LADY EUREKA;
OR,
THE MYSTERY:
A PROPHECY OF THE FUTURE.

BY THE AUTHOR
OF
“MEPHISTOPHELES IN ENGLAND.”

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1840.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION.

“Guten Morgen, Wilhelm!” said I, as I entered the chamber of my fellow student. “How are you this morning? You look better—your eyes are brighter, and your cheek possesses more colour than usual.”

“I am better, mein Freund,” observed the youth, raising himself up from the bed till his back rested upon the pillows. “But what have you there?”

“A fresh supply of flowers for you, Wilhelm,” I replied; “and I bought them of the prettiest Mädchen I ever saw in the market place.”

“Ich danke Ihnen für das Geschenk,” murmured the grateful student. “You know I love flowers better than any thing upon earth. They always fill me with ideas of beauty and purity and splendour, above all other earthly things; and I love them because they are so impartial in bestowing their favours: they confer their fragrance and their loveliness with equal liberality on all who venture within their influence. Put them in the vase, mein freund, and let me again thank you for so welcome a gift.”

“And now let us converse, Wilhelm, if you feel strong enough;” I exclaimed, as I took a seat by the bedside of the invalid. “Has the physician been this morning? And what said he.”

“He preceded you but a few minutes, mein freund,” replied Wilhelm, “and he said nothing. He shook his head, however, when he looked at me, which I considered a bad sign.”

“There’s nothing in it, be assured,” said I, earnestly.

“In the head, or in the sign?” inquired my fellow student, with a look of mock gravity.

“In both,” cried I, laughing; “in both, no doubt. But I am glad to see you so cheerful. Your appearance this morning makes me entertain hopes of your speedy recovery, and I can almost convince myself, that in a few days we shall be together pursuing our studies and our ramblings, as we have so often and so happily done.”

“I have been entertaining a similar idea, mein freund,” observed Wilhelm; “I feel more cheerful than I have felt for a long time past; and I was beginning to flatter myself into a belief, that the insidious disease was about evacuating its territory. I shall roam among the walls of old Göttingen again. I shall associate with my ancient comrades—shall I not?”

“’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished by others as well as myself,” said I; “but how liked you the book I lent you?”

“’Tis a brilliant production,” replied my friend; “and of that class of works which affords me most pleasure. ‘Give me the enjoyment of perusing a succession of new works from the graceful pen of Crébillon, and I shall have no other want,’ said Gray. I exclaim, ‘Give me the gratification of reading the finest productions in the imaginative literature of every civilised nation, and there will be little left for me to wish for.’ Nothing elevates and delights me so much as the best of these works, especially if they be tinged with a tone of high romantic feeling. What can be so charming as this mingling of the ideal and the natural? What can take a firmer hold of the mind and of the heart?”

“They certainly do, when ably written, create very powerful impressions;” I observed.

“I have read a considerable portion of the imaginative literature of almost every European nation,” said Wilhelm; “and an extraordinary power of genius it evinces. The prose fictions of the present age produced in Germany and England are wonderfully excellent and abundant. I think the English exceed all others in the combination of judgment with imagination, as seen in the best efforts of Scott, Bulwer, and Godwin. After them come the Germans, and we can proudly boast of Göthe, Lafontaine, Novalis, and Hoffmann. The French have much imagination and very little judgment, as exhibited in the writings of Victor Hugo, Mérimée, Paul de Kock, and Balzac, and are usually distinguished by their sins against good taste. Of Italian imaginative literature, the works I have met with that rise above mediocrity, are, ‘I Promessi Sposi,’ of Manzoni, ‘Ettore Fieramosca,’ of Massino D’Azeglio, and ‘Franco Allegri,’ which do not soar very high. Of the modern fictions of Spain, Portugal, and Holland, I know nothing; nor do I believe that there is any thing to know; but I have seen one or two romantic novels from Russia that possess considerable merit. What I object to in works of this nature, written at the present time, is the too apparent satisfaction of their authors in remaining in the beaten track. A vast majority fill their volumes with characters that have been a thousand times repeated, and with incidents and situations that are familiar to every reader.”

“What would you have them do?” I inquired.

“I would have them strike out a bolder class of subjects,” replied the student. “Instead of being satisfied with attempting illustrations of historical periods, or of an existing state of society, suppose they attempt to describe an imaginary time as well as imaginary characters. If a man possess a powerful imagination, let him conceive the state of the world a thousand years hence, or at any other time remote from the present. I do not mean that he should merely delineate a state of society, or of any section of society; I mean that he should take the most important portions of the civilised world, and picture, as well as he is able, the changes they may undergo, and the state of their peoples, governments, religions, and philosophy.”

“I am afraid that such a work would be considered too serious for the novel reader;” I observed.

“Impossible, mein freund!” replied the student. “Always, in works of imagination, the ideal and the matter of fact should be so blended as to make an interesting and amusing whole; and it matters not whether the time sought to be illustrated be of the past, of the present, or of the future: each may be made equally laughable, equally pathetic, and equally philosophical.”

“But the idea is too comprehensive to be done well;” said I. “To draw an imaginary state of the world in any thing like consonance with probability, requires more than ordinary talent in the draughtsman; but to add to it pictures of an imaginary state of its inhabitants, and an imaginary state of their philosophy, presents difficulties which I should think are not to be overcome.”

“The imagination can conquer any difficulty;” exclaimed my companion. “There is no power beneath heaven like imagination. It can dive into the uttermost corners of the ocean, or ascend through the trackless fields of air. It can fly where the eagle dare not move its wing, and amid Alpine obstacles outclimb the chamois. It can pass the great desert at a bound, and bear the four corners of the world in the hollow of its eye. It seeth all things that nature showeth; and after disclosing these, can show many things that nature never beheld. It pierces into the most hidden things. It flingeth a shining light into the most utter darkness. Locks, bolts, or bars, cannot keep it out—laws, walls and chains cannot keep it in: it is the only thing belonging to human life that is perfectly free. There is nothing imagination cannot do; no matter whether it be good or evil, reasonable or absurd, to it all things are alike easy. And as for wealth or power or dignity, or aught of which the world thinks highly, where is the greatness, and where are the riches that exceed those of the imagination? Mechanics are proud of their engines, and think them wonderful: they are mere playthings compared with the imagination. Cannot imagination make the sea dry land, and the earth ocean? Archimedes boasted that he would move the world, could he place it in a convenient situation. Let imagination put forth its powers, and the world becomes obedient to its law, moves when required, crumbles into dust, and is re-created with increased glory. Cannot it break the rock like a reed, and snap the gnarled oak of many centuries like a rotten thread? Cannot it build cities on the plain, and form a garden in the wilderness? Cannot it people the solitude and confer happiness on the desolate? Cannot it make the sands of the sea-shore glittering with gold; and of the leaves of the forest create treasures far outvaluing the riches of the earth and sea? And more than this, it can make the dead live and the living die; it can raise the earthquake and the pestilence; it can fight battles and win kingdoms; it can float upon the whirlwind like a leaf upon the breeze; and pass through a consuming fire unscathed by a single flame.

“These are the powers of the imagination; and what are its pleasures? Let the most luxurious seeker after enjoyment take all the delights reality will give him. Let him wrap himself up in roses; lie in baths of milk; taste all that is delicious to the appetite; be loved by the most lovely and the most loving of women; and pass not a minute in which his soul is not lapped in ecstacy; and his enjoyments will bear no comparison with those of the imagination. Imagination can concentrate in a single moment the pleasures of a thousand years: it possesses all the delights the world may produce, in addition to raptures more exquisite of worlds of its own: it can create forms clothed with a beauty far excelling the rarest of those who have glorified the earth with their presence; its sunshine pales the light of heaven; its flowers alone can bloom with a perpetual fragrance.”

“Wilhelm, you must not excite yourself so;” said I, observing him fall back exhausted against the pillow, from which he had raised himself, and a violent fit of coughing follow.

“O du ewige Güte?” exclaimed the student, gasping for breath.

“Ah! I was afraid of this; you are too weak to allow yourself to be carried away by the impetuosity of your feelings. Here! take some of this drink. It will allay the irritation of the cough.”

“I am better now—I am better, mein freund,” murmured the grateful Wilhelm; “and now let us resume our conversation.”

“I am almost afraid, Wilhelm, for I see it excites you so much;” I observed.

“It has passed away. It is nothing:” replied my companion.

“Supposing then, that the idea you mentioned was attempted to be worked out to its full extent, how is it possible to convey any thing like a natural picture of the state of existing nations at so remote a time?” I inquired.

“By a reference to what is already known of the growth, maturity and decay of nations,” said the student. “Every thing has its age. The tree cannot flourish beyond a certain time—nor can a country. Time passes his scythe over the verdant world, and wherever it glides, the crop is cut down; and after the field has been left wild a sufficient period, the seed is again sown, the produce is again abundant, and the mower is again at work. Thus it has been from the creation of the world; thus it will be for everlasting. How long was the growth of Babylon, of Nineveh, of Tyre and Sidon, of Thebes and Carthage? They had their season. Then came Pompeii, Etruria, Athens, Rome, and Constantinople. How long did they last? Then came Venice and Genoa, the Moorish kingdom of Grenada, and the Arabian empire at Jerusalem; they had their day. After these came the omnipotence of Popish Rome, the magnificence of Madrid, and the splendour of Lisbon: they have departed. And now we have the glories of London and Paris, and Berlin and Vienna, and these will exist their period, and then gradually fall into decay. It must be evident to any observer, that Spain and Portugal, once the two greatest nations in Europe, in opulence, power, and intelligence, are descending to the lowest degradation of poverty, insignificance, and ignorance. The Roman empire in Italy, having passed into a number of independent states, each of which has attained a considerable degree of greatness, lies now prostrate at the foot of the great European powers. Greece, the intellectual and the free, having for many centuries been plunged in ignorance and slavery up to the lips, shews signs of a regeneration. And the barbarians of the North are making rapid approaches towards pre-eminence.”

“But the superior civilisation we enjoy, must prevent our retrograding,” said I. “Think of our steam-engines, our rail-roads, our wonderful discoveries in science and mechanics, and our extraordinary advancement in intelligence; we are rising, and we shall continue to rise.”

“We cannot rise above the top, mein freund,” observed my fellow student with a smile; “and after that we must go down. There is a point beyond which no nation advances, and to that point we are tending. As for our superior civilisation, that remains to be proved. Boast as we may of our machinery, we could neither raise such monuments as were frequent among the Egyptians, or have we any tools that can make an impression upon the stone out of which they were sculptured. The gunpowder upon the discovery of which we pride ourselves, has not been so destructive as the Greek fire, of the composition of which we know nothing. In art, we are far from excelling the ancients, and in learning we are obliged to acknowledge our obligations to them.”

“But how far the intelligence of the multitude at the present day exceeds that of any preceding time!” I observed.

“I am not convinced of that,” replied Wilhelm. “With the exception of Germany, particularly Prussia, the education of the people, has not been attempted on a plan likely to confer on them much advantage, and the only sure way of judging of a superiority of intelligence is by comparing the state of the public morals in different countries. If it can be proved that the Greeks or the Romans were a less moral people than are the English or the French, then are the latter the most intellectual; but if, taking the amount of population, it could be ascertained that a less amount of crime was committed by the ancients, then must the moderns be considered the least civilised.”

“I am afraid the philosophical character of such a work would not be appreciated by the general reader, who takes up a book merely for amusement,” said I.

“You are mistaken, mein freund,” replied the student; “there is nothing which may be made so amusing as philosophy. Every good book is philosophical; and the idle reader is continually being made familiar with philosophy without knowing it, just as the worthy gentleman in Molière’s comedy talked prose all his life, in perfect ignorance of having done so.”

“Well, I can only say, I should like exceedingly to read such a book,” I observed.

“You see that ebony chest there, upon that pile of books;” said Wilhelm, pointing in the direction to which he had alluded. “Take it. In it you will find a MS. It is a work such as I have described to you, and I wrote it at intervals, whenever I could find time for the employment.”

“You write such a work, Wilhelm!” exclaimed I with surprise. “I am aware how much you have devoted yourself to study. I know that you have completely ruined your health by your severe application in the pursuit of knowledge; but I had no conception of your attempting a production of such a character, upon a subject beset by so many difficulties.”

