Lady Eureka; or, The Mystery: A Prophecy of the Future. Volume 2

“There is no doubt of it, sir. I wish you good morning,” cried the man, bustling out of the room with an air of peculiar satisfaction.

“Good morning to you, Marble,” exclaimed the collector, still closely examining the painting; “and if you have any thing rare, be sure to let me know. But, if it be in sculpture, I should prefer seeing something with a nose to it; and if it be a painting, although this is a capital subject, I should like it to be a little more easily made out.”

“I will endeavour to meet your wishes,” said the dealer; and he made his bow.

“Capital subject!” continued the connoisseur, still intently poring over his puzzling purchase: “capital subject—but I don’t see it very clearly yet. There is a something there, and there is a something here; but—hullo, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, noticing his visitors for the first time. “I beg pardon; but I really did not know you were in the room. Have you brought me any curiosities—any thing rare or antique?”

“This letter will explain to you our business,” replied Oriel Porphyry, handing a note across the table.

“Sit down, my good sir, sit down,” cried the antiquarian; and, on his visitors complying with his request, he proceeded slowly to read the letter; and, during the period he took in its perusal, Oriel amused himself with examining the extraordinary contents of the room in which he was sitting. The chamber was low and dark, and every corner in it was filled with books heaped up together, without the slightest attempt at arrangement; some glittering with handsome bindings, new and unsoiled; and others old and ragged, covered with dirt, and dark with age. With these were pictures, some leaning against the wall, some upon chairs, others one upon another upon the floor, surrounded by huge fragments of stone, broken pieces of statuary, bronzes, ancient weapons, specimens of pottery, and a variety of other antiquities. Here was a full-length statue deprived of a leg, there an antique bust with half a nose; in one place a vase gaping with a conspicuous fracture, in another a sepulchral urn chipped out of all resemblance to what it once was. Of all the varied contents of the room, there remained nothing that had not in some manner been rendered useless, if at any time it had been considered of value, or, if perfect, had the slightest pretensions to be considered antique. But the most amusing piece of antiquity in this collection was evidently the proprietor, whose face and head expressed a more perfect appearance of want of intellect than the most skilful sculptor could have produced. His nose was a bulging lump of flesh, that looked like any thing but the thing for which it was intended; his eyes were deep set in his head, and were continually gazing in a settled stare of foolish wonder and delight; and his mouth, which was more than usually large, when its possessor was not talking stood invitingly half open, as if to ensnare all the flies in its neighbourhood. And with these characteristics there was a pompous manner with which he said his foolish nothings, that rendered the man more highly ridiculous.

“So you have come to purchase, instead of to sell,” exclaimed he with much astonishment. “I had rather you had brought me some rare antiques to enrich my museum—the Posthumous Museum, as it is called. Do they talk of it in Columbia?”

“I cannot say I ever heard it mentioned,” said Oriel, endeavouring to conceal a smile.

“Ah! posterity will do me honour; and it is for posterity I labour,” added the manufacturer. “But I will give orders about what you require by and by. In the meantime, you must take up your abode with me, that you may be enabled to appreciate all the wonderful things I have collected in my museum for the benefit of posterity, that, when you return to your country, you may say how invaluable is the Posthumous Museum, and how enlightened and liberal is he who has spent a large fortune in collecting together its precious contents! I shall have a conversazione this evening, when you will meet with some of the most celebrated literati in this great empire; till then, I will endeavour to amuse you by making you aware of the value of this unrivalled collection of antiquities. In the first place, you behold this dagger,” said he, showing an ordinary weapon of that description. “Well, this is the identical dagger that Macbeth saw in the air when he exclaimed, ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’ and so on.”

“But Macbeth merely imagined that he beheld such a weapon,” observed Oriel, amused at the credulity of his host.

“Exactly so; and this is the very weapon Macbeth imagined he beheld,” replied the antiquarian. “It is undoubtedly genuine: I have documents to prove it. This is the very seal with which Magna Charta signed King John—no!—King John signed Runnemede—no, that’s not it either—Runnemede signed the Barons—I am not just sure I have it now, but it must be one or the other. And this is the very seal;” and he produced a seal about the size of a small lantern. “Here is an undoubted Jew’s harp—a great rarity. I don’t know what Jew it belonged to; but its genuineness is placed beyond suspicion.”

“It bears no resemblance to the harps in present use, either in size or appearance,” remarked Zabra.

“A proof of its great antiquity,” replied Posthumous. “You see it has but one string. Now, it is upon record that, at a remote age, there was a fiddler called Pagan Ninny. Whether he was called a pagan because he was a ninny, or a ninny because he was a pagan, it is impossible to prove; but certain it is that he played upon one string; and he played so well, that instruments upon one string came into fashion both among the Pagans and the Jews; and that is the reason why there is but one string to this Jew’s harp. You observe this cake of mineral substance,” he continued, pointing to a small bluish mass. “There is a deep interest attached to this specimen. I never look at it without feeling emotions of—that is to say, emotions of a what’s-a-name, with which every monied man must sympathise. It is the remains of a great man—of a very great man—of a man whose credit with the world was exceeded by none in his day. It is the ashes of Abraham Newland!”

The manufacturer turned away, but whether to conceal a tear or to produce another curiosity was doubtful; however he was only a few seconds before he again approached his visitors, bearing a large fragment of wood crumbling into decay. “But here, gentlemen,” said he, “here is an object that cannot fail to awaken—to awaken—that is to say, it cannot fail to awaken, but what it ought to awaken I do not exactly remember now; however, that is not of the slightest consequence. You have, no doubt, read of England, a very ancient island. Well, the inhabitants being very industrious did not like being disturbed by their neighbours, an idle dishonest set of rascals, who were continually coming upon their territory and doing a great deal of damage; so to keep out these troublesome marauders—marauders—marauders?—yes, that’s the word, and having very fine forests of timber in their country, they surrounded their island with wooden walls; and this specimen, gentlemen, is an unquestionable fragment of the wooden walls of old England, procured for me at great expense by a traveller, who being in that part of the world found it in the remains of a wall within a very short distance of the sea-coast. It is the only antiquity of the kind in existence. None but the Posthumous Museum can boast of such an invaluable relic of the ancient ages: for posterity I acquired it, and for having become its fortunate possessor posterity will not fail to do justice to my memory.”

Posthumous continued to give descriptions of a great variety of similar objects in the same fashion, till he approached some pictures, one of which he selected with great care, and placed in a favourable light.

