“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.”
The sailors, however, wanted no such stimulus. They exerted themselves bravely, and were quickly in the midst of between twenty or thirty swimmers, struggling in the waves and shouting for assistance. The light in the boat not only showed to the drowning men the near approach of the aid they required, but directed its crew to the places where they could be of most service.
“Help! help!” screamed one, with the water gurgling in his throat.
“Save me, or I sink!” cried another, nearly exhausted by his struggles.
“Here! here! here!” shouted a dozen voices in different directions. Among the most active in the rescue was Oriel Porphyry, who was so fortunate as to save many who were on the very point of sinking; and being well seconded, with great difficulty and at considerable risk they succeeded in hauling into their boat fifteen, many of whom were more dead than alive; but the rest they saw engulphed in the waters before they could reach them.
“Hollo!” exclaimed Hearty, in a tone of wonder and disappointment, as the crew were about to return. “Where’s the ship?”
Not a vestige of the Albatross was visible, and nothing was seen before or around them but impenetrable darkness.
“May I be food for fishes, if this arn’t a pleasant look out,” observed Climberkin.
“Surely they’ll burn a light,” said Oriel Porphyry.
“I’ve my misgivings on that ’ere head,” muttered Hearty.
“But how can we get back to the ship without?” inquired the merchant’s son.
“There’d be no difficulty about that, Sir,” here remarked Boggle, “if we knowed her whereabouts; but a man as is blind can’t see, and nobody can point out a thing in the dark if they has no notion where it is.”
“You’re a conjuror,” replied Oriel.
“No, not quite so clever as that, Sir,” rejoined the man. “But I likes to have a notion o’ things in general, as every man as is a man, and thinks like a man, should.”
“Well, I wish, among your notions of things in general, you could find one that will lead us to the ship,” said master Porphyry. “I don’t like the idea of these poor fellows in their wet jackets passing the night here, nor have I any great desire for remaining here myself.”
“That’s not the worst we’ve got to expect, Sir,” said Hearty; “for if the ship holds on her course, when we can see our way in the mornin’, she’ll be far enough out o’ sight, and here we shall be—nearly thirty on us—crammed together in a open boat out at sea, where there’s no land within more nor five hundred miles on us; without never a compass, or a bit o’ biscuit, or a drop o’ water.”
“Surely, Captain Compass has forgotten we cannot find our way back without seeing the vessel,” said Oriel Porphyry, now beginning to feel some anxiety for the fate of himself and his associates. “But we cannot be much above a hundred yards from the ship. Shout as loud as you can, and that will put them in mind of our existence.”
“Ahoy!—Ahoy!—Ahoy!—Hoy!—Hoy! Oy!” Every one who was able shouted as loud as he could, and then waited in perfect silence for a reply.
“Yeho!—Yeho!—Yeho! Yho!—Ho!—O!” was replied by voices at a short distance.
“That’s some on ’em,” exclaimed Hearty, steering the boat towards the place from whence the sounds came.
“Hulloo! Hulloo! Ulloo! Loo! Oo!” was heard in another direction.
“Well if this arn’t a most considerable cruel puzzlement, I’ll be transmogrified,” observed Boggle. The men again rested on their oars, some with perplexity, others with superstitious fear.
“There’s the Albatross!” cried they, joyfully, all at once, as a blue flame was seen to rise in the midst of the darkness, and disclose the well-known figure of their beautiful vessel, at rather more than a hundred yards from them.
“Pull away, mates!” shouted Hearty; and the oarsmen, straining every muscle, soon brought their boat alongside the ship.
“Cheer up, my dolphins!” loudly exclaimed Climberkin to the men rescued from drowning, whom he and his shipmates were endeavouring to make as comfortable as possible after their fashion. “Cheer up, and wet your gills with this—precious sight better stuff nor salt water, of which sort o’ liquidation I’ve a notion you were obligated last night to drink more than was agreeable. Give us your fin, my flying fish!” he continued, as in the most cordial manner he shook the hand of a fine looking young man who sat near him. “A fellow don’t deserve to be called a naval if he ar’nt a got no ’miseration for another fellow in misfortune. So here’s to ’ee—and may you never have such tipple above your gills, and all’ays keep the salt water under your foot.”
“None on us ’a heard the ’ticulars o’ this here deplorable ’flagration,” said Hearty, “and if it arn’t too unpleasant to ’municate, I should like to hear the whole circumbendibus.”
“Perhaps none of my comrades, now present, are so well acquainted with the circumstances of that unhappy affair as myself,” remarked the young man just alluded to; “and if you will allow me, I will not only relate to you all concerning it that has come within my observation, but combine the information with a narrative of my own life that possibly may render it more interesting.”
Consent having been readily and unanimously given, the stranger proceeded to fulfil the intention he had communicated.
“I am a native of Malthusia, an extensive province far into the interior of Australia, where my family, for many generations, had owned a small estate; but as the difficulty of living in any state approaching comfort, in a densely populated country, where consumption exceeds supply, and the price of labour is reduced to limits within which life can scarcely be supported, in consequence of the constant pressure of competition, produced by the supply greatly exceeding the demand, became so great, it was considered amongst us whether it would not be the most advantageous thing that could be done under the circumstances, to leave a land where we could not exist with the same respectability in which our fathers had lived, and seek our fortunes in a new country, where the means of subsistence were more easily procured, and the results of labour more profitable to the industrious. The idea was debated long and frequently before it was resolved upon. Children of the soil, whose most pleasurable associations were connected with the land on which we had been born, it could not be expected that we could easily tear asunder the loving ties that connected us to our ancient home. My father was getting into the vale of life, but possessed much of the strength of man in his vigour; and myself and five other brothers were strong and active, ingenious, laborious, and persevering. We were considered the very persons for whom emigration would be most advantageous.
