposes of traffic with humiliating insolence. They were only allowed to trade at one port, their merchandise was subjected to the most arbitrary duties, and their merchants were treated with every kind of insult. This was borne for a considerable period by the mercantile world, in consideration of the importance of their commerce, and the impossibility of finding their exports in other countries. But toleration only increased the audacity of the Chinese authorities. They proceeded to acts of violence: several vessels were plundered, and their crews were murdered, or carried away, and never heard of after. At last the English, having endured this treatment without being able to procure the slightest redress, determined on retaliation. From their possessions in India they invaded the Chinese territory with a powerful army, and at the same time ravaged their coasts with a naval armament that destroyed their shipping, plundered their towns, and laid their defences in ashes. The Chinese, as cowardly as they had been insolent, though possessed of an immense population and extraordinary resources, made but a feeble resistance, and were glad to purchase peace upon any terms they could make; but the English had discovered the weakness of their enemy, and had not forgotten the oppressions they had endured, and did not desist from the conflict till they had annexed the mighty empire of China to their immense dominions in India.”
“All very true,” added Tourniquet. “They were ignorant, bigoted, and slavish, but for all that they were the most prosperous nation under the sun, don’t you see.”
“Their prosperity was occasioned by the laws by which they were governed,” said the professor. “Industry was encouraged. Agriculture was pursued as the most honourable occupation, as one in which the emperor delighted; and obedience was inculcated as the first duty of a citizen.”
“But what was the spirit of their laws?” inquired Oriel Porphyry.
“Every father of a family was despotic in his own household: the emperor was regarded by his subjects with the same reverence that a family looked up to its domestic ruler; and an offence against the monarch was punished in a similar manner as an offence against the parent;” replied Fortyfolios.
“I can imagine no state of things so arbitrary and so contrary to common sense, don’t you see;” observed the doctor. “By such a law, whether a man be a drunkard or a profligate, a fool or a knave, he has unlimited supremacy over his offspring; he can punish with death when he pleases, and the poor wretches who acknowledge his relationship, dare not murmur. He is a father; and fatherhood, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins. There is nothing so ridiculous as this notion. No individual in the great family of nature is entitled to the slightest respect, unless he is respectable in his conduct. All relationship is an accident. A father has no right to the obedience of his child, because he is his father: that can only be the most absurd of claims; for he produced the child to please himself, and at the time could have no sympathy towards an object that was not in existence.”
“That cannot be disputed;” replied the professor. “But I must maintain, that obedience in a child, to a reasonable extent, ought to exist as a natural consequence of the care and anxiety of parentage.”
“Granted, with the limitations;” said the surgeon. “When a father brings up his child with a proper affection, affection from the offspring ought to be expected; but in no case has the parent a right to implicit obedience, unless he has so acted, and the law he wishes to make absolute is such as will not affect the welfare of the child. In many instances the son possesses more intelligence than the father; and yet, if parental subjugation were allowed, the wise must be held in subjection by the opinion of the ignorant.”
“I should imagine such a form of government likely to be very ancient;” observed Oriel.
“It is unquestionably of great antiquity, and derived from the patriarchal ages, when the oldest member of the family held supreme authority over the rest;” responded Fortyfolios.
“About as much as the ocean has originated from the drops of rain that fell from the sky, don’t you see;” added the doctor.
“I maintain that the progenitors of the Chinese were a nomadic race;” said the professor rather sharply.
“Granted; and what then?” inquired the surgeon, in his usual good-humoured manner.
“That they were a collection of single families,” continued Fortyfolios.
“So are all nations at the present time, don’t you see;” remarked the doctor.
“Not in the manner which existed at the age to which I allude;” rejoined his antagonist. “Every man dwelt in his own tent, surrounded by his children and his children’s children, and wandered with his herds and flocks, to wherever he could find them sufficient pasturage. He governed as a monarch with power of life and death, and the rules he found necessary to preserve his government he transmitted to his successor; till, the family increasing, it was found necessary that they should separate into distinct divisions, each having its own father or ruler, and, residing for mutual protection near each other, they constituted tribes. The rules, which the experience of the first father had found necessary for maintaining his authority, had been conveyed with modifications and additions through his successors, till they became possessed by the elders of the tribe, in whom all wisdom and government resided; until the increase of their numbers, and the want of sufficient accommodation, induced them to invade the more desirable territory of other tribes; and then it was that he who distinguished himself most in this warfare obtained supremacy over the rest, and having conquered other tribes, and rendered himself by his superior bravery the object of fear and admiration, he became king of all the people who acknowledged his rule, and governed them by the laws that had existed previously in his own particular family or tribe.”
“A very plausible hypothesis, but nothing more, don’t you see;” replied the doctor. “Doubtless all societies originated in one family, the supreme head of which did what he thought fit; but I doubt much whether he exercised such an authority as could sacrifice a life for an offence real or imaginary; or created any code of laws for the government of his relations. He did only what he thought necessary for the time; and whether that constituted a precedent or not, it is not easy to determine. The punishment which would be necessary at one time, might not be thought necessary at another, don’t you see. Where the judge is absolute, and has no constitution to guide him, it is the mood in which he may be when called upon to judge, that makes the sentence severe or mild; and every judge, being independent of any higher authority, and liable to act from prejudice or partiality, would create nothing but inconsistent decisions, which could never be tolerated as a code of laws. It is opinion that creates law. The heterogeneous mass of absurdities that the few promulgate to hold the many in subjection would not be tolerated except in a state of perfect slavery. Where there is any intelligence among the people, and intelligence must make its appearance sooner or later, every law that is found existing passes the ordeal of public opinion, and if it be unwise or unjust, it will not be regarded or its abrogation will be enforced. The multitude have a better notion of the difference between right and wrong, than is generally supposed; and nothing is so productive of a clearness of distinction in these things among the people than a proper simplicity and applicability of the laws by which they are governed. It is intelligence that produces opinion, don’t you see—and opinion that creates law—and law cannot long exist in opposition to opinion.”
While the disputants were intently engaged in their argument, Oriel Porphyry and Zabra had walked to another part of the deck, where the captain and his lieutenant were giving orders about the management of the vessel.
“Fine old country, this, captain;” said the young merchant.
“Yes, sir,” replied Hearty: “fine old country, certainly. They do say it’s as old as Methusalem; but I never was in sight o’ that coast, therefore can’t say what difference there may be between ’em.”
“You have been in this part of the world before, I should suppose?” inquired Oriel.
“Many times,” responded the old man: “I knows the place well. I’ve been afloat ever since I was a small craft as could hardly steer without capsizing; and there arn’t many seas in the world as I haven’t been over. John Chinaman and I are ’ticular acquaintances, because I’ve seen a good deal on him. He’s rather smart in his own notions o’ himself, but he makes a good reefer when aboard, and he’ll carry like a steam engine when ashore. Often when I’ve landed at this port from one or other o’ your father’s ships, I’ve seen him bearing sich loads as ’ould make a horse’s back bone unkimmen ticklish. We’re enterin’ the river now; and after sailing a few points west of north, we shall be nigh upon the first bar, from whence we must steer due west to Whampoa, where we shall cast anchor. You’ll have then to go about ten miles to the Factories, to which you must proceed in boats.”
“What strange looking ships these are;” remarked Zabra, pointing to several vessels they were passing.
“Ay, they are very queer shaped craft,” said the captain. “But John Chinaman’s no great shakes at ship-buildin’, although he thinks he’s wonderful. Look at that heavy lumbering junk. She looks like a great thick-headed old muff, as does’n’t know his helm from his taffrail. The Albatross would take the conceit out o’ her in no time. And look at these here outlandish looking barges—there’s no sense in ’em.”
“The country has rather an interesting character;” observed Oriel.
“It’s all accordin’ to taste,” replied Hearty.
“These here islands o’ sand ar’nt ’ticularly lovely to my thinking; and I can’t abide the ugliness o’ the craft.”
“In what manner do these people now behave to foreigners?” inquired Zabra.
“Why it ar’nt quite so bad as what I’ve read on in ancient history;” said the captain. “They’ve had a sick’ner for coming that sort o’ fun; but they coil up their noses pretty stiffish even now. They allow travellers to wander about and examine their notables, which they did’nt use to do; but I should recommend any fellow, who’s more nor ordinary ’quisitive, to look out for squalls. I have heard say as people ha’ been missed who was axing their way through the country; and not a spar or a bolt-rope on ’em ever heard on again.”
“About five years ago I was in this here part o’ the world,” said Climberkin, joining in the conversation; “and I had a very narrow escape o’ bein’ done for in that fashion. I was bo’sun aboard the Whittington, a reg’lar tip top merchantman, as Master Porphyry had in the China trade at that time, and after a wearisome cruise I had been jollificating up the country with a few mates, when I came alongside as smart a piece o’ China ware as ever I clapped my eyes on. Well, she did’nt understand none o’ my lingo, and I could’nt circumnavigate any o’ her’n; but we had signals flying at our eyes like winkin’, and we pretty soon heaved to, and were yard arm and yard arm, and looked at each other till all was blue again. I discovered that she belonged to the crew o’ a man-tea-maker’s ’stablishment, and got her livin’ pretty comfortable, by alays ’turnin’ over a new leaf (though she never did nuffin wrong to sinnify); and so I thought as how if that was the way o’ sailin’, I might bring her to book wi’ her own leave, without any botheration whatsomdever. Just as I was making way in the business, I received a ’munication from one o’ my mates, who was up to their lingo, that some half a dozen o’ the Chinamen with whom she ’sociated, were on a reg’lar take in about my consortin’ wi’ her, and had entered into a ’spiracy to nail down the hatches on my goings on. Me and my little frigate were in the habit o’ cruisin’ in a grove o’ prime timber, by the side o’ a rice field, and it was here-about’s that the man-tea-makers thought o’ dishing me as strong as could be; but I took care that they should meet wi’ a mighty difference. After preparin’ every thin’ as was necessary, I got my mates to lie in ambush, and began a courtin’ a way in a style as would make the jealousy rise out o’ a dead nigger. I had’nt been long at this here fun, when up comes the whole lot on ’em screechin’ like mad, and they bears down upon me threatenin’ the most completest spiflification as you can imagine. Their eyes flared up most immensely. Their teeth seemed playing at knives to grind; and they whirled about monstrous bludgeons that would have made no bones o’ me, had I suffered ’em to scrape my acquaintance. My cretur struck her flag and down she went; but before the teapots came to close quarters, I put my bo’sun’s whistle into play; and pulled out a pair of ‘do-for-you’s,’ as my mates coming up and showing the same signs o’ welcome, surrounded the poor devils in such a way as they could’nt move no how.”
“And what did you do with your rivals?” inquired Oriel, considerably amused by the lieutenant’s narrative.
“Why, I’d al’ays heard it recommended to do as you’d be done by,” replied Climberkin; “so we got the sticks from the Chinamen, and took the flavour out on ’em in a manner as left ’em nuffin to complain of. But we wern’t satisfied with such an act o’ justice. You must know that each o’ these tea-dealers has a tail to his head, from two to three feet long, o’ which he is as proud as is a peacock o’ his tail, and shaves all the rest o’ his cranium as smooth as glass. Knowin’ this, we’d brought lots o’ rosin and twine; and, while some o’ our chaps made ’em lump it if they didn’t like it most considerably, we spliced them all together from the small ends down’ards, for several inches, strong and tight as a patent cable; then, seeing a tree close at hand with the loveliest fork possible for our purpose, we hauled ’em up wi’ ropes over the branch till half on ’em hung on one side and half on the tother, by nuffin in the world but their own precious tails. Didn’t they raise a bit of a shindy! Such howlin’, such squallin’—such kickin’, such scratchin’—such a reg’lar rowdy-dow no set o’ humans ever made afore. And there we left ’em, as the ancient poet says, wi’ each partic’lar hair standin’ on end, while we crowded all sail to our own ship.”
“It was rather too bad of you, lieutenant,” said the merchant’s son, attempting unsuccessfully to look grave; “and I wonder you did not get yourself into trouble in consequence.”
“Why it did raise a smartish bit o’ a bobbery,” replied Climberkin; “but we all kept so snug aboard, and sailed so soon arter, that not one on us were diskivered.”
“We shall anchor immediately,” said the captain, returning to the group he had left to speak to the pilot. “Is it your wish, sir, to go ashore?”
“I must be at Canton without delay,” rejoined Oriel Porphyry.
“Man the galley, and get a boat’s crew ready to proceed up the river,” shouted Hearty to the second lieutenant.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the ready reply; and while the boat was lowered into the sea, and all her appurtenances provided, Zabra and his patron made their arrangements for landing on the Chinese territory.
[CHAP. VII.]
A CHINESE POET.
In an elegant room, the floor of which was covered with clean white matting, while the furniture, consisting principally of a divan or sofa, mirrors, pictures, couches, Japan tables, and large porcelain vases, was of a superior description, cross-legged on the divan, eating sweetmeats from a small silver saucer, richly chased, which he held in his hand, sat a young man, of less than the ordinary stature, with a countenance that seemed possessed of a perpetual melancholy. He was dressed with the most studied effect. He wore a robe of dark rich silk, and over it a vest of delicate blue satin, beautifully figured. Upon his head, which was shaved, with the exception of a long lock of hair that hung from the crown over the shoulder, was a small black cap of fine felt, with the brim turned up, and the crown, of a conical shape, covered with a fringe of scarlet silk, having a peculiar button in front. Below wide trowsers were seen stockings of silk, remarkably thin, having their feet cased in small slippers of embroidered satin; and round his waist was a girdle, drawn very tight, to which was appended a small gold case, a purse, and a pouch of silk. Opposite to him sat Oriel Porphyry and Zabra, in their usual dresses, also eating sweetmeats from similar saucers.
“What an ineffable felicity I enjoy in being able to speak your language,” observed the young Chinese.
“I have no doubt you find it an advantage in your communication with foreigners,” replied the merchant’s son.
“An advantage!” exclaimed the other rapturously. “By the great Fo, ’tis the most superlative of enjoyments. I bless the gods that my mother was an Anglo-Indian, and that she conferred on me the exquisite gratifications arising from proficiency in the use of her language. My father passed a great portion of his life in India, and acquired a facility in its pronunciation which is rarely obtained by a Chinese; so that I was born with extraordinary advantages.”
“You were fortunate, certainly,” added Oriel.
“Fortunate! By the immaculate tail of Confucius, I was favoured beyond all experience,” cried his host.
There being nothing more to say on that subject, at least so the young merchant thought, he inquired—“Your father, I suppose, will be here shortly?”
“He is paying his devotions at the neighbouring temple. Long Chi enjoys a religious reputation, and he loves the society of holy men. But I was telling you of the indescribable happiness I possess in having acquired a proficiency in my mother tongue,” added Long Chi the younger. “I am blest with a poetic genius.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Zabra, with some surprise.
“Wonderful as it may appear, the fact is what I have stated,” replied the young poet, putting down the silver saucer on a small japanned table before him, and opening the pouch at his side, from which he took a bundle of papers. “I may say that my compositions have attracted an extraordinary degree of attention in the world of letters. They are considered phenomena in literature, I assure you. Do not imagine I wish to overrate their value. I should not think of such a thing for the thousandth part of a moment; and to prove this to you, allow me to enrapture you with some of my effusions.”
“Certainly,” said Oriel, expecting at least to be amused.
“The effort of a profound sublimity I am about to breathe into your enlightened ears, you will have the intellectual discrimination to observe, is a perfect specimen of the true Anglian pastoral,” remarked Long Chi. “It has been created by that etherial sense of delicious enjoyment which your ancient poets called love. She for whose immaculate glorification it was called into existence, is a combination of miraculous excellencies—an incarnation of inconceivable perfections; and therefore your superior sagacities must not deem it at all more than ordinary extraordinary, if the merits of this indestructible conception fill you with a ravishing amazement.”
“From what you have said I should expect something particularly clever,” observed Zabra, evidently considerably amused by the poet’s phraseology.
“Clever!” exclaimed the young Chinese, with emphatic fervour. “By the great Fo you will find it supernaturally perfect.” Then arranging a rumple in his vest, and taking a glance of satisfaction at the reflection of his person in a large mirror beside him, with a slow and careful enunciation of each word, and a peculiar wave of the hand to mark the measure, the melancholy poet read the following verses:—
“Have you seen my Fee Fo Fum,
Tell me did she this way come?
She it is of whom I speak
Hath a pink on either cheek;
In the middle of her face
Is a flower of nameless grace,
Which the name of nose hath known,
And blooms the brightest when ’tis blown.
And her eyes are garden plots
Filled with young forget-me-nots,
That by lovers’ eyes are found
Flow’ring all the seasons round.
Shepherds did she this way come?
Have you seen my Fee Fo Fum?
“If below her nose you look,
There’s a little rosy nook;
Two twin buds half open ask,
Smiling, for some fondling task,
While within, in each row,
The lilies of the valley grow.
Just beneath them both begins
The blossom of the best of chins;
Fair and round, and smooth as silk,
And like a peach fresh bathed in milk.
Shepherds, did she this way come?
Have you seen my Fee Fo Fum?
“Breast of mutton, breast of veal,
All your merits now conceal;
What can ye afford to taste
Half so pleasant, half so chaste,
As the dainty bits that lie
Hid from epicurean eye?
What to them compared are ye,
Calipash and calipee?
Go! the sweeter flesh I’ve known
Wants no sauce to coax it down.
Shepherds, did she this way come?
Have you seen my Fee Fo Fum?
“She of whom I’m in pursuit
Hath to these a foot ‘to boot;’
Such a foot! ’tis like a rose,
Budding out with five small toes.
Calf’s foot, likened as a treat,
To a jelly it would beat:
She hath two—but my regard
Makes each foot excel a yard—
Go any lengths it might reveal,
Save when she turns upon her heel.
Shepherds, did she this way come?
Have you seen my Fee Fo Fum?”
“It certainly is a superlative composition,” remarked Zabra, attempting to conceal a laugh.
“I can safely say I never heard any thing like it,” added Oriel in a similar tone.
“I entertained an incipient conviction that you would find it marvellously admirable,” replied the poet, elevating his head, and stroking his mustachios. “’Tis ineffably divine, is it not?”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed both, looking at each other with a smile of peculiar meaning.
