“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.