“I have been ambitious,” replied my companion. “I was desirous of attempting something out of the common path—I yearned for literary distinction. Take and read it, mein freund, and let me know if you think it worthy of publication. I have endeavoured to make the story full of a deep and pleasing interest. The characters introduced I have sought to create in a sufficient variety, and of various shades, from the humblest in intelligence to the most exalted. The incidents I have strived to make striking and powerful, and vividly drawn; and the opinions you will there find expressed, while I wished to make them natural and true, I have been anxious that they should possess a claim to originality. It has been my aim to combine wit, humour, pathos, and philosophy in such a manner as I hope cannot fail of being thought at once amusing and instructive, and if I live to see realised the aspirations I have entertained, if I can but behold the work I have laboured to produce, in popular estimation, I do not care how soon this feeble frame dissolves into its parent dust. I must live to see that! mein freund; I must live to see that!”

“I have not a doubt but what you will, Wilhelm;” I replied. “The genius I know you to possess has only to exhibit itself fairly before the public, to be considered a public property, and become an object of general estimation. The learning you have laboured so diligently to obtain, will then stand you in good service; and the liberality of your sentiments, your deep love of virtuous principle, and your earnest desire for the diffusion of truth, then cannot long remain without exciting the admiration you covet.”

He made no reply.

“Look!” I exclaimed. “There are Gerhard Kramer, and Hugo Messingen, smoking their meerschaums out of the opposite window.”

He did not move.

“Are you asleep, Wilhelm?” said I, advancing from the window to the bedside, and gazing in the face of my now silent companion. His head was sunk in the pillow, with his light hair falling in waving curls around it. There lay the calm blue eyes, the fair smooth cheek, the delicate moustache, and the mouth so exquisitely small, half open, giving a glimpse of the white teeth within it.

“Are you asleep, Wilhelm?” I repeated, taking the hand that rested outside the bed clothes.

He was asleep: and from that sleep he never awoke. He now lies in the left hand corner of Göttingen churchyard—a familiar place to me; for while he was the most studious, he was the most amiable of all my fellow students. He had become a martyr to his love of study, and the world closed upon him just as he exhibited those signs of extraordinary merit, which in time would have made him one of its most distinguished ornaments. That his death was quite unexpected by himself was evident, but in the progress of his illness he had drawn up a will, in which he had made me his executor, and in it expressed his desire that I should prepare his manuscript for the press. I have done so, and the result is before the reader. I have left the first chapter as I found it, giving notes to illustrate a few phrases that required explanation; but imagining that these phrases, though perfectly characteristic, might perplex the reader in his progress with the story, I made such alterations in the rest of the MS. as I thought would bring the work nearer to the taste of the time.

EUREKA;
A PROPHECY OF THE FUTURE.

[CHAPTER I.]
THE CITY OF THE WORLD.

More than usual activity was observable in the tiers of shipping of various nations that crowded the port of Columbus. The sun shone with extraordinary splendour, throwing a golden light over the broad waters of the river that spread out as far as the eye could reach, bearing on their bosom vessels of every description used in commerce or warfare (some coming into port, others leaving it for a distant destination), that were diminishing in size as they receded from the view, till they assumed the appearance of a mere speck between the horizon and the wave; and the spreading sails of those in the distance, and the many-coloured flags streaming from the masts of those closer to the shore, with their various builds, sizes, costume and characteristics of their crews, and the variety of employments in which the latter were engaged,—infused such a spirit of animation into the scene, that the stranger would have found it impossible to have looked on without an earnest and delighted attention. Nearer the shore boats were passing to and fro—from the graceful Swan [(1.)] and rapid Fish, full of gay parties of pleasure, to the gigantic Hippopotamus and slow Tortoise, bearing burthens of various kinds of produce towards the wharfs that lined each side of that noble river; and many other boats of different dimensions, some impelled by oars, others by sails, and others by machinery, were passing from ship to ship, from the ship to the shore, or from the metropolis to the neighbouring villages.

If the appearances on the water were gratifying to the eye, those on the land assumed a character equally cheerful, various, and magnificent. Well might Columbus be styled The City of the World. In its dimensions, in its splendour, in its riches, in the myriads of its inhabitants, and in the multitudes of strangers who flocked from all parts of the globe to witness its greatness or share in its traffic, it was worthy of being considered an empire rather than a metropolis. Beyond those unrivalled quays that stretched along each side of the river, connected by colossal bridges, whose arches spanned from shore to shore with such an altitude that under them the largest vessels might pass with ease, were seen the proud palaces of the merchants—the lofty domes for the administration of justice—the stupendous edifices for the conveniences of commerce—the vast temples for the worship of the Deity—the imposing halls for the diffusion of science—every description of dwelling suitable to the wants of a free, industrious, enlightened, and multitudinous population of various ranks, interspersed with noble monuments in commemoration of admirable actions—exalted statues personifying the highest degree of excellence—parks, fountains, gardens, and public walks between rows of lofty trees; rising above these, on the elevated land on which the city was erected, might be observed, placed at considerable distances from each other, and adorned with all the graces of architecture, the villas of the wealthy; and at the very crown of the hill the obelisks, urns, and other monuments that peered above its summit pointed out the cemetery of the city, and the mausolea of its dead.

Through the numerous streets the tide of population seemed hurrying with an anxious eagerness; and the vehicles of luxury and of industry were passing each other in the broad thoroughfares, in a similar crowd and with a similar haste. Here came the votary of pleasure, seeking only the enjoyment of the present—there went the accumulator of wealth, enjoying no delight save in the prospect of the future; and they were passed by the plodding antiquary, living only in his associations with the past. The toil-worn mechanic—the enthusiastic student—the venerable sage—the solemn priest—the proud soldier—and the bustling citizen, took their separate ways through the crowd, with an apparent thoughtlessness of all things except their own immediate objects; and thus had they gone on for ages, each pursuing his own course, and every one heedless of the rest; and thus will they go on till the day of the world is over, and the night cometh when no man shall see because of the darkness.

At the foot of a flight of broad stone steps leading to the water from a wharf on the quay near one of the bridges, a superior sort of ship’s boat was moored, where her crew, some resting on the benches, some lounging on the steps, were grouped in conversation, evidently directing their attention to a beautiful ship of small tonnage but perfect symmetry that lay at anchor at a short distance, easily distinguished from the numerous vessels in her neighbourhood by the smartness of her rigging and the elegance of her build.

“Ay, ay, Boggle!” exclaimed a stout weatherbeaten-looking mariner, to whom all his associates appeared to listen with great deference, arising either from his superior age or station,—“she is a smart boat; as neat a one as ever floated. She’ll swim better than a shark, and faster than a dolphin; and I’ll wager a month’s pay to a mouldy biscuit, that between this and the tother side o’ the world we shan’t meet with her match.”

“True enough, Hearty,” said the person spoken to, a lumbering, stout, short, and awkwardly-made man of about thirty, with a large head, and a stupid yet good-natured countenance, which expressed an inclination to act in the right way that was always marred by an extraordinary aptitude to do wrong. “True enough. May I walk the deck till I split into shivers, if I’m not convinced of every word you say! But every man as is a man and thinks like a man should have a notion of his own on things in general; therefore, Hearty, I don’t believe it.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed a younger sailor, addressing himself to the last speaker, “what’s the value o’ your judgment against the notions of such an old hand as Hearty? Why he must ha’ sailed in a power o’ different crafts afore you were launched!”

“Exactly, Climberkin, exactly,” replied Boggle eagerly—“that’s my opinion; it’s true, there’s not a doubt of it: but every man as is a man——”

“Well, may I be scrunched into everlasting smash if I know where we’re bound—that’s all,” emphatically remarked another speaker in the group, thrusting forward a thick head of sandy hair, with a countenance sharp and meagre.

“Nor I,” said another.

“Nor I,” echoed several around him.

“Why you see how it is,” answered Boggle, mysteriously; “there’s a sort o’ a secret in it. It arn’t for a fellow afore the mast to be ’quisitive o’ what’s going on on the quarter-deck; but I likes to have right notions o’ things in general, as every man as is a man and thinks like a man should. So having a pretty shrewd guess as how Scrumpydike, who’s al’ays alongside the captain, knowed more o’ the matter than he’d a mind to ’municate, I follows in his wake not a hundred years longer than this very mornin’; and, quite palavering like, I hails him wi’ ‘I say, Scrumpydike, my bo!’ ‘What cheer?’ says he. ‘P’raps you don’t know nothin’ o’ our sailing orders?’ says I, quite social. ‘P’raps I do,’ says he, in a manner as showed he did. I says nothin’ more on that subject then, cause I had a notion ’twould be no good; so I speaks him civil, and axed him to liquidate wi’ me upon summat comfortable, and we went together into a snuggish sort o’ a spiritual close by, and when I got him pretty ’municative I thought he’d a told the most secret thing as he knowed, cause he was letting down the cable in reg’lar style. Now’s the time, thought I; so I says to him, quite familiar, as I felt sartain sure o’ his telling, ‘Scrumpydike, my bo!’ says I, ‘where be we bound?’—And what d’ye think he said?” inquired the speaker, suddenly addressing himself to his associates.

“What did he say, Boggle?” anxiously inquired a young sailor, pressing forward to hear the interesting communication.

“Tell us, Boggle, tell us!” cried the others eagerly.

“Why he turns round upon me his great yellow eyes, looking as if he could ha’ no secrets from a fellow who shared his earnings so handsome—’cause I stood treat all the time, and he says to me, in a slow whisper, just as a secret should be told——”

“Well, what did he say?” said Climberkin impatiently.

“‘What’s the odds?’, says he.”—The younger sailors laughed.

“And what is the odds?” asked old Hearty earnestly. “Arn’t we well paid, well fed, well clothed? and haven’t we plenty o’ every thing we want? So what’s the odds where we sail? I don’t care the twist o’ a rope’s end whether we go to India, or China, or Algiers, to any of the ports in Australia, or even to the most uncivilized settlements in Europe; and no true sailor cares on what water he floats, as long as he’s aboard a good ship, meets wi’ sociable mates, and is commanded by good officers.”

“I’ll be spiflicated if every word Hearty says isn’t true,” remarked Climberkin.

“And now I’ll just tell you what I knows o’ the matter,” continued Hearty, “which amounts to something more than Boggle could tell.”

“Well, what is it?” inquired Boggle, as eager as the others to hear some intelligence on the subject,—“you’re smartish, clever, or I’m ’staken; but though I must say my notion o’ you is tip top, we’re most on us liable to a false reck’ning.”

“You all know master Porphyry,” said the old man, without attending to the dubious compliment of the last speaker.

“Know him! to be sure we do,” replied Climberkin hastily. “Haven’t we all sailed in his ships,—all but Scrumpydike there, who’s asleep in the boat? and don’t we know as he’s the richest merchant in Columbia, and got ships laden with every sort o’ precious merchandise, more than one man ever had afore—sailing from port to port all over every sea that runs. Know him! Why, who do we know, if we don’t know a man as all the world knows?”

“Ay, ay,” remarked the other quietly, “that’s him; they do say he’s as rich as the emperor. But all I know is, that while he’s greatest among the rich he’s kindest among the poor. He seems never happy but when he’s founding some hospital,—setting afoot some charity, or doing some good, some how or other: his name is honoured in all parts o’ the world. There’s no merchant all over this here globe that hasn’t heard of the fame of master Porphyry: and in his own country he’s like a prince, scattering his bounties wherever he thinks they are likely to confer a benefit; and every one respects him, every one wishes to think as he does; and all are anxious to show their opinion of his integrity, cleverness, and all that sort o’ thing. Well, what’s uncommon strange, although he squanders his money about as if there was no end to it, it seems only to ’cumulate the faster; and although the emperor has signified his wish to honour him wi’ lots o’ distinctions many’s the great man would be proud enough to gain, he refuses them all, and says he won’t be nothing more nor plain master Porphyry. So master Porphyry he remains; but for all that he’s a greater man than all the princes, dukes, and nobles we’re likely to see in our time. Well, master Porphyry’s got a son, as smart a figure of a youth as ever you see’d aboard ship; and after ’ducating him in all sorts o’ learnin’, till he’s fit to be launched in the great ocean o’ life, he wishes him, nat’rul enough, to go and see foreign parts, that he may get plenty o’ notions o’ different kinds o’ people, and countries, and governments, that when he comes back he may be able to do credit to his father. So master Porphyry gets a ship built o’ purpose, and a lovelier vessel than the Albatross it arn’t possible to look on; and has her stored wi’ every kind o’ valuable merchandise likely to sell to a profit at the ports she may visit, and wi’ all sorts o’ necessaries and comforts for the crew; has her manned wi’ a prime set o’ picked hands from his other vessels,—engages a ’sperienced captain, and accompanied by the most celebrated teacher o’ learnin’ he could meet with, to show all the ’markable things as might be overhauled, and give the proper ’splanations about their breed, seed, and generation, I expects him here every minute to go aboard; and ’mediately arter that, up wi’ her cleaver, out wi’ her wings, and good bye to old Columbia.” [(2.)]