“But, besides the natural disinclination to leave the scene of every pleasure I had known, I had a still stronger repugnance, which I found it impossible to remove. May I claim your indulgence, while I speak of one who made my native earth and sky a paradise of delights. She, of whom I speak, Optima, the fair, the kind, the good, by the sweetness of her disposition and the excellence of her behaviour, created in me that perfect sympathy, which greater personal attractions and a less amount of moral advantages, would have failed to have produced in a nature like mine. From having lived in each other’s society from childhood, and our fortunes and prospects being as nearly as possible alike, we had mutually indulged in the same fond hopes of an undivided existence, and in our quiet walks by the hill side, and by the margin of the soft flowing stream, and in the long delightful rests we took beneath the shadow of the friendly trees, our little ambition was pictured in rosy colours, and the landscape of our future seemed to glow with sunshine, gladness, and beauty. At this time, having suddenly been made an orphan, Optima became dependent upon an old querulous aunt, who having saved a little property in the course of a long life, which she designed for her niece, was desirous that she should marry some one of still more ample means; and opposed our union with all the despotism she could exercise: but we managed to meet as usual, though not quite so frequently. Notwithstanding the efforts made to keep us asunder, and although in consequence of the gratitude she felt towards her relative for the protection she had received, she would not listen to my wishes for an immediate union, for the purpose of joining the intended emigrants, she bade me hope for better times, and assured me, with all the fervour of her guileless spirit, that her affection must endure with her existence.
“Preparations were now made for the departure of my family for their destination to a flourishing colony on the European continent, but I finding it impossible to quit the scene that held all that was dear to me, resolved to remain in Australia, supporting myself by the application of an unceasing industry, till in company with my adored Optima, I could join them in their new home. My brothers did not seem to approve of my resolution, and endeavoured to induce me to change it; but my father, who had more knowledge of human nature, understood my motives, and left me to follow my own inclinations. I busied myself in assisting in their arrangements, but I found my feelings far more active than my endeavours. I strived to shut out from my mind all idea of the loneliness in which I must live after the departure of my family, and sought to banish the fear I sometimes experienced, that as then the difficulty of seeing Optima would be increased, some unfortunate accident would render our union impossible. Our interviews now became exceedingly painful, my entreaties grew more urgent, my dread of the consequences of her refusal more intense; but she only answered me with tears; and at last, as the time drew near for quitting Malthusia, our hearts became too full for utterance, and our congratulations at meeting, and sorrows at parting, were alike silent.
“‘Ardent!’ said she to me on one occasion, after we had sat together a long time without daring to speak, ’you must not think me unkind by thus seeming to oppose your happiness. I do a violence to my own feelings, indeed I do, Ardent, whenever I refuse your solicitations.’—Her sobs for some time prevented her proceeding; at last she continued;—‘But I should be selfish, were I to allow myself to do as you would have me, and act with a regardlessness of your interests, for which I should never be able to forgive myself. My aunt, it is evident to all who see her, is rapidly approaching her dissolution. She has been kind to me. I wish not her last moments to be rendered miserable, by what in me would appear to her ingratitude, and I am most anxious for your sake, dear Ardent, that she should not, through any imprudence of mine, annul those intentions in my favour she has so frequently expressed. Her property is but small, but it will enable us to join your family, and with industry and economy may produce for us a greater degree of comfort than without it we can hope to obtain. Wait, Ardent; the time is not propitious now; but if we are not impatient of our happiness, we shall soon be as happy as we can desire.’
“I pressed her more closely to my breast—I blessed her in my heart, but my voice seemed to have lost all power of expressing my emotions; no longer I made use of entreaties. I was grateful, and resigned. The day came on which the emigrants were to leave the seat of all their past enjoyments. My brothers appeared careless of quitting the land of their fathers. They were hard working, hard thinking men, who valued nothing except for its utility, and looked upon the affection with which memory regards the scenes of its pleasures, as romantic nonsense, only fit to delight children. But my father could not so readily get rid of the impressions he had cherished from his infancy; with him the departure from his home seemed a banishment from his happiness. He visited the lands his forefathers had owned, but which had long passed from their descendants. He walked in the fields he had ploughed and drilled and harrowed since he was a boy, and he looked upon the trees he had planted, and the buildings he had raised, as if he was taking a last farewell of a company of ancient friends. As he approached the cemetery in which lay the bones of his ancestors, his manly form seemed to lose half its strength—his ruddy cheek grew pale—his step became feeble, his eye dim, and his heart faint; and as he bared his head that the cool breeze might fan the thin white hairs that played about his forehead, he was obliged to lean against a monument to support his sinking form. Here rested in peace the wife of his bosom and the mother of his children; and he felt as if he was about to desert her remains to be trampled on by strangers. He thought of where his grave would be, and in the agony of his heart lamented that two who had never been divided in life should in death be placed so far apart.
