The Siberian Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER XII.
The merchant proceeded to relate the story which he had promised, and which we shall call
THE RIVAL MESSENGERS.
In the days of the famous Genghis Khan, there was one of his princes who ruled over a province at a great distance from the seat of government; and he had, at a certain time, occasion to send a messenger to the king, who was then there. The purpose of the message was to communicate some gratifying intelligence, in relation to the conquest of a province of Persia; and the prince knew that whoever should be the bearer of the pleasant tidings, was sure to receive some distinguished mark of royal favor.
In order to provide against the chance of miscarriage, it seemed necessary to despatch two messengers, and by different routes—one of them leading through a pleasant and peaceful country, the other passing over mountainous regions, inhabited by hostile and warlike tribes.
It was a desirable, though a dangerous mission, and many of the young men of the court and the army, hoped the choice might fall on them. It was, at last, decided that the only son of the prince should be one of the messengers, and that he should take the safer and easier route; and that a young officer, the son of a peasant, should be the other, and proceed by way of the mountains. They were soon ready and departed upon their expedition, each being provided with a swift courser, and attended by four well-mounted men, skilled in all the arts of war and horsemanship.
Phalax, the son of the prince, had taken leave of his friends with a haughty confidence of reaching the seat of government before his rival. He not only had an easier and safer route, but he was, in fact, better mounted; his horse was of the famous hollow-backed breed, of King Solomon, and far-famed for his fleetness and endurance. His companions, too, were of the proudest chivalry of Mongolia, all of noble blood, and were in the full flush of youthful manhood. Nothing could exceed the splendor of their equipages, the impatience of their chargers, and the gallant bearing of their riders.
Abdael, the other messenger, was well mounted upon a horse of a celebrated Tartar stock—but the animal was of a humbler line, and of less imposing qualities than the horse of Phalax. His attendants, too, were common soldiers, though of tried valor and long experience.
As the two parties set forth from the palace of the prince, there was a shout among the populace—some calling out, “Phalax! Phalax!” and others, though very few, “Abdael! Abdael!” The superior beauty and splendor of the prince’s party dazzled and pleased the eyes of the unthinking rabble, who are apt to look only at the outside of things; beside, they had been taught to look upon those of noble blood with respect; and, more than all, mankind are apt to be on the side which seems to be that of power, and likely to obtain success. It was for these reasons that the greatest portion of the spectators, cheered Phalax, while only a few, who reflected more justly, encouraged Abdael, the more humble and modest of the rival messengers.
As Phalax was about to depart, his princely father beckoned him to his side, and whispered in his ear a single word—“Success and glory, my son! may the Father of light bless thee!”—It was almost at the same moment, that an old man stood at the side of Abdael. He was evidently poor, for his garments betokened it—but he was still of a respectable mien. “Give me thine ear, Abdael,” said he. The young man bent in his saddle. “The chances are against thee, my boy, for the prince has, in his heart, designed thy ruin, and his son’s triumph; yet there is one thing thou canst do.” “What is it, my father?” said Abdael. “Thy duty”—was the reply. “It shall be done!” said the young man; and he rode away.
Thus the messengers set forth, guided by different counsels, and influenced by different motives. Phalax was impelled by the thought of glory and triumph; Abdael, by a sense of duty. The issue of the story will show that the first is a wavering principle, beaming brightly for a time, like a full lamp, but soon exhausted, and finally going out at the moment of utmost need; while the other is like a heaven-set star, ever in the same place, and ever leading its votary on in the straight and narrow path of wisdom and safety.
Phalax and his companions dashed on with great ardor, taking the road that led through a series of beautiful valleys. The first day, they travelled with the utmost rapidity and diligence, and at evening found themselves far advanced in their journey; but, on the morrow, they were all stiff and sore; and the horses were not a little jaded. The next day, they went but a short distance, and stopped for the night at a little village. Near by, was the palace of a prince, who, hearing of their arrival, invited them to come and see him. Now, the young men knew that this prince was a great hypocrite, and that, under the guise of friendship to the Khan, he nourished the most deadly hostility. Prudence would have dictated a polite refusal of the invitation, but they were anxious to enjoy the luxuries of the palace: so they said, “This act of the prince is too gracious a piece of courtesy to be slighted;” and, therefore, they went to the palace. Here they were entertained with great splendor. A rich banquet was provided, with music and wine, and dancing, and other festivities.
The young men entered heartily into the pleasures of the scene. Phalax drank deeply—and when he was about to put another goblet to his lips, one of his more discreet companions said, in a whisper, “Beware! remember your message—remember your father’s counsel—‘glory and success.’”
“You are a fool,” said Phalax, already partially intoxicated; “I’m not so much a dastard as to take a dastard’s advice;” and saying this, he drank off the goblet, and, in a short time, fell stupified beneath the table.
While this was the state of the leader of the party, the rest were little better. They drank deeply, and, passing into the gardens, where were walks, and fountains, and flowers, and everything to delight the senses, they spent the remainder of the night in dissipation.
It was not till late the third day after the scene we have described, that Phalax and his friends awoke from the deep sleep into which they fell, after their dissipation; for the wine they had drunk, had an infusion in it of a sleepy drug. This had been contrived by the command of the deceitful prince, who, under pretence of hospitality, took this method of thwarting the purpose of the messengers.
Thus Phalax and his party lost two entire days, yet they did not know it. When they recovered, they had their horses saddled, and set out again on their journey. But they were all weary, enfeebled, and out of humor. For some time, they rode on in silence. They then began to grumble at one thing and another. At last, the young man who had been insulted by Phalax at the table, spoke to him on the subject. The latter denied the truth of the charge, and insinuated that he never said what was imputed to him. The youth retorted: “Do you call me a liar?” said he. “I do,” said Phalax, fiercely. “You are a coward,” said the youth. “Let us prove it,” said Phalax, in a rage.
It was in vain that the other members of the party interfered to stop the quarrel. Phalax rode apart—brandished his spear, and challenged the offended youth to mortal combat. Quick as lightning, the latter rode forth, and whirling his weapon over his head, prepared for the attack.