“Beautiful!” echoed Long Chi, raising his voice and eyebrows. “By the invulnerable tail of Confucius, ’tis something for which a name cannot be found. But exquisitely perfect as it may be, here is a production that excels it in the very unapproachableness of its excellence.”
While the two friends listened with admirable patience, the young Chinese unfolded another paper, and read with the same gravity these lines:—
“When first we met ’twas in the spring,
When dicky birds begin to sing,
When nature dishes up her greens
To make removes for rural scenes;
And teaches, with unaltered brows,
When trees take leaf, to make their boughs;
Then first I met thee passing by,
Then first I had thee—in my eye.
“When next we met ’twas summer time,
When trees, well loaded, seemed to prime;
And other plants just taking root,
Meaning no harm, began to shoot;
When beans their hollow ‘shells’ would doff,
And marrow fats were going off;
Then first our hearts were growing warm,
Then first I had thee—arm in arm.
“’Twas autumn when we met again,
When sunshine parched the peas and plain;
When plums are blooming on the wall,
And into flour would gladly fall;
When apples are to fritters torn,
And earth’s square feet feel many a corn:
Then first did I forget my fears,
Then first I had thee—box my ears.
“I saw thee last when winter, nice
In eating, loves to have his ice;
When ‘cold without’ comes near and far,
And all his sweetmeats frosted are,
To ballot when the white balls roll
Unask’d for, hastening to the poll:
Then first I ‘broke the ice,’ and then
Was I the happiest of men.”
“That exceeds the last certainly,” said Oriel Porphyry, amused with the perfect gravity with which the poet read his verses.
“It appears to me quite a new style of poetry,” remarked Zabra, with as much seriousness as he could assume.
“Unquestionably! it is novel in the novelest degree,” replied Long Chi, smiling with all the graciousness of gratified vanity. “I may with the most complete justice lay claim to be the origin in which originated its originality. I have studied sublimity. By the great Fo, I may say that; and I have found the sublime in every individual natural thing that is in nature; but in cookery and confectionary it predominates, as must be evident to the inquisitive investigation of any man of taste. It is the opinion of the most discriminative judges, that no writer of serious poetry can compete with me.”
“In that opinion every one must coincide,” observed Zabra.
“There can be no question on the subject,” added Oriel.
“Who shall say you are barbarians, when you exhibit such a superabundant knowledge of the beautiful?” exclaimed the Chinese, with all the energy he could assume. “I am immeasurably enraptured to notice such an admirable judgment; and, as an additional proof of the satisfaction I receive from your friendly attention, I will still, to a much more infinite extent, delight your auditory nerves with one of the most serious of my efforts in serious poetry. Mark the true sublime; mark it well, and see how splendidly it agrees with the magnificent subject. It is an ode to a sugarplum.”
The poet unfolded another paper; and the young merchant shrugged up his shoulders, as he heard its contents read with the same tone and manner as its predecessors.
“How shall I grasp a subject so immense?
No power of human sense,
Not all the vast
Ideas within the Present and the Past—
Not algebra’s most unknown quantity could give the sum
Of greatness in a sugar plum!
“What with its sweetness can compete?
How much it beats the beet!
Shall manna dare,
Wanting in manners, with it to compare?
And honey’s linked sweetness, long drawn out, is all a hum,
’Tis nothing to a sugar plum!
“Who can deny the sense of truth
It gives the tongue of youth?
It hath the praise
Of being always candied in its ways,
And stops the carping critic’s mouth till he becometh dumb,
Delighted with a sugar plum!
“Comfit, come fit my mouth, and I
In thy sweet praise will try
My hand at feet,
With anxious aim to make the metre meet,
Till Arabic, or any other diff’rent sort of gum,
Shall water for a sugar plum.
“Muse, if thy musings can prevail,
I’ll at it tooth and nail;
I have no nerves
Of taste for syrups, jellies, or preserves;
Oh, let them go to pot, say I, as so much worthless scum,
They cannot make a sugar plum.
“Bull’s eyes may stick within the shop,
And so may lollapop,
Elecampane
Unsucked within its bottles may remain;
And barley sugar, brandy balls, or even balls of rum,
I’d spurn to get a sugar plum.
“Plums from the trees I do not find
So plummy to my mind;
Orleans or egg
Unnoticed for my patronage may beg;
And damsons may be da—; ah, I’m in a passion, I say mum,
I’ll swear not for a sugar plum.”
“You excel yourself, sir,” said Oriel Porphyry, with something of sarcasm in the tone of his voice, arising, perhaps, from his becoming a little out of patience.
“By the unsophisticated tail of Confucius, you may say that,” replied the poet with the same seriousness he had from the first evinced. “Having, in so unutterable a manner, obtained the precedency of my promiscuous cotemporaries, I had no alternative but to enter into competition with myself. That I have to so wonderful an extent exceeded my own super-excellence, therefore, cannot be considered strange; but, as you are evidently gratified in a manner perfectly unparalleled by the unimaginable superiority of my poetic genius, I will show my consideration of your admirable sagacity by enrapturing you still more completely by a more transcendental attempt at the sublime;” and the young Chinese began unfolding another paper.
“Not now, I’m very much obliged to you,” said Oriel, rising as if to depart. “I have business of importance that requires my immediate attendance; and, having waited for Long Chi so long, I am afraid I cannot protract my visit.”
“Not to be ravished by the immortal praises of the adorable Fee Fo Fum?” exclaimed the melancholy poet in the utmost astonishment.
“I cannot allow myself that pleasure at present,” said the merchant’s son, courteously, yet looking as if he was impatient to be gone.
“I’ve written an indestructible epos in fifty cantos, descriptive of all her beauties, with a due regard of anatomy. I’ll read you the whole of it, if you will stay,” added the lover.
“I’m infinitely thankful; but my time is precious,” observed Oriel, making rapid strides to the door.
“I will enrapture you with a thousand hexameters declaratory of my incommunicable affections,” shouted the prolific versifier.
“Good morning to you, Long Chi,” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, as he opened the door, evidently very desirous of making his escape. He was on the point of leaving the room, accompanied by Zabra, when he was stopped in his progress by the appearance of a stout elderly Chinese, wearing the appearance of profound gravity. No sooner had he entered, than the poet shuffled his papers hastily into his pouch, jumped off the divan, and approached the stranger with looks of veneration and awe.
“Father, here are the barbarians you expected,” said he. The ceremony of introduction was soon over; the two friends returned to their seats; and old Long Chi, seating himself cross-legged on the divan, commenced a conversation with his visitors, while his son remained standing beside him in respectful attention. He was dressed in a fashion somewhat similar to that of the younger Chinese; but the materials were not so gay, nor were they formed with so much neatness; and he wore boots of black satin instead of slippers, and a short cloak of fine cloth trimmed with fur.
“I have been sacrificing at the temple, which has detained me longer than I anticipated,” said Long Chi the elder. “But religion is the first concern of life. Nothing should stand in the way of religion. The Bonzes are the only teachers of truth; and the worship of Fo is the only way that leads to virtue.”
Neither Zabra nor his patron attempted to dispute this doctrine.
“I have been reading, father,” falteringly uttered the poet—“I have been reading——”
“Hold your tongue, Long Chi,” exclaimed his parent sharply.
“Father, I obey,” murmured the obedient youth.
“Obedience is the first of virtues, and duty to parents the first of all obedience,” remarked the old man, with a tone that seemed to his son more infallible than the sentence. “Children, obey your parents, saith our religion; and if they are disobedient we give them a touch of the bamboo.” The poet at this moment looked remarkably grave. “Subjects, obey your rulers, saith the law; and if we become unruly we get a touch of the bamboo.” And the father looked as grave as his son.
“That is, I suppose, what is called being bamboo-zled,” observed Oriel Porphyry with a smile.
“It is no laughing matter to us, I can assure you,” added the old man feelingly; “but it is a fine thing for children. Our religion says, Spare the bamboo, and spoil the child: and I’m attentive to religion.”
“I wish it said, Spoil the bamboo, and——”
“Hold your tongue, Long Chi!” thundered out the parent.
“Father, I obey,” tremblingly replied the son.
“The bastinado is the best thing in the world for children,” continued the elder, frowning upon his offspring. “We are obliged to provide for their bodies, and it is but proper we should do what we can for their soles. When a schism occurs in the family, I always punish it in that way.”
“Then it becomes a sole-cism,” added the young man, sorrowfully.
The old Chinese snatched up a heavy bamboo cane with which he had been walking, and swung it furiously round his head, with the intention of dealing a severe blow upon the poet’s shoulders, but the lover of the adorable Fee Fo Fum jumped out of the way with more agility than submission, and the blow chipped off a corner of the japanned table.
“Is this the way you show your obedience, you undutiful wretch?” shouted Long Chi, as he jumped off the divan, in a rage after the offender. “Where’s your religion? Where’s your duty to parents? Spare the bamboo and spoil the child! Come and be bastinadoed, you ungrateful youth!” So saying, he waddled after his son as rapidly as he could, making desperate attempts to knock him down; but as Long Chi the younger not only was not so dutiful as to wait to be bastinadoed, but jumped out of the way of the blows as fast as they were aimed at him, Long Chi the elder, much fatigued by his exertions, at last returned to the divan, after having afforded infinite diversion to his visitors.
“I wonder the roof doesn’t fall in and cover you, you unnatural offspring!” exclaimed the father, shaking the bamboo at his son, who stood trembling at a respectful distance; then wiping the perspiration from his shaven crown, he added, addressing the young friends, and the poet, by turns, “You are shocked, no doubt, at this instance of youthful depravity—Oh the graceless scoundrel! to run away from his affectionate father, who was going to beat him black and blue!—But I am happy to say, that there are few children in China so indifferent to the mild virtues of paternal government.—Come here, and let me knock your undutiful head into a thousand pieces, you vagabond!—It is a sad thing, I acknowledge, for the father of a family, who is anxious to bring up a child in the way it should go, to find it so insensible of his loving-kindness.—Oh, if I had you near enough, I’d smash you into a custard, you graceless varlet!—but you see a parent’s heart is always overflowing with natural affection for his own flesh and blood.—By the great Fo, I should be delighted to bastinado you within an inch of your life!—Religion and morality, in these atheistical times, are thought nothing of by some children.—Haven’t I brought you up, you heathen! on purpose to knock you down?—But this isn’t the worst of it—they have become rank republicans. They have no proper notion of law, order, or government. When the father takes to his bamboo, the son takes to his heels—abominable rebel!—and when one flies in a passion the other flies in his face—unparalleled traitor!”
The entrance of servants, announcing that dinner was ready, put an end to the altercation; and Long Chi the elder, with much suavity, pressed his visitors to remain his guests for the remainder of the day; which invitation Oriel Porphyry, imagining that he should be free from all persecution from the rhyming propensities of his host’s son, and expecting some amusement from the peculiarities of the two, forgot his engagements, and agreed to prolong his visit. Long Chi the elder then took one hand of each of his guests in his own and proceeded with them into a handsome apartment, furnished in a style similar to the one they had left. In the centre was a small low table, having four seats or cushions at its sides. The father and son sat opposite each other, cross-legged: and their visitors sat as comfortably as they could, facing each other, at the other sides of the table. Before each was placed three elegant porcelain saucers, one containing soy, another a small quantity of vinegar, and the other was empty; and, beside these, were two little ivory sticks. The other part of the table was covered with similar porcelain saucers, filled with various specimens of Chinese cookery in fish, flesh, and fowl, cut small; and servants handed round these with dishes of vegetables, such as cabbages, cucumbers, rice, and cauliflowers; and pastry of many different kinds, as they were directed by the host.
Both Oriel and Zabra watched with considerable surprise the two Chinese take the little ivory sticks in the three first fingers of the right hand, and, placing the head forward, and opening the mouth wide, dip them in the saucers, catching up pieces of flesh, which they flavoured with the vinegar, and dexterously flinging them into their mouths; and repeating the process so rapidly, that the eye could scarcely follow their movements. The guests attempted the same manœuvres; but, as may easily be imagined, they were not so successful: for one piece that went into the mouth, a dozen went out; and, rapidly as the different saucers were handed to them, by the desire of the master of the house, they found that their appetites were not in any thing like the same degree becoming satisfied. Pieces of silver paper were frequently placed near them, with which they as frequently wiped their mouths and fingers, and not before such an operation was required; for their awkward attempts at imitating their entertainers occasioned them to deposit on their persons a considerable portion of the gravy or sauces in which the meat was dressed. Old Long Chi was indefatigable in endeavouring to make his visiters taste the contents of every saucer upon the table; in which effort they would gladly have seconded him, had their ability kept pace with their inclinations; but, to their exceeding disappointment, they found that the more they tried the less they swallowed; and, although they dipped their sticks and bobbed their heads after the savoury viands as they dropped from their treacherous hold, they had the mortification of finding, when the saucers were cleared away, that they were left in the enjoyment of quite as much appetite as they possessed when they first sat down to dinner.
Several kinds of soups were now brought on table, in curious boat-shaped vessels of porcelain; and with these, to the great gratification of the guests, appeared ivory spoons. Every one of the soups was tasted; and gladly would Oriel have made use of his spoon upon the more substantial cookeries that had been carried away: but he saw no more of them; and, the table having been cleared of the soups, fruits, and preserves, with glasses of a spirit made from rice were handed round. At this time, Long Chi the elder bent his head reverentially, and said, in a fervent manner, and with an audible voice,
“Grant, O Fo, that the good things thou hast so bountifully provided for us do not interfere with our digestion, or trouble us with apoplexy!” and left the apartment to change his dress; soon after which the guests, preceded by the younger Long Chi, returned to the saloon, where they partook of tea and sweetmeats.
“Now that the old boy has gone,” said the melancholy poet, as soon as he had seated himself on the divan, “I will give you the felicitous gratification of hearing the perusal of my great epic in praise of the adorable Fee Fo Fum.”
“Not for the world!” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, with remarkable emphasis; “I would not trouble you on any account.”
“Trouble!” cried the lover, as he commenced searching in his pouch; “by the inconceivable tail of Confucius, ’tis to me the most superlatively exquisite of extraordinary gratifications; and, when you come to entertain a proper consciousness of the inestimable treasures of intellectual greatness, which I have lavished with so profuse a liberality for the purpose of giving immortality to the unrivalled attractions of the adorable Fee Fo Fum, you will acknowledge, with that profound sagacity which you have already evinced by your commendation of my incorruptible effusions, that the particular portions of the diurnal revolution you have passed in obtaining an adequate knowledge of its innumerable excellences, has appeared to you to proceed with such an agreeable velocity, that you cannot, with any particular positiveness, assert that you have, during that period, been in a state which is vulgarly called existence.”
“There is no doubt of it,” replied Oriel, with considerable uneasiness, as he observed his tormentor unfolding a paper for perusal; “but I can only enjoy such things at certain periods; and at present I am positive that the merits of your productions would be entirely lost upon me.”
“By the great Fo, impossible!” exclaimed the poet. “In what corner of the world hides the wretch so lost to every noble feeling—so lost to every sense of excellence—so inhuman, unnatural, and preposterously ignorant—as to listen to the incorruptible wisdom with which I can enlighten him, and not become transported into the very heaven of heavens?”
“You have already enlightened us to an extent as far as our limited intellects allow us to be enlightened by such productions as those you have read,” observed Zabra, with an earnest attempt to be serious; “and it would be only throwing away the talents you possess on persons utterly incompetent to appreciate their merits, if you continue the perusal of your effusions.”
“All imaginary,” said the persevering versifier; “and you will forget it in your sense of the sublime which must be excited by hearing the perusal of the following passage.” Long Chi the younger had opened his manuscript, had made a preparatory flourish of his hand, and had commenced some description, with the ordinary exclamation, “Oh!” when, happening to cast his eye towards the door, he encountered the frowning visage of his father. His hand dropped from its elevation: he quickly whipped his papers into his pouch, and jumped off the divan, with a celerity particularly acceptable to Zabra and his companion.
Old Long Chi appeared in a dress much more splendid than the one he had previously worn; and, gravely fixing himself in the seat his son had vacated, he commenced a conversation upon the business and voyage of his guests. Old Long Chi was a merchant of considerable experience and great wealth, with whom Master Porphyry had long had commercial dealings. He was remarkable for a profound gravity, a pair of moustachios the points of which descended to his chin, and a tail of hair which was the admiration of all his countrymen. Although he had passed the early part of his life in India, and had married an Anglo-Indian, on his return, like all Chinese, he continued the customs of his country, and gloried in its fancied superiority over the rest of the world. He had always been distinguished as a severe moralist. He seemed desirous of acquiring the praise of the Bonzes for the regularity of his attendance at the temples; and sought to be respected in society for the liberality of his contributions towards religious objects. Oriel and he were a considerable time agreeing about some merchandise that both had to barter; during which the melancholy poet stood at a respectful distance, looking at his parent, and then at the bamboo, with more dread than affection; while Zabra amused himself by taking notice of the scene before him.
“You have not seen much of our incomparable country, I suppose?” inquired the old man as he sipped a strong infusion of the tea leaf from a beautiful porcelain cup.
“I have only landed this morning,” replied his guest.
“Ah! then you have much to see,” added the other. “It is the most ancient government under the sun; and such a government! such laws, such institutions, and such a religion! The Emperor is quite a father to his subjects.”
“With the bamboo, father?” asked his son tremblingly.
“Hold you tongue, Long Chi!” bawled out the old man.
“Father, I obey!” murmured the youth submissively.
“Are the laws mild in their operation?” inquired Zabra.
“Remarkably so,” replied Long Chi the elder. “When punishment is inflicted, it is done on the most humane principles: you may get bastinadoed till you faint with pain; and then you will get bastinadoed till you recover.”
“How very paternal!” exclaimed the young Long Chi emphatically.
“Silence, Long Chi!” shouted the old man.
“Father, I obey!” said his obedient son.
Both Zabra and his patron seemed much amused by this description of the mildness of the Chinese laws; but, fearing, if he pressed the subject much farther, the bamboo might come into operation in the domestic sovereignty with a similar character, Oriel Porphyry said,—
“I was much surprised with the great variety of dishes that appeared at dinner.”
“Our preparations for the table are endless,” responded his host. “In our cookery books we have fifty different ways of dressing dogs’ ears.”