“I witnessed the sale of the land and stock; I assisted in packing up the moveables; I was present when the neighbours came to bid farewell, and to express their honest regrets; and after having beheld my family turn their backs upon the habitation of their race, I hastened to Optima, with the design of enjoying her sweet presence for the last time, until I had parted with my father and my brothers at the nearest sea-port. I came to the house of her relative and found it closed. Having with some difficulty gained admittance, Optima rushed into my arms, and wept upon my breast. It was not till a considerable time had elapsed, that I ascertained what was the cause of her grief. Her aunt had died the night previous.
“After a lapse of a few weeks Optima became mine. On the day of our marriage she placed a packet in my hands, and speaking in a voice broken with emotion, she said:—
“‘I have a favour to ask you, and I know on such a day as this you cannot deny me. Take this, dear Ardent, and make whatever use of it you think proper. Your heart is yearning to join your relatives; be assured that wherever you wish to go I desire to follow. I cannot be happy but where your happiness may be best secured. I am indifferent to country and to kindred,—I can acknowledge no relative but a husband, and can know of no country except that in which I find his home. Whenever your preparations are made, dear Ardent, I am ready.’
“I kissed off the tears that were trembling on her eyelids, and in brief but eloquent language expressed the love with which my heart was overflowing. The packet contained a sum of money amply sufficient for our purposes. Having by letter previously apprised my family of these circumstances, they delayed their departure; and after providing every thing that was necessary for the wants of agricultural emigrants, we all set sail from the populous seaport Kangarootown, in a magnificent ship fitted up in the most splendid manner, and carrying more than three hundred passengers.”
“‘No!’ exclaimed half a dozen anxious listeners, starting up with horror and surprise.
“’Tis true!” replied the young man, in a voice scarcely audible.
“The Lord ha’ mercy on their miserable souls!” said Hearty.
“We had not been many days out at sea,” continued the narrator, “and were busily and cheerfully employed in forming plans for the future, when one evening, as soon as we had all retired to our berths, the gas with which the interior of the ship was lighted, through some carelessness had been suffered to escape, and it having caught fire, the first alarm the passengers received was from finding themselves surrounded by flames. There were but two or three boats belonging to the vessel, to which there was immediately a general rush. Without waiting to secure any of my property, I instantly hurried on deck with Optima, and was so fortunate as to secure her and myself a place in the largest boat. I shouted to my father and my brothers to join us, but as soon as we were full the rope was cut, and we pulled from the burning ship with all the strength of desperate men. As the flames rose up into the rigging we could see hundreds running backwards and forwards, bewildered and stupified by fear. One after another jumped into the remaining boats, into which they crowded so rapidly that their own weight at once sunk them to the bottom. Others in their frenzy leapt into the sea—the rest retreated from the flames as they advanced, shrieking their own knell, till the fire beginning to scorch their flesh they fell over into the waves, or letting go their grasp of the ropes up which they had climbed, sunk yelling with agony into the midst of the raging fire. I saw nothing of my brothers. I imagine they perished in the smaller boats. But while observing the destruction of the ship, I beheld, high up the tallest mast, the figure of an old man—his white hair scorched upon his brows—his blood-shot eyes bursting from their sockets—his trembling limbs clinging to the rigging, screaming for mercy and for help. I knew the form—the voice pierced my brain. I would have leapt into the sea with the wild but fruitless hope of hastening to his rescue, but I was forcibly held to my seat; and Optima, who had not changed her position since I placed her in the boat, with her face upon my breast and her arms round my neck, clung to me trembling with terror. In a moment afterwards the flaming vessel disappeared.
“We could scarcely congratulate ourselves upon our safety, for although we had escaped being burnt to death, there seemed but little hope of our being saved from drowning, or from starvation. There were thirty of us closely packed together, not one of whom knew exactly how far we were from land; few were clothed, and none had either provisions or water. My feelings were of the most agonising description. I had seen my family perish before my eyes without having the ability to render them the slightest assistance—all their property and mine—all that the loving kindness of Optima had enabled me to procure for our future wants, were swallowed up in the devouring fire, and now I was left with her upon the boundless ocean enjoying no other hope than that we should perish together. Bitter as my reflections were, they grew almost insupportable when I considered with what a dreadful fate the devotion of her I loved would be rewarded. But she whose goodness had been thus cruelly turned to evil seemed to think of nothing, and care for nothing, but for him to whom she clung. At this instant when we were giving ourselves up to despair, a light blazing from your ship proclaimed to us the joyful intelligence that assistance was at hand. Then what a change came upon us. The murmurs of complaint were turned to the loud shouts of gladness; and so completely did we enter into the spirit of the moment, that none noticed the rapid approach of the ship coming to our relief, till she was just upon us.
“We are saved, dearest!” I whispered.
“Optima unclasped her arms, and took one of my hands in hers. Then came the overwhelming crush of the great ship—a shout—a scream—and her keel passed over us. The shock came so unexpected that none had time to think of the danger, and we were gasping and struggling in the water before we were aware of the accident. I made a snatch at what I thought was the sinking form of Optima, but soon I found out the dreadful mistake. It was a strong man, who being no swimmer caught hold of my limbs with a desperate grasp that nothing but death could relax. In vain I strove to shake him off—I struggled—I fought—I kicked in vain. He held me as a serpent holds its prey. The thought of my beloved sinking into the bowels of the great deep, deserted by him whose happiness she had ever striven to secure, nerved my arms with a giant’s strength, and catching the drowning wretch by the throat, I squeezed the breath out of his miserable body, hurled him from me as if he had been a loathsome reptile, and then struck out into the sea, swimming in various directions, shouting her name in every tone of agony—plunging, diving, and beating the waters with the fierce energy of a madman. My heart sunk within me—my strength was exhausted. I felt the terrible conviction, that for me there was no hope—and resigned myself to the cold embraces of the relentless wave. Of what afterwards occurred I know not, till I found myself on board the Albatross, recovered from the jaws of death by the kind and unceasing attention of her friendly crew. But do not think me ungrateful, when, reflecting upon the dreadful loss I have endured, and the wretched fate to which I have been left, I express a regret that my life has been spared.”