The two were at the distance of a hundred yards, when, putting spurs to their steeds, they flew at each other, each with his spear in an attitude of deadly hostility. The horses met, and both riders were thrown to the earth. The spear of Phalax passed through the body of his antagonist—and the young man lay dying on the ground. Phalax was stunned, but otherwise unhurt. He soon arose, and went to the side of his dying companion: “Forgive me,” said he, “Oh, forgive me. I was drunk and scarcely knew what I said. I remember to have spoken improperly to you. Arise, my dear friend, and tell me you forgive me.” “It is in vain,” said the youth. “I forgive you, but I die.” Saying this, he breathed his last.
Phalax, being of royal blood, had been brought up to think that all mankind were made for princes, and might be used as their passions or pleasures should dictate. He did not feel, therefore, as if he had committed a great crime, or slain one who had the same rights with himself; he had only taken the life of an inferior. He, however, mourned for his friend, and felt much ashamed of his impetuosity and want of self-government. He said little, but determined to be more prudent in future. With this resolve he proceeded on his journey.
We cannot trace all the adventures of Phalax and his party. It is sufficient to say, that they were so confident of reaching the capital before their rivals, that they did not deem it necessary to be either prudent or industrious. They knew that the route of Abdael, was not only more difficult and dangerous, but more circuitous—and, besides all this—they believed that, even if their rival should deliver the message first, the Khan would bestow the honor upon Phalax, and his party, in consideration of their rank. And, finally, if even this should fail, and if, as they said among themselves, “the king should have such bad taste as to prefer a plebeian to a prince—why, at least we have noble blood in our veins; and that is an advantage we shall ever enjoy—Abdael cannot be a prince or a nobleman.”
Thus offering apologies for their negligence, and fortifying themselves in their folly, the party proceeded, forgetting the great object of their expedition in the indulgence of the various passions which tempted them by the way. It was the love of glory that had been presented to the imagination of Phalax, as the motive to action. This was a selfish passion, and gave way the moment another passion, a little stronger, took possession of the breast. The desire of ease, the desire of wine, the desire of dissipation, the desire of pleasure, often mastered the desire of glory, and made the young leader of the party forget this, and the means by which it was to be obtained. Besides all this, it must be remembered that in their debauchery at the prince’s palace, a deception had been practised upon them, and precious time had slipped, unreckoned, away, thus leaving them in a state of delusion.
We must now turn to Abdael and his companions. Soon after they set out, Malek, an old soldier, rode to his side, and said, “It is a hard lot, my young master, to have the longer route, and the more mountainous path; what do you intend to do?” “My duty, and trust in Heaven!” said Abdael. “I had no doubt of it,” said Malek, and, apparently satisfied, he rode on.
The party did not attempt to urge their horses. They proceeded slowly, but steadily, and stopped for the night, after having performed but a very moderate journey. The next day they did the same; and so on, the third and fourth day. The greatest care was taken of the horses at night; and the men were particular to avoid every species of excess. They abstained from wine altogether, for Abdael feared that they might be betrayed into indiscretion, or licentiousness. They were obliged to keep their arms constantly in hand, for they were surrounded with enemies.
It might have seemed, to a careless observer, rather a dull party, but if any one could have looked beneath their stern exterior, and have seen their hearts, he would have discovered a sober satisfaction there, arising from the consciousness of performing their duty; he would also, have seen, that even the dangers and difficulties which surrounded them, became sources of agreeable excitement.
Beside this, the feeling of mutual danger, and the necessity of mutual support, created a kindly feeling between the individuals; and thus they were in fact, like so many steadfast friends, united for common protection and defence. They were, therefore, cheerful and happy. They had little hope of reaching the capital in season to achieve a triumph over Phalax, but they had, at least the satisfaction of feeling that even in defeat, they would have the approbation of their own consciences, and, perhaps, obtain the respect of the king.
In a few days they reached rugged and precipitous mountains, and now the necessity of all their care, courage, and perseverance became obvious. The road wound amid deep and fearful valleys, crossed rapid streams, threaded wild passes, traversed ridges and peaks, which hung like curtains of everlasting rock, over the ravines below. Although it was summer, these lofty regions were covered with snow, and the wind was as keen and chill as winter.
Nor were the obstacles thus presented by nature, the only ones which beset the travellers. One day, as they were pursuing their route along the edge of a dizzy cliff, they saw a party of Tartars on horseback, at a little distance before them. They were about twenty in number, but as soon as they were remarked, they vanished. In a few minutes, however, they reappeared, some in front and some in the rear of the little party. On they came with the speed of a snow-drift, threatening to hurl Abdael and his friends over the precipice into the gulf beneath, by the fury of the onset. But the travellers were prepared; Malek and two soldiers turned back, and met the assailants in the rear, and Abdael and one of his friends, faced the enemy in front.
The Tartars came close up to Abdael, as if to push him from the path, but such was his steadiness and that of the man at his side, that the enemy recoiled, and stood still at a little distance. The leader then brandished his lance, and hurled it at Abdael. The latter received it upon his sloping shield, and glancing off, it cut the air downward into the glen. Abdael, in an instant, hurled his spear at his enemy, and, true to the mark, it entered the breast of the Tartar leader, who reeled in his saddle, fell from his horse and rolled over the cliff. His body bounded from rock to rock, and was lost to the sight in the grisly shadows of the ravine!
This fearful scene took place in view of both parties, and such was the panic created in the Tartar troops, that they immediately took to flight. Abdael and his men now proceeded. In the evening, and at the foot of the mountain, they reached a small town situated in a lovely valley. Though the snow-capped peaks were so near, yet every species of lovely flower was in bloom, and the most luscious fruits hung ripe from the stem. Here they had many invitations to stay and participate in the pleasures of the place, but Abdael remained no longer than was necessary for rest, and refreshment to his men and their beasts.