“Look at this picture, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, as his foolish face endeavoured to express something like wonder and admiration. “Observe the chiaro-scuro—the chiaro-scuro?—yes, that’s the word, though I don’t exactly remember what it means. Admire the foreshortening—the harmony—the repose—the expression, and all that. Fine effect—admirable picture! The subject is Joshua commanding his son to stand still. Excellent subject! The son was a very restless boy, gentlemen, who required to be ruled with rather a high hand; so Mister Joshua, a good sort of father too, by all accounts, was obliged to teach him to be quiet in a manner boys don’t in general admire. It is painted by the immortal Snooks. Talk of Rubens, and Raphael, and Corregio, and Titian, and others of the ancients,—they were never to be compared to the immortal Snooks—the sublime, the incomparable, the illustrious Snooks. He had such a miraculous—such an extraordinary—such an unrivalled—I don’t know what it was; but he had something, at any rate, that was very fine, and gave a sort of wonderful incomprehensible—you understand me—to such a degree, that seven-and-twenty cities have carried on a most violent dispute about which had the honour of giving him birth, and each erected a stupendous monument, having nothing else upon it but this sublime inscription, ‘Here Snooks was Born!’ But when he died, gentlemen, there was a regular scramble for his remains, and one carried away an arm, another a leg, a third took possession of the head, a fourth of the body, and many rejoiced in being so fortunate as to be able to screw off a toe nail, or punch out one of his teeth; and on the strength of this some forty different towns and cities have raised most magnificent mausolea, bearing these excruciating words, ‘Here Snooks Died!’”

“He must have enjoyed a great degree of fame indeed,” remarked Oriel.

“Yes, sir,” replied the connoisseur; “and although he has shared the fate of many, who, though popular when living, get pulled to pieces immediately they are dead, his reputation has only increased by it. Now, gentlemen, let me show you this painting. It is a sea piece, you will observe, and possesses all that amazing freshness and transparency, and—and—what d’ye call ’em, which is considered so admirable by the best judges. You may actually feel the moisture of the water, gentlemen, if you stay long enough; and that is the reason I put my hat on whenever I look at it, to prevent catching cold. Poor Tipple! his was a different fate from that of the immortal Snooks. No one thought of disputing about the honour of his birth or burial. He enjoyed no post mortem—post mortem?—yes, that’s it—he enjoyed no post mortem gratifications. The nails were left upon his unhappy toes, and the teeth remained undisturbed in his miserable jaws. But he was a great artist,—who could paint water as he did? None! There was a sort of an indescribable, inimitable—and—and a whatso’name in his water, that nobody else’s water ever looked like. You could see your face in it, Sir. But somehow or other while he was—not a hewer of wood—but a drawer of water, whether the sight of such a pure, sweet, refreshing beverage made him continually thirsty, I’m not certain, but he drank, gentlemen, not his own water, even when he drew it ever so mild, but strong waters, till they overpowered his weak constitution, got into his upper story by an hydraulic—hydraulic? Yes, that’s the word—by an hydraulic power of their own, till he created a deluge in his own body, without the use of colours, which spoiled his palate, and made him obliged to brush. Ah! Tipple was a great artist. There was a sort of a truth, a nature, a thingembob about every thing he attempted, which gave to all his paintings a certain, a—you understand, which is perfectly delightful to look upon. He has not been appreciated by his cotempop—contompo—contempo—confound it, I forget the word, but however he was not appreciated by somebody. But perhaps, like me, he looked to posterity; and although he has not created a Posthumous museum, as some of his best productions form a portion of its invaluable contents, it is very possible that when posterity does me justice it will not forget the merits of Tipple.”

After Posthumous had detailed at sufficient length his description of the contents of his library, he led the two friends into a suite of several rooms, not at all suitable for the purpose for which they had been erected, in which objects in natural history were arranged, if arrangement it might be called, for here were animals, vegetables, minerals, and fossils, mingled together as if they belonged to the same family, but the specimens, like those in the library, were every one imperfect—they were all deficient in something or other, which rendered them comparatively useless to the student and valueless to the collector. This defect, however, was not observed by the owner, who imagined that there was not a collection in the world that could boast of so many unique specimens from the stores of nature and art, as the Posthumous museum.

“You see, gentlemen, before you, the wonders of nature, from a tadpole to an elephant!” exclaimed the manufacturer, in a tone of exultation. “I have collected these—I have collected them for the benefit of posterity, and not without considerable expense and labour, as you may believe. But when a man is excited into action—yes, excited into action—by an idea so comprehensive, so universal—so whatso’name, as forming a museum for the benefit of posterity, he thinks not of the trouble to which he may be put, or the money he may be out of pocket, when he is endeavouring to develope—yes, that’s it—endeavouring to develope his own philosophical conceptions. Well—this is an—this is a—this is an animal of some kind, but the name I do not at present remember. You can at once perceive how much it differs from all other animals: in the first place, it has four legs—two behind and two before—an extraordinary coincidence—coincidence? Yes, that’s the word—and it possesses a tail, which, marvellous as it may seem, is invariably placed upon the rump of the animal, and as nearly opposite to its head as head and tail can be. Now you will notice the head. It has, you see—two jaws, one above and the other below; and, though it may appear strange, the upper jaw never sinks below the under jaw even if the poor beast be ever so chap-fallen—and the under never rises above the upper jaw. Very curious that. That animal, you will observe by the teeth—I don’t know how though, is carnivorous—carnivorous? Yes, that’s the word, which means that it eats nothing but grass. It’s called by zoologists one of the roomy—roomy—roomy—one of the roomy something, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember what—and I suppose it is because it requires a sort of an expanse—an extensive, a—whatdyecallem, to move about in. Now this animal is a different species altogether. It is what they call a—you understand. It has the same number of legs, the same number of tails, and the same number of heads as the other animal, and yet their natures are entirely, absolutely, and something else which I’ve forgot, different. Isn’t it wonderful? This is a grani—yes, a granivorous quadruped, and consequently eats flesh, mutton chops, beef steaks, or anything else of the same sort. You see these hoofs, how admirably adapted they are for tearing their prey, much better than knives and forks, when they, under the influence of a certain impulse or instinct, or whatso’name, roam about the wilds looking after their eatables. Wonderful, isn’t it? Both these animals belong to the class mammalia; yes—mammalia—a word that signifies that their mothers are called mammies.”

“You quite enlighten me on the subject,” observed Oriel Porphyry, endeavouring to suppress a laugh.

“Ay, Sir, I’ve studied it for a very long length of time,” replied his host. “I know it thoroughly, you may depend upon it. Now, Sir, here is a fish. Fishes swim, you know, Sir.”