“Scrunch me, if I ar’nt springing a leak as no pump can stop!” exclaimed Climberkin, as soon as the stranger had concluded his narrative, as he wiped with his knuckles the big tears out of the corners of his eyes;—an example which was followed by many of his shipmates.
“May I go to sea in a cockle shell, if ever I heard o’ any thin’ so cruel molloncholy,” said Boggle; “my eyes are like sieves catching a thunder shower. But a fellow who can listen to such a tarnation heart-twister as this here without runnin’ out like a water spout, must have the soul o’ a nigger.”
“Soul ob a nigger!” exclaimed the fat cook, furiously, while the drops that ran down his black cheeks evinced his sympathy for the sufferings he had heard.
“Soul ob a nigger!—What da debble you mean, you fellar! Tink a nigger no heart—tink him hab no sensebillity, you fellar?” Then turning to the stranger, he said, as well as his sobs would allow, “Roly Poly berry much feel for you Sar, oo, oo!—Hard ting to lose him missee, Sar, oo, oo!—Roly Poly in lub himself once, Sar.—Lubly cretur too, oo, oo!—She had de dropsy, Sar.—Doctor nebber make her no better, so she turn her nose against de wall and die like a lamb, oo, oo, oo!” And away the poor fellow went, sobbing as if his heart would break.
“Well, whip me into eel skins, if I sees the fun o’ givin’ a fellow the miserables!” exclaimed Scrumpydike, gulping down a deep draught of the liquor before him; “I seed many a sight worser nor what you’ve been telling on us, mister,—and ar’nt a thought it worth while to say nothin’ to nobody about it. There ar’nt no sort o’ life as produces so many wonderfuls as that o’ a free mariner. Once upon a time I was taken prisoner with some other chaps, and kept aboard one o’ them darin’ crafts what goes bang at any thin’ as comes in their track—and I seed sich jollifications—sich junkettings—sich cargoes o’ grog—and sich chests o’ money, as I never had afore a wink o’ a notion on. There they were, dancin’ and singin’, and rollin’ in riches—caring for nobody—doing whatever they had a mind—every one o’ the crew a cap’ain, and the cap’ain a prince; and whenever they had a brush, which was as often as they fell in with anythin’ worth havin’, at it they went, harem scarem—carryin’ every thin’ afore ’em—cuttin’ down and blowin’ up, and sinkin’ or seizin’ the richest ships as sailed in them seas. Scrunch me, if they did’nt seem as happy as periwinkles on a rock.”
“No doubt,” observed Boggle; “and I ar’nt afeard to say, as many a honest naval would become a free mariner, if he had’nt the gumption to reccomember he was consiserable sure o’ a sartainty o’ being hanged.”
“Either hanged or drowned, or spiflicated in some other unnat’ral manner,” added Hearty; “and not without desarvin’ on ’t. None o’ sich scum ever died in a honest fashion. Now in the course o’ my sperience, I knowed a smartish lot consarnin’ the notorious sea-sharks, Cap’ain Death and his Lef’tenant Rifle, and——”
“Did you know ’em?” inquired Scrumpydike, eagerly, fixing a searching look upon the old man.
“No, I did’nt exactly know ’em, but I knowed a good deal on ’em; and if ever I comes upon their tack, with a few other honest chaps as knows how to give and take, if I don’t leave my mark on some o’ their figure-heads, I ha’ lost all notion o’ hand-writing;” said Hearty.
“Well, you may chance to come alongside on ’em afore you’re aware, and then you’d best look out for squalls, old boy;” observed the other.
“I ar’nt afeard o’ that. But as I was a sayin’, these here varmint were ’sociated wi’ a gang o’ similar bloody-minded villains, and in a well armed craft which they’d got hold on, by no partic’lar honesty I’ll be bound, they went a robbin’ and plund’rin, and burnin’ and massacr’in’, every ship as they came anigh, till at last flesh and blood couldn’t stand any sich howdacity—so two or three smartish vessels, full o’ chaps o’ the right sort, steered into their haunts, and there they kept cruising about in hopes o’ coming to close quarters. But somehow or other they hadn’t no sich luck. At last, when they began to calc’late as Cap’ain Death had given them the slip, one o’ the ships diskivered a strange sail—and she was narrowly watched, hoping she might prove to contain the ’dentical set o’ murd’rin’ vagabonds they was arter. Suspicions becoming pretty strong, signals were made to her consorts to take a long sweep, so as to circumvent the villains so reg’larly as they couldn’t escape no how. But that ’ere Cap’ain Death was no goslin’. He seed the canouvres they was a going about, hung out ev’ry bit o’ canvass he could carry, and cut his precious stick like winkin! Howsomdever, he war’nt awake to the movement till they came rollin’ up to him in a manner quite lovely to look on; and then they showed that they was as good hands at followin’ as he was at runnin’ away. The chase was carried on for a matter o’ six hours, in sich a style as made him look behind oftener than he looked afore; and for all he went on this tack, and on t’other tack, and tried all sorts o’ games to get out o’ the way, they came so near as to be able to give him a pretty considerable taste o’ their quality. Well, as night began to set in, there came on one o’ the most thund’rin’ storms as ever was—the wind blowed away as if it would shiver its own bellows into saw-dust, and the sea came up mountains high, in a manner it was more grand than pleasant to look on. The vessels in chase, finding themselves close upon an ugly sort of a coast, were obligated to keep out at sea as much as possible; but they endeavoured to keep such a look out as would prevent the villains from making themselves scarce afore morning. Well, when the mornin’ broke all as clear as if there’d never been no rumpus—our ship—for, mind ye, I volunteered a purpose to have a rap at some on ’em—our ship and her consorts, who’d rode out the gale with nothin’ but the loss o’ a few spars, approached the shore for the purpose o’ making secure o’ Cap’ain Death, but the very first thing they clapped their blessed eyes on, was the ship they’d been in chase lyin’ a perfect wreck among the breakers, making it a right down positive stark staring fact that every mother’s son o’ the gallows birds that belonged to her were feeding the crabs and lobsters, and sich like.”