He had not proceeded far from the town we have mentioned, when the Prince of the Valley, who had heard of his arrival, sent messengers to meet Abdael, and ask him to spend a few days at his palace. The young traveller conceived it necessary, as a mark of courtesy, to call upon the prince; and accordingly, he and his party went to the palace, and caused their arrival to be announced. They were received with due ceremony, and urged to stay a few days. “May it please your royal highness,” said Abdael, “I am but a plebeian, and my companions are common soldiers. They are worthy men—but more fit for battle and foray than for the presence of a prince. I, therefore, pray your highness to hold us excused from an honor too great for such as we are.”
“Thou art a wise youth,” said the prince, “and I suspect there is much pride beneath thy humility of speech. However, thou shall have thy way, only let thy men come and partake of the feast we have provided.”
Abdael bowed, and the men came in. They sat down to the table, which was spread with every luxury the nicest palate could desire. The travellers were worn and weary, and they had now subsisted for a long time on the coarsest food; but, taking example from Abdael, they ate sparingly of the simplest articles, and avoiding the sparkling wines, they drank water only. This was noticed by the prince, who spoke in an offended tone to Abdael; “I am sorry, young soldier, that the wine pleases thee not.”
“Forgive me, prince,” said Abdael, courteously—“it is not that I distrust the quality of the wine—but, we are humble men, and have little to boast of but our wits. Now, wine is a great thief, and should it steal our wits away, we should be poor, indeed. It is only those who are noble, and have something better than their brains to boast of, that can afford to drink wine and run the risk of losing their senses!”
“By my beard!” said his royal highness, “this is a bold fellow: you curmudgeons are too wise to make fools of yourselves, and therefore you leave that to princes and nobles! Upon my word, this is courtly speech! But, young man, perhaps you suspect the wine to be drugged.”
“There is no need of suspicion of the wine to him who has foresworn the cup!” said Abdael.
“I am fairly answered,” said the prince. Soon after, the feast was finished, and the strangers were about to take their leave. “A word with thee,” said the prince, to Abdael; and taking him aside, he spoke as follows: “Your conduct, young soldier, has impressed me favorably; may I ask an honest answer to an honest question?”
“Surely,” said Abdael.
“I see that thou hast some charm which gives thee wisdom above mankind in general. Wilt thou tell me what it is that thus guides thee, and makes thee superior to other men; which, indeed, makes a young soldier the master of a prince who is famous for his craftiness?”
“A father’s counsel,” was the reply.
“And who is thy father?” said the prince.
“A poor peasant of Parthia.”
“And what is this magic counsel of which thou speakest?”
“It lies in few words—do thy duty.”
“Indeed! And is this the simple exposition of a riddle that I could not solve? And yet I feel it to be true. Young man, thy father, however poor, is happy—and may well be the envy of a prince. He can give wise counsel, and he possesses a son who can follow it. I confess that thou and he have this day taught me a lesson: I owe thee something, and I will pay the debt by frankness. Thy father’s advice, and thine own steadfast fidelity have secured thy life, and that of thy companions. There was a poison in that wine, that had proved mortal to him whose lips had tasted it. I say this to encourage thee in thy career of virtue; for however, being a prince, I may seek to destroy my enemies by poison, as is my privilege, I can still perceive virtue and approve of it, in others.”
Abdael departed, and, with his companions, proceeded on his journey. They travelled with great industry, but such were the difficulties they encountered, that their progress was not rapid. They were sustained, however, by hope, and seemed actually to derive energy from the obstacles that beset them. They were usually in health; all their faculties were in full exercise; their limbs and their minds were vigorous and active. They were also cheerful; when there was no pressing occasion for circumspection, the laugh and the joke went round, and they were all the better, that they were excited by that kind of wit which springs from knowledge and experience. Their very adventures and dangers became to them the fruitful sources of pleasing and lively reflections.
It was at the end of a month that Abdael reached the capital. This was a short time for performing the journey, and seldom, if ever, had it been accomplished in so brief a space: but still, he had every reason to suppose that Phalax had arrived before him, and that he was going to a scene rather of humiliation than triumph. He entered the city with a beating heart. His companions, as well as himself, were silent. They went straight to the palace, and found Phalax and his party there. They had arrived about an hour before, and Abdael met them in the hall of entrance, waiting an audience.
Phalax was admitted first; Genghis received his message, and heard his story. “You have been a long time,” said the king, “in performing your journey. Was no other messenger despatched?”
“Yes, sire,” said Phalax, “Abdael was sent by the route of the mountains.”
“Has he arrived?” said the king.
“This moment,” was the reply.
“You arrived first?” said the king.
“I did, sire,” said Phalax.
The young prince was now dismissed, and as he passed Abdael in the hall, he darted upon him a look of insolent triumph. The latter was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. He told his story briefly and modestly, and took his leave. The next day, the two young men were summoned before the Khan. As both stood in his presence, the king noticed the calm but modest demeanor of Abdael, and contrasted it with the evident doubt and fear, which lay beneath a veil of assurance, upon the face of Phalax. At last, Genghis spoke as follows:
“I have seen your companions, young gentlemen, and learned the history of your adventures from them. Phalax reached the city first, but only by an hour; yet his route was the easier by at least a fortnight. Let him remember that success is not the evidence of merit. He arrived before his rival, yet he neglected his duty, and violated his trust; nay, more—he has exalted himself in his own account, beyond the truth: besides, he has come with one of his party missing—and he has not dared to tell the reason!”
The king looked keenly at the young prince—who first reddened, then turned pale, and finally kneeled before the king. “Speak not!” said Genghis, sternly—“I know it all; it had been better for thee, if thou hadst not glossed over thy madness and folly, for confession may palliate, if it cannot excuse, guilt. Thy doom is perpetual banishment! Abdael, thou hast done nobly; not only hast thou excelled in prudence, energy, and devotion to thy duty, but thou hast excelled in modesty also. In thy brief and simple story, thou hast rather hidden than exaggerated, thine own merits; it shall be mine to make them known. I hereby make thee a captain of my guard.” Saying this, the monarch hung a rich sash of silk, glittering with costly jewels, around Abdael’s neck, as a mark of his special favor.
