“It certainly is a superlative composition,” remarked Zabra, attempting to conceal a laugh.

“I can safely say I never heard any thing like it,” added Oriel in a similar tone.

“I entertained an incipient conviction that you would find it marvellously admirable,” replied the poet, elevating his head, and stroking his mustachios. “’Tis ineffably divine, is it not?”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed both, looking at each other with a smile of peculiar meaning.

“Beautiful!” echoed Long Chi, raising his voice and eyebrows. “By the invulnerable tail of Confucius, ’tis something for which a name cannot be found. But exquisitely perfect as it may be, here is a production that excels it in the very unapproachableness of its excellence.”

While the two friends listened with admirable patience, the young Chinese unfolded another paper, and read with the same gravity these lines:—

“That exceeds the last certainly,” said Oriel Porphyry, amused with the perfect gravity with which the poet read his verses.

“It appears to me quite a new style of poetry,” remarked Zabra, with as much seriousness as he could assume.

“Unquestionably! it is novel in the novelest degree,” replied Long Chi, smiling with all the graciousness of gratified vanity. “I may with the most complete justice lay claim to be the origin in which originated its originality. I have studied sublimity. By the great Fo, I may say that; and I have found the sublime in every individual natural thing that is in nature; but in cookery and confectionary it predominates, as must be evident to the inquisitive investigation of any man of taste. It is the opinion of the most discriminative judges, that no writer of serious poetry can compete with me.”

“In that opinion every one must coincide,” observed Zabra.

“There can be no question on the subject,” added Oriel.

“Who shall say you are barbarians, when you exhibit such a superabundant knowledge of the beautiful?” exclaimed the Chinese, with all the energy he could assume. “I am immeasurably enraptured to notice such an admirable judgment; and, as an additional proof of the satisfaction I receive from your friendly attention, I will still, to a much more infinite extent, delight your auditory nerves with one of the most serious of my efforts in serious poetry. Mark the true sublime; mark it well, and see how splendidly it agrees with the magnificent subject. It is an ode to a sugarplum.”

The poet unfolded another paper; and the young merchant shrugged up his shoulders, as he heard its contents read with the same tone and manner as its predecessors.

“You excel yourself, sir,” said Oriel Porphyry, with something of sarcasm in the tone of his voice, arising, perhaps, from his becoming a little out of patience.

“By the unsophisticated tail of Confucius, you may say that,” replied the poet with the same seriousness he had from the first evinced. “Having, in so unutterable a manner, obtained the precedency of my promiscuous cotemporaries, I had no alternative but to enter into competition with myself. That I have to so wonderful an extent exceeded my own super-excellence, therefore, cannot be considered strange; but, as you are evidently gratified in a manner perfectly unparalleled by the unimaginable superiority of my poetic genius, I will show my consideration of your admirable sagacity by enrapturing you still more completely by a more transcendental attempt at the sublime;” and the young Chinese began unfolding another paper.

“Not now, I’m very much obliged to you,” said Oriel, rising as if to depart. “I have business of importance that requires my immediate attendance; and, having waited for Long Chi so long, I am afraid I cannot protract my visit.”

“Not to be ravished by the immortal praises of the adorable Fee Fo Fum?” exclaimed the melancholy poet in the utmost astonishment.

“I cannot allow myself that pleasure at present,” said the merchant’s son, courteously, yet looking as if he was impatient to be gone.

“I’ve written an indestructible epos in fifty cantos, descriptive of all her beauties, with a due regard of anatomy. I’ll read you the whole of it, if you will stay,” added the lover.

“I’m infinitely thankful; but my time is precious,” observed Oriel, making rapid strides to the door.

“I will enrapture you with a thousand hexameters declaratory of my incommunicable affections,” shouted the prolific versifier.

“Good morning to you, Long Chi,” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, as he opened the door, evidently very desirous of making his escape. He was on the point of leaving the room, accompanied by Zabra, when he was stopped in his progress by the appearance of a stout elderly Chinese, wearing the appearance of profound gravity. No sooner had he entered, than the poet shuffled his papers hastily into his pouch, jumped off the divan, and approached the stranger with looks of veneration and awe.

“Father, here are the barbarians you expected,” said he. The ceremony of introduction was soon over; the two friends returned to their seats; and old Long Chi, seating himself cross-legged on the divan, commenced a conversation with his visitors, while his son remained standing beside him in respectful attention. He was dressed in a fashion somewhat similar to that of the younger Chinese; but the materials were not so gay, nor were they formed with so much neatness; and he wore boots of black satin instead of slippers, and a short cloak of fine cloth trimmed with fur.

“I have been sacrificing at the temple, which has detained me longer than I anticipated,” said Long Chi the elder. “But religion is the first concern of life. Nothing should stand in the way of religion. The Bonzes are the only teachers of truth; and the worship of Fo is the only way that leads to virtue.”

Neither Zabra nor his patron attempted to dispute this doctrine.

“I have been reading, father,” falteringly uttered the poet—“I have been reading——”

“Hold your tongue, Long Chi,” exclaimed his parent sharply.

“Father, I obey,” murmured the obedient youth.

“Obedience is the first of virtues, and duty to parents the first of all obedience,” remarked the old man, with a tone that seemed to his son more infallible than the sentence. “Children, obey your parents, saith our religion; and if they are disobedient we give them a touch of the bamboo.” The poet at this moment looked remarkably grave. “Subjects, obey your rulers, saith the law; and if we become unruly we get a touch of the bamboo.” And the father looked as grave as his son.

“That is, I suppose, what is called being bamboo-zled,” observed Oriel Porphyry with a smile.

“It is no laughing matter to us, I can assure you,” added the old man feelingly; “but it is a fine thing for children. Our religion says, Spare the bamboo, and spoil the child: and I’m attentive to religion.”

“I wish it said, Spoil the bamboo, and——”

“Hold your tongue, Long Chi!” thundered out the parent.