“I could find a way of dressing dogs’ ears in any book,” muttered the melancholy poet at a distance.
“I’ll give yours a dressing, you puppy! if you don’t hold your tongue,” bawled his father.
“Dogs’ ears!” exclaimed Zabra in surprise: “we had none to-day, had we?”
“We had six different varieties, of each of which you partook,” replied the other.
“Bah!” said Oriel Porphyry, with a countenance expressing any thing but pleasure.
“But that was not the only delicacy brought on table,” continued the old man. “You seemed particularly to enjoy a fricassee of the rats of Loo Choo.”
“Rats! we haven’t been eating rats, surely?” demanded Zabra, as if horrorstruck at the idea.
“And you swallowed nearly the whole of the soup made from the large slugs of Japan!” he added.
“Ugh!” exclaimed both his visiters in a breath, looking in the highest degree disgusted at the idea of such fare.
“It is dangerous,” said the melancholy poet, gravely, “to load either the stomach or your arms with slugs; especially——” He was not allowed time to finish the sentence; for, seeing his father snatch up the dreaded bamboo, and spring off the divan towards him, with a look threatening utter extermination, he dived under a table, leaped over an ottoman, dodged round several vases, and then rapidly made his exit out at the door, closely pursued by his parent; and their visiters, fancying that they had had quite enough of Chinese hospitality, hastened their departure.
They were proceeding through the narrow streets of Canton, bounded by the gloomy walls that shut out the houses from public view, experiencing some very disagreeable sensations, when they heard a violent altercation, and thought they distinguished voices familiar to them. They listened.
“Oh! oh! oh! This is not arguing logically. Oh! oh! This is demonstration without reason. Oh! oh! oh!” was heard amid a shower of blows.
“Oh! oh! you’re breaking my back—don’t you see! Ah! murder! help!” was shouted with similar accompaniments; and a door in the wall opening, out ran Fortyfolios and Tourniquet, making a desperate outcry, and vainly striving to save themselves from the thick sticks of half a dozen infuriated Chinese, who were belabouring them without mercy. Oriel, as soon as he saw the state of the case, rushed in amongst the attacking party; quickly deprived one of his weapon, and laid about him with such dexterity and vigour, that three out of the six were left senseless on the ground, and the rest had vanished before the philosophers discovered to whom they were indebted for their rescue.
“I am astonished that I should have found you in such a situation,” remarked the young merchant to the professor and his companion, who, with most rueful visages, were busily engaged in rubbing their legs, shoulders, arms, and backs.
“Why, I will explain it to you as logically as I can,” said Fortyfolios, moving his features and body into an abundance of contortions. “Oh, this pain! it certainly is a physical evil.”
“That I deny!” eagerly exclaimed the other, writhing from the effects of his beating. “Pain is a perception of the mind, and cannot exist independently of mental perceptions—don’t you see?”
“Impossible!” replied the professor, limping along as if every bone in his body was broken. “I maintain that it is a sensation purely corporeal, as there never yet was any pain where there was no body.”
“You know nothing about it,” sharply rejoined the doctor, cautiously feeling with his hands to discover his fractures. “There is mental anguish, in which the physical has no connection—don’t you see?”
“But, gentlemen, what has this argument to do with the information I required?” asked the young merchant.
“I was about to enter into the subject in a proper manner, when Doctor Tourniquet interrupted me,” observed Fortyfolios.
“I deny that!” eagerly exclaimed the surgeon.
“Doctor Tourniquet, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said the professor, assuming all his dignity.
“I deny that!” repeated the pertinacious disputant.
“Doctor, you are more than usually disputative,” remarked Zabra.
“I deny that!” continued he: and it now became evident to Oriel Porphyry and his young friend, that both the professor and the doctor were exhilarated into a state nearly approaching intoxication.
“Demonstration! demonstration! Give me accurate demonstration: I’ll not be convinced without it—don’t you see?” said the surgeon.
“Argument is thrown away upon you: you are unreasonable, illogical, and inconvincible,” muttered the other.
“Prove it! prove it! Give me the proof positive—let me behold the proof circumstantial,” exclaimed his antagonist.
“Doctor Tourniquet, I beg you’ll be silent,” said the young merchant, in a tone that admitted of no dispute; and the doctor seemed only anxious to discover the extent of the hurts he had received. “And now, Professor Fortyfolios,” he continued, “you can proceed.”
“To come to a proper understanding of the case, you must be made aware that we left the Albatross on purpose to see whatever was worthy of observation in the city,” observed the professor; “and, as I possessed a letter of introduction to a Columbian resident, there we first proceeded. We were heartily welcomed, and treated with a national hospitality; and were shown several remarkable things, of which the world will hear at a fitting opportunity. In returning from a place we had visited together, our friend suddenly left us to talk to some acquaintance he saw at the end of the street; and we thought we saw him go into a house, where we knocked. We were admitted; and I began explaining to the fellows, by whom we were immediately surrounded, that I desired to see my friend; but, without the slightest attempt at argument, the unreasonable brutes commenced beating us with heavy cudgels, till they were dispersed by your appearance.”
“Let us see if I have killed these poor wretches,” said Oriel, turning back to the place where he had left the three prostrate Chinese; but, to his great astonishment, and to the amazement of his companions, not a trace of either of them was to be seen. The dead men had taken advantage of their enemy being at a distance to scamper off from the field of battle as fast as their legs could carry them; and when the conqueror came to examine the destruction he had committed, he had the mortification of discovering that his triumph might take same note of “the missing,” but the number of killed and wounded was not so easily ascertained.
[CHAP. VIII.]
THE MONSOON.
After paying short visits to some of the principal ports in the flourishing kingdoms of Borneo and Sumatra, the Albatross was gallantly pursuing her voyage through the Strait of Malacca. There had been no wind for several days, and the sky had continued without a cloud. There was an oppressive sultriness in the atmosphere; and so great appeared the heat of the sun’s rays, that the pitch oozed out of the seams of the vessel, and the timber became scorched and blistered. This continued, with very little variation, till the ship, approaching the coast of India, entered the Bay of Bengal. A little speck was first observed upon the horizon, which gradually enlarged; and soon afterwards several other dark vapours appearing on the heavens, rapidly increased in size, till vast masses of clouds came from the north-east, thickening, and darkening, and swallowing up the whole of the bright sky which had but a short time since been visible. The sea, from a state of calm, suddenly became stirred in all its depths: its billows rose into hills, the hills into mountains; and the vast waves, as they acquired additional magnitude, lashed each other with such a violence, that their tops were crested with foam. Almost at the same moment came on powerful gusts of wind, that kept continually increasing in force, till each drove the mountainous waves before it, as if they were grains of dust, and swept the Albatross over them with as much ease as if it were but a feather. Her spars bent—her timbers creaked; and occasionally some part of the rigging would be stripped off like dead leaves from a tree.
Floods of rain poured down, as if there was a sea in the sky that was being emptied into the waters of the earth; and the lightning, flashing in streaks of lurid fire, exhibited the black tempest gathering in the clouds in all its terrors. Then came the thunder, booming in deafening peals, that seemed to shake the world to its centre. The desperate wind rushed on with all its might—then came the deluge—then flashed the electric light—and then the thunder burst again with renewed fury. This succession of forces was exerted upon the ship, without intermission, the whole of the night, as she scudded rapidly along under close-reefed foresail and maintop-sail; but, although it was evident to the oldest sailors in the vessel, from the manner in which she behaved during the tempest, that a more admirable boat had never been built, she suffered very severely in many places. Several of the ports were stove in, the gangways torn away, the quarter galleries crushed; ropes were snapped like threads, and a few of the spars were splintered into fragments. The water rushed in through the gaping ports, till the lee side of the main deck was a complete pool, several feet in depth; and the monstrous waves swept over the ship in such immense masses, that many of the crew every moment expected that she would be overwhelmed.
Towards morning, the fury of the elements in some degree abated; but the broken spars, and the torn rigging, had scarcely been repaired, before the storm recommenced with renewed vigour. Nothing seemed capable of withstanding its destructive violence. The wind howled, and the thunder boomed, and the lightning flashed, and the big waves came rushing on with more fury than ever. Every timber creaked, and the ship was leaking at every seam. The exertions of the old captain had not ceased since the commencement of the tempest. In the loudest roar of the storm, his voice might be heard shouting his orders through a speaking-trumpet. He was everywhere where he thought his presence was necessary; and, forgetting his superiority in the necessities of the moment, he bore a hand in the most laborious and dangerous duties. He was ably seconded by his officers; and, although the crew had been harassed by constant exertion, they cheerfully continued their efforts to work the vessel, and save her from the violence with which she was assailed. To add to their disquietude, they discovered that she had been forced a considerable way from her course, and that there was an alarming depth of water in the hold: the fore-mast bent like a mere twig; and every instant the fore-topmast threatened to go by the board.
The engine was immediately set to work to reduce the leak; and, a sufficient power having been applied, the water began to diminish. The helm was now directed towards Bengal. The men laboured indefatigably to repair the injuries the ship had sustained; and hopes were entertained that, if the masts remained secure, the Albatross might ride out the monsoon, and reach her destination in safety. Towards the afternoon, there was a lull, and the men got both refreshment and repose. Oriel Porphyry had not left the deck during the whole of the time the danger was most imminent; and Zabra, as usual, had continued by his side. Both seemed to take a sort of fearful interest in watching the progress of the tempest; and, although the water dashed over them in torrents, and they were frequently obliged to hold on with all their strength, to prevent being swept away by the wind, they remained in nearly the same position, observing the vivid flashes of light that played amid the rigging, and looking into the black depths of the foaming ocean, as they descended into the trough of some mighty wave. Neither spoke: at least, rarely was a word uttered; and, if the friends had attempted to converse, the uproar that raged around them would have prevented any other sound from being heard. Several times Captain Hearty approached, and earnestly advised them to go below, as they exposed themselves to much unnecessary danger; but Zabra remained, with his head resting upon the shoulder of his patron, and his hand clasped in Oriel’s, as if he knew of no protection where he was not; and the merchant’s son, as if pleased with the affection of his youthful friend, would not be persuaded to leave the deck.
“Does any thing ail you, Zabra?” at last asked Master Porphyry, during an intermission of the storm, noticing that his companion had made two or three short hysteric sobs.
“No; I am well, I am quite well, Oriel,” murmured the youth, as he raised his head, and looked in the face of his associate.
“Why, your eyes are filled with tears, Zabra! How is this?” exclaimed the other affectionately.
“I know not. A feeling has come over me, which I could not control,” replied he in a whisper, as his delicate frame trembled with emotion. “I was thinking—I was thinking that, if the ship was swallowed up in these huge waves, that—that I should like—that I should like to die—that I should like to die with you thus;” and, with many sobs, he flung his arms round the neck of his patron, and let his head droop upon his breast.
“And so you shall, Zabra, if such fate be ours,” said Oriel Porphyry, much moved by the devotion of his young friend. “But I see no reason to despair yet. The gallant Albatross bears it bravely; and, unless we lose the masts, or ship one of these overwhelming seas, we shall ride into port by to-morrow, or the next day at latest. But this is childish of you, Zabra, to give way to such feelings. You behaved not in this way when we were fighting side by side amid the pirates. Come, come! be more like yourself; and when the storm is over, which I hope will soon be, you shall laugh at these apprehensions; and you shall sing me one of your stirring songs, all about the glory and the freedom to be found upon the mighty waters of the deep; and I shall be enraptured, and you will rejoice.”
Zabra raised his head, shook back the clustering curls that shadowed his face, and looked earnestly upon his patron.
“I will do as you wish me,” he replied. “I have been wrong in disturbing your contemplations with my foolish fears: but, however proud the heart may be,—however great, and brave, and noble be all its tendencies,—there comes a time when all superiority and all valour are lost in a sense of overpowering humility and apprehension. But, hark! The elements are again let loose upon us. Hear how the wind howls, like a lion roaring for his prey! And look at this mountain of water sweeping up to ingulf us within its dark devouring jaws. Cling to the mast, Oriel! cling to the mast! or you will be swept into the sea.”
Oriel Porphyry held one arm tightly round the waist of Zabra: with the other he grasped the mainmast, as the towering billow, forced onward by a violent gust of wind, broke on the deck, carrying away two of the sailors, who were inattentive to its advance, and pouring through every opening into the lower parts of the ship.
“A man overboard!” was the immediate cry: but the vessel was proceeding at so rapid a rate, that no effort could be made to save them. When the fury of the tempest had abated, the two friends descended to the cabin; where Oriel, observing that Zabra seemed ill and faint, wanted him to take such refreshment as his exhausted frame needed, and tried to strengthen the effect of his command by setting before him a good example. A long fast, and the excitement of danger, continued for such a period of time, required nourishment; and the young merchant seemed desirous of showing his companion that his fatigues had not spoiled his appetite; but though he pressed him frequently to partake liberally of the different things he had ordered for him, he could not induce him to follow his directions to any thing like the extent he desired. In fact, Zabra appeared to have suffered too much from the state of feeling in which he had existed during the recent tempest to be able to realise the kind wishes of his patron.
“My dear Zabra you are not well,” observed Oriel Porphyry, finding his endeavours and example so little attended to. “You look perfectly exhausted. Go to your hammock and endeavour to sleep off your fatigues. If I do not see that you take proper care of yourself, I shall deserve censure from Eureka. So if you do not wish to get me into trouble, you will do as I desire you.”
“She will not blame you,” murmured his youthful associate, as he proceeded to his little cabin.
“What an extraordinary creature he is!” he exclaimed, as soon as Zabra had left him; and he was reflecting upon the cause of that mystery in which the character of his youthful friend seemed enveloped, when he was disturbed by the entrance of the two philosophers. Fortyfolios looked somewhat paler than usual, nor did Tourniquet appear quite at his ease. They had also suffered from the effects of the storm, though neither of them had appeared on deck while it lasted.
“It is extraordinary to me, Dr. Tourniquet,” said the professor gravely, as he entered the cabin—“It is extraordinary to me that you will argue from wrong premises.”
“It is as extraordinary to me that you will argue to wrong conclusions, don’t you see,” replied the surgeon good humouredly.
“What is the matter in dispute now, gentlemen?” inquired the young merchant.
“We differ in our ideas concerning the true nature of happiness,” responded Fortyfolios. “Now, I maintain that happiness consists in virtue; for there can be no true happiness without the existence of virtuous inclinations; and virtue is but another name for purity—a state of being perfectly free from the pollution of vice.”
“And I maintain a very different sort of thing altogether, don’t you see,” replied the doctor. “But first of all let us examine the idea that happiness consists in virtue—by which I suppose is meant that virtue produces happiness. There are a thousand instances of virtuous people being as miserable as a bear with his fur shaved off. One from disappointed love—another from the death of a friend or relative, and a third from constitutional irritability. One finds misery in the past—another meets with it in the present—a third looks for it in the future; and although all these are virtuous in the common acceptation of the word, they are far from being happy, don’t you see. But there is a stronger case against the argument that virtue produces happiness in the instance of——Suppose a noble spirited youth, or an amiable and excellent girl, who may be, in thought or action, the beau ideals of virtue, yet if they are disgraced in their own eyes by their near relationship to individuals notorious for some degrading vice, their very notions of virtue create in them a continual misery. They have done no evil, yet they are ashamed of themselves—they have a most decided inclination for sincerity; and yet, knowing that if the world knew of their connection with vice, they would be considered to be vicious as a natural consequence (for such is the unjust conduct of the world), they are obliged to practise deception; and the practice of deception soon becomes habitual—they deceive all around them. Their principles are thus continually warring with their actions; and the dread of their deceit being discovered, and the disgrace which attaches to them becoming known, creates a state of misery not easily to be exceeded.”
“But I cannot imagine such a state of things,” remarked Oriel Porphyry. “No child can be made answerable for the criminality of its relatives; and a well educated mind will care little for an opinion by which it is sought to be degraded, if that opinion is unjust.”
“Certainly,” observed the professor approvingly.
“We must take society as we find it, don’t you see,” added the doctor, “with all its prejudices and all its injustice. If the circle in which moves a youth of either sex, whose conduct is irreproachable and whose motives are admirable, discover that the father of their young associate was hanged for murder, or that the mother was noted for profligacy, they will shrink from him as if he was as vile as his origin; but to the young female this sort of connection bears with a most cruel severity. There are many children born out of wedlock, of mothers of infamous characters, which the father, who may be of a somewhat higher rank of life, with a laudable anxiety for the welfare of his offspring, takes from the mother and educates. Imagine a child thus originated, carefully instructed in virtuous principles till she approaches the period of womanhood, when, with the knowledge of her mother’s infamy, she ventures into a society in which her beauty and intelligence would render her one of its best ornaments, she is acutely sensitive of her own disgraceful position in the eyes of the world, and enters into companionship with individuals of her own sex whom she is well aware would consider themselves contaminated by her presence if they knew her secret; or becomes beloved by a youth of the other sex, who, thinking her what she appears to be, honours her above all human beings, with a continual dread that the truth will be disclosed, and that she will be pointed at, avoided, insulted, and abandoned by those now so eager to seek her society. There is no state of misery so deplorable as this. In time, the constant anxiety and fear in which she exists will affect her health, and she gradually wastes away with the bitter consciousness that she is the victim of a prejudice: although perfectly innocent, is punished as if she was the vilest of criminals; and, although formed to diffuse happiness around her, is obliged, from day to day, to endure the crushing agonies of an unceasing misery. And this is an example of virtue without happiness, don’t you see.”
“But possibly the dread of insult, or a sense of shame,” continued the doctor, “prevents her from entering the society in which she ought to find an honourable place. She is confined to a narrow circle, out of which she dare not step, and is obliged to associate with the worthless of her own sex and the profligate of the other. Her companions are the vulgar and the vile. They having no proper conception of the value of either truth or virtue, and she looking on the world that has abandoned her as unjust, and smarting under the wrong it inflicts, begins to think them as much ill treated as herself, and believes that a false interpretation has been given to their conduct. Gradually she parts with her conviction of what is honourable. One by one she acquires the mean and contemptible vices of her associates. She sees them dissimulate, and practises deception. Falsehood becomes habitual. She loses all self-respect. She becomes criminal, degraded, and depraved. In fact, by an atrocious verdict, she is at first considered one of the very Pariahs of society, don’t you see, and is at last forced to be the vile thing the world had thought her.”