“I was aware of that,” remarked Oriel, as gravely as he could.

“But they don’t swim when they’re dead, Sir,” rejoined the manufacturer, as if desirous of making his auditors wonder at the extraordinary fact. “Curious phenomenon—phenomenon? Yes, that’s the word—curious phenomenon that. Well, this fish is dead, and were you to try ever so, you could not induce it to swim. You will observe that it has scales. Now the animals we have just examined have no scales. Singular, isn’t it? That peculiarity in its organiza—organi—organ something, which I have forgot, is a wise provision of nature—a sort of whatsoname to prevent the fish from getting wet through when exposed to the continual action of the watery element—yes, of the watery element. So these scales are very important in its animal economy—ay, animal economy—and you will remember, as a remarkable coincidence that completely proves the value of these things, that Justice is always represented with scales, Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful!” replied both the young men in a breath.

“Now this is a reptile, you will observe,” said Posthumous, pointing to a small snake in a glass case. “This has scales, and yet it is not a fish. Strange, isn’t it? Here’s the name. It is the Bipède cannelé. The first word signifies that it’s a biped, like man, though it’s got no legs; and the other word denotes that it’s found in canals. Here are some shells: this one is called Coriocella nigra, because it always frequents the cellars of the blacks; and this is the Velutina capulöidea, the first word of which means that it was discovered by Veluti, a chonchologist—a chonchologist?—yes, a chonchologist, celebrated in his day for the ardour with which he investigated—I mean the spirit with which he penetrated—no, that’s not it; but, at any rate, it was a peculiar whatso’name with which he made his researches; and what the other word implies I am not quite certain; but it appears by the last syllables to mean some low idea which it isn’t worth inquiring into.”

“And what are these things?” inquired Zabra, looking at a confused mass of insects lying together in a case.

“Those are the Chalcididæ,” replied the manufacturer, reading from a paper affixed to it; “a family of hymenopterous insects, which the heathens made sacred to their god Hymen, because they were very much given to the marriage state; and this belongs to the section Pupivora, because they are always found upon puppies. You will observe that they have wings, and these wings are used for flying. But all insects have not got wings, consequently some of them cannot fly. Wonderful, isn’t it? As I said before, it is a wise provision of nature to give them a sort of a facility—a convenience—a thingembob, for the purpose of more easily transporting them from place to place. Isn’t it strange?”

“What bird is this?” asked Oriel, pointing to a stuffed specimen.

“Ha! now you will observe another extraordinary thing,” exclaimed his host. “This creature also possesses wings, and yet it is not an insect. Marvellous coincidence! This is one of the Agami, so called because it is considered excellent game; and has the scientific name of Psophia crepitans, from its fondness of creeping upon sofas. You observe that this animal has but two legs: the first animals we noticed had four, and the fish had none; yet all of them, by that sort of natural a—you understand, are enabled to go about wherever they like, and indulge themselves in every kind of—something I don’t remember, according to their individual capacities—their individual capacities?—yes, their individual capacities. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“And pray what stones are these?” inquired Zabra, directing attention to two or three large fragments of stone leaning against the wall.

“They are not stones, but fossils,” replied Posthumous, trying to look amazingly sagacious; “and the difference between a stone and a fossil is a—the difference between a fossil and a stone. Isn’t it strange?”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed his visitors.

“You see it is very hard,” continued their companion, “and has the skeleton of an animal long since extinct—extinct? yes, extinct—long since extinct, plainly marked upon it. It is said that, once upon a time, long before I can remember, there was a shower of rain came down, that not only wetted every one to the skin, in spite of their umbrellas, but actually drowned all the animals in the world, except those—yes, except those who were not drowned. Well, the poor things when they were dead couldn’t move in the least; and, in course of time, by the continual deposit of—of whatso’name upon their bodies, they became squeezed into the earth round about them, and that becoming hard, they became hard also. Now these are minerals. The earth, you know, is made like a bread and butter pudding; a layer of bread and butter, then a layer of currants, and so on; in what are called strata—yes, strata, because they’re always straight;—and sometimes they find coal, and sometimes stone, and sometimes clay, and sometimes something I don’t remember, and sometimes something I have forgot; and all these things are kept together in their proper places by a sort of—you understand—which holds the world firmly together, so that people may walk upon it without fear of its tumbling to pieces. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

In this way Posthumous proceeded describing to his visitors the contents of his museum. Every object was noticed, and all relating to it he knew, which appeared at all times more novel than authentic, was minutely detailed, with a look and a manner marked by self-approbation and stupidity, that were exceedingly amusing, till the hour arrived for dinner; when he seemed, with considerable reluctance, to leave its many attractions, and led the way into a dining-room, which was also crammed with every species of antiquity he had considered sufficiently valuable for his collection, where, with a mummy at his feet, and a statue without a head at his elbow, he did the honours of hospitality, mingling them with liberal allusions to the benefit he was intent upon doing posterity.

CHAP. IV.

A CONVERSAZIONE.

It was evening, and every part of the Posthumous museum was brilliantly lit up and filled with visitors. The manufacturer gave a conversazione, and his rooms were filled with some of the most celebrated characters in the world of wealth, fashion, and literature of Sydney. Some turned over the leaves of books—others looked through portfolios of prints—some examined the paintings—and others scrutinised the antiquities—a few appeared intent upon studying the appearances of the different specimens of natural history, and others seemed equally desirous of becoming acquainted with the disposition of their companions. Some in little circles were arguing upon various subjects, and in a room by themselves were a more select party enjoying the performance of some excellent music. Posthumous did not seem on terms of intimacy with many of his guests, for they passed him with as much indifference as if he was some one not worthy to be known; but he was remarkably attentive to Oriel and his companion, describing, as they passed along, the different persons that crowded his rooms, and only occasionally stopping in his remarks to exchange a few words with some of his visitors with whom he knew he might be familiar.

“You see that person before you in the brown and yellow thingembob, with a long nose and a remarkable sort of a whatso’name in his appearance,” said Posthumous. The two friends saw who was meant, but did not recognise him by the description. “There, he’s examining that Chinese idol. He’s a clever man—decidedly a clever man. He lived most part of his life in China, because, he said, the country always suited him to a T; and has written ever so many books about its geography and use of the globes, habits, customs, laws, antiquities, and something else I don’t remember. He says their chronolo—chronology?—yes, chronology, that’s the word—he says their chronology is the most ancient in the world; but I’ll be bound to say that there’s a more ancient chronology in my museum, only I can’t tell exactly where to lay my hands upon it. But a very learned writer is Chopstick—very learned. It was he who discovered that the tea-plant was originally cultivated in England, as he found there a river called Tees, and ascertained that the ancient name of the people was Celtæ, so called from their selling teas. That little man in the snuff-coloured—you understand, knows more about antiquities than any body in Australia. It was he who proved so clearly that our city was originally built by Sir Philip Sydney, an architect who was very partial to erecting arcades, so much so that he wrote a work about them called Arcadia, and from him our metropolis has derived its name. Talking of antiquities, do you know I met in a book the other day something about a psychological—psychological? yes, that was the word—something about a psychological curiosity; and although I have offered any price for a psychological curiosity, I have not been able to procure one. But let us hear what Dustofages is saying about that piece of ancient brickwork. It has an inscription upon it which has puzzled me completely.”