“And now, tell me, my friend,” said the king, “how is it that thou hast performed such worthy deeds, and set so good an example?”
“By following the advice of a good and wise father,” said Abdael.
“Send for him,” said the king, “he shall be the steward of my household. Is there anything else thou wouldst desire?”
“One thing, sire,”—said Abdael, with a subdued voice.
“Name it,” said the king.
“That thou wouldst recall thy sentence of banishment against Phalax.”
“For what good reason dost thou make this request?”
“He has been less fortunate than myself: while I have been nursed in adversity, hardened by toil, trained by necessity to self-denial and self-government, he has been bred at the court and treated with indulgence; while I enjoyed wholesome lessons of prudence and wisdom, enforced by poverty, he has been seduced, by the false tongue of flattery, and the deceitful allurements of riches and pleasure. Let me ask forgiveness, then, oh king, for the errors of youth, occasioned by the misfortune of his noble birth and exalted station.”
“This is strange, indeed,” said the king; “that wealth and rank, and power are looked upon, by a plebeian, as misfortunes, which are to excuse wickedness and folly; and yet, I can hardly gainsay it. Abdael, thy request is granted: Phalax is restored—he shall be of thy troop, a private under thee, and it shall be thy duty to teach him the art of self-government. But not till he has shown, by his own example, that rank and fortune may rather bless than curse the possessor, shall I consent to see him at court. Farewell!”
This story was told in an interesting manner, by the merchant, and all present listened to it with attention; but Alexis was attracted by something in the speaker, which he could not readily explain. The voice, the manner, and the looks of the merchant, now seemed familiar to him, or, at least, he felt assured that he had seen him before; but when or where, he could not divine.
The dinner party soon broke up, but the eyes of Alexis followed the merchant so closely that the latter observed it. Coming near to the young man, he said in an under-tone, “You know me—yet you do not know me.”
“True,” said Alexis; “I feel sure that we have met before—but I cannot tell upon what occasion; will you be so kind as to help me out of my perplexity?”
“And myself into a greater difficulty, ha! What is the penalty which the emperor bestows upon an exile, who dares to return to his country?”
“It is death—inevitable death!”
“And yet you wish Count Zimsky, the hermit of the banks of the Lena—the man who dug you out of the snow, and saved your life—to confess that he has smuggled himself on board of a Russian ship of war, and goes to St. Petersburgh to beard the emperor in his palace!”
“Yes, yes,” said Alexis, in profound astonishment—for he now recognised the hermit—“I understand you; I know you; but I must not seem to recognise you. Alas, alas, my dear sir, to what certain peril do you expose yourself! you not only violate the edict of your banishment, but will it not heighten your offence, that you take passage in a government ship, under this disguise?”
“No doubt; but the desperate man, has nothing to fear. I prefer death and torture, to exile in Siberia. I have determined to go to St. Petersburgh, to face the emperor, and let him do with me as he pleases.” At this point of the interview, the parties were interrupted.
CHAPTER XIII.
While the ship continued steadily on her voyage, Alexis found abundant sources of amusement. It might seem that being shut up in a ship was a kind of imprisonment, but our young Sable-Hunter did not feel it to be so. He often talked with Suvarrow, of Tobolsk, of home, of his father, and, above all, of his sister. Upon this latter subject, Suvarrow did not say much, but he spoke in such terms of tender interest as at once to bind the young officer to his heart, and, at the same time, to assure him that he was sincerely attached to Katrina.
The disguised merchant often took occasion to converse with Alexis, and while he cautioned him to keep his secret, he spoke of his plans and wishes. “I desire,” said he, “once more to see the princess Lodoiska; I desire to bid her farewell; and then I am ready to lay my head on the block, if the emperor wishes to take my life. At all events, death, imprisonment, the rack—anything is preferable to Siberia. To live in that chill, lonely, desolate exile; to waste, drop by drop, the blood of life; to see existence creep away with the slow ticking of the clock; to gnaw one’s own heart in very anguish—is what I cannot and will not endure. I will see the princess—and then I will go to the emperor; I will tell him that I once saved his life; and now, if he chooses, he may take mine as a compensation?”
Alexis was almost awed by the energy and firmness of the Polish nobleman; yet he looked upon his present enterprise as little better than courting death. One thing led him to hope for better things: he had sent the sable-skins designed for the princess, to Katrina, requesting her to see them forwarded to Petersburgh. This, he had no doubt, would be done; and, as it contained evidence that Count Zinski was still living and entertained the deepest affection for the princess, he fancied, with the fond ardor of a youthful mind, that she would be incited to obtain his pardon.
Intent upon gathering knowledge, Alexis listened to the various observations of the officers of the ship, several of whom were intelligent men; and as Japan naturally became the subject of discourse, while, for several weeks, they were sailing near the Japanese islands, he learnt a good deal about it. One day, one of the officers told him the following story:
“The people of Japan, like many other nations, pretend that their nation has existed for ages, and they tell of rulers that lived millions of years ago. Yet they were entirely unknown to Europe, till discovered by the Portuguese navigators, who were the first to explore that portion of the world. The government of Portugal was then eager to take advantage of intercourse with these eastern nations, and, accordingly, they sent ships and ambassadors to Japan. They also despatched missionaries to introduce the Catholic religion into that country.
“At first these were kindly received, and, in the space of sixty years, about one half of the whole empire was converted to Christianity. Had the Europeans conducted wisely, they might have effected the complete introduction of Christianity into Japan, and the permanent establishment of intercourse between that country and other civilized nations of Europe. But, instead of that, their conduct was licentious, and they meddled, improperly, in political matters. Accordingly, in 1617, the missionaries were banished forever from the country, and the Japanese, who had become Christians, were subjected to the most cruel persecution. These were continued for forty years, and several millions of people were sacrificed to the fury of the storm. It is a story of this persecution that I am now going to tell you.
“It was long after the missionaries had been banished, that there lived a rich Japanese merchant in the great city of Jesso. This is on the island of Niphon, and the capital of the empire. It contains as many inhabitants as London, but the houses are generally small.