“The prejudice which so punishes is a disgrace to any civilised community,” exclaimed Oriel with warmth, “and the laws which press so cruelly upon natural children are both impolitic and inhuman.”
“They are undoubtedly severe,” observed Fortyfolios; “but their severity is caused by the detestation of society for vice.”
“That I deny,” eagerly replied Tourniquet. “Change the condition of the child. Suppose it to be the offspring of a prince; and, although the mother be a sink of iniquity, the girl will be eagerly sought after by honourables and right honourables, most nobles, and others that entertain the highest notions about virtue. So much for the community’s detestation of vice, don’t you see. Now for my conception of the true nature of happiness. I consider happiness, in the first place, to be the result of a peculiar temperament. There must be a disposition to be happy in the individual before any happiness can be created. In some persons this disposition is so strong, that the most afflicting things will scarcely, if at all, affect it; in others, the disposition is so weak that it is continually overpowered by external circumstances; and in others, the disposition is not to be traced, for it does not exist. That virtue is necessary to a state of happiness there is no doubt; but what is called virtue by different communities appears in so many various shapes, that it requires a more catholic sense attached to it than it possesses to make it universally understood. I consider virtue to be a moderate indulgence in our inclinations when they do no injury to the individual, to the object, and to any other person, with a perfect and exclusive sympathy of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Modesty is called a virtue, chastity is called a virtue, and sobriety is called a virtue; but they are only distinct features of the virtue I have described.”
“That is clearly enough defined; and I should think could not be disputed,” remarked Oriel.
The professor said nothing.
“Now this virtue does not create happiness any more than does the virtue of my learned friend,” continued the doctor; “but in by far the majority of instances it is necessary to its existence. The happiness that arises from alleviating suffering has often been found in an individual possessing no pretensions to virtue. But happiness itself is pleasure. There is the pleasure of creating enjoyment in an object, and there is the pleasure which succeeds it in the individual. There never was happiness without pleasure; there ought not to be pleasure without happiness. There is no pleasure like that of doing good; consequently, there is no happiness like that of making others happy: and wherever there is a disposition to be happy, it will exhibit itself in a desire to create happiness in others; and wherever there is no disposition to be happy, the individual will be just as careless of the happiness of those around him as he is regardless of his own. That’s my idea of happiness, don’t you see.”
“And it appears to me a very rational one,” observed the young merchant. “But how does the disposition to happiness arise?”
“There are some very curious phenomena connected with the origin and growth of these dispositions,” replied the surgeon. “In the first place, all dispositions are formed in the individual by the pressure of external circumstances, no matter how or from whence directed: evil dispositions and good, and they arise at different times and sometimes in succession. When created, they set with a certain impetus in a certain direction; and as in these the extremes meet, if another impetus is given, they will proceed from bad to good to the same distance they advanced from good to bad. This is the cause of individuals having been notorious for vice becoming eminent for virtue. Water flowing from the top of a mountain is capable by its own power of finding its level on a mountain of a similar elevation; and the impetus of vice being carried down a certain way ascends by the impetus of good a like height. This accounts for the old proverb, ‘The greater the sinner the greater the saint;’ that is to say, the force in one produces a like force in the other. Again, the disposition to love has frequently been followed by the disposition to hate, as nearly as possible to the same extent; and the disposition to happiness may as frequently be succeeded by the disposition to misery.”
“But supposing the impetus to be carried down, it will want the application of no other power to carry it up; and if carried up, will unassisted carry itself down,” remarked the professor.
“Not so,” replied the doctor: “Evil is of a heavy nature; and when it descends, clings to the soil at the bottom, unless it receive another impetus: and good is of a light nature, that naturally rises, and when it has attained its highest elevation would there remain, were it not sent down with a similar force.”
“The idea is ingenious, certainly,” said the young merchant.
“And that is all the merit it possesses,” observed Fortyfolios, whose more orthodox notions could not tolerate such an hypothesis. “Were such a theory generally adopted, its mischief would be incalculable. It would loosen our sense of the moral obligations, and utterly destroy all the established ideas of right and wrong.”
“As for the moral obligations, don’t you see,” replied Tourniquet, “I am perfectly convinced that it would place them on a much more secure footing than they now possess; and if established notions on the subject are erroneous, which I can prove them to be, the sooner they are knocked on the head the better. I have already shown to you, in the instance of the natural child, that the idea of virtue in the community is very vague, unsettled, and unphilosophical, and creates more mischief than it does good; and if we take the ideas of the same principle existing at different times and in different communities, we shall find even this confusion worse confounded. Things the most opposite to the true character of virtue have been considered worthy of general adoption as virtues. Thieving has existed as a virtue; drunkenness has existed as a virtue; profligacy has existed as a virtue; murder has existed as a virtue; and many others of the most abominable vices have, at various intervals, with various people, been practised, avowed, and defended, as if they were the most admirable of virtues. It is not many centuries since the natives, on the coast of Guinea, and the inhabitants of other countries, were taught to steal, and the cleverest thief was an object of as much admiration among them as the most virtuous member of the community; but there is no necessity to go to a state of barbarism for an illustration of the honour with which dishonesty has been regarded; for in all speculations, in all trading dealings, in all gambling transactions, and in all appropriations of property acquired by one party from another by a certain cunning or skill, of which the other is not possessed, there is nothing else but stealing; and yet a person acquiring property by such means is generally thought to be respectable, and respectability is considered a virtue.”
“I am afraid, if your argument be true, that there is but little real honesty in the world,” remarked Oriel.
“It is as I have stated,” replied the doctor. “I have read of states in which the man who could swallow some half a dozen bottles of wine, and make his friends follow his example—in other words, a man who practised habitual intoxication—had the reputation of being ‘a good fellow,’ when amongst the same people goodness was considered virtue; but even at the present day, in some parts of the world, intemperance is regarded as a thing to be applauded rather than censured, although it is not only a vice, but being the most direct channel to all other vices ought to be held in detestation as the most vicious of evil inclinations.”
Oriel Porphyry thought of the scene he had witnessed at Canton; but he smiled, and said nothing.
“With regard to the next of these vices which are considered as virtues,” continued the doctor, “there are few so destructive to happiness. What is vulgarly called virtue in the government or indulgence of the affections, in a majority of instances, should go by an opposite name. It is upon record, that a certain king of Ashantee was possessed of 3333 wives: other monarchs have been equally affectionate towards their female subjects; and it is very rare, indeed, to find these potentates, even with the wise king Solomon at their head, possessing any pretensions to this identical virtue; and yet they have been honoured more than the most virtuous character in their dominions. But I maintain that all marriages against the inclination of one or both parties, such as those formed for convenience, from state policy, or by the authority of parents and guardians, is a state of absolute vice; and yet the individuals so existing are regarded as if living in a state of perfect virtue.”
“Undoubtedly they live in a state of perfect virtue as long as they have no vicious inclinations,” said the professor.
“But it frequently happens that one of these parties has entertained an inclination for another before marriage,” replied Tourniquet. “An inclination perfectly virtuous, but circumstances over which either have no control, force them into a marriage, and then in the opinion of the world that inclination (which is rarely destroyed) is considered vicious, though perfectly virtuous in itself, and the state in which the individual exists, against his or her inclination, is considered virtuous, though perfectly vicious in itself, because it tends either to destroy the virtuous inclination, or if that inclination is indulged under those circumstances, it creates a state of things which is just as far removed from virtue. The same species of vice is created by an inclination after marriage—which is likely to occur when the marriage has taken place without an inclination.”
“At one time the punishment used to be very severe for endeavouring to effect a marriage or a similar state of things against the inclination of one of the parties,” remarked the young merchant. “And I imagine that if the mis-marriages to which you have alluded were punished after the same fashion, both the public morals and the public happiness would be much increased.”
“No doubt of it, don’t you see,” responded the doctor. “And now for an examination of the manner in which murder has been regarded. About a thousand years since there was a religious community in India who practised murder as a virtue. They were called Thugs, and after long watching for an opportunity, with abundance of prayers and other holy ceremonies, they fell upon their victims and strangled them with a cord. Previous to this, there arose a military and religious order in Persia, called Assassins, who stabbed or poisoned in secrecy and without shame; and by both these communities murder was practised as the highest kind of virtue. But they were not the only people who entertained similar notions. The heathens murdered the Christians, and the Christians slaughtered the heathens. The Catholics destroyed heretics, and heretics waged a religious war upon one another. The Mahometans killed Jews or Christians, or any other sect not professing their form of faith; and the Jews, Christians, and others, retaliated to the best of their ability; and under the name of religion nearly all religious sects have murdered by wholesale, and, practising this inhuman vice, each party has conceived that they were exhibiting the highest kind of virtue. But at the present day, murder in a variety of shapes exists, and is regarded as a virtue of a very high order. Even in an offender, the destruction of human life is murder, unless, which is a very extreme case, it be impossible for the security of society, to allow the offender to exist; yet the sanguinary executions that disgrace the penal codes of many communities, boasting a superior degree of civilisation, is called justice, which is but another name for virtue. Killing a man in a duel is murder. All warfare is murder; yet he who distinguishes himself most in the destruction of those to whom he is opposed is honoured as being peculiarly brave—and bravery is considered a virtue.”
“Occasions arise when warfare is absolutely necessary,” said Oriel Porphyry; “and I cannot help the conviction, that the man who signalises himself in the defence of his country, and in the destruction of his enemies, is entitled to rank with the most virtuous characters.”
“Certainly,” observed Fortyfolios.
“With regard to wars being necessary, don’t you see, in the present state of the world they may be,” replied the surgeon. “But in an improved order of things they would not be required, for then the force of opinion would be much more effective than the force of arms; and as to the superior character of valour, although few can admire heroic actions more than myself, I know that the courage by which they are created is an impulse which may exist to the same extent in the savage and in the brute. This is not necessary to virtue, for in some organisations the want of physical energy renders the existence and the exhibition of martial courage impossible; and it is not produced by virtue, for it is often found existing in persons of the most vicious inclinations. Now I think I have said enough to show the want of clearness in the ideas of virtue that have existed and do exist in the world, and the danger which must arise from attempting to build any happiness upon so insecure a foundation.”
“I differ with you in toto,” exclaimed the professor, with more than his usual seriousness. “And glad I am that such is the case; for your heathenish theories are destructive of every religious principle that the human mind possesses.”
“Pish!” muttered the doctor.
“It is an argument, the tendency of which goes directly to level all the existing distinctions between right and wrong, and to weaken the influence of those sacred truths which have been professed by mankind for so many generations,” continued Fortyfolios.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tourniquet.
“You may profess what opinions you please,” he added; “but the opinions on which multitudes of people rest their expectations of future happiness ought not to be disturbed by the contemplation of such vain and idle speculations as those in which you indulge.”
“Nonsense, don’t you see,” said the other.
“I tell you, Dr. Tourniquet, it is rank atheism,” exclaimed the professor, rather warmly.
“I tell you, Professor Fortyfolios, you’re a goose,” replied his antagonist.
“As usual, gentlemen, your argument ends in a dispute,” observed Oriel Porphyry. “But you must excuse me for the present. I am really tired out, and have been yawning in a manner that would have silenced any disputants less eager than yourselves. I shall go to my berth, which example I should advise you to follow; and let us hope that the terrible monsoon will allow us some repose.”
The philosophers took the advice that was offered; and in less than half an hour all three were fast asleep in their hammocks.
[CHAP. IX.]
GAME LAWS IN INDIA.
“Pooh, pooh! Come and hunt. Come and hunt. There is no use in looking after a parcel of buildings, and running to see sights: now you are in this part of the country you ought to enjoy the pleasures it affords. Come and hunt, man. Come and hunt.”
This was said by a fine, stout, middle-aged man, dressed in a light jean jacket and full lower garments of a similar fabric, with a very broad brimmed hat of fine straw, which he was then putting on. Although his complexion was sallow, his features were lively and intelligent; and there was a bluff, free, careless manner with him that seemed particularly agreeable to his companions. They were in a handsome chamber with an open veranda, through which the slight breeze that was stirring, entered; and the furniture, though rather faded, still possessed an air of elegance. Wines, fruits, and sweetmeats were on a large table in the centre, near which Oriel Porphyry and the speaker stood. Zabra was leaning over the back of a cane-bottomed seat, watching the motions of a lizard crawling up part of the framework of the veranda. Fortyfolios was busily engaged endeavouring to beat off several mosquitoes that seemed to have taken a fancy to his bald head; and Dr. Tourniquet was examining the tusk of an elephant that lay, with several skins, in a corner of the room.
“Ah, but, Sir Curry Rajah,” replied the young merchant, “when you kindly invited us to your country house, I told you our stay could be but brief. The period I intended to pass with you has elapsed; and though delighted with your hospitality, I must really be thinking of my departure.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” exclaimed his host. “You wo’n’t be thinking of any thing of the kind. There is no business waiting for you. My people in the city will take care that every thing you required shall be shipped safely without loss of time; and, therefore, there can be no occasion for your troubling your young brains about profit and loss for a day or two at least. Come and hunt, I tell you. Come and hunt.”
“Is there any good hunting in this part of the world, then?” inquired Oriel.
“Hunting! The best hunting in the universe,” replied Sir Curry Rajah. “I’ve got the finest preserves in all India.”
“And what game have you?” asked his visitor.
“Game?—Game of all kinds, and plenty of it; especially tigers,” responded the other.
“Tigers!” exclaimed the young merchant in so loud a voice that his companions started with surprise. “Why, what could induce you to preserve such animals?”
“The sport, to be sure, man,” replied Sir Curry; “and we are obliged to be very strict in the application of our game laws; for the rascally poachers will often destroy the game.”
“I should think the game more likely to destroy the poachers,” observed his guest with a smile.
“That’s their look out,” said the other. “I only know it’s a most difficult thing to preserve tigers. My tenants shoot them if they happen to attack their flocks; and the peasants combine to kill them, for the purpose of procuring their skins. But our game laws punish the scoundrels severely if they are caught in the fact—imprisonment and hard labour for every offence, and very just these laws are. Why, gentlemen would have no sport if they were to allow their game to be cut up by every fellow who has a desire for sport, or thinks his life or the lives of his cattle of more value than a tiger. I have been at great expense with my preserves; for the animal has long been exceedingly scarce: and I have improved the breed a great deal by importing some new varieties. The cross which has ensued has altered the game wonderfully. They are infinitely more savage, far more daring, and in speed and cunning are not to be excelled. In fact, my tigers have a reputation all over the country; and the ablest hunters are very glad to get a day’s sport with me, as they know they will meet with the best tigers that are to be found any where.”
“And how do you hunt them?” inquired Oriel.
“On elephants principally,” replied Sir Curry. “The hunter sits upon an elephant, with an air gun, fixed upon a swivel, before him. These animals are well trained. I’ve got some of the finest elephants in the world, thorough-bred—and they go into the preserve, and rouse the tiger from his cover. If he goes off, the elephant follows; if he shows fight, the hunter fires: and sometimes the game is not killed till fine sport has been enjoyed—a man or two killed, and other exciting pleasures enjoyed.”
“And did these skins belong to animals of your killing?” inquired Tourniquet, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation, as he turned over two or three large tiger skins.
“Yes, I killed them, and fine sport they gave,” said his host. “That one you have in your hand belonged to a noble fellow. The day in which he was killed was a memorable one. My late neighbour, Lord Muligatawny, was very proud of his preserves, and used to boast he had the best tigers in India. So to take the conceit out of his lordship, I invited him to a hunt on my grounds. Well, he came on his elephant, for he enjoyed the sport as much as any man, and we proceeded together with our attendants to a jungle in which I knew the greatest quantity of game was to be found. He and I kept close together, he boasting all the time of the superiority of his preserves, till as we entered this particular place, I thought it would be most advisable to be at a short distance from him, so we separated, but without my losing sight of him. Now Lord Muligatawny used a peculiar kind of snuff-box, and was a fierce looking sort of man; and he used to say that no tiger could ever look him in the face. He said the brute always bolted when he tried the experiment. Well, we saw lots of game, and had some capital sport, but as we were proceeding along in high spirits at our success, I started a magnificent animal. I had a shot at him, but was not near enough to do him any mischief. As the tiger was stealing off towards Lord Muligatawny, he fired; but whether it was his mismanagement of the gun, or proceeded from his elephant’s suddenly backing at the approach of the tiger, I cannot say; but certain it is Lord Muligatawny was tumbled off his elephant, and in another moment the tiger was upon him. ‘Now we shall see if the tiger will bolt,’ thought I; and he did bolt: but he bolted with Lord Muligatawny! He grasped his lordship by the nape of his neck at the time he was looking as fierce as a ferret, and flinging his body over his shoulder, he was out of sight before any one could get a shot at him.”
“And what became of him?” inquired Oriel.
“That was the last we ever saw of Lord Muligatawny,” replied Sir Curry. “But about a week afterwards I was hunting in the neighbourhood, when, after a capital run, and a desperate contest, I succeeded in killing one of the finest tigers I ever saw. I had his body taken home to show him to my friends, and upon opening him, among the best part of a sheep, a dog’s hind quarters, and a litter of sucking pigs, we found the identical snuff-box of poor Lord Muligatawny, proving beyond the possibility of a doubt that not only had the tiger bolted with his lordship, but that he had had the audacity to make a bolt of him. But come and hunt—come and hunt—I will show you some capital sport.”
“Such as you showed Lord Muligatawny, I suppose,” said the young merchant, laughing.
“Oh no, there’s no danger,” replied his host; and then taking an air-gun of a peculiar construction towards his visitor, added, “Now, look at this weapon—one of the best of the kind ever made. This is fixed on a swivel in the carriage in which you sit on the elephant; and you are quite safe, and, if you are a tolerable marksman, are sure to wound your game. Besides this, the hunter generally has a strong short sword, like this,” said he, producing a weapon of that description. “Very sharp and very useful too, for if the tiger leaps on the elephant, which he will frequently do, the hunter with a good blow at his head may settle his business. Come and hunt, man, come and hunt.”