“Then they were all drowned!” said Climberkin.
“Nothin’s been heard o’ any on ’em from that day to this;” replied Hearty.
“But war’nt there a sort o’ song which ’twas said the crew of the ship used to sing?” enquired Climberkin.
“To be sure there was,” cried Scrumpydike, who had for some time looked more gloomy than usual; “I’ve heard it many’s a time; and if you’ve a mind to listen, though I ar’nt no great shakes o’ a singing bird, I’ll give you the only original version as used to be sung by the free mariners.”
“I don’t want to hear none o’ such villainous ditties!” exclaimed Hearty, as he left the circle.
“Who axed you, old Snapdragon?” responded the other, and presently with more animation than music, sung the following words:—
Zabra had by this time become more familiar to the people of the Albatross, with some of whom his kindness and generosity made him an especial favourite. They had ceased to see any thing supernatural in his large lustrous eyes,—and had forgot that there was any thing mysterious in the dark colour of his complexion. His solitary wanderings about the ship created neither fear nor surprise, and the rich harmonies of his music were listened to with much more admiration than dread. Loop, a boy belonging to the vessel, who was a sister’s son of Hearty, had been attacked with fever, and the attentions of Zabra, during his illness, won not only the heart of the old man, but that of every one on board. He procured for him every kind of nourishing food and refreshing beverage, that the Doctor would allow; took care that he should possess every comfort that the vessel contained; sung to him, played to him, and stayed beside his hammock for hours and hours, seeking to while away the tedious moments of indisposition. Oriel Porphyry having desired that he should be treated by every one as if he was his brother, instead of his attendant, Zabra found his slightest request always promptly attended to; and, though his manner was somewhat proud, as he seemed to possess abundant funds for every purpose, and gave liberally whenever he thought it was requisite, scarcely any one in the ship ever hesitated in joining in his praise.
The boy Loop got well, and he was not ungrateful. As for old Hearty, nothing could exceed his devotion to his nephew’s benefactor. To every listener he could lay hold of, he narrated at length all that he knew of the youth’s history, since he came on board: the people, rescued from the fire-ship, were in due time made familiar with every anecdote concerning him with which the old man was acquainted; and to no one were his details of more interest than to the young Australian, Ardent, who sometimes appeared to forget his own sorrows while attentive to the unpolished eloquence of the honest sailor. From this time Zabra became an object of general interest. Even Captain Compass seemed to look upon him with something like respect; Scrumpydike had ceased to entertain against him any hostile intentions; and Log, the captain’s clerk, was heard to acquiesce in the opinion of his shipmates, with an affirmative repeated with the usual supply of adjectives.
But to Oriel Porphyry the admirable qualities of his page became every day more and more apparent. In the frequent conversations that took place between them, he could not but observe the developement of a mind of the highest order. It was not a mind impregnated with the heavy spirit of bookish learning, but an intelligence of a lighter, a more graceful, and a more original nature, replete with a sweet sympathy, and a lofty enthusiasm for all that was noble, good and beautiful; and throwing over the youthful figure and handsome countenance of its possessor, a poetical and romantic character, that was both a wonder and a charm to his companion. Zabra spoke of Eureka as if he had become acquainted with her most hidden thoughts, and had been constituted their interpreter; but of himself he never spoke. When Oriel seemed desirous of learning something of his history, he appeared uneasy, and immediately attempted to turn the conversation into another channel. This was noticed; but the unwillingness of the young Creole to speak of himself, Oriel attributed to the disinclination usually shown by natural children to allude to their own illegitimacy, knowing the unreasonable and cruel prejudices of society: therefore he ceased to desire from him any information on the subject. Still, his youth,—the singular beauty of his countenance, and the strange interest it often expressed, made him imagine that there was some mystery connected with him.
As he treated Zabra with the utmost confidence, and appreciated the intelligence he evinced, Oriel Porphyry communicated to him the contents of his father’s letter.
“Your father is a noble character,” he exclaimed with fervour; “and the proudest title of which you ought to boast, is that of being his son. I never could have supposed that it was possible for such nobility to reside in a spirit devoted to the mere money-getting purposes of traffic, but I have been educated in an aristocratic school, and with its lofty principles I have imbibed some of its illiberal prejudices. I would my father had been such a one—I should not have been the fugitive I am.”