“Now let me twist the rope a little,” [(3.)] said Climberkin, while his messmates continued to listen with the same interest they had shown all the time Hearty had been speaking. “You see, mates,” continued the young sailor, apparently attempting to make the sleeves of his check shirt roll above his elbows with more convenience, but more probably trying to attract attention from the heightening colour of his cheek,—“you see, mates, I’ve been sailing in convoy with a mighty smartish craft, who’s a sort o’ cook’s mate,—(now what are you jiggering at?” cried the speaker sharply to a young fellow who had indulged himself with a grin,)—“who’s a sort of cook’s mate in the noble family of Philadelphia; and she being always among her messmates, hears a smartish lot o’ notions ’cerning her officers, which, when we’ve been yard-arm and yard-arm sailing in company through the parks, or at anchor in the jollity houses, she ’municates to me by way o’ divarsion: and she tells me as how master Porphyry has a snuggery up the country, ’bout a cable’s length from one belonging to the noble Philadelphia, and that the two families were as sociable as a shoal o’ herrins. Philadelphia has a daughter, by all accounts a reg’lar-built angelic; and master Porphyry having a son, an equally smartish sort o’ young chap, it was as sartain as a ship would sail afore the wind, that they two while consortin’ would pick up some notions about gettin’ afloat together; and as no signals o’ a diff’rent natur’ were hung out by their commodores, they linked their hearts pretty close, and never could see which way the wind blowed ’cept when they were alongside o’ each other. Well, somehow or other, there came on a squall,—the powerful noble Philadelphia and the rich merchant Porphyry parted company about politics: one took one side and t’other took t’other, and they went on different tacks in no time. Philadelphia, who’s as proud as a port admiral, when he found as master Porphyry wouldn’t follow in his wake, blowed great guns, cut his cable; and without letting his daughter the Lady Eureka have any ’munication with her consort, he makes her set sail along wi’ him, and the young ones arn’t been allowed to come in sight o’ each other ever since. Well, arter that, master Porphyry, who’s as proud as an honest man should be, wern’t a going to strike his flag to nothin’ o’ the sort; so seeing as his young’un looked cloudy weather, to ’leviate his disappointment he thinks o’ trying to make him forget the whole circumbendibus. So he plans this here voyage.”

The loud huzzas of an approaching multitude put an end to the conversation; and Scrumpydike, who appeared to have been asleep, but had listened attentively to every word that had been uttered, suddenly started from his recumbent position in the boat, presenting a muscular form, with a yellow, rough, and scowling face, sufficiently forbidding in its appearance, yet possessing an odd sort of twist about the corners of the mouth that much disguised its natural ferocity.

“Thunder and lightning!” [(4.)] shouted Scrumpydike, hastily regaining his legs, “here they come!”

Some of the sailors ran up the stone steps leading to the foot of the bridge, and there a noble and gratifying sight presented itself. The whole length of the magnificent street of stately mansions approaching the water seemed filled with a countless multitude of citizens, each huzzaing with extraordinary zeal some persons in a procession that was proceeding along the centre of the thoroughfare. Windows, housetops, bridges, and boats were thronged with spectators; and all the vessels in the river were dressed with flags, which, streaming from the masts in a variety of pleasing colours and devices, gave an animated and picturesque character to the scene.

“There’s master Porphyry!” exclaimed Hearty.

“Where?” inquired half a dozen voices at once.

“That stately-looking man on the tall grey horse who is bowing to his fellow-citizens. Every body seems to have got a notion that the merchant’s son was going on his first voyage; so, you see, they’re resolved to show how much they respect the father, and all the city turns out to a man (aye and to a woman too, as you may see at the windows), and here they are throwing up their caps, waving their handkerchiefs, and shouting like mad; the ladies scattering flowers upon his head, and bands o’ music playing all the way. And there’s young master Porphyry riding by his side, a fine handsome sort o’ chap, and as like his father as one whale’s like another. And in the open carriage behind them is the learned Professor Fortyfolios, who’s written more big books than any on us could carry; and opposite him’s our Captain Compass, and next him’s little Log, the captain’s clerk; and opposite him’s Doctor Tourniquet, our surgeon; and there’s a lot more on ’em followin’ in different carriages, who ha’ been promoted to a birth aboard the Albatross. These dignified bodies in long robes, and some on ’em wi’ gold chains round their necks, are great magistrates and merchants belonging to the city, and they look up to master Porphyry as head on ’em all. But we must get to our oars, my mates, or else we shall nap it pretty considerably.” So saying he returned to the boat, quickly followed by his companions, and they all began to be very busy preparing for the comers.

The appearance of the procession as it neared the bridge was very imposing; for, as far as the eye could see, were carriages and horsemen bearing streaming banners, and decorated with ribbons and flowers; and every spot that could command a view of the scene from the land or from the water was crowded with animated spectators, shouting their good wishes for the son and praises of the father. The chief attraction in this grand spectacle, master Porphyry, was a man apparently between forty and fifty years of age, of a commanding figure and noble countenance. When he took off a sort of coronetted velvet cap that shielded his head from the sun’s rays, as he bowed his grateful acknowledgments for the plaudits of his fellow-citizens, his high forehead, eloquent eyes, and benevolent smile made his features assume an expression more nearly approaching the highest degree of beauty, intelligence, and philanthropy in a man advanced in life, than anything it is possible to conceive; and the robe of honour which encompassed his powerful limbs, denoting his office as the chief civic magistrate, gave a majesty to his deportment that increased the effect of his personal appearance.

The youth who rode by his side could not have numbered much more than twenty years, and bore a great resemblance both in the form of his limbs and in the expression of his countenance to master Porphyry; yet while from a feeling of enthusiastic reverence for his parent he rode bare-headed by his side, as he noticed the admiration his father excited among the countless myriads who thronged their way, the fire that was glowing in his eyes and the pride that was swelling at his heart gave evidence of feelings to which the elder Porphyry was a stranger. The youth sat on his steed, that pranced and curvetted with the same high spirit in his blood as was possessed by his rider, showing that elasticity of limb that marks the young and vigorous; and as the breeze swept from his forehead the luxuriant curls of rich shining hair that clustered upon his brows, while it fluttered in the folds of his handsome tunic, the young men whose dreams had been of glory fancied that they saw in his noble bearing the hero of their visions, and the young women who had begun feeding their youthful minds with loving idealities gazed in ecstasy upon his graceful figure, and recognised in him the god of their idolatry. The impression created was evidently gratifying to him; but it did not satisfy his desires. Oriel Porphyry was ambitious—he aspired to be something greater than he was: he panted for power as well as popularity. The shouts of the multitude seemed music to his ears, but it was of too calm a character—it was not that in which he could have taken most delight. He desired to act a more imposing part than that of a merchant’s son. It was a military age in which he lived, when men had been raised to empire by a daring valour and a dazzling splendour in their actions that made every heart drunk with enthusiasm. Conquest had been the key to greatness, and a victory had led to a throne. But the general peace which had lately commenced seemed to shut out from him all hopes of the distinction he coveted; the peaceful ways of traffic, in which his father had achieved an universal renown, presented to him no attraction: and as he rode along he lamented the apparent ingloriousness of his destiny.

The feelings of the merchant were of a far higher, better, kinder character; for his was a mind not to be led away by the false glitter of pride and ambition, and he entertained no sentiment that was not in harmony with the philanthropy of his actions. His heart was full of generous sympathy for his fellow-men; and till he alighted at the foot of the bridge he thought only of how he could best advance the interests of his country.

The father and son descended the stone stairs, at the bottom of which the boatmen were waiting; and after all who were going to the ship had entered the boat except the merchant’s son, master Porphyry took him affectionately by the hand, and thus addressed him:—

“Oriel Porphyry! I have desired that you should visit the most remarkable nations of the world, that you might gain from close observation of their people and government knowledge such as may the better fit you for your duties as a citizen and as a man; that when I have passed away from the fading splendours that surround me, I shall know that I leave one worthy to fill the high place I have held in the affections of my fellow-citizens. Take these papers,” continued the merchant, in a voice that appeared to tremble with emotion, as he produced a sealed packet—“they contain the directions I desire you to pursue, and some intelligence with which I wish you to become acquainted: consult them when you have been out at sea about a week. I shall find means of communicating with you as often as may be desirable; and if there is any thing you require that yonder vessel does not possess to render your voyage more comfortable, you have only to send word by the first of my ships you may meet, and you will have it supplied at the next port. All noble sentiments and benevolent wishes attend you!”

“Father!” exclaimed the youth, falling on the neck and kissing the hand of his parent, “I trust I shall never discredit the education I have received, nor the parent from whom I sprung.”

In a few minutes master Porphyry was standing on the brink of the water, surrounded by the wealthiest merchants of Columbus, following with his eyes the rapid course of the receding boat; while his son, throwing himself back in his seat, indulged in the enjoyment of a thousand conflicting emotions, from which he was not roused till he gained the side of the Albatross.

While the machinery was set in motion to draw up the anchor, a small boat was seen to dart from the numerous vessels of a similar class that were floating on the river, and rapidly come alongside the ship. A young handsome creole immediately leapt on board; and after giving orders about some packages contained in the boat, advanced to that part of the deck where Oriel Porphyry stood. The age of the new-comer did not seem more than fifteen or sixteen. He was delicately formed, with features whose expression lost something in its character among critics of manly beauty by its feminine softness. On his head he wore a rich netted silk cap, the gold tassel of which hung down towards his left shoulder; his robe was a short tunic of embroidered cloth, bound by a broad silk sash. An inner vest of rose-coloured silk, open at the breast, disclosed a camese of the purest white; the lower part of his body was wrapt in a sort of petticoat of thick linen made very full, below which appeared leggings of rich silk, and small shoes trimmed with rosettes,—the usual costume of the pages of Columbian ladies of rank. The merchant’s son was leaning against a mast, seemingly pondering over the fond remembrances of a happier time; for his features had lost that glow of excitement which a few minutes since his ambitious desires had created, and a shadow of deep yet tranquil melancholy had passed over them,—when he was roused from his reverie by the approach of the stranger.

“Master Oriel Porphyry!” said the page, taking off his cap and allowing a profusion of dark ringlets to fall upon his shoulders, and then taking from his vest a small sealed packet,—“Master Oriel Porphyry! The Lady Eureka sends you this.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the young merchant, gazing earnestly upon the features before him as if they were immediately recognised; then finding the recognition not reciprocal, he turned away with a deep expression of disappointment: yet, while breaking the seal of the envelope, and before he read the letter, he renewed his gaze two or three times, as if there was an attraction in the page’s handsome countenance he could not withstand; but the large dark eyes that met his own were bent steadily upon him with respectful attention; and, bewildered by the strange disturbance of his thoughts, he at last attempted to read the letter. It ran thus:—

“Dearest,

“Accidentally I have become acquainted with your intended departure from Columbia, to dare the dangers of the waters, to risk a thousand perils, and, more than all, to be separated by a long and dreary boundary from a heart you have made so devotedly your own. Every attempt I have made to communicate with you, has been rendered of no avail. I believe you all I would have you be; but I am fearful your impetuous nature will hurry you into continual dangers, and, as I cannot myself watch over your safety, I would have near you some one on whose zeal, fidelity, and care I can place the utmost confidence. Zabra, whom you will readily recognise as a child of my father, has been brought up as my page; his Indian mother died in his infancy, but his education has not been neglected. You will find him both useful and entertaining, and may rely on his perfect devotion. Let him remain about you—let him be my representative—and let him serve to keep in your remembrance one whose soul clings to your footsteps,—who has no ambition but in possessing your exclusive affections, and knows no pride but that which is created by thinking herself, your

Eureka.”