“Confound these mosquitoes!” exclaimed the professor in a rage, vainly endeavouring to drive the insects from about him, and making the most ludicrous grimaces, as in spite of his exertions they succeeded in biting the exposed part of his head. “These horrible things will torment me to death. Ever since I have been in this deplorable country, my head has been besieged by thousands of them. They don’t let me rest a minute. Ah! What a gripe! I shall go mad! They’ll torment me to death; I can’t endure it, Sir Curry.”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” said his host, quietly. “This is the way they always use strangers. You are fresh meat to them. But come and hunt—come and hunt; I’ll have the elephants got ready for you immediately, and it’s a capital day for the sport.”
“What say you, gentlemen? Shall we hunt the tiger?” asked Oriel Porphyry.
“I would rather you would hunt the musquitoes,” said Fortyfolios, seriously.
“What say you, Zabra?”
“If you wish it, Oriel,” replied the youth.
“I have not the slightest objection, don’t you see,” observed the doctor.
“Then let it be, Sir Curry,” said Oriel.
Orders were instantly given to the servants, a crowd of dark Hindoos, in white turbans, short frocks fastened round the middle with a sash, and with bare arms and legs, who lost no time in making the necessary preparations.
Three elephants were caparisoned and led round to the front of the house. Sir Curry mounted the largest, and Fortyfolios and Tourniquet, after some trouble, managed to get firm sitting on another. While these preparations were making, Zabra had been amusing himself by feeding the remaining elephant with sweetmeats. She was a small but exceedingly docile animal; and seemed to enjoy the sort of food with which she was indulged with a particular gusto, swinging her body with a regular oscillatory movement, and twisting her trunk up and down with ceaseless activity. The order having been given her to kneel, the two friends mounted; and, accompanied by a few attendants, skilful in the management of the hunt, the party moved forward into an open park, in which several blue-skinned buffaloes and humped bullocks, with here and there a few deer, were seen endeavouring to find a cool place in the shadows of the trees. The day was excessively hot; and the oppressive sultriness of the atmosphere seemed to be felt by every living thing, except the mosquitoes, who flew about in myriads, plaguing both man and beast. In passing a large tank the cattle were frequently seen rushing into it, where they would remain with nothing but their noses above the water, in hopes of escaping from those tormenting insects; but Fortyfolios appeared to be the especial object of their attacks, for his hands were constantly employed in trying to drive them from his face. They passed many clumps of lofty cocoa-nut trees, in which troops of monkeys were skipping about from branch to branch, and chattering at the hunters with more volubility than harmony; and, after proceeding along fields of rice, indigo, and Indian corn, surrounded by hedges of aloes and bamboo, they approached a marsh, watered by a branch of the Ganges, in which several large crocodiles, troops of adjutants, and different species of snakes were observed.
“There’s plenty of game here, you see!” remarked Sir Curry to his companions. “But it’s wonderful the difficulty I have to preserve it; poaching prevails to a great extent in spite of the severity of our game laws.”
No reply was made to the observation; and the party passed on, making their way with great difficulty through a forest of banyans, occasionally taking a shot at a stray jackal or a wandering vulture, till they descended a steep declivity, overgrown with thick underwood, over which trees of immense proportions spread their gigantic branches.
“Now we shall soon beat up the game,” said Sir Curry: “we are entering a famous preserve of tigers. About half a mile further in the jungle we shall come to the very place where I lost poor Lord Muligatawny. Very interesting spot.”
Fortyfolios at least did not seem to care for the interest of the place, and he regretted ever having left the safe quarters of Sir Curry Rajah’s country-house, to wander on the back of an elephant through marshes, and forests, and jungles, infested with every species of venomous and savage creatures.
“I cannot see what pleasure there can be in exposing one’s life in this way. It’s the most foolish thing I ever heard of,” said he to his companion.
“The ancients were much greater fools, don’t you see,” replied Tourniquet. “They would break their necks after a wretched fox.”
“But the fox couldn’t eat the hunter, and the tiger can,” added the other seriously.
“Then there is the greater necessity for killing the tiger, don’t you see,” rejoined the doctor.
“But why not exterminate the breed? They must be very destructive to the flocks and herds as well as to human beings who happen to fall in their way; yet this man actually preserves them for the sake of the sport they afford,” said the professor, with unfeigned astonishment.
“Just so did the ancients with their foxes,” replied his companion. “They were very destructive to the poultry of the neighbouring farmers; they were perfectly worthless; their skins were of no value, and their flesh not eatable; yet they were carefully preserved for the sport they afforded.”
“A tiger!” exclaimed Sir Curry, who was a little in advance of the party, as he pointed to some animal, the form of which could not be clearly distinguished, stealing through the high grass and reeds with which they were surrounded. Several shots were fired at him; but he bounded away as if unhurt, and the elephants proceeded in pursuit.
“A tiger!” again shouted their host, and another was observed making off in a contrary direction; but he escaped before a gun could be discharged.
Oriel Porphyry began to feel a little excited, and took more interest in the hunt than he had previously experienced.
“Oh!” exclaimed Fortyfolios, as loud as he could scream; and, upon looking round to observe what was the matter, the hunters beheld a large monkey, as the professor was passing underneath the branch of a tree, swinging by his tail, dart down, and snatch the straw hat that Fortyfolios wore to shield his head from the sun’s rays, with which he made an immediate retreat, grinning and chattering among his companions as if congratulating himself on the cleverness by which he had acquired the prize. The whole troop were immediately in commotion, scrambling with one another for possession of the spoil; till the thief, finding he was likely to lose the result of his dexterity, placed the hat on his own head, and darted off, from branch to branch, with inconceivable rapidity, pursued by the other monkeys with a chorus of yells absolutely deafening.
Fortyfolios looked the very picture of mute despair when he found his bald head exposed to the attacks of the relentless mosquitoes, and was obliged to bind it with a handkerchief. His disquietude did not decrease, when, a few paces farther on, his eyes fell upon the form of a monstrous snake, twined round the stem of an immense tree, which, with arched head, glaring eyes, and protruded sting, seemed about to spring upon the unhappy professor.
“Plenty of game here, gentlemen; capital preserve,” observed Sir Curry very coolly.
“Heaven preserve me!” emphatically exclaimed Fortyfolios, trembling in every joint.
Tourniquet fired at the monster, and he immediately glided away into the deepest recesses of the jungle.
“A tiger!” shouted Sir Curry, as one made its appearance within a few yards of his elephant. Oriel fired, and hit him. Sir Curry fired at the same time, and lodged a bullet in his shoulder. The animal, smarting with the pain and howling with rage, made a spring at Sir Curry, which brought him within reach of his “tiger-slayer,” as he called it; and a ferocious blow, well directed, sent him with another howl to the feet of the elephant, who kept him between her hind legs and her fore legs till she had kicked him to death.
“Fine beast!” said Sir Curry Rajah, noticing its size; “but this place is famous for such game. By the bye, this is the identical spot in which I lost poor Lord Muligatawny. He was sitting on his elephant just where sits our friend the professor——”
“Oh!” groaned Fortyfolios.
“When he fell into the jaws of the tiger.”
The professor shuddered and looked very pale.
“A tiger!” shouted Sir Curry.
“Murder!” screamed Fortyfolios; and if Tourniquet had not laid hold of him he would have tumbled off his seat.
“I’m surprised a man of your sense should show so much fear, don’t you see,” observed the doctor.
“It is not fear, Doctor Tourniquet,” replied the professor, endeavouring to conceal his alarm with all the philosophy he possessed. “I do not care about death, but I have a reasonable objection to being devoured. As for the quality, impression, or emotion, which is usually called fear, in a philosophical sense, I deny that in me it has ever had existence.”
“A tiger!” again shouted Sir Curry.
“Murder!” again screamed the professor; and he trembled so violently that he caught hold of the framework of the seat to secure his position on the elephant. The game now became very plentiful; and the hunt was followed from one jungle through open vistas into another. Oriel entered into the pursuit with ardour, but Zabra did not appear to join in it with the least interest. He seemed to entertain the same objection to being devoured as Fortyfolios, or else his anxiety for the safety of his companion destroyed all pleasure in the chase. He became restless and uneasy; but Oriel was so actively engaged in looking for and despatching the game, that he did not notice the disquietude of his friend. They had killed several tigers; and, having pursued a very large one out of the jungle into an open valley, he there made a stand before a large banyan tree. The hunters surrounded him, and he was crouching, lashing himself with his tail, and preparing for a spring, as they approached. As soon as they came within shooting distance, Oriel, Sir Curry, and Dr. Tourniquet, fired; instantly, with a low half-stifled growl, the tiger gave two or three prodigious bounds, and leaped upon the elephant upon which Zabra was sitting; and immediately afterwards both were rolling together among the long grass. The elephant, as soon as she observed Zabra’s danger, as if in gratitude for the attentions she had received from him before starting for the hunt, turned round and ran at the tiger as if with the intention of trampling him down. The young merchant, in the anguish of the moment, at seeing his friend in the power of the ferocious beast, had at first lost his presence of mind, but observing that the elephant had succeeded in drawing the attention of the tiger from his victim, he slipped off her back, and, with no other weapon than his hunting sword, advanced to the place where the animal stood. The elephant had made two or three rushes at the tiger, but had not succeeded in getting him under her feet, and he was still crouching beside the prostrate body of Zabra, when he observed the approach of Oriel.
“Let me have a shot at him, Master Porphyry,” exclaimed his host.
“You will be killed, don’t you see, if you attack him with such a useless weapon?” shouted Tourniquet. Oriel still advanced with his sword firmly grasped, his arm raised, and his gaze fixed upon that of the tiger. The savage beast curved his back and lashed his tail; his fur became erect, and his eyes seemed flashing with an expression of the most terrible ferocity. Oriel Porphyry still moved forward; and as the tiger, with a low sharp growl, made a bound towards him, he leaped on one side, and turning quickly round dealt a blow with all his force, that severed the tendons of the animal’s leg, as he reached the ground. The brute howled with pain, and rushed with open mouth upon his antagonist. The wound he had received prevented him from making a spring, but he dashed furiously forward upon three legs, with looks intent upon mischief.
At this instant, the elephant made a rush at the tiger, and tumbled him over to a considerable distance. Oriel again advanced towards him; and lashing himself into a fiercer rage, the wounded beast prepared to dig his claws and teeth into the body of his pursuer; but the young merchant avoided all the desperate attempts the savage creature made to fasten upon him, and inflicted upon his head and legs several severe wounds; then, watching his opportunity, he brought down the sword with all his strength upon his skull, and the tiger fell dead at his feet.
When he turned round to hasten to Zabra’s assistance, he found the elephant trying to raise him from the ground with her trunk: and she seemed as much concerned at the accident as any person there, and moved him as gently, and looked in his face as anxiously, as the tenderest nurse could have done.
“Bravely fought, Master Porphyry!” exclaimed Sir Curry. “I never saw finer sport; and you have shown yourself one of the best hunters I ever met with. You shall have the skin, for you’ve well deserved it.”
“Are you much hurt, my dear Zabra?” he anxiously inquired, without attending to his host’s commendations, as he bent over the prostrate body of his friend. A low groan was all the reply he received. “Dr. Tourniquet!” shouted Oriel: but the doctor was standing at his side, having hastened to the spot when he saw that his services were likely to be required.
“See what can be done immediately,” added the young merchant earnestly. “I’m almost afraid the brute has killed him.”
“It’s not so bad as that, don’t you see, for he breathes,” observed the surgeon.
“But his dress is all over blood; therefore he must have received some dangerous wounds,” added Oriel. “Here; I’ll undo his vest; and then we can see the extent of the injury he has received.”
“Oh, no!” said the doctor, unceremoniously pushing him away.
“Doctor Tourniquet, you behave very strangely, I think,” said the other, seemingly much offended.
“I beg pardon, Master Porphyry,” responded the doctor, apparently with much confusion; “but it would be very dangerous to meddle with the wounds now, don’t you see.”
“They surely ought to be dressed without loss of time,” remarked the young merchant.
“The patient has received a severe shock; and the state of the atmosphere, and—and not having with me things necessary to dress the wound, and—and many other things, make it advisable that the patient should be put to bed before his hurts are examined,” said the doctor, attempting to hide his perplexity as well as he could.
“I must say, I think it very strange,” observed Oriel, not being able to account for the embarrassment under which the doctor was evidently labouring.
“No harm done, I hope?” inquired Sir Curry, as he approached upon his elephant. “I should be sorry to have another Lord Muligatawny affair.”
“There’s no knowing what harm has been done; for I really cannot get my surgeon to ascertain,” replied the young merchant.
“No! ah! that’s strange,” responded his host: “I always like to know the worst. It’s a great consolation.”
“Let us get out of this horrid place, or we shall all be eaten up by wild beasts,” exclaimed Fortyfolios, who was sitting, disconsolate and uneasy on the top of his elephant.
“Such a thing might be. I’ve known several persons whose ardour in pursuit of game has made them food for tigers,” remarked Sir Curry. “Poor Lord Muligatawny was only one instance out of many.”
“Oh!” groaned the professor.
“See, he revives!” exclaimed the doctor, directing attention to his patient, whose eyes were gently unclosing.
“Zabra! my dear Zabra! are you better?” asked Oriel, as he supported his young friend’s head on his shoulder.
Zabra looked about him with a wild stare, till his eyes fell upon the elephant, who had all the time been an attentive spectator of the scene, and then, as if remembering what he had suffered, he gave a slight convulsive shudder, and sunk back into the arms of his patron.
“The tiger is dead, Zabra!” exclaimed Oriel.
“I wish all tigers were dead,” muttered Fortyfolios.
“I think we had better place the patient on yonder elephant, and I will accompany him till we return from whence we set out, when he can have his wounds dressed, don’t you see,” said Dr. Tourniquet, who had recovered from his confusion.
“Yes, send him forward with some of my people,” added Sir Curry Rajah; “and you come with me, Master Porphyry, and I’ll show you a preserve where the tigers are as thick as monkeys on a cocoanut tree.”
“I’ve had quite enough of tiger hunting, I thank you,” replied Oriel Porphyry, very seriously; then directing his attention to his young friend, he exclaimed—“Zabra! are you better now?”
The youth opened his long eye-lashes, and gazed upon his patron, as if recognising his voice, and then in a low whisper said, “Yes, I am better, Oriel.”
“Will you let Dr. Tourniquet examine your wounds, Zabra? We want to know how much you are hurt.”
“Oh no! oh no!” he replied hastily, “Not now, not now, Oriel. Not now.”
“This is very strange,” observed the young merchant, unable to find a reason for an objection to a thing that seemed so requisite. “Very strange—but you can let us know what injury you have received.”
“My back and arms are lacerated,” responded Zabra. “But they do not pain me so much as they did. Dr. Tourniquet shall see to them when I return, and perhaps you can allow him to remain with me in case I should want his assistance before. You can then return with the professor.”
Oriel Porphyry appeared surprised, but he gave orders to the attendants, who had been unconcerned spectators of the scene; and, having lifted Zabra upon the elephant, who seemed delighted to regain his burthen, the whole party returned to the country house of Sir Curry Rajah.
[CHAP. X.]
ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE DANGER OF GOOD INTENTIONS.
“I tell you what it is, Boggle,” said Climberkin to his friend, as they were pacing the quarter-deck together, “You’re al’ays getting yourself into scrapes. You’ve got a notion as you can do things in the most tip top manner, and you make a reg’lar mommock of every thin’ you sets about.”
“All I knows o’ the matter is, that I likes to ha’ ’ticular notions o’ things in general, as every man as is a man, and thinks like a man, should,” replied the other. “But I arn’t such a stoop as to allow every body to come his handy dandy sugarcandy over me. I knows a marlin spike from a gun carriage.”
“But there was no ’casion for you to ’noy the cap’ain by comin’ the high and mighty over his nevey,” observed Climberkin.
“Well, I did it for the best,” responded his companion. “You see the young chap arn’t quite up to his dooty; so I thought, as I was his superior officer, it was the most properest thing in natur for me to tell him what’s what. But I recomembered as young people has feelings, and that it would be best to make my ’munication as pleasant as possible; so the next time I comed alongside Mr. Midshipman Loop, I says, quite delicately, says I, you’re a lubberly young son of a sea cow, as arn’t fit to do nuffin but to count your fingers, or cut your toe-nails. You’re al’ays a skylarking arter some precious mischief or another. No matter whether you’re aloft among the reefers, or down below, right-fol-de-dolin’ at the mess, you’re up to no sort o’ good whatsomdever. I arn’t no patience wi’ sich varmint; and if you don’t do your dooty in a less ’jectionable sort o’ fashion, I’m pretty considerably spiflicated if I don’t make sich a report o’ your wagabondisings as shall make you catch more toko than you’ll be able to digest in a month. Well, instead of the fellow being grateful for the handsome way in which I’d tried not to hurt none o’ his feelins, he looks at me w’ as much water in his eyes as ’ould do to wash his face in; and in a short time arterwards up comes the cap’ain, and gives me sich a sittin’ down as didn’t leave me a leg to stand on.”
“You’d been too hard upon the young un,” observed Climberkin: “there was no necessity for speaking so sharp.”
“It’s always the way I gets served out whenever I attempts to do a good action,” replied Boggle. “Nobody has better intentions nor I have; but, somehow or another, whenever I’ve ’tempted to do a fellow a good turn, the end on it is the treatment I meets wi’ gives me sich a turn as puts me into a perfect ’stonishment.”
“You don’t go the right way to work, Boggle—that’s it, depend on’t,” replied his companion.
“The right way!” exclaimed Boggle. “Why, I’ve been this way, and that way, and t’other way—backards and forards—right and left—upside down and round the corners; and I should like to know what other way there is in this here univarsal world? No; the thing is this: there’s a plank started some where. Natur don’t go right wi’ me. I’ve had a deal o’ ’sperience in my time, and every ’dividual thing has been sarved up to me wi’ the same sauce.”
“I should like to hear the long and the short o’ your goin’s on,” said Climberkin.
“Why, as to that, I’ve a notion the whole circumbendibus o’ my history is as good as a sermon,” replied the other.
“Well, let’s hear it then, Boggle, if you’ve no objection,” added his companion.