“The name of this merchant was Nanky; he was greatly esteemed for his good character, his kindness to the poor, and his observance of all the duties of religion and society. His wealth was almost boundless. It is true, he had no ships, for the Japanese have little commerce on the sea, their vessels being small and only able to creep along the margins of their own islands. But he owned vast landed estates, and as the cultivation of the soil is the most honorable occupation there, he chose to be called a farmer, and brought up his only son to that occupation.
“This young man, named Sado, was now about twenty years old, and lived upon a fine estate situated in a valley, called Noorki, at the foot of Mount Fusi. This is the loftiest peak in all Japan, and its top is so high as to be always covered with snow. The estate of young Sado, however, had a warm and delightful climate; in winter it was not so cold as to injure the orange trees, and in midsummer, the breezes came down from the top of old Fusi with a refreshing coolness. Here the young man dwelt, beloved and respected by all around.
“At a little distance from the valley Of Noorki, lived a nobleman by the name of Gasaki. Like many of the nobles of Japan, he was poor and proud. He pretended to be of celestial origin, his remote ancestors being, as he claimed, divine beings.
“He dwelt in a castle, once of great strength, but now in a ruinous condition. He, however, affected all the pomp and circumstance of the loftiest peer; he collected his taxes and enforced his authority on all the people around him with severity; and required the utmost nicety of etiquette to be observed by all who came to his castle. It is true, that, with all this pretence, his celestial descent, his ancient castle, and his great authority, Gasaki was obliged to carry on a manufactory of baskets and varnished boxes, to increase his scanty income and supply his necessities. This, however, was done as secretly as possible, and no one was permitted to allude to the circumstance.
“Gasaki had two children, a son named Lofo, and a daughter named Soonki. The former was now required to live at Jeddo, in the palace of the Cobi, or king of Japan, as a hostage, to ensure the good conduct of his father towards the government: it being understood that if Gasaki should do anything to offend the king, Lofo must die. Such is the custom of Japan, and all the chiefs or nobles are thus obliged to keep a part of their families at court, as hostages, and pledges for their good behavior.
“Now Soonki was one of the most beautiful girls that ever was seen; and as women in Japan have as much freedom as among us, she often met young Sado, whose estate was near her father’s castle. They accordingly became well acquainted, and in time they loved each other very tenderly.
“I must tell you that near the foot of Mount Fusi was a shaded glen, in which were a number of deep and dark caves. Into one of these, a Catholic priest had retired during the persecutions, and here he had continued to dwell. Only a few persons knew of his residence there; these were some who still held the Christian faith. It was necessary for them to cover their opinions with the utmost secrecy, for exposure, or suspicion even, would have subjected them to cruel torture and agonizing death.
“Among these followers of the hermit priest, was one of the seven wives of Gasaki and she was the mother of Soonki. She had carefully educated her daughter in her own faith, and more than once, they had both stolen to the glen and held religious interviews with the now aged and decrepit father. It seems to be a fact that a religious faith is only loved the more, if it bring danger and trial upon its votary; and therefore the youthful maiden received the faith of the cross with all the fervor of youth, and all the devotion of a martyr.
“It was not long after the acquaintance between young Sado and Soonki had commenced, before he avowed his affection, and asked her hand in marriage. She replied evasively at first, and then stated that a fatal obstacle to their union existed. Sado urged her to explain, but for a long time she refused. At last she confessed the fact that she was a Christian. Sado was shocked, and for a time the intercourse of the lovers was suspended; it was, however, renewed; the cause of separation became the topic of discussion, and, under the tutelage of Soonki, Sado became a Christian. He was also accepted by her as her lover. He now applied for the consent of the haughty father, and received the following reply:
“‘Is it possible, that a young man, whose father is a merchant, should hope to match himself with a maiden who is descended through ten thousand generations from the immortal Tensio Dai Sir? Have you, whose name is but of yesterday, the audacity to ask to ally yourself with a family that ranks among its members the many-headed idol Quanwan; Amida, the judge of departed souls; Temacco, the keeper of the door of the damned, and Driso, the commander in chief of purgatory? Young man, you aspire to an honor of which peers and princes might be proud: but sir, I am not only a peer of Japan, with the oldest and best blood of the empire in my veins, but I am a father. Soonki is my only daughter, and she rules my heart. She says her happiness is allied to yours: take her and make her blest!’ The old man now made sixteen stately bows, nearly to the ground, and backed himself out of the room, as is the custom of Japan. Sado retired, and Gasaki was left rubbing his hands with delight to think that his daughter was to wed the richest youth living in sight of old Fusi’s lofty peak.
“Gasaki was so much elated that he determined to make a pilgrimage to Meaco, a famous city, where are a great many temples, and where the Dairi, the spiritual chief of the empire, resides. He was very anxious to swell his retinue, for a Japanese peer is estimated according to the number of his followers. Both Soonki and Sado sought to avoid this expedition, but the chief insisted on their going, and required Sado also to muster as many of his own men as possible, and to join his train. This being done, they set out with about four thousand people. Couriers were despatched to go before the company, and engage lodgings and provisions at the taverns, which are numerous along the road.
“The chief persons of the party, as Gasaki, several of his wives, his daughter, Sado and others, rode in small carriages drawn by oxen, buffaloes, or little horses. There were no asses, camels, mules, or elephants, for these are not used in Japan. The train was attended by thousands of dogs, which are held almost sacred by the Japanese; and left to their own pleasure, they barked, howled, snapped and fought with each other, making such a din as almost to drown every other sound. Add to this the lowing of the oxen and buffaloes, the neighing of the little horses, the gabble of the men and women, and the prayers and petitions of thousands of beggars that lined the road, and you may imagine the turmoil and confusion of the scene.
“The road on which they travelled was of great width, and nicely fenced; on all sides, the lands seemed burthened with the richest crops of vegetation. Every inch of ground was cultivated like a garden; even the steep hill sides were supported with terraces, yielding their harvest of fruits.