“Father, I obey,” tremblingly replied the son.

“The bastinado is the best thing in the world for children,” continued the elder, frowning upon his offspring. “We are obliged to provide for their bodies, and it is but proper we should do what we can for their soles. When a schism occurs in the family, I always punish it in that way.”

“Then it becomes a sole-cism,” added the young man, sorrowfully.

The old Chinese snatched up a heavy bamboo cane with which he had been walking, and swung it furiously round his head, with the intention of dealing a severe blow upon the poet’s shoulders, but the lover of the adorable Fee Fo Fum jumped out of the way with more agility than submission, and the blow chipped off a corner of the japanned table.

“Is this the way you show your obedience, you undutiful wretch?” shouted Long Chi, as he jumped off the divan, in a rage after the offender. “Where’s your religion? Where’s your duty to parents? Spare the bamboo and spoil the child! Come and be bastinadoed, you ungrateful youth!” So saying, he waddled after his son as rapidly as he could, making desperate attempts to knock him down; but as Long Chi the younger not only was not so dutiful as to wait to be bastinadoed, but jumped out of the way of the blows as fast as they were aimed at him, Long Chi the elder, much fatigued by his exertions, at last returned to the divan, after having afforded infinite diversion to his visitors.

“I wonder the roof doesn’t fall in and cover you, you unnatural offspring!” exclaimed the father, shaking the bamboo at his son, who stood trembling at a respectful distance; then wiping the perspiration from his shaven crown, he added, addressing the young friends, and the poet, by turns, “You are shocked, no doubt, at this instance of youthful depravity—Oh the graceless scoundrel! to run away from his affectionate father, who was going to beat him black and blue!—But I am happy to say, that there are few children in China so indifferent to the mild virtues of paternal government.—Come here, and let me knock your undutiful head into a thousand pieces, you vagabond!—It is a sad thing, I acknowledge, for the father of a family, who is anxious to bring up a child in the way it should go, to find it so insensible of his loving-kindness.—Oh, if I had you near enough, I’d smash you into a custard, you graceless varlet!—but you see a parent’s heart is always overflowing with natural affection for his own flesh and blood.—By the great Fo, I should be delighted to bastinado you within an inch of your life!—Religion and morality, in these atheistical times, are thought nothing of by some children.—Haven’t I brought you up, you heathen! on purpose to knock you down?—But this isn’t the worst of it—they have become rank republicans. They have no proper notion of law, order, or government. When the father takes to his bamboo, the son takes to his heels—abominable rebel!—and when one flies in a passion the other flies in his face—unparalleled traitor!”

The entrance of servants, announcing that dinner was ready, put an end to the altercation; and Long Chi the elder, with much suavity, pressed his visitors to remain his guests for the remainder of the day; which invitation Oriel Porphyry, imagining that he should be free from all persecution from the rhyming propensities of his host’s son, and expecting some amusement from the peculiarities of the two, forgot his engagements, and agreed to prolong his visit. Long Chi the elder then took one hand of each of his guests in his own and proceeded with them into a handsome apartment, furnished in a style similar to the one they had left. In the centre was a small low table, having four seats or cushions at its sides. The father and son sat opposite each other, cross-legged: and their visitors sat as comfortably as they could, facing each other, at the other sides of the table. Before each was placed three elegant porcelain saucers, one containing soy, another a small quantity of vinegar, and the other was empty; and, beside these, were two little ivory sticks. The other part of the table was covered with similar porcelain saucers, filled with various specimens of Chinese cookery in fish, flesh, and fowl, cut small; and servants handed round these with dishes of vegetables, such as cabbages, cucumbers, rice, and cauliflowers; and pastry of many different kinds, as they were directed by the host.

Both Oriel and Zabra watched with considerable surprise the two Chinese take the little ivory sticks in the three first fingers of the right hand, and, placing the head forward, and opening the mouth wide, dip them in the saucers, catching up pieces of flesh, which they flavoured with the vinegar, and dexterously flinging them into their mouths; and repeating the process so rapidly, that the eye could scarcely follow their movements. The guests attempted the same manœuvres; but, as may easily be imagined, they were not so successful: for one piece that went into the mouth, a dozen went out; and, rapidly as the different saucers were handed to them, by the desire of the master of the house, they found that their appetites were not in any thing like the same degree becoming satisfied. Pieces of silver paper were frequently placed near them, with which they as frequently wiped their mouths and fingers, and not before such an operation was required; for their awkward attempts at imitating their entertainers occasioned them to deposit on their persons a considerable portion of the gravy or sauces in which the meat was dressed. Old Long Chi was indefatigable in endeavouring to make his visiters taste the contents of every saucer upon the table; in which effort they would gladly have seconded him, had their ability kept pace with their inclinations; but, to their exceeding disappointment, they found that the more they tried the less they swallowed; and, although they dipped their sticks and bobbed their heads after the savoury viands as they dropped from their treacherous hold, they had the mortification of finding, when the saucers were cleared away, that they were left in the enjoyment of quite as much appetite as they possessed when they first sat down to dinner.

Several kinds of soups were now brought on table, in curious boat-shaped vessels of porcelain; and with these, to the great gratification of the guests, appeared ivory spoons. Every one of the soups was tasted; and gladly would Oriel have made use of his spoon upon the more substantial cookeries that had been carried away: but he saw no more of them; and, the table having been cleared of the soups, fruits, and preserves, with glasses of a spirit made from rice were handed round. At this time, Long Chi the elder bent his head reverentially, and said, in a fervent manner, and with an audible voice,

“Grant, O Fo, that the good things thou hast so bountifully provided for us do not interfere with our digestion, or trouble us with apoplexy!” and left the apartment to change his dress; soon after which the guests, preceded by the younger Long Chi, returned to the saloon, where they partook of tea and sweetmeats.