“Then here goes, if you’ll sit down on this gun; for, though I’ve heard o’ a standin’ joke, I should think a standin’ story would be rather a tiresome sort o’ thing. It’s no matter when or where I was launched,” continued Boggle; “and about my parentage, its only necessary to say, I had a father and a mother, like other folks. Well, in due time I was bound a ’prentice to a ship’s carpenter. I very early entertained a desire to set people to rights as was goin’ wrong. I thought there was nuffin so pleasant as tryin’ to do good, and I took hold of every ’portunity to benefit my fellow-creturs. Master was a punch-your-head sort o’ character, wi’ one eye and a leg-o’-mutton fist; and missus was a spirited little ooman, mighty famous in her way; but if you did get in her way, she pretty soon made you get out of it. Well, when master wasn’t a punchin’ my head, missus was a boxin’ my ears; and when missus wasn’t a boxin’ my ears, master was a punchin’ my head; and when they were tired o’ sarvin’ me out, they turned to and sarved each other out. I led a lovely life, as you may suppose.”
“A dog would ha’ been better off, I should think,” observed Climberkin.
“I had a heart overflowin’ wi’ the buttermilk o’ human kindness,” continued the lieutenant; “and I didn’t like sich a state o’ things, no how. I entertained a notion that the only way to change this here strife was to endeavour to create feelin’s o’ love betwixt the parties; but how to get ’em to like each other, instead of to lick each other, was the difficulty. ‘If I can make ’em believe each other’s affection, I shall make a reg’lar Cupid and physic business of it,’ thought I. But how could I make ’em believe? Where was the proof? I had always heard as jealousy was a proof o’ love; so I determined to make ’em as jealous as was possible. Well, I took a ’casion to hint to master as missus was unkimmonly amiable to Brisket, the butcher over the way; and, although Brisket, the butcher over the way, warn’t no more a object o’ love nor a rhinoceros, I could see master’s one eye flashin’ about like a bundle o’ crackers in a kitchen fire; and he told me to watch their canouvres and ’municate to him any thing as was likely to interfere wi’ his conjugalities; and, as a more nor ordinary mark o’ his ’preciation o’ my regard for his matrimonial blessedness, he took me a punch o’ the head twice as hard as ever he’d given me afore.”
“You had the luck of it!” remarked his companion.
“Then I went to missus, and, in the most delicatest manner as could be, I gave her to suppose that there was a monstrous deal o’ improperiety going forard betwixt master and Mrs. Brisket, the butcher’s wife over the way; and, although Mrs. Brisket, the butcher’s wife over the way, was about as good looking as a toad-fish, missus seemed quite done brown o’ both sides; and, tellin’ me to gi’ her due notice o’ their clandasterous proceedin’s, she fetched me a box o’ the ear, as made the inside o’ my head seem turned into curds and whey. Well, I continued this sort o’ game till, if jealousy be a proof o’ love, they ought to ha’ been convinced beyond a doubt, and, as a matter o’ course, should have been as lovin’ as turtle-doves: but, ’straordinary to relate, he punched her head, and she boxed his ears, more earnestly than ever, all the time throwing out ’sinuations that stirred each other up into the most tarnationest fury. One unfortunit day, when I was workin’ away in the shop, and they were workin’ away in the same place, they suddenly stopped their hands to make use o’ their tongues.
“‘I knows your goin’s on over the way, you wretch,’ squeaked missus.
“‘And I knows your goin’s on over the way, you trollope,’ bawled master.
“‘I’ll kill that woman,’ cried one.
“‘And I’ll murder Brisket!’ said the other.
“‘It’s false, you villain! I defy you to prove your words. But you know my suspicions are well founded,’ exclaimed the wife.
“‘It’s false, you hussy! and you know it,’ shouted the husband.
“‘I had the intelligence from the best authority, sir.’
“‘I had mine from a source that dared not deceive me, madam.’
“‘Who told you?’ was simultaneously asked by both; and ‘Boggle!’ was the reply in almost the same breath. Immediately they turned upon me. I could see master’s eye lookin’ at me as if he was about to walk down my throat; and missus—but it’s only necessary to say that I made a sudden bolt between master’s legs, managed to tumble him over her; and while they were sprawlin’ together, I was crossin’ all manner o’ streets, at a pace that sent every body out o’ my way. That was the end o’ my ’prenticeship; and thus my good intentions were so ’bominably frusterated.”
“And what did you do then?” inquired Climberkin.
“I went to live wi’ an uncle,” replied Boggle. “He kept a knife-and-forkery. Meat of all kinds, ready cooked, was waiting for the hungry at any hour, with vegetables in season and out o’ season; soups of all sorts, and some of very strange sorts; with mustard, bread, pepper, and salt. I continued at this business a considerable time, and liked it much better nor the ship carpenterin’; and I gained a good many ’ticular notions o’ things in general: indeed, I may say, without any sinnivation against the sort o’ meat we sold, as how I became a slap bang judge o’ horse-flesh. I still continued ’deavourin’ to set things right as was goin’ t’other way; but the same sort o’ fun al’ays happened as when I ’tempted to make jealousy become a proof o’ love: I got no more gratitude nor would serve a flea to lie down upon. Well, it so happened as our customers was frequently in the habit o’ complainin’ o’ dyspepsia. Every body had dyspepsia: long or short, little or big, fat or lean, every mortal cretur talked o’ nothin’ else but his dyspepsia. Some said it was all acause o’ their diet, and they detarmined to make a reg’lar change in their eatables; so havin’ been used to nothin’ else but mutton and beef, they directly began to eat nothin’ else but beef and mutton. And some said it was one thing, and some said it was another; and some said it was just exactly neither. Now, I knowed about as much o’ dyspepsia as I did o’ the top o’ the moon; but I seed as there was a screw loose somewhere, and I was nat’rally anxious to put it in proper order. So I got hold of a book as gived explanations in the most popular incomprehensible manner about diet and regimen, and what you should eat and what you shouldn’t eat; and how much you might put in your bread-room, and how much you might let alone; and there I met with the whole complete circumbendibus about dyspepsia.”
“And what was it?” inquired his companion.
“Why, I can’t exactly say what it was,” replied Boggle, “acause the book didn’t exactly tell me; but I found out as every fellow as had it should be reg’lar as clock-work in his eatables, and should have no more nor a sartain quantity at no time. So I began ’deavourin’ to cure the dyspepsia. I hadn’t the power to make ’em reg’late their jaw tackle accordin’ to the book; but I took precious good care as every one should have a sartain quantity. Whether a fellow could eat a horse, or hadn’t a appetite no more nor a blue bottle, I sarved ’em all wi’ a sartain quantity. Acause why? It was good for their dyspepsia. But they kicked up such a bobbery! The big eaters got into a devourin’ rage, and they left the shop, swearing I was a tryin’ to pick their pockets. Ungrateful wretches! I was only a tryin’ to cure their dyspepsia. And the little eaters were so very few in comparison, that, if they had remained satisfied wi’ my treatment, their custom would have been of no sort o’ significance; but, acause I gived them more nor their money’s worth, they quitted the place, saying it was too cheap to be good, and that I was only a wantin’ to poisen ’em. Ignorant creturs! I was only a wantin’ to cure their dyspepsia! Well, my uncle was in a reg’lar take in at the loss o’ his business: it put him into as complete a botheration as ever you seed. He was a man o’ very few words, but was unkimmon handy upon occasions; and, seein’ or fancyin’ summut wasn’t correct, he watched my goin’s on; and one day he cotched me a sarving out a sartain quantity to a fellow who didn’t want quite so much. So he axed me what I was arter; and I up and I told him all about the dyspepsia; and all about my attemptin’ to cure it; and all about my sarvin’ out a sartain quantity to every body as comed to the shop. Well, afore I’d got to the end o’ my story, my uncle, in the most unnat’ral way as could be, took up a stick as was handy, and he sarved me out wi’ a sartain quantity, till I was obligated to make all sail out o’ the shop.”
“Accordin’ to my notions, it wasn’t a bit more nor you deserved,” remarked the unsympathising Climberkin.
“What, not for trying to cure the dyspepsia!” loudly exclaimed the other.
“Not for trying to cure nothin’,” was the reply. “But what became o’ you arter that?”
“Why, my friends thought my notions o’ things in general not likely to come to no good ashore, so they took it into their heads to send me afloat,” responded his companion. “My first voyage lasted long enough to give me a tolerable smartish insight into the nautical; but I was continually wantin’ to set things right, and my good intentions were as continually a sarving me out wi’ a sartain quantity. Now, this might ha’ made any fellow but me tired o’ tryin’ to benefit his fellow-creturs: but I wasn’t a chap o’ that sort; and I still went on, as sarcumstances required, ’tempting to do lots o’ good, and gettin’ in return nothin’ but lots o’ bad. Well, when I came ashore in my native place, I was rather a hold-your-head-up sort o’ young chap; and, havin’ some money to spend, I swaggered about the streets most consumedly, and fancied as every gal I cotched sight on was thinkin’ o’ nothin’ in natur’ but lookin’ arter me. So I thought as a matter o’ course I’d look arter them. I just did. As I had ’ticular notions o’ things in general, as every man as is a man, and thinks like a man, should have, I thought it would be cruel to the rest o’ the she creturs if I confined my attentions to one: consequently, I went a courtin’ away like a steam-engine to all as I could meet. I had ’em o’ all sorts and sizes, colours and complexions—scraggy or squab—longs or shorts—it made not a bit o’ difference—as long as they were inclined to be fond o’ me, I was inclined to be fond o’ them. I had the best intentions—I thought o’ nothin’ but makin’ ’em happy; and the more happiness as I could make, the more good I thought I was a doing. Well, somehow or other, things began to look queer, and every one on ’em was a wantin’ me to marry ’em. Now, there was a law again a fellow marryin’ more nor one wife; and I knew as if I married one it would be unkimmonly unjust to the rest. This my ’ticular notion o’ things in general wouldn’t allow. I still entertained the best intentions; so thinkin’ as if they knowed the rights o’ the case they would see the impossibility o’ my agreein’ to their wishes, I, unbeknown to the others, invited every one to meet me under a large tree, a little way out o’ the town, in the branches o’ which I hid myself very snug, to diskiver the upshot. First one came—then came another—and number one looked at number two in all sorts o’ ways. Then came a third, and the two looked at number three in all sorts o’ ways. Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth—ay, I may as well acknowledge at once as how they came to a matter o’ twenty; and they all looked at one another in all sorts o’ ways. At last, one on ’em, as I knowed to be a bit o’ a spit-fire, spoke up.
“‘Ladies,’ says she, ‘may I ask what brought you all here?’
“‘I came to meet Boggle,’ said one.
“‘I came to meet Boggle,’ said another.
“‘I came to meet Boggle,’ said all.
“‘You came to meet Boggle, you hussy!’ exclaimed every one in the whole lot; and, in less than a jiffy, caps flew about, dresses were torn, and there was the most considerable shindy that ever was known in this here univarsal world. Now, I had the best intentions. I only thought o’ creatin’ as much happiness as I could. I never had no suspicion as my notions o’ things in general could ha’ led to such a revolution. And when I seed ’em all one a top o’ t’ other, a pummelling, a scratching, and screeching like so many wild cats, I was taken quite comical; and, missing my hold upon the bough, I tumbled right down into the very midst on ’em. Directly as they caught eyes o’ me they left off fighting. ‘I shall settle the matter comfortably at last,’ thought I. Miserable Boggle that I was! how I did deceive myself! In the next moment they all flew at me like a lot o’ tigers, and they scratched me up, and they scratched me down, and they scratched me sideways—they pulled every hair out o’ my head, and they tore my clothes into bits not big enough to cover a pincushion; and they didn’t leave my unfortunate body till they thought they had killed me out and out.”
“I should think that ought to have sickened you o’ goin’ a courtin’,” remarked Climberkin, unable to restrain his mirth.
“Sickened!” exclaimed the other; “the very sight o’ a she cretur makes me as good as done for. Why, I was obliged to be laid up in lavender for a month. I became as tender as a chicken, and every bone I possessed seemed to have been smashed into porridge. And this was all in return for my ’deavourin’ to make ’em happy! If this arn’t a most ungrateful world I’m a nigger!”
“And what followed this adventure?” inquired his companion.
“Oh, don’t ask me!” replied Boggle, very gravely: “I haven’t the heart to go on. But it was all the same. Still from time to time I thought o’ setting things to rights; and on every ’portunity I was rewarded for my good intentions wi’ exactly a similar sort o’ treatment.”
“Here comes the governor!” said the other, as he noticed Oriel and his party approaching; and the two young men hastily left their seats on the gun-carriage to attend to their duty in the ship.
“What coast is this, captain,” asked the young merchant, pointing to the shore that lay at the distance of a few miles.
“That is the coast of Arabia,” replied Hearty.
“A part of the world rendered particularly interesting to the philosopher by the many important incidents which, from the early history of the world, have there occurred,” added the professor. “Here the chariots of Pharaoh, pursuing the fugitive Jews, were ingulfed in the waters of the Red Sea; and yonder is the land where, after their escape, the children of Israel wandered during their weary pilgrimage.”
“Yes, the religion of Moses may be said to have had its origin here; and here, also, the religion of Mahomet was created, don’t you see,” remarked the doctor. “This is the land of Mecca and Medina: this is the land which, during the darkness of the middle ages, evinced the first dawn of civilisation that gave light to the world—the land of Arabian literature—of Arabian chivalry—of Arabian science and art. I cannot say that I honour the character of their prophet; and I detest the way in which his religion was promulgated as I detest every religion or every form of faith that may be called a religion, which has had its foundation upon bloodshed, rapine, and persecution. But, looking to the effects produced by the diffusion of the absurdities of the Koran wherever the arms of the Mahometans could penetrate, I must say that it has created more good than many religions which have since obtained more consideration.”
“What! shall the Barbarians who destroyed the Alexandrian library be held up to admiration?” exclaimed Fortyfolios, indignantly. “Shall they who desolated wherever they went, among those who would not acknowledge their pretended prophet, be considered benefactors to their species? I cannot think you are in earnest, Doctor Tourniquet.”
“But I am in earnest, don’t you see,” replied the doctor. “I would take and compare the state of Mahometanism in Arabia, with the state of Christianity at the same time in any part of the world—suppose we say from the commencement of the seventh century, during the rule of the Abbaside caliphs, till as late as the reign of the Ommeyide caliphs in Spain?”
“But we must look to the opposite shore for the land from which all intelligence proceeded,” observed the professor. “Egypt was the cradle of the arts and sciences; and her advances in knowledge preceded those of Arabia by many centuries.”
“And, doubtless, the advances made in India and China preceded those of Egypt by about the same time, don’t you see,” added the doctor. “If we would seek the origin of philosophy, we must, of course, find it among the first people; and there is every reason to suppose that the earliest inhabitants of this globe were located in India.”
“That is doubtful,” replied Fortyfolios. “But the Egyptians are at least entitled to the credit of having, at an early period, carried the mechanical arts to purposes the magnitude of which have never been exceeded; and the degree of excellence they attained in philosophy and learning is sufficient to make us regard them with a profound veneration.”
“We can only judge of the tree by the fruit, don’t you see,” responded Tourniquet. “All I know is, that the Egyptians distinguished themselves by erecting the most magnificent fooleries that had ever been conceived. Of what use were their pyramids—their colossal statues and stupendous monuments—their gigantic idols—their vast temples, and elaborate sculptures? Superior knowledge did exist certainly, for they were the teachers of the Jews and of the Greeks; and, although the latter surpassed their instructors, they have still a claim upon our admiration. But the priests were the depositors of this knowledge, and they wrapped it up in mystery so cleverly, that it was of no use to the people, among whom it ought to have been distributed, and was of just the same advantage to posterity when both priests and people were crumbling into dust.”
“Are we not approaching the grand water communication that carries the Red Sea into the Mediterranean?” inquired Oriel Porphyry.
“Ah! there’s some sense in that!” exclaimed the doctor. “It beats the wonders of Thebes to nothing; and yet there could not have been more labour employed upon it than must have been used to erect that vast city.”
“Under what circumstances did it originate?” asked the young merchant.
“After the Russians had made themselves masters of Constantinople,” said Fortyfolios, “the Turkish empire gradually dwindled into insignificance; but the territory of their conquerors had become so immense, that it was impossible, even at the expense of a military power scarcely ever equalled, to keep it together. Symptoms of dissolution began to show themselves. The native Russians, who had gradually risen from a state of abject servitude to one in which a strong love of liberty became its greatest characteristic, grew restless and dissatisfied with their government, and were continually endeavouring to force it to become more liberal. The frequent disturbances which arose in consequence kept the country very unsettled; and there was a powerful party in the state, that, being opposed to the policy of those in authority, aided in creating the public disaffection. At this time, when the government was fully employed by its own internal disorganisation, several of the conquered provinces threw off their allegiance. Of these, the most successful were Poland and Greece. There arose amongst the Greeks a man of extraordinary valour, wisdom, and soldiership, who, from the petty leader of an insurrection, had become the chief of the national armies; and, having succeeded in driving the Russians from his country, was unanimously elected its king. But the independence of Greece did not satisfy the ambition of this conqueror. He knew that the military ardour of his countrymen required to be constantly exercised; and, leaving his kingdom to the wisdom of his counsellors, he led a mighty armament into the enemy’s possessions in Turkey. Battle after battle was here fought with the same result. The heroic Greeks drove all before them; besieged and took Constantinople, in which they planted a colony; conquered their way through Asia Minor, and, entering the subjected province of Persia, excited the inhabitants to revolt: nor did they desist from their triumphant career till they had become masters of the walls of Petersburgh. At the same time the Poles, having taken up arms, they not only succeeded in relieving their country from the iron bondage in which it had so long been enslaved, but, in concert with the Greeks, invaded the lands of their conquerors, and in many a sanguinary battle revenged the wrongs they had endured.”
“Did the Greek conqueror stop when he had subdued the Russians?” inquired Oriel Porphyry, who seemed to listen with intense interest.