“As the pilgrims moved along, they met other parties returning, some from Meaco, and some from Isje, the seat of the temple of Tensio Dai Sir, the chief of the celestial spirits. It might seem strange that so many thousand people, passing and repassing, could find support: but it must be understood that in Japan they reject meat, milk, butter and cheese; and live, with wonderful frugality, upon vegetables alone.
“Gasaki and his party at last arrived at Meaco, and proceeded to the great temple of Fokosi. This is a vast edifice, one thousand feet in length, paved with squares of white marble, adorned with a hundred columns of cedar, and having a colossal idol of Budda, eighty feet in height. Having performed their religious services here, the party went to the temple of Kwanwan, and paid their reverence to the goddess of thirty-three hands, and the little deities arranged on shelves, of which there are thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three.
“Having spent some time at Meaco, which is a vast city, twice as large as New York, and the centre of Japanese trade; and having not only performed their religious ceremonies, but paid all due obeisance to the Dairi, the spiritual king of Japan, Gasaki and his vast retinue returned home. All had passed off well, and the old chief was delighted, particularly as Sado had paid the expenses of the expedition, and, by his liberality, had even left some broad pieces of gold unexpended in his treasury.
“But events soon occurred to darken the prospects of Gasaki and those who were connected with him. A few days after his return from Meaco, a messenger arrived from the Dairi, commanding his immediate presence at Meaco. The chief was alarmed, for he knew that such a summons portended danger; yet he dared not refuse obedience. He went accordingly, and was immediately conducted to the Dairi’s palace. This place was itself like a town, it being of immense extent, surrounded with walls, and containing several thousand people. Gasaki was taken into the presence of the Dairi, who is a descendant of the ancient emperors, and who still claims the sovereignty of the empire. But the Cobi, having gradually usurped all political authority and power, the Dairi is only permitted to interfere in religious matters; but in these he is supreme.
“The Dairi immediately proceeded to accuse the chief of harboring Christianity in his family. This accusation struck him with horror, for he knew that no crime was equal to the faith of the cross. He therefore denied it, and challenged his accusers to adduce the proof. The Dairi then proceeded to state that his favorite wife Leos and her daughter Soonki as well as her betrothed lover, young Sado, were all observed to avoid trampling on the cross before the great temple of Fokosi, and also to omit many of the essential ceremonies of that holy temple.
“Gasaki grew pale, for he knew that in religious persecution, suspicion is as fatal as proof; and beside, he had himself noticed some peculiarities in the persons accused, which made him fear that the awful charge was true. But a Japanese chief never fails in courage and independence, he therefore declared his own innocence and expressed his hope, nay his confidence, that his wife and daughter as well as Sado, were all free from the imputed guilt. But this could not relieve the chief from suspicion; he was therefore ordered into prison, where he was chained, and confined in a dark room.
“Now it happened that in Meaco, and in the Dairi’s palace, and among his own servants, there were several persons, who still cherished, in secret, the religion of Christ. These soon learnt what was going forward, and they sent swift messages to Sado, communicating the tidings of what had taken place. He went immediately to Gasaki’s castle, and told Leos and her daughters of the appalling events. What was to be done? They knew that a mandate for their appearance at Meaco would soon come, and then nothing but torture and death could be their lot. Several plans were prepared, one of which was to fly and find safety with the hermit in the caverns of Fusi. But this would confirm the suspicions of the Dairi as to Gasaki, and he and his son were sure to be sacrificed. The fidelity of friendship in Japan, is true to the last—and after praying for divine aid, they went severally to their employments, determined to wait for events, and yield to the decrees of heaven.
“It was not long before the anticipated summons arrived, and Leos, Soonki, and Sado, being taken into custody, were escorted by a body of some twenty soldiers, mounted on horses, towards Meaco. It was now the latter part of August, and the heat was excessive, until the party began to wind through the ravines that lay at the foot of Mount Fusi. Here, sheltered by the overhanging cliffs, and refreshed by the breezes that came down to fan the heated lowlands, the party proceeded with a reluctant step, as if enchanted by the wild, yet lovely, scenes around. While they were still treading their way through the glen, a dark cloud began to gather over the top of Fusi, and the thunders to come muttering down its sides. The lightning was soon seen, darting from cliff to cliff, and the peals of thunder, growing louder and louder, seemed to shake the mountain to its very foundation.
“There is no part of the world where such fierce thunder storms are experienced as in Japan; and on the present occasion it seemed as if the elements were striving to display their utmost fury. The air grew dark, almost as night; the winds died away, save only an occasional gust that wrung the heavy trees, like so many wisps, and then left them still and silent. The lightning came flash on flash, and the thunder, peal on peal. The startled horses dashed away from their masters, and the trembling men stood horror-struck on the spot. Near by was a post with a board, having the appearance of a cross, but the board moved on a pivot, and was used by the Japanese as a praying machine; though in fact it stood before the hermit’s cave, and was looked upon by him as a cross. Several of the soldiers ran to this, and turned the board rapidly round, hoping to appease the angry deity of the mountain and the storm, by the abundance of their petitions; each revolution of the board being deemed a prayer!
“At last the rain began to fall, and the water came down the mountain in torrents: at the same time, the wind burst like a hurricane upon all around—the trees were dashed to the earth—the darkness thickened—there was a fearful roar. This lasted but a few moments, and the tempest was over. The soldiers, who had fallen to the ground, now rose and looked around. They were all unhurt—but where were the prisoners? Not one of them was to be seen. In vain did the soldiers examine the rocks around: in vain did they inspect the rivulet that now foamed and fretted at the bottom of the glen. They were gone, and no trace of them could be discovered. It was plainly a miracle; the accused were innocent, and the offended genius of Fusi had sent the storm, not only to rescue them, but to confound their accusers!