“Express no regrets, Zabra. Let it be my pleasing task to see that your fortunes are worthy of your merits;” said Oriel Porphyry, affectionately taking in his the hand of his youthful companion. “And although I have not much reason to think well of the proud Philadelphia, for his conduct has not been such as would be likely to inspire me either with affection or respect; when I think of his relationship to her whose genuine worth it is impossible not to appreciate, I cannot regard the unfavourableness of his disposition.”
“Eureka is not unmindful of your kind feelings towards her;” observed the other in a more tremulous voice than he had hitherto used. “It is her desire to deserve your affections, that has supported her under many trials. Her father is proud, but not so proud as Eureka. Yet there is an impassable gulf between the pride of the two. He would sacrifice every one around him for the immediate gratification of his own self-love: she would sacrifice all selfish considerations that interfered with the happiness of one she loved.”
“And think you I cannot honour such goodness in the manner it deserves?” asked the merchant’s son. “Let him be what he will—let his pride be as mean, and his ambition as selfish as it may, for the sake of Eureka I will endeavour to forget his unworthiness. All I hope is, that he will not attempt to force her inclinations to an alliance more pleasing to him.”
“He cannot force her inclinations—that he knows;” remarked Zabra. “He has made the attempt for the first and last time; and Eureka is now beyond his reach.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Oriel with astonishment.
“Ay!” he replied. “He thought the more completely to secure your separation from her, to hurry her into a marriage with the wealthy and powerful head of the princely house of Vermont; but the character of such a man, had no other obstacle existed, would have been sufficient to have produced in her feelings a repugnance which nothing could overpower. As it was, she indignantly refused to become a sacrifice to her father’s ambition. Her sentiments, however, on the subject, were so little regarded by him, that he made preparations to compel her to the union.”
“Ha!” exclaimed master Porphyry, “I could not have imagined such despotism in a parent.”
“Closely as she was watched,” he continued, “Eureka managed to escape from her confinement; and when she sent me to be the companion of your fortunes, she had secured for herself the asylum she required.”
“But where is she? Let me hasten to afford her the protection of which she must be so much in want!” exclaimed the impetuous Oriel; then reproachfully added, “Why, why did you not tell me this before?”
“I have obeyed my instructions;” replied the youth calmly. “It is sufficient for you to know that now she is safe, and that she is in the enjoyment of as much happiness as it is possible for her to obtain under the circumstances. Her retreat can only be made known to you when all the purposes of the present voyage are completed, and you return to Columbus.”
“But can I not communicate with her? will she not write to me?” eagerly inquired the other.
“Be satisfied that it is impossible she should forget you, and endeavour to prove to her without the aids of continual correspondence, that in your affection the same durability exists.”
“I will! I will!” cried Oriel; “I will do all she would have me. I will follow the plan my father has laid out, even to the minutest details; will try to find patience for its endurance by thinking of the blissful result with which it will be crowned. We are now approaching the southern coast of Africa,” he continued after a pause of some duration, which neither had attempted to interrupt; “and my immediate destination Caffreton, the great mart of traffic in this part of the world is the first point of my commercial voyage. My father has written me very full instructions which I have carefully studied, and you will shortly see, Zabra, how well I shall be able to play the merchant.”
They had been standing together on the deck gazing upon the world of waters before them during the preceding dialogue, and were now silently observing the progress of some distant vessels, when they were joined by the learned Professor Fortyfolios. Addressing Oriel, he said—
“That portion of land you observe yonder, rising out of the sea, is an important Cape, well known in the annals of navigation, and was called by the ancients the Cape of Good Hope. It used to be celebrated for producing an inferior wine, called Cape Wine, which being cheap, as it was worthless, was brought in considerable quantities for the purpose either of adulterating wines of a higher value, or was palmed upon the ignorant as the produce of a different vintage. The English, a people with whose history you are doubtless familiar, though not wine growers, were the greatest wine consumers of that period, and it was the immense demand for this necessary of life among that people, which the wines of Spain, Portugal, Sicily, Italy, France, Germany, and other countries, could not sufficiently supply, that brought this Cape into notice. The African wines are now remarkable for their admirable qualities. That it was the search after new liquors that sent the English into this part of the world chroniclers are not agreed, and that there were other wines produced in the same locality much superior in flavour, I think is more than probable, because I have found in the course of my reading, eloquent commendation of an African wine, called Constantia, and I have good reason for imagining that the deserts which the first voyagers of that nation met with on some portions of the coast, when they ascertained that a superior liquor was here procurable, originated the English proverb ‘Good wine needs no bush.’ However, there can be no doubt that the English planted a colony at this very Cape; gradually drove the natives from their land as they increased in power and numbers, till the whole continent from the Cape of Good Hope to Alexandria, and from Abyssinia to Senegambia, acknowledged their sway, and, in a great measure, spoke their language.”
“Truly, those English were a great people!” remarked Oriel.