The letter was read many times, and with an increasing pleasure at each re-perusal; and the bearer was received with such an abundance of welcomes as must have convinced him his servitude would be very light. But while his future master kept scanning his dusky physiognomy, as if comparing his features with the brilliant beauty of her who had so long been the glory of his existence, the page retained the same unmoved demeanour which he had from the first evinced.

During these proceedings the anchor had been weighed, the sails trimmed, and, amid the firing of cannon from the houses on each bank, and the deafening shouts of the spectators, the Albatross majestically sailed down the river, and having reached the ocean, soon lost sight of the city of Columbus, its noble quays, its stately palaces, its generous merchant, and its grateful citizens.

NOTES.

[(1.)] “The graceful Swan” and “rapid Fish” are probably intended to be the names of pleasure boats, derived from the creatures they were built to resemble; and the “gigantic Hippopotamus” and “slow Tortoise” must be meant for the larger kind of barges and heavy coasting vessels used in traffic.

[(2.)] “Up wi’ her cleaver, out wi’ her wings, and good bye to Old Columbia.” The anchor and sails of the vessel are no doubt here alluded to; and the names Columbus and Columbia which are met with throughout these pages, evidently distinguish the metropolis from the empire.

[(3.)] “Now let me twist the rope a little.” This sentence must be similar in its meaning with the nautical phrase “spinning a yarn.”

[(4.)] “Thunder and lightnin’!” It will be seen that the oaths commonly used by the Columbians differ from those now in fashion; but this is very natural, for it is well known that the common phrases of one century are quite changed in another. We swear not as we did in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and the oaths then in vogue were altogether different from those which prevailed during the reign of William the Conqueror.

[CHAP. II.]
ZABRA.

Zabra had not been many days on board, before he became a source of wonder to the whole crew. A spirit flashed from his dark lustrous eyes, that kept off every thing approaching the shape of sociality among the persons by whom he was surrounded. He rarely spoke, except when attending upon Oriel Porphyry; and then the proud expression of his looks that made curiosity stand aloof, was changed into a glowing animation, and the tongue which had seemed to disdain all converse became eloquent with a resistless endeavour to delight. He had all the external appearance of a graceful youth of sixteen, with a form tall, elegant, and buoyant, whose heart had just received the invigorating warmth of the first dawn of manly sentiments; but when the voice sent its soft music to the ear, breathing the rich poetry of an ardent imagination, the splendour of the language, its power and meaning, and the energy with which it was supported, gave evidence of a mind much nearer approaching the maturity of a masculine intellect, than the age that has been mentioned could have possessed. He seemed as if he existed only for the purpose for which he had been sent—as if he knew that his occupation was watching over the safety of him to whom he had been committed; and he appeared to enter into the service with a heart and soul devoted to the object. His looks searched the inmost thoughts of those upon whom they fell, as if to discover whether any sinister intention against his lord and master was there harboured, and before their piercing sight it was scarcely possible to stand unmoved; and there was a mystery in his actions, when removed from the apparent source of his solicitude, that still more made the wonderers marvel. He sought a place where no one could intrude upon his privacy, and with a harp, with which on these occasions he never failed to be accompanied, so filled the air with unknown melodies, and unheard-of songs, that the superstitious seamen, as they listened, imagined he was in communication with beings of another world,—there was something so aërial, so soft, and so sweet in the music he created.

“Scrunch me if I can make it out at all!” exclaimed Climberkin to a group of sailors in the forecastle. “He ar’n’t got a word to throw away upon a dog; but if he looks at one, one doesn’t feel at all inclined to be ’quisitive. He was wand’rin’ about the main deck as it was getting duskish yesterday—and I, not keeping a good look out ahead, run foul o’ him afore I knowed who it was. As soon as I diskivered the craft, I was just beginning a bit of a ’pology, when he fixes on me a look as cut through me like a nor-wester, waves his arm in a most mysterus manner, and glides away as softly as if he trod upon butter.”

“As true as a fish swims, I’ve got the only prime notion of this here mystery,” said Boggle, with an air of considerable importance.

“No!” cried several voices incredulously.

“Ah! but I have though, or I’m the spawn of a toad-fish!” replied Boggle. “And I’ll tell you how I gripped it. You see I ar’n’t a bit afeard o’ any ’dividual as is aboveboard in what he’s arter; and I’m not the chap likely to be flabbergasted in a fair fight;—so seeing as how you were all in no little mystification about this youngster, I thought to myself, says I, when he steers his course into your whereabouts, ’spose you show a civil flag at the mast-head, and ax arter his mother and all the family; he nat’rally sees you knows manners, and ’mediately returns the compliment. From this to that, and from that to t’other, is as easy as catching sharks wi’ pickled pork, when two civil fellows lets go their jawing tackle; so you’ll tell him your ’miniscences quite confidential, and he’ll be obligated to tell you his’n; and then having overhauled his log-book pretty smartish, you can return to your mates with the ’telligence. Well, I was walking along jest afore dinner, when I seed master Zabra leaning against a mast, wi’ folded arms, eyes looking straight up to the clouds as was fleecing over the sky in all sorts o’ figurations, and his mahogany face seemin’ quite fair by the side o’ the rollin’ jet black curls as fell on each cheek down to his shoulder. I seed in a moment he was no common sort o’ cretur. If he ar’n’t a Indian prince, thinks I, I’ve no notion o’ things in general. Well, I was determined to know the rights on’t, and was just about recomembring the bit of a speech I was going to say about his mother and the rest o’ the family, when, as I came right afore him, he looks me full in the face; and though I seed nothin’ but the flash o’ his two eyes afore he flitted away to the other end o’ the ship, they seemed so ’stonishingly curious that they held me to the ground as if I was nailed to the deck, and the words I was going to say stuck in my throat like lumps o’ old Cucumber-Shin’s puddin’.”

“Kukumshin!” shouted the black cook, a very fat old negro, indignantly thrusting his woolly poll in the middle of the group. “Dare to call me Kukumshin! Me, Roly Poly Cook in ship Albatross, and free gennleman o’ colour—me Kukumshin! Pretty kettle o’ fish!—Puddin’ berry much too good for sich a fellar. Stick in him troat too! Him nebber hab no time, acause him bolt him like smoke, a fellar! Call me Kukumshin indeed!”

“I tell ye what it is, my mates,” cried Hearty, inattentive to Roly Poly’s indignation. The group were all attention.

“A fellar!” exclaimed the cook, casting one of his blackest looks upon the offender, and then waddling off to another part of the ship.

“In my time I’ve been many voyages to India and thereabouts,” said the old man; “and I knows it’s the notion o’ them people, that arter a fellow’s dead he comes to life again in another sort of a body. Now if this here rigmarole’s true, which every body there says is as sartain as a stone ’ill sink, seeing that this youngster is more ’cute in his notions than is usual at his time o’ day, and appears a most ’straordinary sort o’ a human, it’s much more nat’ral to ’spose he’s been metamorphorosed from some of those Old Indian flos’phers who ’s up to ev’ry thing in natur’, than that he should be a mere hobbledehoy, as can’t have any more gumption than what ’ll serve him to carry a letter or go on a message. But hush!” exclaimed the speaker as a beautiful symphony full of passionate sentiment was borne upon the air. A soft melodious voice soon mingled with the instrument, and these words were sung with all the expression superior skill could bestow upon them:—

“The wave rolls on from shore to shore,
As from the first those billows roll’d;
All study its mysterious lore,
But none have yet its secrets told!
So in the heart a flood flows on
As free and boundless in its will;
As long, the learnèd there have gone—
Its secrets are unfathom’d still!

“Unfathomed still, fond heart! remain,—
Veil thy rich flood’s most precious prize!
Thy pearlèd worth—thy golden gain—
Hide—hide from all too-curious eyes!
For see! th’ adventurous diver comes,
Down in thy deeps he makes his stay;
Through ev’ry hidden cave he roams—
Then bears thy treasured stores away.

“But why thy sterling splendours hide?—
Why veil the worth thou dost possess?—
Pour out thy bright exhaustless tide!
Lay bare thy wealth!—and thee ’t will bless.
The riches that are hoarded up,
In worthless hands at last must shrink;—
And he who cares to fill the cup,
Should fill for one who longs to drink!”

“There! that is music,” observed Climberkin in a whisper; “and it makes my heart leap like a dolphin just taken out o’ his element.”

“All hands to take in sail!” shouted a stentorian voice from the quarter-deck, and in an instant the group were engaged in active duty.

But the song had other listeners than the party just described. Oriel Porphyry, after escaping from a weary lecture from the learned professor Fortyfolios, who seemed laudably anxious to fulfil his duties to his pupil, had been pacing the quarter-deck with long and hasty strides, when he was roused from the ambitious reveries of his ardent imagination by the mellow sounds of a harp at no great distance. In him, the voice, the song, its sentiments, and their expression, recalled to his memory the delicious beauty of her, from the wondrous lustre of whose gaze he had drunk of that intoxicating stream which had bound his senses in a wild and rapturous delirium. The dark eyes, radiant with the light of the impassioned soul that floated in their depths, again raised on him their sunny splendour; and the budding mouth, bearing the odorous spirits of a thousand roses on its lips, once more appeared to teach those smiling lessons that had been to him the fairest pages in the book of knowledge. He listened, and his heart was filled with the sweet influence of a happier time. The dreams of ambition were forgot—the suggestions of pride were unthought of—fame, glory, power, the pomp of greatness, the sway of empire, and the adulation of the governed, were now as things for which he had no sympathy; and he thought only of the time when the noble, gifted, young, and beautiful Eureka, regardless of the loftiness of her exalted station, the opinions of her princely family, or the sentiments of the world, ennobled him with the passionate ecstacies of her enthusiastic nature, and first filled his youthful brain with those heroic dreams which made him yearn after the glorious influence of superiority.

During the continuance of the song he listened with breathless attention, and the rich harmonies of the music kept him spell-bound to the spot on which he stood; but as the last chords of the closing symphony were struck, he stood by the side of the musician.

“I knew not, Zabra, that you were so well skilled in the science of sweet sounds,” said he.

Zabra had appeared so lost in his own meditations, that he had not noticed master Porphyry’s approach. His gaze was fixed; and as he bent over his harp, allowing the long curls of his dark hair to mingle with its strings, no attitude, and no expression of countenance, could more plainly interpret the perfect state of self-abandonment in which he then existed; but when he heard the voice of him by whom he was addressed, in an instant his dark handsome features assumed a different expression, and throwing back the shining tresses that shaded his face, he seemed a creature all smiles, devotion, and enjoyment.

“Music has been to me the food of my existence,” remarked the page: “on its divine essence I was nurtured; and as the perfume forms a part of the breeze on which it is borne, harmony has entered into my nature, and is now my life, my strength, and my felicity.”

“Where did you learn the song I have just heard?” inquired the merchant’s son.

“From the impulses of my own creative spirit,” replied the other. “From sympathies awakened into action by the strong power that creates and controls them. See you the mighty tide that swells up into universal motion, bearing by its own strength the burthen of resistless armaments as if they were but reeds, and when it does put forth its power, assuming such shapes and doing such things as make the marvel of every age; and know you not that it is the operation of its attraction for that fair world of light that dwelleth in the starry heaven, whose glimpses of a glory not to be subdued enter into its innermost depths, and stir its everlasting waves with passionate emotion?”

“Surely one so young cannot have felt the power of Love?” asked the elder of the two, in a tone that betrayed the influence of which it spoke.

“Who shall say when it shall come or when it shall depart?” said Zabra, as the dusky hue of his cheek gave evidence of the warm blood that filled his veins. “It is a presence that appeareth at all times when the soul is fit to receive it. It cometh not at this time, nor at that—it dwelleth not here, nor there; it filleth eternity of time, and infinity of space. Look around you, over the vast circumference of boundless nature—wherever there is life, wherever there is motion—wherever there is an object that hath beauty in its form and fitness for its purpose, it hath all its energies swayed by the thrilling impulses of that almighty passion. The flower that liveth but a few days, trembles in the warm embraces of the southern breeze; and the planet that smiled upon the infancy of the world, in the unconquerable maturity of a thousand ages, still enamoured, drinks in the beauty of the mountain stream. The heart is ever young, as mine is; and as the mellowing sunbeam calls into activity the principle of life in the insect’s egg, the sunshine in which I have basked, hath stirred the vital seed implanted within my breast, and given it restless hopes and fond desires, and properties and motives to an end, that are the wings with which it flutters in its shell. The only thing in which I differ from the rest is that my Spring hath preceded theirs. All have their seasons, but till the sun comes the winter endures; and in me the frost hath been broken up, and the current, freed from its icy chains, rushes through its channels in the soft light of its first bright day, and makes a world of its own, full of music and flowers.”