“The story was carried to the Dairi, by the soldiers. These were put to the torture; but as they all persisted in the same tale; and, moreover, as news soon came that Leos, Soonki, and Sado were all safely at home, as if nothing had happened, their account was believed, and their interpretation of the matter was adopted. Gasaki was set at liberty; a large deputation was sent to turn round the board at the foot of Fusi, thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three times, so as to ensure the pacification of the mountain god; and the whole matter ended. Soonki and Sado, who, with the mother of the former, had fled into the hermit’s glen, during the storm, were united in the Japanese fashion, the bride lighting a torch at the fire of one of the altars, and he lighting another at hers. They were afterwards married, according to the rules of the church, in the cave of the priest, and while they adhered to their Christian faith, they lived and died among the Japanese, as those who were under the guardianship of celestial beings.”
While the Russian officer was telling this tale, the mysterious merchant came up and listened to it with apparent interest. After it was finished, he said, “Your story of Japan reminds me of a Chinese legend, which, with your leave, I will tell. China, though often associated in the mind with Japan, is still a very different country. It is true that the Japanese appear to have sprung from the same stock as the Chinese; they have the same small, half-open eyes; the same soft and sleepy expression; the same yellow skin; and to some extent the same religion. But the government, manners and customs are very different. China has but one chief, and he is sole emperor; Japan has two—the Dairi, who is king in spiritual matters, and the Cobi, who is king in all other affairs. China has mandarins, who are considered noble, but they are wholly dependent on the emperor; the nobles of Japan live in strong castles, collect revenues of the people, claim the exclusive right to the soil, and assert their independence in many things. The Chinese are mean, cowardly, selfish and treacherous; the Japanese are frank, brave, friendly and faithful, preferring torture and death, to the betrayal or desertion of a friend. The Chinese have no honor, no self-respect; the Japanese are sensitive of their honor, keenly alive to disgrace, and, when sentenced to death, ask and obtain leave to plunge the deadly knife into their bowels, rather than to die by the hand of the executioner.
“To all this it may be added that while the policy of the Chinese has led them to exclude foreigners and avoid intercourse with foreign nations, the Japanese have only adopted this custom since the intrigues of the Portuguese and Dutch interfered in the affairs of their government, and led to the same jealous system which has attached to China for ages.
“But though there are so many points of difference between these two great nations, there is one in which they resemble each other: they both claim great antiquity, and furnish long lists of kings, who, if their historians are to be believed, existed some thousands of years before the world began. China is, doubtless, the oldest of Asiatic countries, and indeed their records go back, with pretty good authority, some two thousand years before Christ, when Yee, an emperor nine feet high, is said to have lived, and during whose sway, we are told that it rained gold for three days in succession. The Chinese wall, which is by far the greatest existing monument of human labor, was built more than two hundred years before Christ; it is fifteen hundred miles long, and in some places forty feet high. The stones of which it is composed, are sufficient to construct a wall seven feet in height around the entire world. A work so immense, proves that China was a vast empire long before Rome had reached the zenith of its power and splendor.
“It is not my purpose to relate the history of China; but these details are necessary as a preface to my story. It is matter of history that China, as well as Japan, was visited by Catholic missionaries, soon after these countries were discovered in the fifteenth century. Some of them penetrated to Pekin, and a considerable number of persons here were converted to Christianity. To this day there are Catholic missionaries in China, though, when they have once entered the country, they are doomed to continue there during their lives. There are also several thousand Chinese converts to Christianity, in different parts of the empire.
“Well, I must go back to the year 1625, when a holy father of the church was travelling in the district of Shensy, which lies on the border of Tartary. Here, at the foot of a range of lofty mountains flows a beautiful stream called Hoei-ho, a branch of the Hoan-ho, and situated upon its banks is a great city called Singan-fou. As the priest was approaching this place, he saw a temple or pagoda dedicated to the Chinese god Fo. It looked, at a little distance, like a steeple of four stories, with arched openings in each story, and the whole terminated by a conical point. It was built upon a slope of the mountain, at the foot of which swept the bright waters of the Hoei-ho. Immediately around, the scenery was peculiarly wild, while farther off all was art and cultivation. The city lay at a little distance, and covered a large space of the valley; while every elevation around it was occupied with villas, many of them exceedingly beautiful, and all kept in a state of perfect neatness.
“The holy father proceeded to ponder upon the scene, and to reflect upon the vastness and antiquity of an empire, which had attained so great a population, and reached such a pitch of civilization, as, even among the hidden and remote borders of Tartary, to present such a scene as this. While he was thinking of these things, the skies grew dark, and in the space of a few minutes the whole scene was shadowed with a thick thunder cloud, and large drops of rain began to fall. He therefore hastened forward, and took refuge in the temple I have before mentioned. He found it to be filled with all manner of images, bearing no small resemblance, in this and other respects, to a Catholic church in his own country.
“There was no person in the temple, and as the storm continued with great fury, the priest remained there for shelter, until at last the shadows of night began to fall around. It was soon quite dark, and the father saw that it was his lot to spend the night in the place. He therefore groped about till he found a sort of niche in the wall, sheltered from the blast, and here he sat down. His mind wandered from one thing to another, until, at last, he fancied himself at home, in his own country! A priest is, after all, a man, and has his affections as well as others. The idea of being once more in the land of his fathers, so engrossed his mind, that, when at last he fell asleep, his dreams were tissues woven out of the fond remembrances of father and mother, of brother and sister; of merry childhood, and ardent youth. Holy father as he was, he dreamed—though in his sleep he crossed himself—of a maiden whom he loved in his youthful days, and whose lips, in a moment of madness, met his own. His dream went on—he wooed the maiden; he won her heart; he asked her hand, and she gave her consent.
“Alas, that man should be thus cheated!—that a priest, who had sworn to take no wife to his bosom; to devote all his affections to the church; a Jesuit, who had forsaken his home forever; a missionary, who wandered in hopeless exile in a remote region of the earth; one who even now was crouching beneath the dark arches of a heathen temple, unknowing and unknown—alas, that such a being could be deluded, even in a dream, by scenes so improbable, so impossible, as these! But so it is—the priest’s heart had now painted upon it a bright picture of other days—and he yielded to the spell. He dreamed that he was about to be married—and to one he loved. He fancied that he and his bride had entered the church; they were at the altar; the music was pealing through the aisles and arches—when—he awoke! He crossed himself again and muttered several prayers; for the holy man felt it to be sinful for one of his profession even to dream of the pleasures of the world.