“They were so,” said the Professor; “when we consider what they did, and the means they had to do it, we must acknowledge that they deserve the epithet, ‘great.’ At an early period of the world’s history, England was utterly unknown. In the times of Assyrian greatness, in the eras of Babylon, of Jerusalem, and of Troy—and in the more brilliant ages of the Greeks, the Romans, and the Carthaginians, such an island had never been heard of—scarcely two thousand years had elapsed before this speck upon the waters became the most powerful kingdom upon the earth. She had possessions in every quarter of the globe; her conquering armies had penetrated into the remotest regions, and her gallant navies had triumphed in every sea. She had given a new people and a new language to the vast continent of America; she had founded a new division of the world in Australia; she had been acknowledged the mistress of the mighty Indies; she had forced a path through deserts of perpetual ice, and found a home in the scorching heat of the torrid zone. And by this time what had become of the nations of a more remote antiquity? Of some, the localities were not to be traced; others remained a heap of stones. The Carthaginians were extinct—the free and noble Greeks had become slaves or pirates—and the daring Romans, who boasted having conquered the world, were an ignoble emasculated race, confined to a single city and its suburbs, and governed by a despotic old woman in the shape of a priest.”
“The form of government under which the people of this continent exists, is republican, I believe;” observed Master Porphyry.
“The whole is divided into a multitude of republics, some of which are always at war with one another,” replied his tutor; “and they show their idea of liberty, of which they make the most preposterous boast, by keeping up a system of slavery the most tyrannical and revolting that can be imagined.”
“Ay, ay,” exclaimed Captain Compass, coming up and joining in the conversation; “it’s the way of the world. Hear your most famous spouter about the blessings of freedom and all that sort of thing, and ten to one if you don’t find him ready to domineer over every body beneath him. When I hear a fellow mighty fine in his notions of universal liberty, I always feel pretty certain that he only wants the power to trample on the independence of all who might stand in the way of his particular enjoyments. But this is all natural enough; the feeble are monstrously indignant at the exercise of power in the hands of their rulers; but when by any accident they become powerful, they all at once see the advantages of keeping down those who are down, and in a very short time become just as despotic as those of whom they complained.”
“What vessels are these, Captain?” inquired Oriel, pointing to several ships, appearing at different distances in the open sea before them.
“Yonder vessel, whose tall masts are bending before the brisk breeze that fills her sails, is an Algerine merchantman, and has most probably a cargo of dancing masters, cooks, figurantes, and opera singers, which are as much now the chief produce of the people to whom she belongs, as they were a thousand years ago the principal exports of their progenitors. That sombre thing, with the long funnel in the centre of her deck, is very similar to the steamers of which the ancients were so proud, before an improved propelling power was discovered. She belongs to the Abyssinians—a people remarkably slow in adopting the inventions of their more civilised neighbours; she trades from the sea of Babel Mandeb to the Gulph of Guinea, sometimes touching at Madagascar, and the neighbouring islands, and carries passengers, pigs, crockery, and snuff. This rakish looking craft, flying afore the wind like a petrel in a storm, is a free trader with a rich cargo of smuggled merchandise from the continent to the Mauritius; and the big ship yonder, bearing down upon us as if she’d sink every thing that stood in her way, is a man of war belonging to the Liberians—a powerful nation of blacks. All these small fry that are starting up from every point, are merely coasting vessels—government packets,—fishing smacks—pilot boats,—pleasure yachts, and other floaters of a similar nature.”
“But what is this?” inquired Oriel, pointing to something of a very strange appearance that was seen at the distance of about three quarters of a mile, making way at a rapid rate towards the shore. They all gazed in that direction, and a most extraordinary spectacle they beheld. At first it seemed like a ball—but as it approached the ship it enlarged, and every one who saw it knew it to be a balloon. How it came there, floating on the waves by itself, many conjectured; but their surprise at its appearance was wonderfully increased, when they observed a man, with his body immersed in the waves, clinging to it, or more probably attached to its fastenings. His peril he endeavoured to make known by screams of the most piercing description; but it was not till the miserable wretch was being rapidly borne past their vessel that the people of the Albatross discovered the full extent of his danger. For at least half a mile behind him the sea was a mass of white smoking foam, which was created by nearly a hundred immense sharks following him with eager speed, lashing the waves with their tails, leaping over each other, plunging, snorting, and displaying the most ravenous desire to catch him in their enormous jaws. Sometimes the balloon ascended a little distance above the sea and then would rapidly descend, plunging the unhappy aeronaut over his head in the salt water; but while the sharks were all striving against each other to make a mouthful of his limbs, it would again ascend, floating swiftly over the surface, bearing its screaming appendant about a foot above his unrelenting pursuers, who continued to follow him struggling furiously with each other, and eagerly snapping at his limbs whenever they approached the surface of the water. It was impossible to render him any assistance, although he passed within a few yards of the ship, he was carried so swiftly along; and on he went, shrieking with agony, now high above the waves—then dashed in beneath them—then flying over the surface, with the horrid expectation of being immediately devoured by the hungry pack by whom he was pursued.
“Scrunch me, if that isn’t the most cruel chase I ever saw,” exclaimed the captain.
“These sort of accidents are not at all extraordinary,” observed Fortyfolios, “and with such things must frequently occur. Balloons are an old invention, and one the least useful for philosophical purposes of any we have received from the ancients. Attempts have been made, attended with success, to get one or several individuals borne by them from an island to an adjoining continent, and from one part of a continent to a part far remote; but as they have found it impossible to control the current of wind met with in certain elevations, and as they can seldom rely upon a current in any one direction lasting for any length of time, they have been able to rise as high as they please, but can never previously fix exactly upon the place of their descent; and it has in many instances occurred, as in the one we have just now observed, that after the aeronaut has made his ascent, a sudden wind takes him in a direction contrary to what he designed, or various currents rising unexpectedly at nearly the same time, he is shifted about to every point of the compass; and when he is obliged to descend, he finds himself floating over some unknown sea, or some wild uncultivated land, hundreds of miles from human assistance, where he is left to endure the conviction that he must either be drowned or starved. A balloon is, in fact, a toy, with which one fool amuses many.”