“Now that the old boy has gone,” said the melancholy poet, as soon as he had seated himself on the divan, “I will give you the felicitous gratification of hearing the perusal of my great epic in praise of the adorable Fee Fo Fum.”

“Not for the world!” exclaimed Oriel Porphyry, with remarkable emphasis; “I would not trouble you on any account.”

“Trouble!” cried the lover, as he commenced searching in his pouch; “by the inconceivable tail of Confucius, ’tis to me the most superlatively exquisite of extraordinary gratifications; and, when you come to entertain a proper consciousness of the inestimable treasures of intellectual greatness, which I have lavished with so profuse a liberality for the purpose of giving immortality to the unrivalled attractions of the adorable Fee Fo Fum, you will acknowledge, with that profound sagacity which you have already evinced by your commendation of my incorruptible effusions, that the particular portions of the diurnal revolution you have passed in obtaining an adequate knowledge of its innumerable excellences, has appeared to you to proceed with such an agreeable velocity, that you cannot, with any particular positiveness, assert that you have, during that period, been in a state which is vulgarly called existence.”

“There is no doubt of it,” replied Oriel, with considerable uneasiness, as he observed his tormentor unfolding a paper for perusal; “but I can only enjoy such things at certain periods; and at present I am positive that the merits of your productions would be entirely lost upon me.”

“By the great Fo, impossible!” exclaimed the poet. “In what corner of the world hides the wretch so lost to every noble feeling—so lost to every sense of excellence—so inhuman, unnatural, and preposterously ignorant—as to listen to the incorruptible wisdom with which I can enlighten him, and not become transported into the very heaven of heavens?”

“You have already enlightened us to an extent as far as our limited intellects allow us to be enlightened by such productions as those you have read,” observed Zabra, with an earnest attempt to be serious; “and it would be only throwing away the talents you possess on persons utterly incompetent to appreciate their merits, if you continue the perusal of your effusions.”

“All imaginary,” said the persevering versifier; “and you will forget it in your sense of the sublime which must be excited by hearing the perusal of the following passage.” Long Chi the younger had opened his manuscript, had made a preparatory flourish of his hand, and had commenced some description, with the ordinary exclamation, “Oh!” when, happening to cast his eye towards the door, he encountered the frowning visage of his father. His hand dropped from its elevation: he quickly whipped his papers into his pouch, and jumped off the divan, with a celerity particularly acceptable to Zabra and his companion.

Old Long Chi appeared in a dress much more splendid than the one he had previously worn; and, gravely fixing himself in the seat his son had vacated, he commenced a conversation upon the business and voyage of his guests. Old Long Chi was a merchant of considerable experience and great wealth, with whom Master Porphyry had long had commercial dealings. He was remarkable for a profound gravity, a pair of moustachios the points of which descended to his chin, and a tail of hair which was the admiration of all his countrymen. Although he had passed the early part of his life in India, and had married an Anglo-Indian, on his return, like all Chinese, he continued the customs of his country, and gloried in its fancied superiority over the rest of the world. He had always been distinguished as a severe moralist. He seemed desirous of acquiring the praise of the Bonzes for the regularity of his attendance at the temples; and sought to be respected in society for the liberality of his contributions towards religious objects. Oriel and he were a considerable time agreeing about some merchandise that both had to barter; during which the melancholy poet stood at a respectful distance, looking at his parent, and then at the bamboo, with more dread than affection; while Zabra amused himself by taking notice of the scene before him.

“You have not seen much of our incomparable country, I suppose?” inquired the old man as he sipped a strong infusion of the tea leaf from a beautiful porcelain cup.

“I have only landed this morning,” replied his guest.

“Ah! then you have much to see,” added the other. “It is the most ancient government under the sun; and such a government! such laws, such institutions, and such a religion! The Emperor is quite a father to his subjects.”

“With the bamboo, father?” asked his son tremblingly.

“Hold you tongue, Long Chi!” bawled out the old man.

“Father, I obey!” murmured the youth submissively.

“Are the laws mild in their operation?” inquired Zabra.

“Remarkably so,” replied Long Chi the elder. “When punishment is inflicted, it is done on the most humane principles: you may get bastinadoed till you faint with pain; and then you will get bastinadoed till you recover.”

“How very paternal!” exclaimed the young Long Chi emphatically.

“Silence, Long Chi!” shouted the old man.

“Father, I obey!” said his obedient son.

Both Zabra and his patron seemed much amused by this description of the mildness of the Chinese laws; but, fearing, if he pressed the subject much farther, the bamboo might come into operation in the domestic sovereignty with a similar character, Oriel Porphyry said,—

“I was much surprised with the great variety of dishes that appeared at dinner.”

“Our preparations for the table are endless,” responded his host. “In our cookery books we have fifty different ways of dressing dogs’ ears.”

“I could find a way of dressing dogs’ ears in any book,” muttered the melancholy poet at a distance.

“I’ll give yours a dressing, you puppy! if you don’t hold your tongue,” bawled his father.

“Dogs’ ears!” exclaimed Zabra in surprise: “we had none to-day, had we?”

“We had six different varieties, of each of which you partook,” replied the other.

“Bah!” said Oriel Porphyry, with a countenance expressing any thing but pleasure.

“But that was not the only delicacy brought on table,” continued the old man. “You seemed particularly to enjoy a fricassee of the rats of Loo Choo.”

“Rats! we haven’t been eating rats, surely?” demanded Zabra, as if horrorstruck at the idea.

“And you swallowed nearly the whole of the soup made from the large slugs of Japan!” he added.

“Ugh!” exclaimed both his visiters in a breath, looking in the highest degree disgusted at the idea of such fare.