Posthumous and his young visitors approached the table on which rested a considerable piece of brickwork that had attracted the attention of the little antiquarian.

“I am tolerably certain,” said Dustofages with a grave face, to a few anxious students of the art in which he was so famous, that thronged near him, “I am tolerably certain that this inscription is in the English language, and from its appearance I should pronounce it to be cotemporaneous with the Georgian dynasty.”

“Wonderful!” murmured Posthumous.

“The first three letters are evidently a T, an R, and a Y, which make the word TRY,” continued the antiquarian: “and the letters of the next word, though nearly obliterated, taken together, form the name Warrens—and this ancient inscription, therefore, is ‘Try Warrens’—but what it means I am not so confident. Perhaps this Warrens was a notorious offender whom the people wished to have tried and punished; and therefore expressed their wishes in a conspicuous manner, that the government might notice it, and try Warrens: this was a way the populace then had of making their sentiments known to their rulers as may be ascertained by an antique fragment in the Australian Museum, on which is inscribed the words, ‘Down with the Whigs!’”

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Posthumous.

“But as in the whole course of my reading I have met with no allusion to any notorious character of the name of Warrens,” continued the little man, “it is quite as probable that some obscure individual made the inscription as a sort of memento to attract the attention of his mistress, expressive of his love and fidelity—he wished her to try Warrens. In the English anthology, from a very ancient poem, I met with these lines, addressed by a lover to his mistress—

which proves that lovers were desirous of being tried; and as so many inscriptions exist in which the ancients showed their attachment to their females by inscriptions on wood and stone, declaring their wishes, there can be but little doubt that these words were placed here by some enamoured youth who was desirous that a particular female, whose name has not come down to us, should ‘Try Warrens.’”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” cried the delighted Posthumous, and without waiting for an answer hurried his companions to another room. “How do you do, Bluey?” he exclaimed, addressing a tall thin lady with a bilious complexion, who appeared to be examining some minerals.

“Rather say, how does my will do,” replied the lady, very gravely; “for it is my will that does every thing. I must have the will to do, before the action can be done. If you mean merely to inquire into the state of the mere animal machine, I must reply, that of the chemical combinations now in process, the acids overpower the alkalis, and produce an acetous fermentation in the natural laboratory, that disturbs the sanatory functions of my particular system, and tends to create new combinations injurious in their action upon the animal fibre; but as I know that as a sufficient proportion of the earthy salts, either in carbonates or sulphates, held in solution, or in any other form that may be most convenient, operating upon the acids, will counteract their unhealthy tendency and render them inert, I do not care for the disorder of my organic substances. It is not of sufficient importance to distract my attention from the interesting study of chemical affinities.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re so bad,” remarked the inquirer, in a tone of regret.

“Bad is the antagonist of good,” said the lady, sharply; “and I beg to say that I am not bad. Bad is evil—I am not evil—therefore I am not bad. Bad is base—I am not base—therefore I am not bad. In fact, bad is a very unphilosophical term to apply upon such an occasion. You should have said that you regretted that there should exist any chemical combinations in my system of natural processes that support life, which are not characteristic of a state of health.”

“At any rate, I hope you will soon get better,” responded her host.

“Better is worse than bad,” replied his guest with additional severity. “To be better, implies an antecedent state of badness, and I tell you again I am not bad, I have not been bad, and I do not intend to be bad.”

“Well, good bye—good bye,” he exclaimed, attempting to hurry away.

“There is no sense in the phrase ‘good bye;’ it means nothing,” said the lady hastily: “it is an abbreviation of ‘good be with you.’ Now, if you mean to say that I am good, I deny it. I deny that I am either good or bad; good and bad being qualities not existing in the object, for what appears good to one may seem bad to another; but they arise in the idea of the individual.”

Posthumous and his companions were glad when they were out of hearing of the lady, whose metaphysics and chemistry they could not appreciate in the way she desired.

“Ah, do you see that tall man behind his whiskers?” inquired the manufacturer, pointing to a person who answered to such a description. “He has got a very remarkable, stately sort of whatso’name, hasn’t he? He’s a member of the government, a great patron of literature and science, and—and something I forget. He’s been known to spend as much as sixpence a week in the cheap publications; and many a miserable starving author, who has sent him his works, he has actually enriched with his good wishes. Great patron, isn’t he? The person he’s talking to in the beautiful head of hair, is a political writer on the ministerial side, who has a wonderful, incomprehensible—a—you understand, that’s very delightful. He writes about the glorious constitution, our admirable government, and—and something with a fine name I don’t remember, in a style that’s absolutely, completely, and downright thingembob. That lady, that seems to be looking after her youth and beauty, is the authoress of a work which has been very popular, called, ‘The whole Duty of Man,’ which is filled with long chapters upon short commons or fasting, praying, sneezing, the cultivation of carrots and virtue, the bringing up children and mustard and cress, and directions about paying bills and visits. The young man, trying to admire himself in the glass, is a novelist famous for the splendour of his imaginative conceptions—yes, of his imaginative conceptions. His books are like the rooms of a dealer in fashionable furniture; or-molu and mother-of-pearl, rosewood and ivory, buhl and something I forget, meet one in every page; and he writes about gold, and silver, and precious stones, as if he had been an apprentice to a jeweller. Then his stories are always celebrated for a certain pathetic whatso’name, which is much admired. Now let us go into the music room.”

The three associates passed through the crowd which filled the rooms to the great danger of the more breakable antiquities, Posthumous stopping occasionally to talk to one or welcome another, till they arrived in the music room, where they took some refreshments as they entered. A beautiful girl was accompanying herself while singing the following words, to which all seemed to listen with the greatest attention:—

“Beautiful!” cried a dozen voices in a breath, as soon as the song was concluded.

“So exquisitely pathetic!” murmured one.

“So perfectly natural!” exclaimed another.