“But how can you bear to be parted from the object with which your sympathies are so closely united?” asked master Porphyry.

“We are inseparable,” replied Zabra, as he fixed his eyes on the inquirer, eloquent with animation. “Think you, you can part the melody from the voice by which it is sung? The two cannot be severed; neither can the spirit to which mine is linked be other than a part of myself. I breathe its atmosphere—I enjoy its presence—I share in its delights. Our bodies may be set asunder by a plank; but you may pile mountains upon mountains, and worlds upon worlds between us, and yet our souls will remain one and indivisible.”

“How much your voice and gestures remind me of Eureka!” remarked the merchant’s son, regarding with increasing interest the romantic enthusiasm of his companion.

“For what purpose than this was I sent?” asked the youth, as he turned away from the gaze as if to examine some of the strings of his instrument: then continued—“If you loved her with the same intense devotion with which she regards you, you would not require to be reminded; but, save in the color of our complexions, there is so perfect a resemblance both in our appearance and in our natures, that I might recall her image to any one who has seen her and seems likely to forget her.”

“You wrong me, Zabra!” cried the other vehemently, “if you imagine it possible that I can forget her. It is she who hath filled these veins with a quenchless fire that makes my whole frame glow with a desire for lofty enterprise, to attain a renown, and acquire a greatness worthy of the love with which I have been honoured. Since that proud day when I first beheld in her lustrous eyes the light that created a new splendour over the horizon of my happiness, I have been shaking the chains that bound me to the world, and, while yearning to emancipate myself from its oppressive thraldoms, have sought how I could best subdue it to my own ambitious purposes. I worship the nobility of her nature, and would have her behold in mine something worthy of its intimate association. I would not have her descend from the lofty pedestal on which she is placed; therefore am I eager to win my way to a like elevation—ay, and ascend higher, if a loftier step there be—and there acknowledge the greatness I have worshipped, and everlastingly unite it to my own.”

“How little you know of her character, if you think she values any thing except the spirit to which she is attached,” observed the page. “Did she care for the accidental difference of birth that distinguishes you from her, you would never have known of her affection, because it could never have existed. They who love the idle vanities of rank, set their hearts upon a garment, a feather, a shining stone that is made to adorn the person who possesses it; but it was not such artificial worth that could attract Eureka. That she would feel proud of any distinction you might by the force of your own merit acquire, is probable; but knowing the qualities of your disposition, she holds them at their full value, which could not be increased in the slightest degree by all the honours you might gain. It was her observation of a tendency in you to seek after the unattainable, that made her fearful it would lead you into danger; and when she pressed me into this service, she bade me warn you of the different perils it would produce. I warn you now. Take heed of indulging in these ambitious dreams. You have the elements of greatness in your character; they ought to content you; and what you desire are but the shadows of what you have. There is another danger which is equally imminent; and if you are as truly devoted to Eureka as she hath ever been to you, you will pause before it reaches you.—Your feverish pursuit after renown, or power, or whatever delusive meteor it may be that dazzles your eyes, only tends to make you lose sight of that one true, steady, and brilliant light that should be a glory in your pathway.”

“Never!” exclaimed his companion with fervour—“never can any ambitious dream of mine lead me from that splendour out of which it was created. My aspirations are a natural result of the lofty source from which they spring. They are but the reflections of her excellence—and the signs of her presence; and loving her, I could no more exist without desiring to be great, than I could bask in the sun’s rays without acquiring warmth.—Besides, had I not this stimulus to exertion, by what means can I hope to make her mine. To the merchant’s son the Lord of Philadelphia would deny his daughter; but with Oriel Porphyry, his equal in dignity and superior in power, the honoured of all and the feared of many, he would gladly seek an alliance.”

“You think not of what Eureka’s ideas may be on this subject?” inquired Zabra.

“I think of them, but they cannot avail,” said the other.

“They will avail!” replied the youth emphatically.

“How?” asked master Porphyry.

“Be assured of this,” said his young companion, while again he seemed more attentive to his harp than to his listener. “If, in a reasonable time, the obstacles that retard your union still exist, she will point out a way by which they may be honourably set aside, or acquiesce in any plan with the same object in view, which you may propose.”

“How know you this?” inquired the other hastily.

“I heard her say it,” said the page.

“But before I return, her father may compel her to enter into other arrangements.”

“Eureka has a will which is not to be compelled—she will readily do that which is right—but no power on earth could bend her inclinations to an unjust purpose.”

“And she may be surrounded by dangers—subject to every kind of suffering, and forced to endure a thousand indignities from which I have no power to rescue her,” continued master Porphyry.

“She is surrounded by dangers,” said the youth with emphasis—“dangers new and terrible to other minds; but of these she will think nothing, and of what she may be obliged to endure she will be equally regardless, as long as she is possessed with the conviction, that he for whom alone she suffers is not unmindful of the sacrifices she has made.”

“There is a strength in your words,” said the merchant, laying his hand upon the shoulder of his companion, “which there is no withstanding; and your looks are even more eloquent than your language. How is it possible that one apparently so young should have acquired that force of expression, and depth of meaning, which breathes in every sentence you express.”

“I was taught early, and well,” replied the other, as his frame trembled slightly under the touch of his companion. “And as for my speech—truth is always the most forcible. My external frame may appear light and boyish; but size is no safe guide for the judgment. The ostrich never leaves the earth along which it glides; but the eagle pierces the unfathomable depths of air with an untiring wing, and floats with eye undimmed within the scorching rays of the eternal sun.”

“Zabra, your nature is superior to the garb you wear,” said the elder, as he kindly took the hand and gazed into the face of his more youthful associate. “I cannot allow you to be thus. You must put away the page, and endeavour to be the friend of Oriel Porphyry.”

“By whatever title Oriel Porphyry can most love Zabra, that title Zabra would most desire to be,” replied the other.

“Then be it so,” said his companion. “From henceforth you shall be my associate—my friend—my brother. Any thing in the ship that can extend your enjoyments shall be at your disposal, and you may command the services of every living creature it contains. We will be together as often as possible, and the greatest delight you can create, or I can indulge in, will be for us to discourse of her in whose affection I exist; that when I hear the magic music of your voice, and meet the deep intelligence of your gaze, the resemblance may make me imagine that the blissful times have again returned, when beneath the shadows of the welcome trees we sat together till the noonday hours ran on unnoticed to the twilight, and the twilight deepened into evening, and still our hands were clasped with the same gentle pressure with which they first met, and still our eyes looked into each other with the same unspeakable meaning that was first created in their mutual glances.”

Perhaps Oriel Porphyry would have said more, but at that moment his companion withdrew his hand, and with looks full of an empassioned tenderness, as he struck an accompaniment of harmonious chords, he sang the following words:—

“Sound, oh Harp! some sweet and cheerful lay,
Soft as the breath of eve o’er mountain springs,
Awhile the spirit of a brighter day
Mingles its voice with thy rejoicing strings.
With thy rejoicing strings, oh Soul of Song!
Bind the fond air with spells rained free and fast;
And as thy thrilling echoes roll along,
We’ll raise again the Raptures of the Past!

“Sound, oh Harp! such harmony as dies
Within the warm and rosy atmosphere,
When gentle whispers, and delicious sighs,
Send a delighting welcome to the ear.
A welcome to the ear, oh Voice Divine!
Which long as life, and kind as hope, shall last;
That with the wealth of an exhaustless mine
Stores in our hearts the Treasures of the Past!

“Sound, oh Harp! thy music once again,
For now while I intrusive cares destroy,
An impulse stirs within the heart and brain,
Strong with the power of everlasting joy.
Of everlasting joy, Prophetic Sound!
(A bliss that cannot in the grave be cast;)
For as thy trembling murmurs swell around,
Still we embrace the Blessings of the Past.”

When the song concluded their hearts seemed filled with a mutual sympathy which neither could express; and Master Porphyry throwing his arm round the young musician, and bringing Zabra’s arm round his own waist, drew him to another part of the vessel without either exchanging a word. In this attitude, the youthful pair would have formed an admirable study for a painter. The tall and manly form of the merchant’s son, his clear complexion and noble countenance creating a perfect contrast to the symmetrical, yet delicate, figure of his companion, and the soft voluptuous character of his more dark but not less beautiful features.

While these proceedings were going on, a scene of a very different description was being acted in a low, dark, narrow cabin in a secluded part of the ship. By the light of a small lamp that swung from the roof, the diminutive form of Log the captain’s clerk, with his little conceited physiognomy, might be observed perched upon a high stool engaged in writing, while the more burly figure, but not more prepossessing countenance, of Scrumpydike, lay extended on some packages near his feet.

“Scrunch me, if this ar’n’t the most miserable sort o’ life, I ever knowed,” remarked the latter, as he rested his chin upon his hands and supported himself upon his elbows.

“Sad!” responded Log, who thinking that to speak much would lessen his consequence, seldom allowed any thing beyond a monosyllable to escape him, to which by repetitions and some slight additions he attempted to give as much importance as if they contained volumes of meaning. “Sad, sad, very sad, very sad upon my word, Mister Scrumpydike.”

“There’s nothin’ doin’,” continued the other. “I feel as queer as a dog wi’ his tail cut off, cause there’s no ’portunity to do nothin’.”

“Nothing, nothing, decidedly, actually, positively nothing, Mister Scrumpydike,” replied the little man.

“It’s a tarnation hard case that a fellow’s obligated to be honest against his will,” remarked the sailor despondingly.

“Hard, hard, very hard, very hard indeed, uncommonly hard, Mister Scrumpydike,” said the other, appearing to sympathise exceedingly in so extraordinary a cause of complaint.

“But what’s most cruel in this here unnat’ral state o’ things is, that there’s sich lots o’ beautiful prigging for any chap as is a mind to make his-self handy,” added his companion in the same pathetic tone.

“Cruel, cruel, most cruel, most unjustly, most unnaturally, most deplorably cruel, Mister Scrumpydike,” responded Log.

“Well, I only knows I shan’t be able to stand this here molloncolly sort o’ fun much longer. May I be bolted by a shark if I ar’n’t a getting into the most ’bominable reg’lar habits as can be. You wouldn’t s’pose it possible, but I ar’n’t ’propriated nothin’ o’ nobodies since I’ve been aboard this here craft. I ar’n’t the same sort o’ cretur I was afore. I ar’n’t, indeed. I resists temptation, and commits lots o’ other ’straordinary impossibilities. I does without divarsion:—I ar’n’t killed a fellow cretur for ever so long. And worser nor all, some o’ the bugaboos here act’ly thinks I ar’n’t no greater a villain than themselves, ar’n’t it horrid?”

“Terrible, terrible, horribly terrible, upon my word, very horribly terrible, Mister Scrumpydike.”

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a knocking at the door which made Scrumpydike jump upon his legs, and Log twist himself round upon his stool, each looking, in a considerable degree, alarmed and anxious. Presently the door opened cautiously, and Captain Compass entered the cabin. His sallow complexion, high cheek bones, prominent nose, thick lips, and restless grey eyes were surrounded by a thick mass of coarse black hair, that spread from each side of his narrow forehead, down his cheeks and under his chin, in a formidable pair of whiskers. His figure was spare of flesh, but in the gauntness of body, length of arm, and sinewy leg, there was evidently more than ordinary strength. His appearance was not likely to excite for him much regard, but there was a careless freedom in his manner, a frank boldness in his conversation, and a pungent satire in his wit, that had made him an agreeable companion to the merchant’s son.

“All right, Scrumpy?” inquired Compass in a whisper, after closing the door carefully after him.

“All right, cap’ain,” replied Scrumpydike.

“Right, right, very right, perfectly right, right as a trivet, Captain Compass,” added Log.

“Scrunch me, if we shan’t all be served with sauce we don’t like, unless we keep a smart look out ahead,” observed the captain as he flung himself upon a bale of goods.

“Why, what’s in the wind now, cap’ain?” inquired Scrumpydike, with some earnestness, while little Log remained silent with alarm.