“It is dangerous,” said the melancholy poet, gravely, “to load either the stomach or your arms with slugs; especially——” He was not allowed time to finish the sentence; for, seeing his father snatch up the dreaded bamboo, and spring off the divan towards him, with a look threatening utter extermination, he dived under a table, leaped over an ottoman, dodged round several vases, and then rapidly made his exit out at the door, closely pursued by his parent; and their visiters, fancying that they had had quite enough of Chinese hospitality, hastened their departure.

They were proceeding through the narrow streets of Canton, bounded by the gloomy walls that shut out the houses from public view, experiencing some very disagreeable sensations, when they heard a violent altercation, and thought they distinguished voices familiar to them. They listened.

“Oh! oh! oh! This is not arguing logically. Oh! oh! This is demonstration without reason. Oh! oh! oh!” was heard amid a shower of blows.

“Oh! oh! you’re breaking my back—don’t you see! Ah! murder! help!” was shouted with similar accompaniments; and a door in the wall opening, out ran Fortyfolios and Tourniquet, making a desperate outcry, and vainly striving to save themselves from the thick sticks of half a dozen infuriated Chinese, who were belabouring them without mercy. Oriel, as soon as he saw the state of the case, rushed in amongst the attacking party; quickly deprived one of his weapon, and laid about him with such dexterity and vigour, that three out of the six were left senseless on the ground, and the rest had vanished before the philosophers discovered to whom they were indebted for their rescue.

“I am astonished that I should have found you in such a situation,” remarked the young merchant to the professor and his companion, who, with most rueful visages, were busily engaged in rubbing their legs, shoulders, arms, and backs.

“Why, I will explain it to you as logically as I can,” said Fortyfolios, moving his features and body into an abundance of contortions. “Oh, this pain! it certainly is a physical evil.”

“That I deny!” eagerly exclaimed the other, writhing from the effects of his beating. “Pain is a perception of the mind, and cannot exist independently of mental perceptions—don’t you see?”

“Impossible!” replied the professor, limping along as if every bone in his body was broken. “I maintain that it is a sensation purely corporeal, as there never yet was any pain where there was no body.”

“You know nothing about it,” sharply rejoined the doctor, cautiously feeling with his hands to discover his fractures. “There is mental anguish, in which the physical has no connection—don’t you see?”

“But, gentlemen, what has this argument to do with the information I required?” asked the young merchant.

“I was about to enter into the subject in a proper manner, when Doctor Tourniquet interrupted me,” observed Fortyfolios.

“I deny that!” eagerly exclaimed the surgeon.

“Doctor Tourniquet, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said the professor, assuming all his dignity.

“I deny that!” repeated the pertinacious disputant.

“Doctor, you are more than usually disputative,” remarked Zabra.

“I deny that!” continued he: and it now became evident to Oriel Porphyry and his young friend, that both the professor and the doctor were exhilarated into a state nearly approaching intoxication.

“Demonstration! demonstration! Give me accurate demonstration: I’ll not be convinced without it—don’t you see?” said the surgeon.

“Argument is thrown away upon you: you are unreasonable, illogical, and inconvincible,” muttered the other.

“Prove it! prove it! Give me the proof positive—let me behold the proof circumstantial,” exclaimed his antagonist.

“Doctor Tourniquet, I beg you’ll be silent,” said the young merchant, in a tone that admitted of no dispute; and the doctor seemed only anxious to discover the extent of the hurts he had received. “And now, Professor Fortyfolios,” he continued, “you can proceed.”

“To come to a proper understanding of the case, you must be made aware that we left the Albatross on purpose to see whatever was worthy of observation in the city,” observed the professor; “and, as I possessed a letter of introduction to a Columbian resident, there we first proceeded. We were heartily welcomed, and treated with a national hospitality; and were shown several remarkable things, of which the world will hear at a fitting opportunity. In returning from a place we had visited together, our friend suddenly left us to talk to some acquaintance he saw at the end of the street; and we thought we saw him go into a house, where we knocked. We were admitted; and I began explaining to the fellows, by whom we were immediately surrounded, that I desired to see my friend; but, without the slightest attempt at argument, the unreasonable brutes commenced beating us with heavy cudgels, till they were dispersed by your appearance.”

“Let us see if I have killed these poor wretches,” said Oriel, turning back to the place where he had left the three prostrate Chinese; but, to his great astonishment, and to the amazement of his companions, not a trace of either of them was to be seen. The dead men had taken advantage of their enemy being at a distance to scamper off from the field of battle as fast as their legs could carry them; and when the conqueror came to examine the destruction he had committed, he had the mortification of discovering that his triumph might take same note of “the missing,” but the number of killed and wounded was not so easily ascertained.

CHAP. VIII.

THE MONSOON.

After paying short visits to some of the principal ports in the flourishing kingdoms of Borneo and Sumatra, the Albatross was gallantly pursuing her voyage through the Strait of Malacca. There had been no wind for several days, and the sky had continued without a cloud. There was an oppressive sultriness in the atmosphere; and so great appeared the heat of the sun’s rays, that the pitch oozed out of the seams of the vessel, and the timber became scorched and blistered. This continued, with very little variation, till the ship, approaching the coast of India, entered the Bay of Bengal. A little speck was first observed upon the horizon, which gradually enlarged; and soon afterwards several other dark vapours appearing on the heavens, rapidly increased in size, till vast masses of clouds came from the north-east, thickening, and darkening, and swallowing up the whole of the bright sky which had but a short time since been visible. The sea, from a state of calm, suddenly became stirred in all its depths: its billows rose into hills, the hills into mountains; and the vast waves, as they acquired additional magnitude, lashed each other with such a violence, that their tops were crested with foam. Almost at the same moment came on powerful gusts of wind, that kept continually increasing in force, till each drove the mountainous waves before it, as if they were grains of dust, and swept the Albatross over them with as much ease as if it were but a feather. Her spars bent—her timbers creaked; and occasionally some part of the rigging would be stripped off like dead leaves from a tree.