“It is admirable; is it not, sir?” said a young lady with a remarkable pair of languishing eyes, as she directed their eloquent gaze full upon the handsome face of Oriel Porphyry.

“No doubt it is, madam, if you think so,” replied the merchant’s son, with more politeness than sincerity.

“Ah! our opinions are the same—the effect of a mutual sympathy. How charming!” observed the young beauty languidly. “Do you believe in the theory of mutual sympathies?”

“I must confess I know nothing about it,” acknowledged Oriel.

“Innocence exemplified!” exclaimed his companion, regarding him with more evident admiration. “I will explain it to you. There exists in every human creature in one sex a decided inclination towards some human creature in the other sex, which is never developed till those two meet together, and then it immediately becomes manifest. Now suppose, for example, I possess a certain amicable feeling, which remains perfectly unknown until I meet with you for the first time, when an immediate consciousness tells me that my sympathy is excited.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Posthumous.

Oriel was at a loss what to reply; but Zabra’s dark eyes appeared flashing with indignation.

“Now, these sympathies ought to be indulged; or why are they created?” asked the fair sophist. “If we observe nature, which is always the best guide, we shall find all her impulses followed out to their purpose, to the great increase of the pleasures of the individual. Nature never can be wrong; therefore, if we follow nature, we shall always be right.”

“Exactly so!” responded the manufacturer. “I remember seeing a puppy running after his own tail, and he was delighted at the fun. Yes, follow nature, certainly.”

Oriel Porphyry with great difficulty refrained from laughing. Zabra, on the contrary, looked upon the young lady with an expression of scorn that made his countenance appear darker than ever.

“It was a conviction of the truth of this theory that made me write my work on the philosophy of mutual communion,” continued their companion, “where you will find proved, by arguments that cannot be confuted, that there is no happiness in the world except in love—that love is this mutual sympathy between two individuals of the two sexes—and that this sympathy should invariably be indulged as often as it exists.”

“Well, I have always had something of the same notion about love,” remarked Posthumous, gravely. “I consider love to be a sort of a very beautiful, interesting—a—you understand, in one person, for a peculiar, charming, delightful—a—whatsoname in another.”

“I should imagine, from what I have observed, that the true nature of love is perfectly unknown to either of you,” observed Zabra, with some asperity; “it only dwells in the breasts of those whose qualities assimilate with its own. It is the principle of truth, of purity, and of excellence; and whomsoever it touches it makes true, and pure, and excellent in the eyes of the lover. There is wisdom in it; for wisdom is ever an emanation of truth. There is beauty in it; for beauty is the essential spirit of purity. And there is in it an omnipotent power; for in excellence will always be found the greatest degree of greatness. Love, being true, enlightens; being pure, sanctifies; and being excellent, strengthens all by whom it is possessed. It is a virtue from which all virtues proceed. It is the nobility of nature. It is the humanity of life. Without it the sun would be black, and the heavens a void; a strife would be among all things, and a devouring death consume the universe. With it the power of a perfecting will fills the glad heart; and in whatever corner of the earth there breathes the principle of existence, love will enter into its most secret depths; infuse into them a purpose hitherto unknown; fill them with a power to suffer and to conquer that cannot be set aside, and render the individual, the atmosphere he inhales, and all things he sees, touches, or hears, the receptacle of a perfect felicity, that endures even unto the very threshold of oblivion. It is this feeling, and this feeling alone, that has created whatever is admirable around us; we admire, because we love; and we love, only to produce a continuation of the qualities we have admired.”

Oriel regarded the animated countenance of his youthful companion with his usual affection. The young lady gazed upon his beautiful features with apparently more sympathy than his friend had excited; and Posthumous opened his mouth, rubbed his eyes, and stared, and looked all the wonder and admiration his foolish face was capable of expressing; and when he did find language, which was not for some minutes after the speaker had concluded, he exclaimed—

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I said. It is nothing in the world more than a simple, a—something I have forgot, arising entirely in the organisation of the individual—organisation of the individual?—yes, organisation of the individual, that produces a peculiar sort of feeling in the a—whatsoname.”

CHAP. V.

THE PHILANTHROPIST IN TROUBLE.

Oriel Porphyry made a considerable stay in Australia, visiting most of the principal cities, the manufacturing and agricultural districts, in fact, whatever part of the country was considered most worthy of notice; bartering his merchandise, and making purchases of such articles of traffic as might be advantageously disposed of during his voyage. Before he left the country he received from his father the following communication:—

“I hope by this time, my dear Oriel, you are completely reconciled to the way of life I wish you to follow, and I am quite sure that the longer you live the more cause you will have to rejoice at pursuing a path so honourable. Every day I exist, I the more fervently congratulate myself upon having forsaken the deceitful splendour of a false ambition, for wherever I look around among those who belong to that undeservedly honoured section of society I was forced to leave in disgust, I observe so much of envy, inquietude, pride, folly, hatred, ignorance, ambition, and tyranny, I wonder that such things the prejudices of custom can regard with homage. I see the title of majesty applied to an individual who is the very reverse of majestic; his highness is diminutive; his grace awkward; a fellow, though he be a notorious cheat, may still be a nobleman; and however unworthy or ignorant be a person of rank, he is allowed to take precedence of virtue, of intellect, and of every species of human excellence, undistinguished by the title he possesses. I do not mean to assert that a man is in any way the worse for having this sort of distinction, for I have found many real noble men among our aristocracy; what I maintain is, that they are in no way exalted by it. And when I compare the good effected by this class with the good effected by those who do not belong to it, the disproportion is so immense that I must always call in question the advantage of maintaining a section of society in an acknowledged state of superiority to the rest, who, to the rest, are of so little utility.

“The next thing to be considered is—are they a happier race of individuals than those whom they think beneath them? Most of them are in the enjoyment of many luxuries; but luxury and happiness are far from being synonymous: and when we come to look into the artificial state of life in which these people exist, and notice their exclusiveness, their rivalries, their ostentatious splendour, and their prodigal meannesses, we can afford them only a low place on the scale of happiness—one certainly much beneath that possessed by persons whom they are in the habit of thinking their inferiors. Yet this is the sort of greatness, Oriel, you seemed so desirous of possessing. That desire, I hope, has given place to better and nobler aspirations. There is a wider field now open to you; from which the landscape shows every attraction which ought to allure you forward. Go on, Oriel, go on and prosper. Let me see you a philanthropist, and I shall die content.

