“Yes—yes—dear,” sighed Mrs. Jericho.
“Cæsar, with all his legions,” repeated the man possessed; and he poised himself in his chair as upon a throne; and called into his shadowy face, as he believed, an imperial look of money.
CHAPTER XXI.
Leaving King Jericho—anointed, crowned with wealth; wealth, the sceptre in his right hand; wealth, the ball of the world, in his left;—we must bestow our thoughts upon a few of the subject people, who from time to time have appeared in these pages. We therefore speed our way to the frigate-built ship, Halcyon, Captain Goodbody, commander. One minute, reader, and arm-in-arm we stand upon the deck.
Some dozen folks with gay, dull, earnest, careless, hopeful, wearied looks, spy about the ship, their future abiding-place upon the deep for many a day. Some dozen, with different feelings, shown in different motions, enter cabins, dip below, emerge on deck, and weave their way among packages and casks, merchandise and food, lying in labyrinth about. The ship is in most seemly confusion. The landsman thinks it impossible she can be all taut upon the wave in a week. Her yards are all so up and down; and her rigging in such a tangle, such disorder; like a wench’s locks after a mad game at romps. Nevertheless, Captain Goodbody’s word is as true as oak. On the appointed day, the skies permitting, the frigate-built Halcyon, with her white wings spread, will drop down the Thames—down to the illimitable sea.
She carries a glorious freightage to the Antipodes; English hearts and English sinews. Hope and strength to conquer and control the waste, taming it to usefulness and beauty. She carries in her the seed of English cities; with English laws to crown them free. She carries with her the strong, deep, earnest music of the English tongue; a music, soon to be universal as the winds of heaven. What should fancy do in a London Dock? All is so hard, material, positive. Yet there, amid the tangled ropes, fancy will behold—clustered like birds—poets and philosophers, history men and story men, annalists and legalists, English all, bound for the other side of the world, to rejoice it with their voices. Put fancy to the task, and fear not, fancy will detect Milton in the shrouds—and Shakespeare, looking sweetly, seriously down, pedestalled upon yon main-block. Spenser, like one of his own fairies, swings on a brace; and Bacon, as if in philosophic chair, sits soberly upon a yard. Poetic heads of every generation, from the half-cowled brow of Chaucer to the periwigged pate of Dryden, from bonnetted Pope to nightcapped Cowper—fancy sees them all—all; aye, from the long-dead day of Edward to the living hour of Victoria; sees them all gathered aloft, and with fine ear lists the rustling of their bays.
Such passengers, however, are prone to steal their transit, paying no shilling to owners. We have therefore given sufficient—more than sufficient—paper and ink to their claims upon us. For here are passengers, crossing from the wharf to the deck; good folks journied from Primrose Place to inspect their sometime house upon the wave. Carraways and Basil have, on former visits, inspected every nook and corner of the Halcyon, and therefore tread the deck with an assured manner, as though they already felt themselves at home. And Bessy, with happy face, and sparkling eyes, looks vivaciously around, as though she was truly surprised by the excellent accommodations, the comforts and conveniences, manifest at a glance. Poor Mrs. Carraways tries to smile, but shudders at the dirt and confusion; and then, casting a hopeless look at the tangled ropes, fairly sighs in despair at the dreadful untidiness about her.
“A magnificent vessel, my dear,” says Carraways. “Her first voyage, too.”
“Very pretty, indeed, Gilbert,” falters the wife.