“No conqueror will halt in his career while he imagines there is any thing to subdue,” replied Fortyfolios. “The devotion with which the Greeks regarded their chief gave him absolute power over the lives and liberties of his subjects, and they wanted no inducement to follow him in the pursuit of glory. Wherever he led they crowded to his standard. He had but to declare his wish and armies were at his command. At this period Egypt was a fertile and flourishing kingdom. The English and French had vainly endeavoured to subdue it. They had made conquests and formed settlements: but when these two great empires decayed, the conquests were given up, and the settlements abandoned. Since then, under its own rulers, the people had advanced in prosperity, and had become powerful among the surrounding nations. This country the Greeks invaded. They met with desperate resistance; but after a frightful destruction of human life, and making the prosperous kingdom a wilderness, they succeeded in bringing the Egyptians into subjection, and planted a colony near the mouths of the Nile. This new colony throve rapidly; as after the death of the conqueror a long interval of peace ensued, and the population increasing rapidly, thousands emigrated to the shores of Egypt and of Turkey. In little more than a century the colonies threw off the supremacy of the mother-country, and although many attempts were made to force them to acknowledge their dependency, they did not succeed, and now they have become free states, scarcely inferior in importance to the great empires of Columbia and Australia; while of the great European nations that flourished a thousand years ago, Spain, Italy, and Portugal, are in a semi-barbarous condition; France, after having tried a hundred different forms of government, is split into a dozen little republics, each trying to destroy the other, and all acknowledging the supremacy of the German empire, the most powerful of the European states, having a territory stretching from the Rhine to the Vistula and from the English channel to the Adriatic sea. The state of England you will be better able to comprehend during the visit you are about to make to its shores than any description I can give you: but I must return to the Greek colony in Egypt. Its population increased rapidly, and the intelligence of the people seemed to increase with their numbers. They built many new cities, but by far the largest and most magnificent of them is the city of Athenia, which was erected on the borders of the lake Menzaleb. The colonists having turned their attention to commerce, for many years had considered the advantages that would accrue to their city if they could open a communication with the Mediterranean on one side, and with the Gulf of Suez on the other. This idea, if it were practicable, they saw would give them facilities of traffic which no country could surpass; and all their thoughts were anxiously turned towards the realisation of this splendid scheme. But the project was so gigantic that the most skilful engineers pronounced it impracticable. At last, one more bold than the rest published a plan by which he said it might be accomplished, with an enormous capital, a considerable interval of time, and the application of immense labour. The plan was considered, and, after much discussion, approved of. Funds were collected, a multitude of labourers were employed, and the work commenced by cutting a broad channel through the Isthmus of Suez, and from the Lake to the Mediterranean. In twenty years from its commencement the waters mingled together, and in fifty years Athenia was one of the busiest sea-ports, and one of the most magnificent cities in the world.”
“And its inhabitants are the wisest and the happiest people on the globe, don’t you see,” added the doctor. “They allow no superstitious follies to cramp the energies of their minds. They act and think as become men and not slaves. Their laws are simple, few, and admirably adapted to their wants. Their sociality is perfect, their morality unrivalled, their intelligence exceeds that of any other people beneath the sun. As for their form of faith, nothing can equal its philosophy, for they maintain that philanthropy is the only religion, and that the true worship of God is doing good to man.”
“Those are the principles my father entertains,” observed the young merchant.
“They may truly be called a nation of philanthropists,” continued the surgeon. “There is philanthropy in their laws—there is philanthropy in their government—there is philanthropy in their dealings one with another. From the cradle to the grave the object of all is to teach good or to practise it; and such things as hate, deceit, envy, avarice, and all the black catalogue of vices that stain other nations are to them unknown.”
“They are a people worthy of being studied,” said Oriel.
“Studied! they ought to be got by heart, by every nation on the face of the globe, don’t you see,” replied Dr. Tourniquet. “There is nothing in nature so refreshing to the sight. It makes one in love with humanity. It dissolves all the freezing selfishness that the prejudices of education have created upon our feelings, and allows us to enjoy the sunshine and the gladness of a free and unalterable sympathy for all our race. It is under such circumstances, and under such only, that man becomes what he was created to be—a creature eminently happy, enjoying moderately all his inclinations, pleased with the pleasures of others, and liberally sharing his own: knowing neither fear, nor crime, nor want, nor folly; suffering from few diseases, and those only the most ordinary afflictions of existence; entertaining no idea of emulation but that of endeavouring to exceed one another in doing good; having no interest in any property apart from the interest of the community; possessing no attachment to any object or place which is not shared by those around him—and while looking neither to the past nor to the future with either hope or fear, endeavouring to make the present as beneficial to himself and others, as with a kind, a just, and a reasonable way of life the present can be made. And this is what I call a perfect state of society, don’t you see.”
[CHAP. XI.]
ATHENIA.
A party, consisting of the two philosophers, Oriel Porphyry, Zabra, and a stranger, were proceeding in an elegant open carriage through the crowded streets of Athenia. The stranger was a man of about fifty, of noble mien, and lofty stature. There was a classic purity in the outline of his face, that became more pleasing to the gazer from its being accompanied by features of the most benevolent expression. A mild and graceful spirit seemed shining in every look; and none could behold his clear expansive forehead without feeling a conviction that he stood in the presence of an intelligence of the highest order. A white turban was carefully folded over his brows, covering the lower portion of a small velvet cap that fitted close to the head. The upper part of his body was robed in several vests, or short jackets, made of different stuffs, in elegant patterns, each being of a different fabric and colour; and beneath these an under garment, of remarkably fine linen, might be observed. The waist was bound round with a rich silken sash, the ends of which hung down on the left side; and below it, in very full folds, descended to the knees a garment of a thick fabric, of a white colour till near the skirt, where there appeared three narrow bands of light blue: leggings of thin silk descended to the feet, which were cased in shoes of fine leather; and an ample robe of embroidered purple cloth hung loose from the shoulders.
“This is a magnificent street,” remarked the young merchant, noticing a line of palaces that stretched for a considerable distance on each side of him.
“What noble porticoes—what lofty domes—what a beauty and harmony there is in the arrangement of every building!” exclaimed Zabra. “Surely they are inhabited by a race of princes.”
“Of what are usually called princes, we know nothing,” said the stranger mildly. “This is the street of our great men. Here dwell our most illustrious poets, philosophers, artists, and men of science.”
“Can it be possible?” asked Fortyfolios. “How do they manage to acquire such splendid dwellings?”
“When a citizen has shown by his works,” resumed the stranger, “that he possesses those intellectual powers that most ennoble human nature, the public, out of gratitude for the gratifications they receive from his superior intelligence, place him in a situation where he can be most honoured, and where his own pleasures may correspond in degree with the pleasures he is creating.”
“Nothing can be more wise, don’t you see,” said the doctor; “and it has been a disgrace to all civilised nations that their men of intellect, the only nobles that any society can possess, have been so little cared for, that few have ever enjoyed an adequate return for the labour and the wealth they were bestowing upon their country. Rarely have they been held in the estimation which their superiority in the only true greatness which can distinguish humanity ought to command; and a vast number have been left to battle with a selfish world, till, having endured every species of suffering that can most afflict their sensitive natures, steeped to the lips in poverty, weary and heartbroken, they lie down in some obscure corner and die.”
“We could not practise such injustice,” observed the stranger; “and I am surprised that any people should exist who know so little of their true interests as to act in so unwise a manner. It is our object to enlighten the community as much as may be possible; and knowing that the increase of intelligence, when properly directed, is productive of a similar increase of happiness, we naturally endeavour to testify to those who are labouring to produce our felicity the interest we take in the creation of theirs: we therefore consider them as benefactors, clothe them with dignity, surround them with honour, allow them to have no want ungratified, and convey within their reach every enjoyment that can make their lives glide on without a care, a regret, or a disappointment. The consequence has been, that the gifted, observing the estimation in which excellence is held, strive with all their energies to become worthy of the same distinction. From this cause our buildings have become the finest in the world—our works of art have become the finest in the world—the most wonderful discoveries exceed each other in every branch of science—and in every department of philosophy some new and amazing effort of genius is continually making itself manifest.”
“What a desirable state of things!” exclaimed Oriel.
“But how do the people profit by their generosity?” inquired the professor.
“Rather say by their gratitude,” observed the stranger. “Knowledge is imparted freely. There are free lectures, in which our great men make public all the information that may most enlighten a community; books are published on every subject, and distributed freely to those who require them; and their authors, having no inclination ungratified, and finding their greatest pleasure in diffusing the intelligence they possess, employ their powers with nobler feelings than in other nation the desire of money as an object of reward, or a means of existence, can under any circumstances create; and the people, enjoying the wholesome pleasures thus liberally conveyed to them, have neither inclination nor time to contract vicious propensities, and follow the daily business of life with pure hearts, and minds open to every ennobling impression.”
“They must enjoy an extraordinary amount of happiness,” observed Zabra.
“With what is usually called misery they are entirely ignorant,” replied the stranger; “for as all their time is employed in the right application of the means of enjoyment, they create no wrong; consequently they cannot produce anything but happiness.”
“Worthy Sophos!” exclaimed Fortyfolios. “In the streets through which we have passed, although I have noticed every sort of warehouse and shop for the purposes of trade, I have not seen any place for the sale of intoxicating liquors; and among all the public buildings I have beheld, I have not met with any thing which, from its appearance, I could consider a prison.”
“Intoxicating liquors we neither buy nor sell,” replied Sophos. “The pure beverage which nature has provided so liberally for our enjoyment, confers upon us both health and pleasure; and although the indulgence of every natural inclination is allowed, any intemperance in the enjoyment of an appetite is punished with immediate and general disgrace; the sensualist, the glutton, or the drunkard is avoided as unworthy to associate with his fellow men, and the instances of such offences being committed are so rare, that they are now looked upon as altogether unnatural. As for prisons we do not want them; we have no use for them. Such offences as crimes against life, or crimes against property; crimes against the individual, or crimes against the state, are so few that if we were to build a prison, we should find some difficulty in getting in it a single inhabitant. We have long known that prisons do not prevent crime. We are aware that wherever there have been the most prisons, there have been the greatest number of criminals; and beholding in the experience of ages the inutility of punishment as a preventive to criminality, we came to the conclusion, that the only sure way of preventing a man becoming a criminal, is to remove from his path all temptations to crime. Every citizen having the free enjoyment of every inclination, cannot possibly have a want that interferes with the interests of the community; and we are exceedingly careful throughout the educational course of life to prevent the existence of any inclination that may be hurtful either to the individual or to the society to which he belongs.”
“Is this one of your religious edifices?” inquired Oriel, pointing to a large building supported by elegant pillars, and having the appearance of the highest degree of architectural excellence.
“It is, and it is not,” replied Sophos, with a smile. “It is a religious edifice, inasmuch as it is well calculated to assist in establishing religious impressions, and it is used for the purpose of conveying moral instruction to the hearts of those who enter its walls: and it is not a religious edifice, because it is connected with no mystery, and is no place for monks and priests, grovelling superstitions, and unmeaning ceremonies. But you shall examine the interior.” With these words he ordered the carriage to be driven up to the gates, and the party alighting, entered the edifice.
Having passed through lofty folding doors, they were ushered along a vaulted hall of immense extent and admirable proportions. It was lighted from the top by windows that spread around the whole circumference of the dome in a series of circles, between which the roof was supported by gigantic figures of white marble. The walls were painted in fresco, with a variety of subjects executed in the first style of art, and the object of every painting appeared to be to elevate the human mind into a love of practical benevolence. Nothing barbarous, nothing cruel, nothing unjust, nothing coarse, nothing that could create an unpleasant feeling, had here been introduced; but all that was affectionate and true, and pure and excellent, had been seized by the plastic genius of the artist, and fixed in undying colours upon the wall.
In the different divisions that separated these pictures appeared short moral maxims and philosophical sentences. Every religion seemed to have furnished some portion of the instruction here conveyed. Near the truths of Christianity might be observed the wisdom of Islamism; the Proverbs of Solomon had a place by the side of the maxims of Zoroaster, and the wisdom of Confucius was inscribed opposite the philosophy of Socrates. Wherever the eye turned it caught something worthy of contemplation, and whatever the mind contemplated it found impressive, unanswerable, and impossible to be forgotten.
“What place do you call this?” inquired Oriel of his conductor.
“It is called the Hall of Wisdom and of Humanity,” replied the stranger. “And here, if the soul is fretted by pain or sorrow, or the heart yearns for some refreshing influence, comes the citizen from the busy toils of life, and gazing on these tokens of a benevolent power, and studying these signs of a comprehensive intelligence, he finds that both his heart and mind are strengthened—a love of excellence pervades all his nature, and he passes back to the world with a cheerful spirit, giving and partaking gladness.”
“What are the principles of your religion?” asked Fortyfolios.
“The principles of our religion are the best principles of every religion that has existed from the creation of the world,” responded Sophos. “We found every variety of faith could produce something profitable. The worst religion has brought forth good men, good women, and good citizens, and surrounded by the most degrading superstitions, we invariably found some truth worthy of general appreciation. We also found that the most enlightened religions produced bad men, bad women, and bad citizens, and discovered amid the most wholesome truths they endeavoured to inculcate, some pernicious superstition that destroyed the efficacy of their doctrines. This led to a consideration of their separate natures, and upon careful examination we discovered that from the earliest ages, all people had been doing the same thing under different names. They had personified two opposing principles—the principle of good and the principle of evil, which they had worshipped. In many religious systems the machinery was more complicated than in others, but all were easily traced to the same source.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the professor.
“The names of God and Devil,” continued Sophos, “are so obviously modified from good and evil, and the attributes of each power are so completely the attributes of each principle, that nothing more need be said of their connection. They are the same things: as principles they are the light and shadow of the moral world; as deities, the Alpha and Omega of Christianity and Judaism. Vishnu the Preserver, and Siva the Destroyer, the most important members of the Hindoo Pantheon—the Ahrimanes and Ormuzd of Zoroaster, and the Fire Worshippers of Persia—the Osiris and Typhon of the Egyptians—the Jupiter and Pluto of the Greeks—and the great idols of every form of worship that had at any time of the world existed, are but personifications of the opposing principles good and evil.”
“Not a doubt of it, don’t you see,” remarked Doctor Tourniquet.
“I do not believe anything of the kind,” observed Fortyfolios: “it’s heathenish, abominable, and atheistical.”
“Having made this analysis,” continued the stranger, without attending to the interruptions he had received, “we came to the determination of making these principles our form of faith; that is to say, we made our doctrines those of benevolence. Good was our God—Philanthropy was our religion; and doing good became the way in which we endeavoured to worship the Deity. The good principle is around us at all times while we live, and creates our felicity, and produces the pleasures of those around us; and death is the evil principle, which puts an end to the happiness we were enjoying and creating.”
“What is your form of government?” inquired Oriel.
“Our supreme head is called the Optimus, or the Best,” replied Sophos. “He is addressed by the title of our Benefactor the Optimus, and is elevated to that dignity in consequence of his having distinguished himself above his fellow-citizens by the superior excellence of his wisdom and greatness of his philanthropy. He is assisted in the duties of the government by an assembly of two hundred of the most experienced, the wisest, and the best of his fellow-countrymen, who are called Fathers; and from this assembly the people always choose their Optimus, who reigns as long as his faculties permit him to exercise his judgment for the benefit of the people, and his reign is called his Optimate. Inferior in dignity to the assembly of Fathers, is a parliament of five hundred, who are distinguished by the name of Brothers; and they represent the interests of certain communities or disciples into which our great family is divided. It must not be imagined from these divisions and distinctions that there are any exclusive advantages or separate interests amongst us. Any individual may obtain the highest offices of the legislature by passing through the parliament of Brothers and the assembly of Fathers, for which he must show himself well qualified by knowledge, virtue, and benevolence. He gains neither advantage nor profit—nothing but the esteem of his fellow-citizens; and the people are classed into distinct communities of disciples, merely that the interests of the whole shall receive a proper degree of attention from the legislative.”
“And do you find such a form of government answer the purpose for which it was designed?” inquired Oriel.
“All,” replied Sophos. “The laws are simple and few, and admirably adapted to satisfy the wants of the people. We have no monopolies to protect; we have no exclusive privileges to confer. There is no legislative enactment passed which does not take into consideration the happiness of each and all.”
“It is wonderful to observe with how few laws a nation may be governed,” said the doctor; “and it is equally surprising to notice with how many laws a nation may be misgoverned, don’t you see.”
“Now let us enter the Hall of Public Benefactors,” said the stranger; and passing through a succession of elegant arches, he led the way to another magnificent hall, similar in grandeur and beauty to the one they had recently left. Statues, rather larger than life, were placed in separate niches round the wall; and these statues represented individuals who had rendered themselves illustrious by their virtues or intelligence. In one place stood the figure of the immortal Howard; in another that of the admirable Pestalozzi. Opposite these philanthropists were the patriots Alfred, Leonidas, Sobieski, William Tell, and Hofer. Here stood the impetuous Körner, and there the amiable Shelley. Jeremy Bentham, Oberlin, Owen of Lanark, Sir Samuel Romilly, and Wilberforce had places near Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation, Galileo, Fenelon, Plato, Socrates, Newton, Bacon, and La Place; and Tasso, and Petrarch, and Göthe, and Walter Scott, and Coleridge, and Wordsworth, were seen by the side of Shakspeare, and Milton, and Cicero, and Demosthenes, and Aristotle, and Plutarch. The most commanding intellects, the noblest natures, the wisest, the best, and kindest of human beings were here all represented in the plastic marble, and raised high above the heads of those who were gazing upon them, as if to show how elevated were such spirits above the common mass of mankind.
“Look! look!” exclaimed Zabra to his patron, with his eyes shining with pleasure, pointing to a statue that was placed in one of the most conspicuous situations in the chamber. Oriel looked in the required direction, and, with a delight that kept him dumb, recognised the statue of his father.
“Yes, the statue of your father has been considered worthy of a place in the Hall of Public Benefactors,” observed Sophos; “and even here, in that nobleness of heart which all good men should honour, he will scarcely meet with a superior. Master Porphyry has deserved well of the world, and the world should honour him above the ambitious crowd who strive for their notice. He has made of his great wealth a great blessing. He has been a doer of good from his youth upward; and the love which he has evinced for his fellow-creatures has been universal in its object. Had he been born amongst us, or were his virtues transplanted into our society, I have no doubt that upon the first occasion he would be promoted to the rank of Optimus; but whether in Athenia or in Columbus, or in whatever part of the world he may chance to be, there he will be The Best, and there he will have sovereignty over all good men.”