“There have been some stirring doings in Columbia since you left the country. Our rulers seem desperately intent upon working their own destruction. I regret this. I regret it for the sake of these inconsiderate men—I regret it more for the sake of the community at large, who, if they are driven into open opposition and strife, and bloodshed ensue, must be the immediate sufferers. Public meetings have been held in various parts of the empire, particularly in the northern provinces, and resolutions reflecting very strongly upon the ministers have been agreed to in the presence of immense multitudes of the people. Some disturbances have taken place, which were put down only at the sacrifice of several lives, and many of the most influential of the public prints, notwithstanding the ruinous prosecutions, fines, and imprisonments, with which all who advocated the cause of the people are punished, denounced the measures of the government in a very bold tone. The meetings in the metropolis were equally important, and their proceedings were conducted with a similar degree of energy.

“As the highest municipal officer—as a legislator of considerable experience, independent of my reputation as a private individual, I naturally enjoyed much influence among my fellow-citizens. They looked up to me for advice, and were always anxious for my countenance. It was with great uneasiness that I observed the mischievous policy pursued by the Emperor’s advisers. I saw that its tendency was to fill the hearts of the people with a spirit of resistance, that must eventually lead to a fierce and relentless civil war, that might deluge the country with blood, and destroy its prosperity by the withering blast of flame and the sword. What to do in this fearful crisis was not a subject to be dismissed without deep reflection. To its consideration I gave anxious days and sleepless nights. I knew that, if the existing feeling continued, a struggle would commence that could not easily be stopped; it would continue while there was hope on one side, and power on the other; and to the true patriot there can be nothing so horrible as the prospect of a savage warfare around him, in which the children of the same soil must be set to slaughter one another. On the other hand, it was equally evident that, if the government were allowed to carry on their despotic proceedings, every citizen would be obliged to give up the privilege of his manhood, and become a slave; and I had so much of the mighty impulses of freedom in my nature as would not allow me to look tamely on, while the chains were riveting around my subjected country.

“I saw that there was but one way to secure my fellow-countrymen from the approaching degradation without having recourse to deeds of violence. From my place in the legislature I continually described the alarming state of the empire, and foretold the fearful consequences which must result if ministers proceeded in the course they were pursuing. With all the eloquence of which I was master, I implored them to desist. I entreated that the obnoxious measures might be abandoned, and offered to become security for the immediate return of the public tranquillity if the desire I expressed was complied with. At the same time, whenever I was called upon to direct or attend a popular assembly, which was almost daily, I strongly advised the propriety of refraining from violence. I recommended continual public meetings, in which the voice of the nation might be spoken without intemperance; and that the ministers might be made sufficiently aware of the state of opinion, I advocated the policy of petitioning the legislature for redress, in firm but respectful language, throughout every part of the united empire. The government paid no attention to my labours. I was listened to with inattention, and my arguments were treated with disdain. Proud in the use of a slavish and corrupt majority, proud in the exercise of a power they wished to render irresponsible, and proud in the possession of an immense standing army, whose services they retained by profligate expenditure of the public money, they attempted to stifle the voice of opinion, by constant endeavours to prevent the meetings of the people, and by treating their petitions with studied contempt.

“The effect these proceedings had upon me I leave you to imagine. I never could have supposed any set of men could have been found so indifferent to their own interests. But the emperor resolved to render his power absolute, and his advisers had urged the necessity of pursuing what they called strong measures, arguing that, if they stopped now at the clamour that had been raised, it would be impossible for them to resume their measures at any future time. In vain I preached patience and resignation, peace and temperance. Prosecutions and persecutions were going on in every direction. The presses that laboured to diffuse among the people a knowledge of their true situation were seized and destroyed, and the persons connected with them were incarcerated in dungeons; private dwellings were invaded, on the most frivolous pretexts, in search of imaginary conspiracies, and their inmates were subjected to every kind of indignity—mulcted in heavy penalties, or carried off from their homes and never more heard of; spies appeared to lurk in every house; and no sooner was a public meeting announced than measures were taken to prevent its being held, by filling the place with heavily armed troops. My anxiety grew more intense every day. I saw the storm must burst; I knew that the strife must begin; and when I beheld the almost countless masses of military that filled the country, ready to act on the first emergency, and knew that they would oppose men undisciplined and imperfectly armed, I shuddered at the mere anticipation of the consequences.

“Among those who took a part with me in opposing, in a constitutional manner, the proceedings of the government, might be found many of the most enlightened, the most admirable, and the most wealthy men in the empire; men whose characters were unimpeachable, and whose property formed an important stake in the country; and they were earnest in their philanthropy, and sincere in their patriotism. They agreed with me in opinion that peace ought to be preserved till they were absolutely forced to take up arms. But there were others amongst us, young and headstrong politicians, or crafty and deceitful spies, who appeared most anxious to provoke an immediate collision. That the strife was about to commence was the general impression, for many provided themselves with arms, and others endeavoured to secure their property. This state of things continued from day to day, creating the most tyrannical laws, and making the indignation more general. All expected a blow to be struck; but having no acknowledged leader, and no settled plan of action, none were ready to strike. At last, as a final resource, I thought of once more calling a public meeting; and to avoid its being prevented by the government, as others had been, it was kept secret among known friends till the last moment, when each communicated it to a separate circle with such excellent effect, that the assembly was one of the most crowded that had ever been held.

“It was my duty to open the business of the day. Much as I feared the coming warfare, knowing that success could only be gained at the expense of incalculable misery and suffering, I felt the painful truth that the end justified the means, and endeavoured to prepare myself, as well as my excited feelings would allow me, to take my share in the approaching struggle. I abhor bloodshed; from my heart and soul I loathe it. I would have sacrificed myself willingly to obtain justice for my fellow-citizens; but justice seemed a thing only to be procured by force. I addressed the meeting. I felt that the labours of a long life, endured to create a more general happiness, were about to be risked in a strife of brother against brother. All that I had endeavoured to avoid would now become unavoidable—the reign of discord would commence—the wounds I had healed would break out afresh—the good I had done would be turned to evil—the felicity I had created would end in wretchedness. With these convictions of the mind, the sympathies of the heart may easily be imagined. I at first addressed the meeting as if mourning at the funeral of my own hopes. I related all that had been endured, and the eyes of my attentive auditors seemed to burn with indignation, and their brows scowled with resentment. I described the patience with which all had been endured, and their looks were restless and gloomy. I detailed every instance of contempt with which that patience had been regarded, and the breasts of the strong men heaved with passion, and their glances were stern and fierce. I told them how much I lamented the blindness and obstinacy of their rulers, and showed them the deep and just cause I had for that regret; but having stated that all had been attempted that the most patriotic philanthropist could have suggested to escape unshackled from the evils with which we were threatened, I told them that nothing now was to be done to preserve our liberties but to maintain them by force of arms. Twenty thousand eager voices, joining in one continued cheer, testified their readiness to follow the suggestion. ‘A long life has been devoted to your service,’ said I, ‘whose greatest pleasure has been created by the pleasures it has been enabled to diffuse. I would much rather that the life had been prolonged to continue its enjoyment in the same gladdening labour; but our rulers have willed it otherwise. I cannot end my existence as hitherto it has proceeded—not in the sweet indulgence of my friendly feelings towards my species—not in the observance of the tranquil bliss they have produced. No matter! I have ever been devoted to your service; my life must end in pursuing the same duty. I will stand by you in the struggle you must now commence; and all the power and wealth and influence I possess shall aid you in obtaining its successful issue.’ Cheers rent the air—such cheers as, if they had heard them, and seen the immense multitude from whom they proceeded, emulating each other in the expression of their grateful enthusiasm, would have made our ministers glad on any terms to undo the mischievous work they had executed.