Floods of rain poured down, as if there was a sea in the sky that was being emptied into the waters of the earth; and the lightning, flashing in streaks of lurid fire, exhibited the black tempest gathering in the clouds in all its terrors. Then came the thunder, booming in deafening peals, that seemed to shake the world to its centre. The desperate wind rushed on with all its might—then came the deluge—then flashed the electric light—and then the thunder burst again with renewed fury. This succession of forces was exerted upon the ship, without intermission, the whole of the night, as she scudded rapidly along under close-reefed foresail and maintop-sail; but, although it was evident to the oldest sailors in the vessel, from the manner in which she behaved during the tempest, that a more admirable boat had never been built, she suffered very severely in many places. Several of the ports were stove in, the gangways torn away, the quarter galleries crushed; ropes were snapped like threads, and a few of the spars were splintered into fragments. The water rushed in through the gaping ports, till the lee side of the main deck was a complete pool, several feet in depth; and the monstrous waves swept over the ship in such immense masses, that many of the crew every moment expected that she would be overwhelmed.

Towards morning, the fury of the elements in some degree abated; but the broken spars, and the torn rigging, had scarcely been repaired, before the storm recommenced with renewed vigour. Nothing seemed capable of withstanding its destructive violence. The wind howled, and the thunder boomed, and the lightning flashed, and the big waves came rushing on with more fury than ever. Every timber creaked, and the ship was leaking at every seam. The exertions of the old captain had not ceased since the commencement of the tempest. In the loudest roar of the storm, his voice might be heard shouting his orders through a speaking-trumpet. He was everywhere where he thought his presence was necessary; and, forgetting his superiority in the necessities of the moment, he bore a hand in the most laborious and dangerous duties. He was ably seconded by his officers; and, although the crew had been harassed by constant exertion, they cheerfully continued their efforts to work the vessel, and save her from the violence with which she was assailed. To add to their disquietude, they discovered that she had been forced a considerable way from her course, and that there was an alarming depth of water in the hold: the fore-mast bent like a mere twig; and every instant the fore-topmast threatened to go by the board.

The engine was immediately set to work to reduce the leak; and, a sufficient power having been applied, the water began to diminish. The helm was now directed towards Bengal. The men laboured indefatigably to repair the injuries the ship had sustained; and hopes were entertained that, if the masts remained secure, the Albatross might ride out the monsoon, and reach her destination in safety. Towards the afternoon, there was a lull, and the men got both refreshment and repose. Oriel Porphyry had not left the deck during the whole of the time the danger was most imminent; and Zabra, as usual, had continued by his side. Both seemed to take a sort of fearful interest in watching the progress of the tempest; and, although the water dashed over them in torrents, and they were frequently obliged to hold on with all their strength, to prevent being swept away by the wind, they remained in nearly the same position, observing the vivid flashes of light that played amid the rigging, and looking into the black depths of the foaming ocean, as they descended into the trough of some mighty wave. Neither spoke: at least, rarely was a word uttered; and, if the friends had attempted to converse, the uproar that raged around them would have prevented any other sound from being heard. Several times Captain Hearty approached, and earnestly advised them to go below, as they exposed themselves to much unnecessary danger; but Zabra remained, with his head resting upon the shoulder of his patron, and his hand clasped in Oriel’s, as if he knew of no protection where he was not; and the merchant’s son, as if pleased with the affection of his youthful friend, would not be persuaded to leave the deck.

“Does any thing ail you, Zabra?” at last asked Master Porphyry, during an intermission of the storm, noticing that his companion had made two or three short hysteric sobs.

“No; I am well, I am quite well, Oriel,” murmured the youth, as he raised his head, and looked in the face of his associate.

“Why, your eyes are filled with tears, Zabra! How is this?” exclaimed the other affectionately.

“I know not. A feeling has come over me, which I could not control,” replied he in a whisper, as his delicate frame trembled with emotion. “I was thinking—I was thinking that, if the ship was swallowed up in these huge waves, that—that I should like—that I should like to die—that I should like to die with you thus;” and, with many sobs, he flung his arms round the neck of his patron, and let his head droop upon his breast.

“And so you shall, Zabra, if such fate be ours,” said Oriel Porphyry, much moved by the devotion of his young friend. “But I see no reason to despair yet. The gallant Albatross bears it bravely; and, unless we lose the masts, or ship one of these overwhelming seas, we shall ride into port by to-morrow, or the next day at latest. But this is childish of you, Zabra, to give way to such feelings. You behaved not in this way when we were fighting side by side amid the pirates. Come, come! be more like yourself; and when the storm is over, which I hope will soon be, you shall laugh at these apprehensions; and you shall sing me one of your stirring songs, all about the glory and the freedom to be found upon the mighty waters of the deep; and I shall be enraptured, and you will rejoice.”

Zabra raised his head, shook back the clustering curls that shadowed his face, and looked earnestly upon his patron.

“I will do as you wish me,” he replied. “I have been wrong in disturbing your contemplations with my foolish fears: but, however proud the heart may be,—however great, and brave, and noble be all its tendencies,—there comes a time when all superiority and all valour are lost in a sense of overpowering humility and apprehension. But, hark! The elements are again let loose upon us. Hear how the wind howls, like a lion roaring for his prey! And look at this mountain of water sweeping up to ingulf us within its dark devouring jaws. Cling to the mast, Oriel! cling to the mast! or you will be swept into the sea.”

Oriel Porphyry held one arm tightly round the waist of Zabra: with the other he grasped the mainmast, as the towering billow, forced onward by a violent gust of wind, broke on the deck, carrying away two of the sailors, who were inattentive to its advance, and pouring through every opening into the lower parts of the ship.