“May I be peeled to shreds in a hurricane, if that dark looking son of a savage, who came on board the day we sailed, doesn’t suspect the game we are playing,” continued the captain.

“No!” exclaimed the other, as an expression of anxiety became visible in his hard rough features; and the captain’s clerk trembled on his stool as if he was shaken by an ague.

“I was palavering young Porphyry as smooth as a rat’s tail, after he had been pretty well blown up with the long-winded sentences of that tedious old porpoise Fortyfolios, and was going it at a smacking rate about the pleasure of liberty and the enjoyments of a life of enterprise, the sort of discourse, I have found out, he’ll suck in as a fish drinks water, when happening to turn my daylights a little a starboard, I beheld that black thief Zabra watching me like a snake, and when I met the full stare of his great goggling eyes they seemed to have the power of piercing through and through right into the hold where all my secrets are ballasted, so I, having a sudden fear that he was up to the course I was steering, lost the helm of my discourse, and anchored in shallow water, with a muddy bottom, in no time.”

“Pooh!” responded Scrumpydike: “is that all? Leave him to me, and I’ll thank ye for the job.”

“No, that mustn’t be: we must avoid every thing likely to create the least suspicion,” replied the captain.

“I’ll take care o’ that,” said the other: “I’ll watch my ’portunity when he’s a hanging over the side o’ the ship, as he does o’ nights when there ar’n’t a human near enough to catch a glimpse o’ his ’bominable carcass, and then with my ‘safe and sure’ here,” continued the fellow as he drew a long knife a little way from its concealment in his vest, “I’ll make a sweep into his bread-room, and afore he can ax what it’s for, I’ll heave him into a berth where he’ll lie snug as a wet blanket can make him.”

“It wo’n’t do, I tell you,” remarked his associate.

“Nobody needn’t know nothin’ about it,” added Scrumpydike.

“There is too much risk and not sufficient advantage to be gained by it,” said the captain. “Ah!” he continued, after a pause—“if I only had some of the old hands now, scrunch me, if I wouldn’t put matters to rights, after a fashion the fellows here don’t dream of.”

“Wouldn’t we? Breakers ahead! wouldn’t we?” cried the other with exultation. “But they’ve all cut their cables and gone adrift. There’s nothin’ but misfortunes in this here world. It’s a hard case for a fellow who’s sociably inclined to see his mates, as fine a set o’ villains as ever escaped hanging, partin’ company without cuttin’ each other’s throats or doin’ any thing in a friendly way.” A melancholy pause succeeded this sentence.—“It was an ugly business that at Cape Danger, warn’t it, Mister Log?” at last asked the scoundrel of the little man upon the stool.

“Ugly, ugly, very ugly, I may say uncommonly, deplorably, ferociously ugly, Mister Scrumpydike,” replied the captain’s clerk.

“Well, it’s no use lamenting the catastrophe now,” observed the captain. “All we’ve got to do is to get a new ship and a fresh set of hands. The ship we’ve as good as got, but she can be of no use without a crew of the right sort. To get such a set of fellows together will take some time. We must either pick them up where we can, or try and make the present crew adopt our views. This will be rather a ticklish business, and requires very careful management, for the slightest knowledge of our intentions among those not inclined to join us will wreck the whole concern. Now, Scrumpy, you’ve got jawing tackle that will stand in any weather.”

“Ay, ay, cap’ain,” cried the fellow with a grin: “may I be washed to rags in a waterspout if I couldn’t bamboozle the devil’s grandmother.”

“Well, you must sound these fellows, but do it cautiously—and try if the inducement of plenty of plunder and a free life will be likely to lead them to assist us in our bold undertaking. As for the boy Zabra, although there appears something very mysterious about him, and he looks as sharp as a sword-fish, I don’t think it possible he can find me out. Scorch my body to a cinder! but it would be a hard case if, after having baffled so many big vessels, I should be sunk by such a bit of a craft as that. However, I mus’n’t stay here any longer or my absence may create inquiry,” observed the speaker as he proceeded to the door; then looking at his associates said, “Remember what you have heard, and steer your course accordingly,” and with the same caution with which he entered left the cabin.

“Well, ar’n’t this enough to make a fellow ready to jump down his own throat wi’ vexation?” remarked Scrumpydike to his companion. “Here, I was jest ’gratulating myself that spiflicating that young blackamoor would be a tolerable bit o’ a pastime to cheer up the dulness o’ this here molloncholy life, when he turns round upon me and says it ar’n’t to be at no price! I’d rather live in a whale’s belly up to my nose in blubber than endure this uncomfortable state o’ feeling. Scrunch me if I wouldn’t. Don’t you think now, Master Log, it’s as bad a state o’ existence as is possible for a human to know on?”

“Bad, bad, shocking bad, particularly shocking bad, upon my word very particularly shocking bad, Mister Scrumpydike,” replied the commiserating captain’s clerk; and immediately afterwards the dissatisfied villain walked away to join his unsuspicious messmates.

[CHAP. III.]
A PHILANTHROPIST.

A few days after the circumstances that have been related, Oriel Porphyry, being alone, broke open the packet that had been given him by his father, and on perusal found it to contain the following communication:—

“It is time, my dear Oriel, that you should know something of your father’s history; that being made acquainted with the steps by which he has acquired his reputation, you may seek the same path to honour with a certainty that it cannot mislead; and the moment is equally opportune for you to learn the true state of your country, which you cannot know unless you can have the account from one who is neither desirous of deceiving himself nor his associates, that when you are called upon to take your place on the grand stage of the world, as you will be aware what portion of the drama has preceded your appearance, you may understand the tendency of the whole so well, as to be able to play your part with power, with truth, with a just conception of the character, to the satisfaction of yourself, and with the admiration of your audience. I have observed, with considerable anxiety, that you possess a disposition that does not conform itself readily to the spirit of the times. You are impatient of restraint—you are anxious for enterprise—you are yearning for distinction;—not that distinction which rewards the exertions of the truly great, the just, the good, the benevolent—which is the loving admiration of their fellow-creatures, and comes in the delightful shape of blessings, and good wishes, and the sight of social happiness—but the vain splendour of a false renown, such as is often acquired by adventurers, impostors, conquerors, and tyrants, and is made visible in the shrieks of wounded men, in the adulation of slaves, in tears and curses, blood and flame, in the blast of trumpets and the clang of chains. Your eyes are enamoured of the glory with which the mighty invest themselves: to excite the wonder of the fearful and the foolish, and assist in their subjection—thrones and sceptres, robes of state, gaudy ceremonies, and idle distinctions, dazzle your senses—you would wish them yours, seek for them, fight for them, die for them: having obtained them, your sole gratification would exist in exhibiting yourself surrounded by these delusive honours, or in conferring some of minor importance upon such of your followers as may make themselves most useful or agreeable: dying in seeking their possession, you would render up your everlasting soul, to mingle with the bright source from which it sprung, with the sole consolation that you will be talked of by a multitude you could not enslave.

“The only unerring way of judging of the value of a thing is by the happiness it produces. The degree of happiness that results to the acquirer of this glory, of which you are so desirous, must indeed be small, when we take into consideration the danger with which it is obtained, the fear of losing it, and the struggles to maintain its possession, which are its common accompaniments; and still less is the quantity of happiness it creates among those at whose expense it must exist—for there is no happiness in thraldom—in the debasement of human nature to an idol—in the march of conquering hordes destroying as they go—or in the bitter anguish of noble minds struggling in vain to emancipate themselves from the tyranny under which they groan. The only real happiness consists in the practice of benevolence, and the only real glory is the admiration it excites. I have enjoyed a more than ordinary share of happiness, because I have taken advantage of opportunities for benefiting my fellow-creatures that were presented to me in more than ordinary abundance, and I have acquired an unusual degree of reputation for a private individual, in consequence of making the most profitable use of these abundant opportunities for doing good.

“It was in the middle of the last reign, when the late emperor, after ascending the steps of military greatness to a throne, was pursuing an uninterrupted career of conquest throughout the vast continent of this immense portion of the globe, when I, a youth like yourself, but with far different feelings, left the mansion of my father, (who had lately been ennobled, as it is called, for his services in the wars,) to escape from a way of life it was desired I, being his eldest son, should follow—a way of slaughter and tyranny, of blood, and shame, and guilt, which was disgustingly repugnant to my disposition,—and disguised, and under a fictitious name, seeking some more honourable occupation, I was so fortunate as to enter into the service of the wealthiest merchant in the city of Columbus. I became useful to him—he praised my industry and integrity—I was admired by his daughter—she loved me for the praises to which she had been a frequent and not unwilling listener. He was generous and noble in his nature—she simple, modest, and kind. She was your mother, Oriel, and after having been enriched with her beauty and excellence, I became possessed of all the store of treasure, which had gone on accumulating as it passed from father to son through several generations of princely merchants.

“I had always done whatever trifling good the little power I had allowed me to accomplish, and the sweetest gratifications I enjoyed arose from these actions, and had always longed for the arrival of that time when my sphere of usefulness might be equal to my desires; therefore when, by the demise of my adopted father, I found myself the uncontrollable master of funds almost exhaustless, to render the benefits I wished them to produce as ample as possible, I studied every way which great knowledge and extraordinary means could create to increase them, that without diminishing my source of good I might have a liberal, a continual, and increasing fund from which to realise my benevolent intentions. With this object in view, and with the experience I had acquired by many years of close application, I brought into operation all my resources—my ships, continually increasing in number, traversed every known sea, laden with the most desirable produce—and my agents, always becoming more numerous, penetrated into every habitable region, and opened new sources of traffic and fresh accumulations of wealth. The consequence was, that I was enabled to live a life of the most active benevolence. I purchased happiness by diffusing it around me. I founded hospitals for the sick and asylums for the poor. I endeavoured to lessen the growth of crime by increasing the means of intelligence, and I attempted to strengthen the example of virtue by adding to the recreative power of its advantages. I rewarded genius, I enriched worth, I assisted industry, I fostered skill. I made disappointment forget her name, and allowed misfortune to become a stranger in the places where I was known.

“But at this period, in what state of feeling lived the emperor—he whose state you would envy, and whose pride you would covet? He was getting into the winter of his days, but the fire that burnt within him was not to be subdued by its frost. His soul was like a volcano in a region of snow. He was disturbed by the restless turmoil of his own thoughts, that made his couch of down a bed of rock, his robe of sovereignty a perpetual blister, and the acclamations of a fickle multitude a piercing discord. In vain, when he found that all his conquests had been achieved, and he consolidated them into one immense empire, comprising the two Americas, over which he ruled alone and absolute, he tried to calm the fever of his desires by building palaces and churches, erecting triumphal arches and towering pillars—creating convenient highways, majestic bridges, noble aqueducts, immense canals, and unrivalled docks:—in vain he strived to have forests grow in the place of weeds, and sought to have gardens of roses in deserts of sand—he encouraged agriculture—he promoted manufactures—he protected commerce—science was ennobled in his halls, and learning dwelt in comfort in his colleges:—in vain he established institutions, originated titles, conferred honours, and distributed wealth—the fire that slumbered in his breast was not to be thus extinguished. He was miserable for want of opportunities for action. His busy inclinations allowed him no repose. There was no peace for his soul.

“The happiness I enjoyed became known to him—became familiar to all—for with the true spirit of philanthropy, which knows no distinction of creed or country, I endeavoured to confer my benefits wherever they were most required; and the loving admiration with which I found my name regarded in every part of the globe, and the abundant pleasures I saw arise from my own exertions wherever they could be applied, created in me a degree of happiness almost impossible to be exceeded. He became aware of my extraordinary wealth, and was told of the beneficial effects it was producing. The emperor sent me word that a certain distinction waited my acceptance—with a proper humility I declined the favour. Surprised at the refusal, and desirous of tempting me into obligation, he caused it to be intimated to me that a higher honour would, if desired, be granted—this, in the same manner, and with as little consideration, I also refused. His astonishment increased, and his inclination to shackle me with the trappings of his own grandeur grew more intense. I was told that the highest honours to which a subject could aspire might at a wish be mine; and I need scarcely add that the offer met with the same result as its predecessors. No, my son! as Oriel Porphyry I had acquired almost boundless riches, and had lived in a state of happiness which left no desire ungratified—as Oriel Porphyry I had obtained an influence over the hearts of my fellow-men, compared to which the power of conquerors was an idle boast—and as Oriel Porphyry I had created for myself a renown beside which the glory of an emperor sunk into insignificance. What could be to me the baubles he sought to confer—the sounding titles—or the pompous privileges? They could not extend my usefulness a hair’s breadth—they could not add to my enjoyments the fraction of a grain.