“Many influential persons spoke to the same effect; and it was agreed that as large a body of men as could be got together should go to the emperor’s palace, and desire the instant abrogation of the unpopular edicts. If they met with force, it was to be resisted; and as soon as the struggle became inevitable, the bells of the different churches were to be rung to arms, and a simultaneous attack made on all the military positions, so as to prevent the troops leaving their barracks while the emperor’s palace was stormed. This plan was no sooner agreed upon than it was resolved to be put in immediate execution, to prevent the government taking measures to prevent its success; and a general rendezvous having been appointed, every man left the meeting with the intention of preparing himself for the fray. I had returned home, melancholy, I must acknowledge; for I could not reflect upon the dangers to which the mass of my fellow-citizens would soon be exposed without feelings of the deepest anguish; and I had scarcely crossed my own threshold before I saw that the place was filled and surrounded by armed men, by whom I was immediately seized, treated with every indignity, dragged through the streets to a dungeon, and, after having been loaded with heavy chains, there left to the contemplation of darkness and filth.

“The promptness and secrecy of my seizure I had not expected, or I should have been prepared for resistance; and now I had but little hope of ever being of the slightest service to any individual; for if my friends succeeded in their exertions, they knew not the place where I was confined, and were not likely during my existence to discover it, so that my prospect was but a cheerless one. It was some hours before I could distinguish with any accuracy the features of my prison. At last, when my eyes got used to the darkness, I noticed that it was a narrow cell, built of huge masses of stone. On one side, at the top, was a small grating of iron, through which sufficient light entered to make the darkness evident. The door was of iron, and it opened inwardly. The floor was of stone, damp and cold. It was about seven feet by five in size, and about ten feet in height. The place seemed never to have been cleansed: it was fouled with every abomination, and vermin, toads, and other loathsome objects abounded within its walls. Disgusting as such a place must be to one used to comfort and convenience, I began to grow careless of its horrors, and thought only of the effect my incarceration would have upon my fellow-citizens. It was not so secretly done as to prevent all knowledge of the transaction, and the few to whom it was known, I knew would lose no time in making their intelligence public. There would then, I felt convinced, commence a desperate struggle; and which ever side had the victory, it could not be gained but at the expense of a degree of human suffering, the imagination of which filled me with pain and fear.

“While engaged in these thoughts, I heard footsteps approaching—they stopped at the door—the strong bolts were undrawn, and a man, muffled up in a large cloak and high slouched hat, entered the cell. He stopped before me. I thought he was going to put me to death. I could see nothing of his face but two large dark eyes glaring upon me with a malignity I should have thought it impossible any human being could feel. He spoke, and I knew the voice. It was Philadelphia.

“‘So ho, old plotter of treason!’ he exclaimed exultingly, ‘you are now in safe keeping, I think. Nothing would serve your plebeian soul but to hatch rebellion. You could leave your beggarly buying and selling to plot the overthrow of the state. You thought, doubtless, it would be an easy matter to exterminate the power of the government, and felt assured you should have but little difficulty in seating yourself upon the throne of the Emperor. Ha ha! A fine plot truly: and a most admirable successor you would make to our gracious monarch. But I had due notice of your infamous designs. I have watched you long, old traitor! and only waited an opportunity for putting an end to your ambitious career. The object I sought is accomplished. How like you this dungeon? it is not exactly the palace you expected. And these chains, they are not so comfortable as the robe of state with which you imagined your vulgar limbs would be adorned?’

“Truly the dungeon is not agreeable, and the chains do feel rather heavy,” said I, mildly.

“‘Be satisfied,’ replied he in a tone of mockery; ‘you will get used to them, and they will last your time. I came to gratify myself by observing how you bore this sudden change in your fortunes. You are tired of lamenting your miserable fate; you have exhausted your imprecations upon me and my coadjutors in the government; you—’

“Common sense forbid that I should curse myself or any one, for it could do no one any good, and might do myself harm,” said I.

“‘’Tis all hypocrisy!’ exclaimed Philadelphia, ‘your heart is now ready to burst with vexation—your soul is full of hatred—your mind is intent upon revenge.’

“Indeed you wrong me,” I replied.

“‘No doubt, I do,’ he added with a sneer. ‘You are very much wronged. You are quite a martyr to your patriotic intentions. Never was man so ill used. Perhaps you are not a traitor—possibly you are not a rebel—it may be you did not treacherously plot the destruction of the peace of my family, by aiding in the elopement of my daughter.’

“A traitor I certainly am not—a rebel I am not—and as for your daughter’s elopement, I know no more than public rumour has declared, which was, that she left your house to avoid a marriage you were attempting to bring about against her inclinations,” I responded.

“‘’Tis a lie! ’Tis a low, vulgar, designing lie!’ shouted the enraged noble, as part of his cloak falling from his face disclosed his proud features distorted by passion. ‘You have been scheming to bring about an alliance between Eureka and your son—a base hound, unfit to breathe in her presence. Tell me where she is—tell me where you have secreted her; and wherever she may be, I will tear her limb from limb, rather than allow her to disgrace herself by any connection with your accursed family.’

“I know not her asylum,” said I. “But I acknowledge I did wish that our children should be united.”

“‘And how dared you so presume?’ fiercely inquired he. ‘Could you not have found among your own vile money-getting crew some fit companion for your cub, that you must needs think of uniting him with a daughter of one of the noblest families in the empire? The world is indeed in a sorry condition if it can tolerate such things. But that you know where she is concealed I am assured, and I will have the secret out of you, if torture can force it from your custody. Your nerves shall be racked, your flesh lacerated; you shall starve, and die, and rot in this hole.’