“A man overboard!” was the immediate cry: but the vessel was proceeding at so rapid a rate, that no effort could be made to save them. When the fury of the tempest had abated, the two friends descended to the cabin; where Oriel, observing that Zabra seemed ill and faint, wanted him to take such refreshment as his exhausted frame needed, and tried to strengthen the effect of his command by setting before him a good example. A long fast, and the excitement of danger, continued for such a period of time, required nourishment; and the young merchant seemed desirous of showing his companion that his fatigues had not spoiled his appetite; but though he pressed him frequently to partake liberally of the different things he had ordered for him, he could not induce him to follow his directions to any thing like the extent he desired. In fact, Zabra appeared to have suffered too much from the state of feeling in which he had existed during the recent tempest to be able to realise the kind wishes of his patron.

“My dear Zabra you are not well,” observed Oriel Porphyry, finding his endeavours and example so little attended to. “You look perfectly exhausted. Go to your hammock and endeavour to sleep off your fatigues. If I do not see that you take proper care of yourself, I shall deserve censure from Eureka. So if you do not wish to get me into trouble, you will do as I desire you.”

“She will not blame you,” murmured his youthful associate, as he proceeded to his little cabin.

“What an extraordinary creature he is!” he exclaimed, as soon as Zabra had left him; and he was reflecting upon the cause of that mystery in which the character of his youthful friend seemed enveloped, when he was disturbed by the entrance of the two philosophers. Fortyfolios looked somewhat paler than usual, nor did Tourniquet appear quite at his ease. They had also suffered from the effects of the storm, though neither of them had appeared on deck while it lasted.

“It is extraordinary to me, Dr. Tourniquet,” said the professor gravely, as he entered the cabin—“It is extraordinary to me that you will argue from wrong premises.”

“It is as extraordinary to me that you will argue to wrong conclusions, don’t you see,” replied the surgeon good humouredly.

“What is the matter in dispute now, gentlemen?” inquired the young merchant.

“We differ in our ideas concerning the true nature of happiness,” responded Fortyfolios. “Now, I maintain that happiness consists in virtue; for there can be no true happiness without the existence of virtuous inclinations; and virtue is but another name for purity—a state of being perfectly free from the pollution of vice.”

“And I maintain a very different sort of thing altogether, don’t you see,” replied the doctor. “But first of all let us examine the idea that happiness consists in virtue—by which I suppose is meant that virtue produces happiness. There are a thousand instances of virtuous people being as miserable as a bear with his fur shaved off. One from disappointed love—another from the death of a friend or relative, and a third from constitutional irritability. One finds misery in the past—another meets with it in the present—a third looks for it in the future; and although all these are virtuous in the common acceptation of the word, they are far from being happy, don’t you see. But there is a stronger case against the argument that virtue produces happiness in the instance of——Suppose a noble spirited youth, or an amiable and excellent girl, who may be, in thought or action, the beau ideals of virtue, yet if they are disgraced in their own eyes by their near relationship to individuals notorious for some degrading vice, their very notions of virtue create in them a continual misery. They have done no evil, yet they are ashamed of themselves—they have a most decided inclination for sincerity; and yet, knowing that if the world knew of their connection with vice, they would be considered to be vicious as a natural consequence (for such is the unjust conduct of the world), they are obliged to practise deception; and the practice of deception soon becomes habitual—they deceive all around them. Their principles are thus continually warring with their actions; and the dread of their deceit being discovered, and the disgrace which attaches to them becoming known, creates a state of misery not easily to be exceeded.”

“But I cannot imagine such a state of things,” remarked Oriel Porphyry. “No child can be made answerable for the criminality of its relatives; and a well educated mind will care little for an opinion by which it is sought to be degraded, if that opinion is unjust.”

“Certainly,” observed the professor approvingly.

“We must take society as we find it, don’t you see,” added the doctor, “with all its prejudices and all its injustice. If the circle in which moves a youth of either sex, whose conduct is irreproachable and whose motives are admirable, discover that the father of their young associate was hanged for murder, or that the mother was noted for profligacy, they will shrink from him as if he was as vile as his origin; but to the young female this sort of connection bears with a most cruel severity. There are many children born out of wedlock, of mothers of infamous characters, which the father, who may be of a somewhat higher rank of life, with a laudable anxiety for the welfare of his offspring, takes from the mother and educates. Imagine a child thus originated, carefully instructed in virtuous principles till she approaches the period of womanhood, when, with the knowledge of her mother’s infamy, she ventures into a society in which her beauty and intelligence would render her one of its best ornaments, she is acutely sensitive of her own disgraceful position in the eyes of the world, and enters into companionship with individuals of her own sex whom she is well aware would consider themselves contaminated by her presence if they knew her secret; or becomes beloved by a youth of the other sex, who, thinking her what she appears to be, honours her above all human beings, with a continual dread that the truth will be disclosed, and that she will be pointed at, avoided, insulted, and abandoned by those now so eager to seek her society. There is no state of misery so deplorable as this. In time, the constant anxiety and fear in which she exists will affect her health, and she gradually wastes away with the bitter consciousness that she is the victim of a prejudice: although perfectly innocent, is punished as if she was the vilest of criminals; and, although formed to diffuse happiness around her, is obliged, from day to day, to endure the crushing agonies of an unceasing misery. And this is an example of virtue without happiness, don’t you see.”

“But possibly the dread of insult, or a sense of shame,” continued the doctor, “prevents her from entering the society in which she ought to find an honourable place. She is confined to a narrow circle, out of which she dare not step, and is obliged to associate with the worthless of her own sex and the profligate of the other. Her companions are the vulgar and the vile. They having no proper conception of the value of either truth or virtue, and she looking on the world that has abandoned her as unjust, and smarting under the wrong it inflicts, begins to think them as much ill treated as herself, and believes that a false interpretation has been given to their conduct. Gradually she parts with her conviction of what is honourable. One by one she acquires the mean and contemptible vices of her associates. She sees them dissimulate, and practises deception. Falsehood becomes habitual. She loses all self-respect. She becomes criminal, degraded, and depraved. In fact, by an atrocious verdict, she is at first considered one of the very Pariahs of society, don’t you see, and is at last forced to be the vile thing the world had thought her.”

