A salute of honor was fired as I ascended the ladder, and replied to by the forts,—a recognition of my dignity at which I took occasion to seem offended; assuring the captain that I was travelling in the strictest incognito; leaving it to his powers of calculation to compute what amount of retinue and followers I should have when journeying in the full blaze of acknowledged identity.
I sat upon the poop-deck as they weighed the anchor, contrasting in my mind my present condition with that of my first marine experiences on board the “Firefly.” I am richer, thought I. Am I better? Have I become more generous, more truthful, more considerate, more forgiving?
Has my knowledge of the world developed more of good in me, or of evil; have my own successes ministered rather to my self-esteem than to my gratefulness; and have I learned to think meanly of all who have been beaten in the race of fortune? Alas! there was not a count of this indictment to which I dared plead “Not guilty.” I had seen knavery thrive too often, not to feel a kind of respect for its ability; I saw honesty too often worsted, not to feel something like contempt for its meekness. It was difficult to feel a reverence for poverty, whose traits were frequently ridiculous; and it was hard to censure wealth, which dispensed its abundance in splendid hospitalities. Oh, the cunning sophistries by which we cover up our real feelings in this life, smothering every healthy impulse and every generous aspiration, under the guise of some “conventionality.”
My conscience was less lenient than I expected. I cut but a sorry figure “in the dock,” and was obliged to throw myself upon the mercy of the court. I will be more considerate in future, said I to myself; I will be less exacting with my servants, and more forgiving to their delinquencies; I will try and remember that there is an acid property in poverty that sours even the sweetest “milk of human kindness.” I will be trustful, too,—a “gentleman” ought not to be suspicious; it is eminently becoming a Bow Street officer, but suits not the atmosphere of good society. These excellent resolutions were to a certain extent “à propos;” for just as “the foresail began to draw,” a boat came alongside and hailed the ship. I did not deign any attention to a circumstance so trivial to “one of my condition,” and never noticed the conversation which in very animated tones was kept up between the captain and the stranger, until the former, approaching me with the most profound humility, and asking forgiveness for the great liberty he was about to take, said that a gentleman whom urgent business recalled to Europe humbly entreated permission to take his passage on board the “Acadie.”
“Are you not aware it is impossible, my good friend?” said I, listlessly. “The accommodation is lamentably restricted, as it is; my secretary's cabin is like a dog-kennel, and my second cook has actually to lie round a corner, like a snake.”
The captain reddened, and bit his lip in silence.
“As for myself,” said I, heroically, “I never complain. Let me have any little cabin for my bed, a small bath-room, a place to lounge in during the day, with a few easy sofas, and a snug crib for a dinner-room, and I can always rough it. It was part of my father's system never to make Sybarites of his boys.” This I asserted with all the sturdy vehemence of truth.
“We will do everything to make your Excellency comfortable,” said the captain, who clearly could not see the reasons for my self-praise. “And as to the Consul, what shall we say to him?”
“Consul, did you say?” said I.
“Yes, Señhor Condé, he is the French Consul for the Republic of 'Campecho.'” That this was a State I had never heard of before, was quite true; yet it was clearly one which the French Government were better informed upon, and deigned to recognize by an official agent.