Oriel Porphyry listened with feelings of the most exquisite pleasure to this eulogium, and he gazed, with a happiness in his eyes it was long since he had experienced, upon the marble figure which had been sculptured into a resemblance of his parent; but the delight of Zabra seemed still more intense, and he turned from the statue to his friend, and from his friend to the statue, as if he never could be tired of gazing upon their noble countenances.
“It is here our great and good men come and meditate,” continued the stranger; “and, gazing upon the greatness and goodness they see around them, standing in their places of honour, an impulse of emulation fills their souls, their hearts are brimming over with generous sympathies, and they return to the senate or the public hall with eloquence that carries conviction to the hearer, and a purpose that can only be satisfied by the production of some general and lasting benefit.”
The party proceeded into other halls, some for public instruction, others for social intercourse, and others for the deliberations of the legislature, and in all they observed the same happy adaptation of the means to the end, the same beautiful appearances, the same spirit of benevolence, and the same admirable harmony in the disposition of the different parts of the chamber, as they had noticed in the chambers through which they had passed. After which they resumed their ride.
“There is nothing I have seen in my travels that has afforded me so much pleasure as what I have observed during the brief stay I have made in this city;” observed the young merchant.
“And as yet you have seen scarcely any thing of us, of our manners, or of our institutions;” replied Sophos. “Let me now take you to a musical entertainment given in the open air by an orchestra of at least a thousand performers, and it will give you an opportunity of not only hearing the best music performed in the most expressive manner, but of mingling with the people of Athenia in their hours of relaxation and amusement.”
Permission having been readily granted, the carriage was driven off to an open park, beautifully planted with noble trees and flowering plants, (amongst which carriage ways and footpaths wound in graceful sweeps), and possessing every variety of hill and dale, lake and rivulet to increase its attractions.
“This is one of the public parks that have been planted to secure the health and improve the pleasures of the citizens;” said the stranger. “Here you see are thronging the young and the old, the philosopher and the student, the statesman and the mechanic, all with happy faces, and each intent that his neighbour shall share in his happiness.”
“And who are yonder group of beautiful girls that seem so much delighted with one another. It is strange that they should appear in a public place without some male friends or relations;” observed Oriel.
“Not at all;” replied Sophos. “Who can look upon them without respect? They want no protectors, for there is here no one who would even think them harm. They are probably proceeding to the concert for the purpose of joining in the choruses, and are the daughters of the noblest of our citizens. We have made music a part of our system of education, and not unwisely; for there is no source of gratification so capable of refining and intellectualising the feelings. Each individual possesses the power of distributing pleasure to the rest, and here, when they can escape from the necessary labours of life, come all,—from the humblest to the highest, from the most ignorant to the most enlightened, and tuning their instruments and their voices into one grand harmonious concert, they create such a powerful and delicious music as I should imagine it would be impossible to excel.”
The party had now arrived at the top of a hill, from which they had a splendid view of the scene before them. Down to the very base of the hill on which they stood, at least twenty thousand citizens, men, women, and children, clad in a costume, varying in some degree from that worn by Sophos, were reclining on the grass. Opposite to them was a hill of smaller dimensions, upon which an immense orchestra was being arranged. At the top, on each side, were a pair of gigantic drums, between which were several smaller ones. Below these were the brass instruments, then the flutes, bassoons, oboes and clarionets: the double basses and violincellos flanked the violins, and outside the stringed instruments, the choruses were stationed; a place was left at bottom for the principal singers, in the centre of which stood the conductor, ready to give the time of the performance.
The spectators had hitherto carried on a conversation each in his own circle; but immediately the conductor’s bâton was seen in motion, every one was in an attitude of attention, and then among the whole mass of listeners not a sound arose. The first piece performed was for instruments only. It commenced with a movement remarkable for the solemnity of its character and the richness of its harmonies, which changed into a sweet and graceful subject in quicker time, wherein several beautiful phrases were worked up by the musician in a variety of pleasing shapes. The piece ended with a more lively movement, introducing a magnificent fugue, in which the different instruments followed each other with an effect astonishing for its grandeur and beauty. To say it was well played, would convey only a feeble conception of the excellence of the performance: it was played with that perfect precision, and exquisite attention to the expression required in the composition, which can only characterise the very best performances. As soon as it was over there arose from the delighted multitude who thronged the hill a loud and continued burst of applause, mingled with exclamations expressive of the approbation of the listeners, and every one seemed to turn to his neighbour to observe if he was as well gratified as himself.
A song, or rather descriptive scene for a bass voice, with orchestral accompaniments, followed, in which the poet and musician sought to describe the temptations to evil, its committal, and its evil consequences; and the piece ended with a most harrowing picture of madness and death. After this there was a dramatic duet between a treble and tenor, delineating the first appearance and confession of a mutual affection. This was succeeded by a vocal air for a female voice, marked by a simple and exquisite pathos that seemed to touch every heart; and its subject was the despair of the heart, when, having for a long time believed itself beloved, it awakes to the full conviction that it is deceived. A grand chorus in praise of nature followed; and the effect of so many hundred voices swelling out the harmonies, was grand in the extreme; and the act concluded by a descriptive symphony for the orchestra, full of sweet pastoral effect, and admirable instrumentation.
Each composition was performed in a manner as nearly approaching perfection as was attainable, and this the audience seemed to acknowledge by the liberality of their plaudits. Upon Zabra the effect seemed to be extraordinary. He drank in every sound as if his life depended upon its enjoyment, and he listened with a sense of pleasure beaming in his features that nothing but the most intense gratification could have created. The rest of the performance was of a similar degree of merit, and the party left the hill impressed with the conviction that they had seen and enjoyed more rational pleasure than they had ever known at any public place of amusement.
“I would not have missed the exquisite delight I have received, on any consideration;” remarked Zabra. “Enraptured as I am with music, I have known nothing in my experience that bears a comparison with the enjoyments of this day. And what could create more pleasure? It would be sufficient, one would suppose, to be made familiar with the skill of ordinary musicians; but you could take no interest in their performances, they are drilled to do them, and they can do nothing else: but here is a multitudinous family of musicians, hastening from the loom, the study, the workshop, the laboratory and the warehouse, who each has a distinct business to which he must devote his attention, to join, from a desire to please his fellow-citizens, in the execution of the most difficult and beautiful productions of the musical art; and every one takes his part, caring not, however unimportant it may be, so that he is allowed to share in producing the general happiness. Of all the arts of civilised life there can be none so humanising in its tendency, so refreshing in its influence; so pure, exalting, and subduing in its effects as music. The man who is insensible to its charms is afflicted with a most pitiable blindness. There can be no harmony in his nature. His feelings must be in an unchangeable state of discord. But point out any human creature sensitive to all musical impressions, and I would affirm that you might mould him into any good purpose. Music, as a means of educating the feelings, can never be excelled. The experience of a hundred ages has proved its power as an instrument for creating or subduing the passions; and yet never till now have I seen any attempt made to try its beneficial effects on a large scale, and by making good musicians, to endeavour to create good men.”
There was no time for a reply to be made to these observations, as the carriage stopped at the door of a handsome mansion, and the party prepared to alight.
“I must introduce you into our social circle,” said Sophos, as he led the way into his dwelling; “and I hope you will be able to find in it the same happiness that I have so long enjoyed.”
They followed him through several apartments furnished with superior taste, till they entered a room of more moderate proportions ornamented with a variety of elegant decorations, in which two females were reclining on an ottoman, with a handsome youth standing before them reading from an open book. The females were the wife and daughter of their host; and both possessed countenances of exceeding beauty: the maternal dignity of the one contrasting admirably with the affectionate playfulness of the other; and the youth was the betrothed of the daughter. As soon as Sophos entered they hastened to meet him, and welcomed him with their endearments. These being over he introduced his guests to their notice, who received from them such marks of kindness and attention as made them instantly at ease. After an interesting conversation, describing what had been witnessed during their morning’s ride, the party were summoned to the dining-room, where they partook of wholesome food of exquisite flavour, served up without ostentation or extravagance, and partaken of without epicureanism or gluttony.
“Zoe,” said Sophos to his daughter, “has nothing transpired since my absence that is worthy of recital?”
“I have something to communicate to you, my father,” replied the beautiful girl, as she pushed back from her eyes the dark ringlets that seemed to have fallen from the little velvet cap embroidered with gold which was worn tight upon the upper part of her head; “but I know not whether it would interest your guests.”
“I will excuse you, Zoe, if it should not,” observed the father.
“I had gone to perform my customary duties, as nurse, at the Hospital of Invalids,” said Zoe, “when my attentions were required by a youth who was in a state of intense delirium. He raved, he shouted and wept; he entreated with all the eloquence of frantic excitement; and then upbraided with the unsocial energy of despair: but most conspicuous in all his ravings was the name of Lusa, which appeared to belong to some maiden by whom he was enamoured, who did not return his attachment. In his delirium he mistook me for the object of his passion, and by turns praised me as the kindest of all created beings, and upbraided me as the most cruel of my sex. To such an extent did these paroxysms arrive, that, unless some plan was put into operation which would lessen the excitement under which he laboured, there appeared no hopes of saving his life. I knew nothing of him or of his history; and I knew as little of Lusa and of the cause which prevented their mutual happiness; but there was no doubt that the indifference of the maiden had created the malady which threatened the youth’s life; and I felt convinced, that if I could make him imagine that a mutual sympathy existed, a healthy action would ensue, and a recovery follow. Being addressed as Lusa, I thought it would be advisable, under the character thus imposed upon me, to give the sufferer hopes of a more blissful termination to his affections; and, therefore, I cautiously and kindly made him imagine that the heart he thought so unrelenting had been subdued by a wish to alleviate his sufferings. You will pardon me this deception, dear father, as it was done to save a life which might be made valuable to the community.”
“There was nothing wrong in it, Zoe; and these are deceptions that not only become necessary, but are not to be avoided without inhumanity,” said the father.
“The youth listened to me as if there was the power of life and death upon my lips,” continued Zoe; “every word seemed to sink into his heart: his frenzy became subdued; the feverish fire fled from his eyes—he grew calm, and blessed me with a fervour impossible to be described. After this he fell into a profound sleep. Then I found myself placed in a difficult and distressing position. I knew, that when he woke, he would discover the deception that had been practised upon him, and I feared that the result would be a relapse, from which there could be no recovery. While I was vainly endeavouring to conceive some plan by which I might escape from the embarrassing situation in which I was placed, a young and handsome female entered that portion of the hospital in which my duties were performed. She approached me, and inquired after the health of the patient committed to my charge. She did not tell me who she was, and I imagined her to be a relative. I therefore acquainted her with the exact state of the case; and related the way in which I had discovered the origin of his malady. I described to her the distressing situation in which I had placed myself by the deception I had practised, as I knew, that on his awaking, he must discover how cruelly he had been imposed upon. I had noticed during my recital that the maiden had appeared confused, had looked distressed, anxious, and full of sympathy for the sufferer; but I was not prepared for the avowal she made when I had told her all I had to communicate. She was Lusa.”
“And how did you manage to arrange the matter, my Zoe?” inquired Sophos.
“I immediately made an appeal to her sympathies,” replied his daughter. “I described to her the positive danger in which the youth was placed by her indifference—and endeavoured to awaken her feelings to a sense of the pleasures she would be storing for herself if she resolved upon rescuing him from the perils by which he was threatened. She replied that he was amiable and good, and had given her no cause for her apparent unkindness; but that she had not loved him in return for his affections, because he had excited in her no similar feeling; and, that hearing of his danger, her heart had been filled with tenderness, and that she had come to the hospital for the express purpose of endeavouring to tranquillise his mind with happier thoughts. This confession rejoiced me more than I can possibly express; and I bade her take my place at his bedside, while I remained at a distance to notice the effect her appearance would have upon him when he awoke. I had not waited long before I observed his head move on the pillow. His eyes looked clearer—his countenance calm and intelligent.
“‘Is it a dream?’ he said, as his gaze wandering round fell upon the blushing face of his Lusa. The look with which she answered the question seemed to have subdued him.
“‘Lusa!’ he murmured, as he gazed upon her with a kindling eye and quivering lip. ‘Lusa, my beloved! My soul is on my lips—let me bless you! My hope, my guide, my consolation! the very breath of my being—the aim and glory of my dreams! in all earnestness, in all sincerity, and in all love, I bless you; and may the blessing I confer remain upon you, gladden the atmosphere you breathe, and fill with beauty every scene upon which you gaze!’
“Lusa’s eyes were filled with tears; and bending her head down to his face, her lips rested upon his. She then moved away her head to conceal her tears; and, taking his hand in hers, she talked to him of hope and happiness; and assured him that she would endeavour to return the affection he had lavished on her so liberally. To this he made no reply. She looked upon his face and saw that his eyes were fixed and glassy. A scream brought me to her side; and, gazing in fear and pity, we discovered that he was dead.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Zabra.
“He died happy,” observed Sophos, “and his life had been blameless: there is nothing dreadful in such a dissolution. I should say that, under such circumstances, Death was robbed of all his terrors. The heart of the affectionate youth was too full; he died of excessive happiness; his breath passed away in a blessing, and his soul took flight in a caress. Is there any other way of passing from existence which, to a lover, could afford so much and so true an enjoyment?”
“I should think not,” here remarked Zoe’s betrothed. “It appeared as if all the happiness of his existence had been concentrated into one moment, and that its intensity destroyed him.”
“He was young,” said the matron; “and in youth, when the soul is attached to one object, though there be no return to the passion, and no hope except what the lover creates, he will love the more, the more despairing becomes his attachment. As the individual acquires experience, he loves more wisely; or, perhaps, I might say, he becomes more selfish: he thinks of himself much more than his passion; and an instance of devotion without a return is rarely, if ever, met with beyond the period of youth. Manhood is prouder—age more cautious; and as life passes on, the impulses which might have been wakened by a breath are not to be stirred even by a whirlwind.”
“Whence go you when you leave our shores?” inquired Sophos of the young merchant, as if desirous of changing the conversation.
“I pass from here to Constantinople; and from there, after touching at some of the principal ports in Europe, I intend visiting the classic shores of England;” replied Oriel.
“’Tis an interesting voyage,” observed his host; “especially your intended visit to the English shores: it is an ancient country, and to the philanthropist is connected with many associations that make it regarded with peculiar interest. The brightest page in her book of honour records the efforts she made to extinguish the slave trade throughout the world. It was a great boast of the Englishmen of those days, that a slave, as soon as he set his foot upon the honoured land of England, became a free man.”
“And look at the efforts it made for the regeneration of every other country;” added Fortyfolios. “For how long a period did it take the lead in civilisation! Its learning enriched the whole world; its manufactures produced clothing for almost every people by whom clothing was required; and its mechanical improvements conferred wealth and power on every nation that adopted them.”
“But the picture to be true to nature requires a little shadow, don’t you see;” observed the doctor. “There are some accounts of cruelty, and oppression, and bigotry, which ought to find a place in their history. We must not forget the manner in which they acquired their possessions in India; the tyranny and slaughter they introduced among the natives of Southern Africa; the infamous system of slavery they encouraged in the West Indies; and the destructive and unjust warfare they waged with their colonists in America.”
“Although I cannot defend the manner in which the English acquired new territory abroad,” said the professor; “when I compare it with the more savage policy of the Spaniards, the Portuguese, the Dutch, the French, and other nations who endeavoured to add to their possessions by conquering distant lands and massacring the natives, I think England comparatively blameless. Their behaviour to the Africans in the interior of the Cape of Good Hope was produced by the colonists they found there, not by the colonists they introduced there; the evils of West Indian slavery ought to be forgotten in consideration of their constant efforts to ameliorate the conditions of their own slaves, and the great sacrifices they made to put down slavery in every part of the world; and their treatment of their colonists in America should only be remembered as the cause—the glorious cause—which created one of the most important empires that ever existed upon the face of the globe.”
“There are certainly a few blots upon the fame of this great people,” remarked Sophos; “but the good they effected—a good which is enjoyed by every portion of the civilised world at this moment—was attempted on so grand a scale, and produced such magnificent results, that, in justice, we ought not to look too narrowly upon their errors. And now, Zoe, as the strangers are about to visit the shores of England, endeavour to delight them, as you have done me, with that ancient song which appears to be so great a favourite of yours.”
“I will, O my father, if you will ask Alcibiades to join me; for it is more fit for his voice than for mine;” replied Zoe.
“Alcibiades does not require an invitation, dear Zoe, for so delightful a purpose;” said the youth, looking all that his words expressed.
With rich harmonious voices that blended together with exquisite effect, and with a manner so expressive that it stirred the hearts of those around them to feelings of the most intense gratification, the two commenced the following song:—
“Hurra for merry England, the island of the blest,
Where gen’rous thoughts, and loving hopes, are nursed in ev’ry breast;
Where valleys green, and mountains high, and rivers strong and deep,
Are fill’d with blissful memories Time cannot set to sleep.
Hurra for merry England! Confusion on her foe!
And gladness shine upon her homes—for merry England ho!
“Hurra for mighty England! the island of the brave!
Whose conquering flag hath waved its pride o’er ev’ry shore and wave;
From eastern hills arose the sun, he kiss’d the western streams,
And still he found that English swords were flashing in his beams.
Hurra for mighty England! Destruction on her foe!
And triumph dwell within her hearts—for mighty England ho!
“Hurra for noble England! the island of the free!
Where coward souls and slavish minds were never known to be;
Who, proudly as they look’d upon their own unfetter’d gains,
Gave other lands their bravery, and dash’d away their chains.
Hurra for noble England! Dishonour on her foe!
And glory rest upon her lands—for noble England ho!”
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
Transcriber’s Note
The cover of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
A table of Contents has been added.
Some punctuation errors have been corrected silently. Inconsistent use of quotation marks in some parts of the book has not been changed.
The following corrections have been made, on page
31 “immemediately” changed to “immediately” (the stranger, immediately stopping in his career)
55 “exexception” changed to “exception” (with the exception of the one you have)
118 “hyprocrisy” changed to “hypocrisy” (’Tis all hypocrisy!)
197 “incompent” changed to “incompetent” (utterly incompetent to appreciate their merits)
207 “wetches” changed to “wretches” (if I have killed these poor wretches).
Otherwise the original was preserved, including archaic and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation.