“Why does the sun shine?—why does the tide ebb and flow?” said Oriel hastily. “They follow the end for which they were made, and the same absolute law compels me to make out the purposes for which I was created. There is nothing so unreasonable as expecting one human being to become like another whose nature is entirely opposite to his. I have known inconsiderate persons say to one whose disposition is restless and dissatisfied, and whose inclinations are violent and ungovernable, ‘Look at such a one—he is content with his condition, and goes on his own quiet way, creating no desire that cannot easily be indulged; why cannot you be like him?’—as easily might the mountain torrent be made like the stream of the valley. One flows on its own level course, meeting with no obstruction, and the other, at every portion of its path, is forced to dash itself against the unrelenting rocks that oppose its progress. And how unjust is the manner in which each individual is regarded! one is praised for continuing its unvarying tranquillity—and the other is censured for the unceasing turmoil in which it exists. This is preposterous. No more have such characters made their own dispositions than the stream made the level land through which it flows, or the torrent created the rocks over which it leaps. Dam up the gentle rivulet with huge masses of stone, and see how quickly it will become as much troubled as its unjustly abused associate of the mountain; and take the rocks from the path of the torrent, and the quietude with which it will pursue its course will rival the tranquillity of its over-lauded brother of the valley. If there is any praise due at all it is to him who struggles on against all impediments, and shows that his spirit is not to be put down by the obstacles that retard his progress. Complain of his being restless and dissatisfied—how can he be any thing else, when his soul is kept in a constant fret by the worry of continual opposition? Say that his inclinations are violent and ungovernable—can it ever be otherwise, when they are daily accumulating in force, because they are allowed no opportunity for indulgence? Nothing can be more unjust to a man thus situated than to tell him to endeavour to be like another, whose situation is as opposite to his as are the poles to one another; and nothing can be more unwise than to complain of this man, because his disposition does not resemble that of another, whose way of life, and habits of thinking, and hopes and passions, are as different to his as any two sets of things can possibly be made. As for me, I am what I am—neither better nor worse. Let those who think me worse than I am keep to themselves their evil thoughts, that the force of ill opinion does not make me become what they unjustly imagine me to be; but let those who think me better than I am proclaim to me their flattering testimonials, that, knowing what excellences they fancy I possess, I may use every exertion to deem myself worthy of their good opinion, and at last succeed in obtaining the very qualities for which I was undeservedly honoured by their too indulgent regard.”
“Ah, Oriel!” replied his young companion affectionately, “you know it would be difficult for any one who knows you well to imagine a quality of good you have not made your own.”
“If I listen to you, I must be content to remain what I am,” said Oriel Porphyry, as he rose to take his leave. “And as such a state of things does not satisfy me, to prevent myself being spoiled for any better purpose, I must, for the present, leave you—of course with my best wishes for your speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, Oriel, thank you!” exclaimed Zabra warmly, returning the affectionate pressure of the hand he at that moment received, and following, with his eyes overflowing with his friendly feelings, the retreating form of his kind and generous patron.
[CHAP. II.]
AUSTRALIAN CIVILISATION.
Time had passed. The vessel had gone gallantly on her voyage, and was now quietly riding at anchor in the port of Sydney, the magnificent metropolis of the great empire of Australia. Oriel Porphyry had landed to transact business with an individual of some note in that part of the world. Posthumous was an extensive manufacturer, who had amassed an immense fortune by a mechanical discovery he had purchased, by means of which one machine was made to do the work of ten; and the funds at his disposal he employed in forming a museum, which he intended leaving, at his death, for the benefit of his country. His love of fame was his ruling passion; and to acquire it he seemed inclined to make any sacrifice. He accumulated every thing which he considered rare or curious for his museum; but, as he was no judge of the value of the collection he was forming, he often purchased things perfectly worthless, merely because they were recommended to him as objects that might be regarded with the greatest interest by posterity. To all who visited him, his pride was to exhibit his collection; and, although none were more ignorant of its real nature than himself, none could expatiate so much at length upon its merits. He was a walking catalogue—a talking index—a living table of contents; and he seemed as if he knew of no pleasure that did not allow him to display his museum and gossip about every specimen it contained.
Oriel and Zabra were walking together to the residence of the person thus described, when the former, doubtful as to whether he was pursuing the right direction, observing a man leaning against a post near a crossing at a short distance, went up to him for the purpose of making inquiries as to the exact locality of the place of which he was in search. The man was a street sweeper. His broom was beside him; and he was so intent upon a book he appeared to be studying, that Oriel noticed its title. It was “Geometry for Beggars.”
“Pray can you direct me to Botany Square?” inquired the young merchant.