Nothing more was said on the subject, although the dangerous situation of the poor fellow who had attached himself to the balloon was anxiously watched as long as he remained in sight, and the imminent peril in which he was seen: his heart-rending cries, and desperate struggles, long left their unpleasant impression on the memory of all who beheld him.
The bold outline of the coast they were approaching every hour became more apparent: its singular mountain and other landmarks were seen, pointed out, and commented on. Birds flew into the rigging—weeds accumulated before the ship—and stray logs of timber, broken barrels, and pieces of wreck, were continually floating past. The character of the scenery now began to be clearly defined—the lowlands spreading out far and wide into the interior, intersected by numerous railroads, and the mountains holding up their proud heads covered with vegetation nearly to their summits. The more the country became visible, the greater was the evidence it exhibited of a high degree of cultivation, a fruitful soil, and a numerous and industrious population; and as buildings began to be made out, it was observable from their form, numbers, and disposition, that manufactures was a primary object in the estimation of the inhabitants.
“You will find these people a money-getting generation,” said the professor to his pupil: “their sole object appears to be to accumulate, and their only idea of the respectability of a person is derived from the proportion of substance he is worth. They never ask, is a man an excellent husband, an exemplary father, or an admirable citizen?—is he distinguished by the attention with which he fulfils his moral duties, or celebrated by the right application of extraordinary talents? they merely inquire how much money he has in his pockets. In fact, when they speak at all of ‘a good man,’ they allude to some individual imagined to be possessed of a certain amount of available property: money with them is every thing. Respectability means money—reputation or credit means money, and cleverness means money. Money, therefore, is the universal virtue: they who have the most are honoured the most, and they who have it not at all are considered by those who have it, although in ever so small a proportion, as being separated from their fellow-creatures by an impassable chasm, where all that is infamous is thought to dwell.”
“And yet they are considered to be a very religious people,” remarked Oriel.
“None are more regular in going to church, none are greater respecters of the ceremonies of worship, but of religion they are ignorant,” replied Fortyfolios. “Nothing can be more certain than that it is impossible that a pure morality or a sincere devotion can exist, when the heart is filled with one engrossing desire—the accumulation of capital—the very principle of which is selfishness—a feeling incompatible with the social charities of true religion.”
“But when did you ever find that any thing like true religion generally existed?” inquired the captain, in a tone approaching sarcasm. “Since the memory of man the faith of the majority has been unvaryingly orthodox, and sticks, like a lobster to its shell, to the old proverb, ‘Every one for himself, and the devil take the hindmost,’—and more absurd conduct doesn’t exist than some people exhibit, who, after having made money a standard of excellence, condemn to infamy not only those who are not possessed of it, but they who gain it by means not in exact accordance with their notions of the way it should be obtained. Scrunch me, if it don’t make one ready to heave one’s ballast overboard, when I see the homage paid to a mean-spirited scoundrel, who by chicanery, hypocrisy, avarice, and a horde of other contemptible vices, robs his fellows of a pretty handsome share of plunder; and hear the execrations heaped upon the bolder and better villain, who lays society under contributions in a more open, manly, and daring manner. They pretend to notions of honesty, too, that’s the joke. Why a fish would laugh at a thing so ridiculous. The government in their necessity take from the people, and those who can’t afford to pay they send to prison—an individual in his necessity takes from another, and the very government who set the example of appropriation punish the appropriator as an offender. Then governments plunder each other, or rather the people of each other; but when any of the people attempt to rob their governments, they judge, hang, draw and quarter the poor wretches without the slightest mercy. Honesty, forsooth! If the whole world were asked what the meaning of the word was, every man would give a different definition, and not only would each contradict the other, but every one would contradict himself. Honesty appears to be of all shapes and all sizes: it will suit all complexions—it will flavour every dish. Honesty is every thing, and yet it is nothing. It is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl—will neither sink nor swim—and is not to be touched, seen, or tasted. Honesty is every where—the greatest rogue is honest to his chosen associates—and yet it is no where, for the desire of appropriation is universal. It is a sort of ghost that only exists in the minds of the superstitious—a mirror that shows any reflection thrown upon it—a sky that all over the world can take every variety of colour. Some call it truth, and lay claim to its possession, although their lives are a continual deceit; some call it justice, and fancy themselves exceedingly just, although they would consign to eternal perdition all not exactly of their way of thinking; and some call it conscientiousness, and are satisfied with their own dealings, when, at the same time, their first thought is for their own personal gratification. But we are entering the bay, and these fellows require looking after.” So saying, he suddenly left the group, and began shouting to the crew some orders about the ship.
“Captain Compass has singular notions,” remarked the professor: “I should not feel particularly comfortable if I thought he entertained the opinions he expresses. There would be an end to all sense of moral obligations if such ideas became general.”
“Oh there is no harm in him,” replied Oriel. “He is too frank, too careless, too bold to have any evil intention. It has often appeared to me, though, that the principle we call honesty does not exist either in ourselves or in society to the extent we imagine; and believing such a state of things an evil, I have often wished, but never been able, to find a way in which it could be remedied.”