“To say that the emperor was not offended by my repeated refusals would be to give a more charitable interpretation to his feelings than would be true; but my behaviour seemed to him something so extraordinary—something so opposed to the spirit of his experience—and something so utterly incomprehensible to his notions of human nature—that he sent for me to be satisfied by his own eyes that there existed in the world what he considered so remarkable a phenomenon. He endeavoured to persuade me into a conviction that I did wrong, in not accepting the advantages, as he was pleased to call them, I might obtain; and I replied by describing the advantages that more justly deserved the name I already possessed. I asked if he could give me any thing of real value that was not at my disposal, and enumerated every good I was enabled to bestow. He reflected, and the more he reflected, the more he seemed to wonder. I do not remember the whole of our conversation, but it was of sufficient interest to him to desire my visit to be repeated.

“I saw the emperor frequently at his continual requests, and the more I conversed with him the more he appeared gratified with my conversation. I expressed my opinions fearlessly, and my boldness he excused—I censured his government with freedom, and he listened without offence. I suggested some valuable improvements, and my ideas were immediately adopted; but our acquaintance did not end there. He was continually entreating me to occupy a place in his council, from which I endeavoured to be excused; but on reflection, seeing that it might confer upon me opportunities I could not otherwise possess, for giving a more liberal character to the government, by which means I might improve the condition of the people, I at last consented, on the understanding that it should confer on me no rank, no privileges, and no emoluments. I knew that my country had once been a republic, and under that title had for centuries enjoyed an unexampled degree of prosperity; but though I would have preferred a government of a similar character, more perfect in its influence, and more simple in its organisation, as a change in the state of things could not evidently be made, without creating a degree of confusion, strife, hatred, and unhappiness, the thought of which I could not endure, it was my aim so to work and improve the machinery of the state, that the public wants should be as completely satisfied as it was possible for them to be. It matters little under what name a nation is governed,—a monarchy, an oligarchy, and a republic are but different names for the same thing; and a president, a doge, and an emperor, are only different titles for the same office: they may all represent a state of tyranny in the country, and their chiefs may become the most despotic rulers of the people. The true value of a thing, as I have previously said, is the quantity of happiness it can be made to produce; and every system of government may, by proper administration, be made productive of the greatest degree of happiness to the governed.

“At the head of the grand council of the empire I was in due time installed; and while I there remained, was the originator of a multitude of various measures, having for their object the public welfare. My coadjutors I found to be men with whom I could but little sympathise, because they had no sympathy for their fellows. They were proud, vain, selfish, and intolerant. They imagined themselves governors instead of ministers. They liked to rule better than to advise. They bowed in abject servility to their superior, and strived to make those having less power as slavish in their behaviour to themselves.

“It is not at all extraordinary that such dispositions should regard the untitled merchant who presided at their deliberations, always exercised his own judgment in preference to theirs, paid no deference to their fancied superiority, and appeared on terms of equality even with their emperor, as one unqualified for government, and solely kept in office by the emperor’s foolish partiality; and I was neither surprised or offended, when I found them opposing the measures I brought forward; treating my arguments with inattention, and my person with disrespect. Finding that, under such circumstances, my services could be of no value to the community, I was obliged to request the emperor to release me from the responsibilities of my situation. He desired to know the reasons for my resignation. I told him. I was entreated to remain; an intimation was conveyed to the members of the council from him they acknowledged as their master, and, when I returned to my duties, I found them rivalling each other in obsequiousness to my will. That, notwithstanding the readiness with which they embraced my views, they hated me in their hearts, I regret to say, was too evident. But they were little to be blamed. Had they known that, even in the idle rank which they prized so highly, I was the equal of the noblest, and the superior of the rest, they would have regarded me with more generous feelings; but none knew when my father died, and my younger brother took possession of the titles and estates of the family; that the rightful heir, long lamented as dead, was living, in the person of an object of secret disdain to his coadjutors; and that he was Oriel Porphyry, the merchant.

“It may easily be imagined by you, from what I have related, that the emperor had sympathies in his nature rarely met with in conquerors; but by me they were first awakened. On one of our earliest interviews, when the spirit that kept his desires in a ferment was still strong upon him, he said,—

“‘I want action—I want action. I cannot live except in the stir of battle, and the pursuit of conquest. But my triumphs are completed—I have nothing left to conquer.’

“Sire,” said I, “the most valuable—the most difficult conquest remains unachieved.”

“‘What have I to conquer?’ he asked, eagerly.

“Yourself,” I replied. I will do him the justice to say that he did not lose sight of the suggestion. His mind became liberalised—his heart expanded to the influence of sincere philanthropy—for the first time he understood the nature of true happiness; and although from the effects of a disease of long standing his reign, from this time, was brief, he lived to effect some valuable reformations in the laws, and by their results in ameliorating the condition of the people, provided, as far as he had the power, a remedy for the mischiefs he had created.

“His successor was a weak, proud, vain young man, possessing a disposition for tyranny—usually found in company with incapacity holding power; and it is almost unnecessary to state that such a character found plenty of bad advisers, and that I was speedily obliged by their machinations to retire from all participation in the government. Although my time had always been actively employed, I had regarded the progress of your education with so much interest, that I never failed to create opportunities for superintending your studies. I witnessed the developement of your mind with increasing pleasure, and found a continual gratification in the approaches you were making to the perfect dignity of manhood. About this time we went to reside in the neighbourhood of Philadelphia’s noble mansion, because the scenery was endeared to me by all the most pleasant of my early recollections, and I encouraged your intimacy with our proud neighbours, in consequence of an inclination I had long retained, which was created in me by many powerful reasons with which you cannot now be made acquainted, for a union between our families. Philadelphia seemed for a considerable time with great cordiality to enter into my views; but as the government of which he was a supporter were pursuing measures highly inimical to the liberties of the people, and as he found I would not be brought into any thing like an approval of such a policy, he began to look upon me with less friendship—he thought it would hurt his loyalty to retain feelings of sociality for one who opposed the measures of his sovereign, and imagined it beneath the dignity of his nobility to encourage an alliance with an untitled merchant. But he little knew that a word would make me his equal in his own ideas of greatness; which, when uttered, would at the same time reduce him to a state of insignificance to which, in comparison, my plebeian condition would have appeared to him princely.

“From a friendly neighbour, Philadelphia became an implacable enemy. I regretted, for the reasons to which I have alluded, that all idea of the proposed union should be thus suddenly terminated; but I had noticed in Eureka so powerful a romantic impulse in her nature, and observed that its effect upon you was so productive of ambitious desires, that I did not lament your separation, but in a very slight degree. The disappointment under which I observed you suffer so acutely, and the restless eagerness for a life of enterprise, I noticed becoming in you daily less supportable, induced me to plan the voyage upon which you are now proceeding. Engage yourself in careful observation of every thing you meet worthy of notice—seek every opportunity for diffusing happiness among those near you, by whom it may be required; and all motive for exertion, that does not tend towards benevolence, all regret for the past, and all desires for the future, will be forgotten in the enjoyment of your own happiness.”

“It cannot be,” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, as he concluded the preceding sentence. “I honour my father’s noble nature, and would do all in my power to fulfil his benevolent intentions, but I cannot give up Eureka. My ambition I will strive to conquer; but love is not so easily subdued. What care I for the disdain of the proud Philadelphia? I see signs in the times that are likely to bring about important changes, if this state of things continues. The people are dissatisfied with their rulers, and the emperor is endeavouring to make himself absolute. Every day will increase the public discontent, and when the crisis arrives, there will be nothing required but a leader, and down the whole rotten fabric of despotism must tumble. I will wait the time; and then, my father! we will see who is greatest in the land—the generous merchant or the proud noble.”

[CHAP. IV.]
A FIRE AT SEA.

The mid-day meal had concluded in the chief cabin, and its partakers were grouped round a table in the centre of the apartment, assisting with conversation the enjoyment of the wines and delicacies of which they were partaking. The cabin was elegant in its decorations, but they were marked by a more valuable quality than mere elegance: the pictures and other ornaments, possessing features of peculiar interest to persons engaged in traffic, for they represented, or were connected in some way with the objects, the pleasures, and the advantages of commerce; some weapons arranged in a picturesque manner, and placed amongst them by Oriel Porphyry, were the only things there seen that did not partake of the peaceful character of the appearance of the room.

“The only thing I can see in nature,” said Captain Compass, as he sat at one end of the table opposite Oriel Porphyry, re-filling his glass, “and the only thing I think worth seeing is glory. May I sink to the bottom of the sea in the next gale, if there’s any thing else a fellow should wish to possess. What do you say, master Porphyry?”

“Why, I must acknowledge it has extraordinary attractions,” replied the young merchant. “It is generally difficult to obtain,—its pursuit is usually attended with much hazard, but then there is such an excitement in the effort made to possess it, and such a splendour accompanying its possession, that difficulties and dangers ought not to be considered by those by whom it is sought.”

“Exactly,” responded the captain, with more than usual cordiality; “and they only can obtain glory who express such sentiments.”

“But it is uncertain as yet what definition you give to the idea you call glory,” remarked the oldest member of the party,—a man rather above the medium height, and considerably beyond the middle age, with a large head, nearly bald, prominent nose, and deep-set eyes, well shaded by a pair of thick grisly eyebrows. His features were somewhat stern in their expression, apparently more from the result of continual reflection than from want of kindly feeling; and although they indicated considerable mental power, a consciousness of superiority betrayed itself quite as conspicuously. It may easily be imagined that this was the learned Professor Fortyfolios. “The consideration of any abstract idea,” continued the professor, who, it will be observed, having been a public lecturer in the university of Columbus, had acquired a more important manner of expressing his sentiments than was usual in conversation. “The consideration of any abstract idea, appears under different circumstances in the minds of different individuals, but this is as much the result of an habitual tendency to certain associations in the person who considers the subject, as the consequence of the variety of organisations that exist in society. Scarcely any two persons are to be met with whose reflective faculties pursue the progress of ratiocination exactly in the same manner,—because no two individuals being exactly alike, and the mind being a portion of the self, partaking of its individuality, as in a mirror, the shadow is a resemblance of the features, each must receive its own separate impressions, and consider them in its own peculiar manner. It follows, as a natural consequence, that the thoughts of the speaker will partake of his individual habitude, and that his conception of glory, or any other abstract idea, will be coloured by his particular way of life.”

“Well, I don’t know in what latitude abstract ideas may be found,” said the captain, a little puzzled by the professor’s explanation; “but I think any body knows the landmarks of glory. If I saw a little ship manned by a few brave spirits, fight a ship double its size, or may be two ships or may be three, defended by a crew as superior in numbers; and after raking her fore and aft, smashing every thing to splinters, and cutting every thing to rags, pipe all hands to board, and sweep away the enemy from their own decks into the sea, and after that sail away with the prize, I should call that glory.”

“The action is glorious no doubt,” observed Oriel Porphyry, “but it does not realise my conception of glory. I imagine a man, in the truest sense of the word, living in a country groaning under the despotism of a tyrant, and having that spirit of freedom in his nature, which must always accompany greatness; and that uncontrollable energy of valour in his character, which is its element, pointing out to his fellow-sufferers the cause of their slavery, stirring in their hearts an unconquerable love of independence, and after gathering them together by twos and threes, then by hundreds and thousands, and lastly, by resistless multitudes, at their head attacking the hordes of armed plunderers by whom their subjugation had been effected; driving them from the tented field to the battlemented wall, and from the battlemented wall to the grave; and when not a trace of tyranny remained throughout the land, I imagine that man the liberator of his country, and the emancipator of its people, honoured as he ought to be, and possessed with the power with which their gratitude should invest him, conducting the nation he had enfranchised to the highest degree of prosperity and greatness—and I call that glory.”

“Then my notion of the same idea differs materially from those you have given,” said the professor. “In the first place, there are two antagonist principles, from which all good and ill emanate—intelligence and ignorance; and only according to the predominance of the former can we judge of the extent of the excellence of any thing. As we know that all which is beneficial proceeds from intelligence, and that without intelligence nothing good can arise, and that without good there can be no such thing as glory, it must be evident that he who produces intelligence acquires the truest and greatest glory. The philosopher who spends laborious days in amassing knowledge by observation and study, which he distributes to the whole world, and whose labours continue to the end of time to ennoble and refine mankind; in the fame with which his name must be inseparably connected among all generations, and wherever civilisation exists, realises, in my opinion, the only true idea of glory the human mind can conceive.”