“I had been standing before him supporting my chains, as well as I could, and listening unmoved to his angry speeches; but there now appeared such a remorseless cruelty in his countenance, that I gazed in astonishment, almost doubting the possibility that the lamb I had known could have become so wolfish. To have told him my real name, I plainly perceived, would only incense him the more. If he hated me at that moment (and I grieved to think he should regard me with such unsocial feelings), with such a disposition as he possessed, he would detest me a thousandfold more, when he knew how much I could injure him. I can safely say I had no such inclination; and had I been so inclined, which I gladly affirm was not the case, being so entirely in his power, I saw that any intimation of such intentions would only have the effect of hastening my destruction, or of adding to my discomfort; I therefore still retained my secret. He had folded his arms across his breast, and was looking sternly upon my face.

“‘Then you will not acquaint me with the place of Eureka’s concealment?’ he demanded.

“‘I could not acquaint you with it if I would, for it is unknown to me,’ I replied; ‘and this I have already told you.’

“‘I will crush it out of you,’ he savagely muttered. ‘Think not of ever being carried alive out of this place. Dream not of rescue. I have taken care that the swinish mob you were so desirous of leading shall be cut to pieces by the soldiery wherever they appear in arms. Horse and foot are ready to act at a moment’s notice, and the most destructive artillery command all the principal streets, and defend every important building. I defy the whole city; and the first attempt at disturbance shall be so punished, that the poor deluded fools who are left alive will be very glad to gain the shelter of their homes. Anticipate no assistance from that quarter. The short time you have to live will be passed here, where you can see no human being, and no human being can see you; where your shrieks cannot be heard, were you to split your heart in the attempt. Enjoy yourself as you can; prolong your existence if you can; but, if you are wise, you will strive to escape the death prepared for you by dashing your traitorous scull against the wall.’ Then fixing on me a threatening scowl, he strode out of the cell.

“‘Who could have supposed this possible?’ thought I: how strange it seemed that the child I had known so innocent, and so affectionate, should have become so guilty and ferocious a man. Man! it libelled human nature to call him by the name. He was a mere animal, and the worst of animals; for he gave himself up to the indulgence of his passions, and pride and prejudice, and ignorance and cruelty, and all the tribe of evil influences which arose from an engrossing selfishness, became the principal ingredients of his nature. How I regretted this! I never yet saw a human being pursuing a path which led to misery, but I regretted the blindness that made him so obstinately bent on punishing himself: for I am quite certain that he who wilfully produces suffering in another must eventually be made to experience the pain he has created. No one can erect his own happiness upon so wretched a foundation, without finding the superstructure give way, till it leave him grovelling in the very wretchedness upon which he ventured to build. I therefore regret that he should possess such evil inclinations, as must make him a scourge to himself and others.

“Hours passed on; the evening approached; and, not having tasted food since the morning, I naturally felt desirous of some refreshment. But no one came near me. I began to listen for approaching footsteps; but I heard nothing but a confused rumbling sound, which vibrated through the prison. The desire for food increased during the night. I tried to sleep; but the inconvenience of my chains, the coldness and filth of the floor, and a sensation of gnawing at the stomach, made the enjoyment of sleep impossible. I walked about; but the heavy irons hurt my legs, and they soon fatigued me too much to be endured. I leaned against the wall for support, as I began to feel faint and sick. ‘Surely,’ thought I, ‘it is not intended that I should be left here to famish?’ I could not think so ill of any of my fellow creatures as to imagine that they would designedly allow me to die the lingering and terrible death of starvation. But no one approached my cell, and it was noon of the second day. To the pangs of hunger were added the torments of thirst: my tongue and throat became parched, and my skin dry as a cinder. Still I thought that my jailors had forgotten me. Towards evening, the sufferings I experienced were almost unendurable: I had pains in every limb; I felt weak as a child, and my skin was burning hot. I endeavoured to think of some plan by which I might draw my attention from the agony I endured; and fancied that, if I could bring my mind to the contemplation of the happiness I had been enabled to create, I should forget the worst part of my sufferings. So I attempted to remember every instance in which I had fortunately been the means of securing the enjoyments of some fellow creature; and, going back as far as my memory could trace, I recalled the recollection of a poor old blind man, whom, when a boy, I had met sitting on a bank, weeping and moaning, with the dead body of his faithful dog, the companion and guide of all his travels, in his lap. I had with me a beautiful spaniel, of which I was particularly fond; and, when I heard the poor man lamenting, in a tone that melted me to tears, that the death of his dog had left him helpless and forlorn, I comforted him as well as I could. I undid the string that was affixed to the dead animal, and fastened it to the collar of my own little favourite; gave him all the money I had about me, and promised to bury his old companion very carefully in a corner of my garden. To say that he was grateful would be to make use of too weak a term: his delight appeared to me extraordinary. He wept more than ever; and the fervour of his blessing is as fresh upon my ear, after the lapse of more than half a century, as it was when first uttered. From this commencement I proceeded through a long list of similar remembrances, each accompanied by a thousand pleasurable associations, till I found myself regardless of the terrible wants that had so long been preying on my vitals.

“I had noticed that the only sounds I had heard during my confinement had seemed gradually to approach the building I inhabited. Louder and louder they reverberated through the massive walls; and at last I was enabled to distinguish the deep roar of artillery, that appeared to shake the prison to its foundations. ‘The struggle has commenced,’ thought I: ‘blood is flowing like water; the relentless sword is ploughing its way through the flesh of my fellow-citizens, and thousands are being shattered and pierced by showers of murderous balls and shells.’ If the words of that fierce man were true, their chances of success, I knew, could be but slight. ‘They are being slaughtered like sheep,’ I cried; and every concussion produced by the report of the thundering cannon made me shudder with fear. All night the conflict proceeded. I had sunk exhausted upon the floor. I could remember nothing; I could think of nothing. I was rapidly sinking into insensibility, in the early part of the morning, when I became roused by hearing the uproar of cannon and musketry, and the shouts of infuriated men, so near, that I was convinced that the people had attacked the prison. I felt the concussion of the artillery most distinctly, which sounded as if the besiegers were battering down the walls; and the continued burst of volleys of musketry was evidence of the spirit with which the attack was carried on. About an hour passed without the slightest cessation of the tumult,—and to me it was an age of agonising suspense,—when the firing slackened; but whether the attacking party had been beaten off, or had gained possession of the building, I knew not. Some minutes, which seemed hours, passed; and I thought I could distinguish voices approaching. In a moment, I heard them distinctly.