“The prejudice which so punishes is a disgrace to any civilised community,” exclaimed Oriel with warmth, “and the laws which press so cruelly upon natural children are both impolitic and inhuman.”

“They are undoubtedly severe,” observed Fortyfolios; “but their severity is caused by the detestation of society for vice.”

“That I deny,” eagerly replied Tourniquet. “Change the condition of the child. Suppose it to be the offspring of a prince; and, although the mother be a sink of iniquity, the girl will be eagerly sought after by honourables and right honourables, most nobles, and others that entertain the highest notions about virtue. So much for the community’s detestation of vice, don’t you see. Now for my conception of the true nature of happiness. I consider happiness, in the first place, to be the result of a peculiar temperament. There must be a disposition to be happy in the individual before any happiness can be created. In some persons this disposition is so strong, that the most afflicting things will scarcely, if at all, affect it; in others, the disposition is so weak that it is continually overpowered by external circumstances; and in others, the disposition is not to be traced, for it does not exist. That virtue is necessary to a state of happiness there is no doubt; but what is called virtue by different communities appears in so many various shapes, that it requires a more catholic sense attached to it than it possesses to make it universally understood. I consider virtue to be a moderate indulgence in our inclinations when they do no injury to the individual, to the object, and to any other person, with a perfect and exclusive sympathy of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Modesty is called a virtue, chastity is called a virtue, and sobriety is called a virtue; but they are only distinct features of the virtue I have described.”

“That is clearly enough defined; and I should think could not be disputed,” remarked Oriel.

The professor said nothing.

“Now this virtue does not create happiness any more than does the virtue of my learned friend,” continued the doctor; “but in by far the majority of instances it is necessary to its existence. The happiness that arises from alleviating suffering has often been found in an individual possessing no pretensions to virtue. But happiness itself is pleasure. There is the pleasure of creating enjoyment in an object, and there is the pleasure which succeeds it in the individual. There never was happiness without pleasure; there ought not to be pleasure without happiness. There is no pleasure like that of doing good; consequently, there is no happiness like that of making others happy: and wherever there is a disposition to be happy, it will exhibit itself in a desire to create happiness in others; and wherever there is no disposition to be happy, the individual will be just as careless of the happiness of those around him as he is regardless of his own. That’s my idea of happiness, don’t you see.”

“And it appears to me a very rational one,” observed the young merchant. “But how does the disposition to happiness arise?”

“There are some very curious phenomena connected with the origin and growth of these dispositions,” replied the surgeon. “In the first place, all dispositions are formed in the individual by the pressure of external circumstances, no matter how or from whence directed: evil dispositions and good, and they arise at different times and sometimes in succession. When created, they set with a certain impetus in a certain direction; and as in these the extremes meet, if another impetus is given, they will proceed from bad to good to the same distance they advanced from good to bad. This is the cause of individuals having been notorious for vice becoming eminent for virtue. Water flowing from the top of a mountain is capable by its own power of finding its level on a mountain of a similar elevation; and the impetus of vice being carried down a certain way ascends by the impetus of good a like height. This accounts for the old proverb, ‘The greater the sinner the greater the saint;’ that is to say, the force in one produces a like force in the other. Again, the disposition to love has frequently been followed by the disposition to hate, as nearly as possible to the same extent; and the disposition to happiness may as frequently be succeeded by the disposition to misery.”

“But supposing the impetus to be carried down, it will want the application of no other power to carry it up; and if carried up, will unassisted carry itself down,” remarked the professor.

“Not so,” replied the doctor: “Evil is of a heavy nature; and when it descends, clings to the soil at the bottom, unless it receive another impetus: and good is of a light nature, that naturally rises, and when it has attained its highest elevation would there remain, were it not sent down with a similar force.”

“The idea is ingenious, certainly,” said the young merchant.

“And that is all the merit it possesses,” observed Fortyfolios, whose more orthodox notions could not tolerate such an hypothesis. “Were such a theory generally adopted, its mischief would be incalculable. It would loosen our sense of the moral obligations, and utterly destroy all the established ideas of right and wrong.”

“As for the moral obligations, don’t you see,” replied Tourniquet, “I am perfectly convinced that it would place them on a much more secure footing than they now possess; and if established notions on the subject are erroneous, which I can prove them to be, the sooner they are knocked on the head the better. I have already shown to you, in the instance of the natural child, that the idea of virtue in the community is very vague, unsettled, and unphilosophical, and creates more mischief than it does good; and if we take the ideas of the same principle existing at different times and in different communities, we shall find even this confusion worse confounded. Things the most opposite to the true character of virtue have been considered worthy of general adoption as virtues. Thieving has existed as a virtue; drunkenness has existed as a virtue; profligacy has existed as a virtue; murder has existed as a virtue; and many others of the most abominable vices have, at various intervals, with various people, been practised, avowed, and defended, as if they were the most admirable of virtues. It is not many centuries since the natives, on the coast of Guinea, and the inhabitants of other countries, were taught to steal, and the cleverest thief was an object of as much admiration among them as the most virtuous member of the community; but there is no necessity to go to a state of barbarism for an illustration of the honour with which dishonesty has been regarded; for in all speculations, in all trading dealings, in all gambling transactions, and in all appropriations of property acquired by one party from another by a certain cunning or skill, of which the other is not possessed, there is nothing else but stealing; and yet a person acquiring property by such means is generally thought to be respectable, and respectability is considered a virtue.”

“I am afraid, if your argument be true, that there is but little real honesty in the world,” remarked Oriel.