“I beg leave to differ from you all,” cried a stout little man (whose round, rosy face bore the perfect expression of good humour), sitting opposite the professor, and whose professional conversation proclaimed him to be Dr. Tourniquet, “I beg leave to differ from you all, don’t you see. I cannot imagine glory to belong to anything that does not tend to alleviate the sufferings or remove the diseases of the human frame, don’t you see. Life is subject to a multitude of maladies—from the cradle to the grave there is a constant succession of aches and pains, and few escape without experiencing disorders more or less dreadful. Now my idea is, that evil and good are but other names for pain and pleasure, don’t you see; that he who lessens the quantity of evil is alone entitled to the name of benefactor, which brings with it the greatest degree of glory it is possible to possess, don’t you see; and that, consequently, the man who devotes his life to procure others the enjoyment of health—who boldly ventures among the most malignant contagions to study their effects, and origins—who carefully examines every morbid structure in the living and the dead, at the greatest personal risk and inconvenience, till he becomes familiar with all its appearances and discovers its creating cause; and by long study of the properties of different medicinal substances, of external circumstances that tend to produce health or disease, and by his intimate acquaintance with the human body in every state in which it can be seen;—in my opinion, that man, who by knowledge thus acquired, and thus applied, through his example made public, being enabled to save or prolong the lives of millions of his fellow-creatures, and multiply the blessings of existence, in the admiration with which his name must always be regarded, is the only perfect conception of glory that can be entertained, don’t you see.”

“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed the captain, somewhat contemptuously. “What glory can there be in giving a fellow a dose of physic?”

“Unless there be some ennobling sentiment in the mind, which is developed in great actions such as I have described, glory cannot exist,” said Oriel Porphyry.

“Strife must always be a bad means to whatever end it may lead,” observed his tutor; “and as nothing but ignorance can make men endeavour to destroy each other, strife can never be productive of true glory.”

“The amount of pain, resulting from battles either on sea or land, is immense,” remarked the doctor. “Gunshot wounds, fractures, contusions, ruptures, laceration, inflammation, suppuration, mortification, and death; and, therefore, he who creates so much pain, cannot, by his actions, be said to achieve anything like glory, don’t you see. As for philosophy and its qualifications for being considered the only thing that is most glorious, if the philosopher cannot set a broken bone, or remove a disease, pain must exist in spite of such philosophy; and therefore, the philosopher, who is enabled to prevent or remove pain, has the best reason to glory in his philosophy, don’t you see.”

“But pain cannot, on many occasions, be either removed or prevented,” replied the professor, seemingly preparing himself for an argument. “Pain is frequently produced by accidents which cannot be foreseen, and therefore cannot be prevented; and these frequently assume shapes on which science is exerted in vain, and therefore they cannot be removed: in these cases, where surgery and medicine are perfectly useless, philosophy is triumphant; for it will enable the sufferer to be regardless of his pain, and to look upon his dissolution with indifference.”

“What is the use of your philosophy to the insane?” asked the doctor, who seemed to take considerable delight in opposing the professor.

“I should imagine it would be about as serviceable as your medical treatment,” retorted the other.

“Nothing of the kind,” replied his antagonist with a chuckle of triumphant congratulation. “A knowledge of the anatomy of the brain, its functions, and operations, with sufficient information as to the patient’s history, general habits and mode of thinking, applied by an experienced practitioner, may often effect a cure, don’t you see.”

“May often, but how often?” inquired Fortyfolios, with some appearance of sarcasm. “To one restored to sanity, there will be found fifty incurables—so where’s your remedy?”

“To one philosopher there will be discovered a thousand fools, don’t you see—so where’s your philosophy?” responded the other in a similar tone.

“Dr. Tourniquet,” replied the professor with a look of offended dignity, “I trust my philosophy will be found whenever it is required.”

“Professor Fortyfolios,” said the doctor, evidently desirous of pushing matters with his antagonist as far as possible, “if you wait till it’s required, perhaps you may have to wait a long time, don’t you see.”

“No Sir, I don’t see!” cried the now angry Professor with much warmth. “And allow me to add, Dr. Tourniquet—allow me to add, I say——”

“The wine, if you please,” cried Oriel Porphyry, who, with the captain, had enjoyed the discussion till he thought it necessary to interfere.

“Ay, the wine, Professor Fortyfolios,” repeated the doctor, with his usual good humour. “It is the most admirable addition to your excellent arguments you could have conceived; and, therefore, as a mark of sincere respect for your superior learning, allow me to propose your health, don’t you see.”

The professor recovered his dignity immediately. “I agree completely,” said he, after having properly acknowledged the compliment he had received, “I agree completely with the opinion of my accomplished friend, as to the great degree of pain produced by warfare, and——”

“Froth and moonshine!” exclaimed the captain, interrupting him. “Why we must all die some day or other, and it is quite as agreeable to strike your colours to a bullet or a sword thrust, as to old age or the gout. In my opinion, a fellow who lives past his strength, is like a ship that isn’t sea-worthy,—he ought to be destroyed as useless. As for fighting being unnatural, it’s the most natural thing in nature. In the sea, the big fish destroy the little fish; in the air, the great birds prey upon the smaller ones; and on the land, the more powerful animals devour those of less strength. Every thing has to fight for its existence, and so does man.”

“But man alone preys upon his own species,” remarked the professor.

“You’re out of your reckoning there, most decidedly, Mister Professor,” replied Captain Compass hastily: “cocks, quails, pheasants, bulls, deer, dogs, and cats fight each other, as long as they’ve got a leg to stand upon; and the sow devours her own farrow, and the rabbit her own litter, without any sort of compunction.”

“There can at least be no apology for the ferocity with which man in a state of civilisation, pursues his fellow-creatures to the death, don’t you see,” said the doctor.

“Ferocity!” exclaimed the captain fiercely. “Who are so ferocious as philosophers?”

The professor and the doctor uttered a simultaneous exclamation of surprise.

“Did you ever hear of fellows the most ready for fighting,” continued the other, “filling the veins of live animals with poison,—maiming and torturing poor dumb creatures, in every way ingenuity could devise, merely for the sake of experiment; and then, after having indulged themselves with the sight of such cruelty, sitting down quietly to describe in the most minute manner, the agonies they have inflicted? No, it’s only the philosopher does these things,—the philosopher, who shudders at the idea of a man killing those who seek to kill him, but counts how many seconds an unoffending animal is in dying, after having its brain scooped out, or its heart torn from its breast. Scrunch me, if I wouldn’t at once be the man who kills whoever opposes him, a thousand times, than such a cowardly, calculating, inhuman miscreant.”

What the reply to these observations might have been, it is impossible to say, as the party were disturbed just at that moment by a knock at the cabin door, and entrance being given, in walked the ungracious villain Scrumpydike.

“Well, what news?” inquired the captain.

“Ship a fire, Sir,” said the man, composedly.

“The ship on fire!” loudly exclaimed all at once, as they suddenly rose from their seats with different degrees of alarm expressed on their several countenances.

“Yes Sir, ship a fire, about half a mile off,” replied the sailor, looking as if he would have laughed if he had dared at the consternation he had created.

It was wonderful to observe the change which took place on hearing the last announcement. The idea of being roasted alive, would be sufficiently terrible to scare the stoutest heart; and on this occasion even the bold spirit of Oriel Porphyry quailed at the sudden and frightful danger. It is a mistake to imagine, that the brave never feel an emotion of fear; dangers that they have contemplated, may be met without the slightest feeling of dread; but a new danger, for which they are unprepared, is sure to leave upon the bravest of the brave some impression of affright. The alarm, however, that had been created was but momentary, and as soon as it was erased, the whole party hastened upon deck to observe the conflagration. Scrumpydike had been left alone; so seeing the coast clear, and the table covered with tempting viands, he hastily proceeded to cram his mouth with preserves and fruits; and was just raising a bottle to his lips, to wash them down with a good draught of exquisite wine, when he beheld in the shadow of the room, what he thought to be, two flaming eyes, fixed upon him, flashing glances of scorn and indignation: the bottle fell from his hands into a thousand pieces, his forbidding features expressed the most intense horror, and with a piercing yell he fled from the room trembling with all the terrors of an evil and superstitious nature, and leaving Zabra more than usually gratified by the impression he had made.

The night was dark as the grave. There was no moon, and no stars. One immense cloud hung over the broad surface of the ocean, like a mighty pall, and the constant gusts of wind that hurried with their melancholy voices through the sails of the ship, might be supposed to be the lament of nature at the funeral of the world. The waters swept up to the vessel, like waves of boiling pitch. The air was burthened with an impenetrable gloom. An intense blackness enveloped the whole untrackable length of way over which the ship had passed. Looking back from the vessel all was like the prospect of the dead. Looking upward, it seemed as if the eyes of heaven had been put out, and that a deep and awful blindness had blasted the vision of the universe. Save at a considerable distance ahead, all was a chaos of darkness—a visible nothingness—an infinite void; but when the eye looked in that direction, flames appeared to shoot out of the pitchy sea, licking the darkness, and writhing, darting, twisting through the smoke like serpents in the agonies of death. As the light became stronger, part of the hull and rigging of a ship could be discerned, and hurrying to and fro, minute forms, readily discovered to be human figures, became visible. Now a shower of blazing sparks rushed as from a volcano, up, up, high into the gloomy cloud, piercing its black depths with their lurid beams, and immediately the flame seemed dulled; a moment after, they burst out again, with a fiercer fury, and with a doubled volume; fragments of burning timber were hurled into the air with a giant’s strength; flames red, blue, and yellow, and vapours of every conceivable colour from white to black, rose and fell, and mingled and separated, like an army of many nations fighting for mastery; and now that the whole extent of the vessel was evidently one mass of resistless fire, its fierce rays were reflected over the vast surface of the surrounding ocean, making visible dark figures, that looked like despairing men struggling in the drowning waves, and scorching rafters hissing and smoking around them. Presently when the glare of light was at the strongest, and the ship was seen blazing to the water’s edge, a sudden movement was observed, the fire sunk into the wave beneath it,—a tall column of thick grey smoke rose in its place, and in a moment all was again swallowed up in deep, utter, and boundless darkness.

It appeared as if the contemplation of this spectacle had hitherto kept every one on board the Albatross from any consideration for the sufferers; but a suggestion having been made, immediately each person seemed to exceed the other in anxiety to render them assistance.

“Burn a blue light at the mast head!” exclaimed the captain.

“Ay, ay, Sir,” responded Hearty.

“Set up every stitch of canvass she’ll bear,” continued the captain.

“Ay, ay, Sir,” repeated the other.

“Put her machine to the fullest speed!”

“Ay, ay, Sir!” was again the ready exclamation.

“And bear right down upon the spot where the flames were last seen.”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

In a moment the deck, the sails, and rigging were enveloped in a bright blue flame, that gave the vessel and its crew the appearance of the ship of death freighted with spectres; and the Albatross was rushing through the waves with the velocity of lightning.

“There seems great danger, while going at such extraordinary speed, of passing over the people who may have escaped from the burning vessel, don’t you see,” remarked Dr. Tourniquet.

“Never fear,” replied the captain. “If they can’t keep a sharp look out it’s their own fault; and if they don’t hail us when they see us, they can’t blame us for the consequences.”

“Ship, ahoy! Starboard your helm!” cried a voice; and immediately a shriek of piercing agony arose from under the ship’s bows as the swift vessel passed right over a large boat crammed full of men.

“Ease her! Stop her!” exclaimed a dozen voices at once, as soon as the accident was discovered.

“There! I told you how ’t would be, don’t you see,” said the doctor.

“Out with the galley and pick ’em up!” shouted Captain Compass, surlily; and the men hastened to obey the command.

“Take two or three blue lights with you, and stow them in the stern sheets,” he continued.

“Gently with her,” cried Hearty, as he and some of his messmates lowered the boat into the sea, and the first who leapt into her was Oriel Porphyry.

“Now, boys, pull away!” exclaimed the young merchant, as he laid hold of an oar, “and you shall be rewarded for every man you save.”