“But while he sat there crossing himself, real music, such as he had heard in his native land, and such as was unknown in China, came full and sweet upon his ears. He now looked abroad; the tempest had ceased, but amid the intense darkness, he saw lights flashing in the glen, and a procession moving slowly towards the temple. The priest rubbed his eyes, and shook himself, and then took a cord that was tied round his body, and thrashed it across his back smartly, to assure himself that he was fully awake. Still the music, soft, but sweet, came swelling toward the temple; the lights advanced, beaming brighter and brighter, and the procession moved steadily onward, through the gloom. The father was in a maze. ‘Is it a reality,’ said he mournfully, ‘or a fiction of the Evil One to tempt me to some mortal sin?’ While he was pondering upon this fearful question, the procession entered the temple; they proceeded to an arched recess on one side of the space, where, by the light of the torches, the father saw the dim outline of a cross, cut in bass-relief on the rock of the wall.
“There were two youthful figures in the party; one a female in white, and closely veiled; the other a young man, attired in the fashion of other climes. They knelt before the altar: a man who seemed a priest, read from a book. The youthful pair joined hands; the whole party now knelt; a fervent prayer was uttered by the priest, and the responses came from the numerous attendants. The torches were waved in the air; sweet music was diffused, and then a strain of music so deep, so sweet, so lovely, was poured forth, that the priest who all this time sat in his niche, in a sort of waking trance, found the tears streaming down his cheeks. In spite of his holy vows, his prayers, his penance, his heart was melted with the thoughts of home, brought back by this scene so much like the marriage rites of his native land. ‘And yet,’ said he to himself, ‘it is all an illusion. Even in this lone land, where I am lost to my country and my kindred, the devil has pursued me, and now seeks to seduce me; to turn my heart from my high purpose of scattering the seeds of Christianity in this mighty empire, by presenting the fond images of my early days—and thus sickening my heart with this desolate banishment, this weary exile. But he shall not triumph; I will wrestle like Jacob, I will prevail like Israel!’
“Saying this, the holy father crossed himself, counted his beads, and ran over his prayers. While he was thus occupied, the wedding party crossed the temple, and proceeded to a place in front of a hideous image of Fo, at least forty feet in height. It had a resemblance to a man overgrown with flesh, and besotted with indulgence. Seen in the waning light of the torches, the face had a horrid expression of vulgar mirth and satisfaction. The father looked at it, and fancied that it was laughing at him; he imagined that he could see the twinkle of triumph in his swinish eye, and a curl of derision upon his thick and brutish lip.
“It was an awful moment—and the priest paused. The party, at least a hundred in number, bowed in the Eastern fashion before the gigantic image, and proceeded to perform the marriage ceremony in behalf of the youthful couple, according to the heathen rites of the temple. ‘Alas! alas!’ said the priest—‘they taunt me with this infamous spectacle; they perform the holy rites of Christian marriage to tempt me to abandon my duty; and now they perform the wicked incantations of their heathen faith, to drive me from the land in despair. And behold that fearful image standing there, looking me in the face, and shaking his sides at my confusion! But the artifice shall fail.’—
“Saying this, the father leaped from his niche, and sprung at once into the very midst of the party. He lifted his arms to heaven, with a wooden cross in his hand, and exclaimed:—‘Avaunt—avaunt! ye spirits of darkness! in the name of the holy Catholic church, I bid you depart to the regions of the accursed. Down, down, Lucifer, and all your hosts!’
“All this was uttered in a hoarse and hollow voice—while the red blaze of the torch-light fell full upon the image of the priest—one arm lifted to heaven, and the other pointing downward; at the same time his face was haggard as death, and his eye wild as that of a demon. There was a single shriek of terror and surprise from the party, and then—they fled. The torches vanished in a moment; the music was hushed; the pageant gone. Darkness and stillness reigned around: the hideous image of Fo was invisible, and the holy father was left alone in the temple. In the morning, he departed on his way, assured that a miracle had been wrought by his hand; and confident that he was more than an overmatch for the Evil One, with all his arts and wiles. He pursued his career, and was one of those devoted and successful missionaries who planted the cross in China, where it still remains.
“But after all, it seems that the vision of the temple was a reality; for a few years after, another missionary, travelling in the vicinity of the temple of Sin-gan-fou, discovered a cross of stone, and an abstract of the Christian law, together with the names of seventy-two Nestorian preachers inscribed beneath the date, A. D. 640. On further inquiry, he found that a tradition existed among the people, that some foreigners, of fair hair and blue eyes, had visited China at the above date—and introduced a new and strange religion among the people. This still lingered in the country, though it was now generally mixed with the prevailing pagan worship of the land, and had imparted to the rites of Fo a curious resemblance to the ceremonies of the Romish Church.
“This, with some other facts, cleared up the miracle of the holy father, of which I have given an account. It seems that the Nestorians had still certain followers, who so far retained the traces of Christianity, as to perform some of its rites, while they were willing to place the religion of Fo on an equal footing. But as Christianity was not a popular or safe religion at the period of our story, they selected a dark and stormy night for the performance of a marriage ceremony, according to its creed.”
The fogs in England have been always complained of by foreigners. A Spanish ambassador told a friend who was going to Spain, to give his compliments to the sun, whom he had not seen since he had been in England. A Neapolitan minister used to say that the only ripe fruit he had seen in England were roasted apples; and he took the liberty of saying once, when conversing with the king, that he preferred the moon of Italy to the sun of England.
“No.” The celebrated John Randolph, in one of his letters to a young relative, says, “I know nothing that I am so anxious you should acquire as the faculty of saying ‘no.’ You must expect unreasonable requests to be preferred to you every day of your life, and must endeavor to deny with as much facility and kindness as you acquiesce.”