“It is as I have stated,” replied the doctor. “I have read of states in which the man who could swallow some half a dozen bottles of wine, and make his friends follow his example—in other words, a man who practised habitual intoxication—had the reputation of being ‘a good fellow,’ when amongst the same people goodness was considered virtue; but even at the present day, in some parts of the world, intemperance is regarded as a thing to be applauded rather than censured, although it is not only a vice, but being the most direct channel to all other vices ought to be held in detestation as the most vicious of evil inclinations.”

Oriel Porphyry thought of the scene he had witnessed at Canton; but he smiled, and said nothing.

“With regard to the next of these vices which are considered as virtues,” continued the doctor, “there are few so destructive to happiness. What is vulgarly called virtue in the government or indulgence of the affections, in a majority of instances, should go by an opposite name. It is upon record, that a certain king of Ashantee was possessed of 3333 wives: other monarchs have been equally affectionate towards their female subjects; and it is very rare, indeed, to find these potentates, even with the wise king Solomon at their head, possessing any pretensions to this identical virtue; and yet they have been honoured more than the most virtuous character in their dominions. But I maintain that all marriages against the inclination of one or both parties, such as those formed for convenience, from state policy, or by the authority of parents and guardians, is a state of absolute vice; and yet the individuals so existing are regarded as if living in a state of perfect virtue.”

“Undoubtedly they live in a state of perfect virtue as long as they have no vicious inclinations,” said the professor.

“But it frequently happens that one of these parties has entertained an inclination for another before marriage,” replied Tourniquet. “An inclination perfectly virtuous, but circumstances over which either have no control, force them into a marriage, and then in the opinion of the world that inclination (which is rarely destroyed) is considered vicious, though perfectly virtuous in itself, and the state in which the individual exists, against his or her inclination, is considered virtuous, though perfectly vicious in itself, because it tends either to destroy the virtuous inclination, or if that inclination is indulged under those circumstances, it creates a state of things which is just as far removed from virtue. The same species of vice is created by an inclination after marriage—which is likely to occur when the marriage has taken place without an inclination.”

“At one time the punishment used to be very severe for endeavouring to effect a marriage or a similar state of things against the inclination of one of the parties,” remarked the young merchant. “And I imagine that if the mis-marriages to which you have alluded were punished after the same fashion, both the public morals and the public happiness would be much increased.”

“No doubt of it, don’t you see,” responded the doctor. “And now for an examination of the manner in which murder has been regarded. About a thousand years since there was a religious community in India who practised murder as a virtue. They were called Thugs, and after long watching for an opportunity, with abundance of prayers and other holy ceremonies, they fell upon their victims and strangled them with a cord. Previous to this, there arose a military and religious order in Persia, called Assassins, who stabbed or poisoned in secrecy and without shame; and by both these communities murder was practised as the highest kind of virtue. But they were not the only people who entertained similar notions. The heathens murdered the Christians, and the Christians slaughtered the heathens. The Catholics destroyed heretics, and heretics waged a religious war upon one another. The Mahometans killed Jews or Christians, or any other sect not professing their form of faith; and the Jews, Christians, and others, retaliated to the best of their ability; and under the name of religion nearly all religious sects have murdered by wholesale, and, practising this inhuman vice, each party has conceived that they were exhibiting the highest kind of virtue. But at the present day, murder in a variety of shapes exists, and is regarded as a virtue of a very high order. Even in an offender, the destruction of human life is murder, unless, which is a very extreme case, it be impossible for the security of society, to allow the offender to exist; yet the sanguinary executions that disgrace the penal codes of many communities, boasting a superior degree of civilisation, is called justice, which is but another name for virtue. Killing a man in a duel is murder. All warfare is murder; yet he who distinguishes himself most in the destruction of those to whom he is opposed is honoured as being peculiarly brave—and bravery is considered a virtue.”

“Occasions arise when warfare is absolutely necessary,” said Oriel Porphyry; “and I cannot help the conviction, that the man who signalises himself in the defence of his country, and in the destruction of his enemies, is entitled to rank with the most virtuous characters.”

“Certainly,” observed Fortyfolios.

“With regard to wars being necessary, don’t you see, in the present state of the world they may be,” replied the surgeon. “But in an improved order of things they would not be required, for then the force of opinion would be much more effective than the force of arms; and as to the superior character of valour, although few can admire heroic actions more than myself, I know that the courage by which they are created is an impulse which may exist to the same extent in the savage and in the brute. This is not necessary to virtue, for in some organisations the want of physical energy renders the existence and the exhibition of martial courage impossible; and it is not produced by virtue, for it is often found existing in persons of the most vicious inclinations. Now I think I have said enough to show the want of clearness in the ideas of virtue that have existed and do exist in the world, and the danger which must arise from attempting to build any happiness upon so insecure a foundation.”

“I differ with you in toto,” exclaimed the professor, with more than his usual seriousness. “And glad I am that such is the case; for your heathenish theories are destructive of every religious principle that the human mind possesses.”

“Pish!” muttered the doctor.

“It is an argument, the tendency of which goes directly to level all the existing distinctions between right and wrong, and to weaken the influence of those sacred truths which have been professed by mankind for so many generations,” continued Fortyfolios.

“Bah!” exclaimed Tourniquet.

“You may profess what opinions you please,” he added; “but the opinions on which multitudes of people rest their expectations of future happiness ought not to be disturbed by the contemplation of such vain and idle speculations as those in which you indulge.”

“Nonsense, don’t you see,” said the other.

“I tell you, Dr. Tourniquet, it is rank atheism,” exclaimed the professor, rather warmly.

“I tell you, Professor Fortyfolios, you’re a goose,” replied his antagonist.

“As usual, gentlemen, your argument ends in a dispute,” observed Oriel Porphyry. “But you must excuse me for the present. I am really tired out, and have been yawning in a manner that would have silenced any disputants less eager than yourselves. I shall go to my berth, which example I should advise you to follow; and let us hope that the terrible monsoon will allow us some repose.”

The philosophers took the advice that was offered; and in less than half an hour all three were fast asleep in their hammocks.