VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER THREE.
Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, Degenerate trade! thy minions could despise Thy heart-born anguish of a thousand cries: Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, While famish'd nations died along the shore; Could mock the groans of fellow men, and bear The curse of kingdoms, peopled with despair; Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, And barter with their gold eternal shame. CAMPBELL.
Gold!--gold! for thee, what will man not attempt? for thee, to whatdegradation will he not submit?--for thee, what will he not risk in thisworld, or prospectively in the next;--Industry is rewarded by thee;enterprise is supported by thee; crime is cherished, and heaven itselfis bartered for thee, thou powerful auxiliary of the devil! One tempterwas sufficient for the fall of man; but thou wert added, that he ne'ermight rise again.
Survey the empire of India; calculate the millions of acres, thebillions with which it is peopled, and then pause while you ask yourselfthe question--how is it that a company of merchants claim it as theirown? By what means did it come into their possession?
Honestly, they will reply. Honestly! you went there as suppliants; youwere received with kindness and hospitality, and your request wasgranted, by which you obtained a footing on the soil. Now you are lordsof countless acres, masters of millions, who live or perish as you will;receivers of enormous tribute.--Why, how is this?
Honestly, again you say; by treaty, by surrender, by taking from thosewho would have destroyed us, the means of doing injury. Honestly! sayit again, that heaven may register, and hell may chuckle at yourbarefaced, impudent assertion.
No! by every breach of faith which could disgrace an infidel; by everyact of cruelty which could disgrace our nature; by extortion, by rapine,by injustice, by mockery of all laws or human or divine. The thirst forgold, and a golden country, led you on; and in these scorching regionsyou have raised the devil on his throne, and worshipped him in his proudpre-eminence as Mammon.
Let us think. Is not the thirst for gold a temptation to which ournatures are doomed to be subjected--part of the ordeal which we have topass? or why is it that there never is sufficient?
It appears to be ordained by Providence that this metal, obtained fromthe earth to feed the avarice of man, should again return to it. If allthe precious ore which for a series of ages has been raised from thedark mine were now in tangible existence, how trifling would be itsvalue! how inadequate as a medium of exchange for the other productionsof nature, or of art! If all the diamonds and other precious stoneswhich have been collected from the decomposed rocks (for hard as theyonce were, like all sublunary matter, they too yield to Time), why, ifall were remaining on the earth, the frolic gambols of the May-day sweepwould shake about those gems, which now are to be found in profusiononly where rank and beauty pay homage to the thrones of kings.--Arts andmanufactures consume a large proportion of the treasures of the mine,and as the objects fall into decay, so does the metal return to theearth again. But it is in eastern climes, where it is collected, thatit soonest disappears. Where the despot reigns, and the knowledge of anindividual's wealth is sufficient warranty to seal his doom, it is tothe care of the silent earth alone that the possessor will commit histreasures; he trusts not to relation or to friend, for gold is toopowerful for human ties. It is but on his death-bed that he imparts thesecret of his deposit to those he leaves behind him; often called awaybefore he has time to make it known, reserving the fond secret till toolate; still clinging to life, and all that makes life dear to him.Often does the communication, made from the couch of death, inhalf-articulated words, prove so imperfect, that the knowledge of itsexistence is of no avail unto his intended heirs; and thus it is, thatmillions return again to the earth from which they have been gatheredwith such toil. What avarice has dug up, avarice buries again; perhapsin future ages to be regained by labour, when, from the chemical powersof eternal and mysterious Nature, they have again been filtered throughthe indurated earth, and reassumed the form and the appearance of themetal which has lain in darkness since the creation of the world.
Is not this part of the grand principle of the universe? the eternalcycle of reproduction and decay, pervading all and every thing, blindlycontributed to by the folly and the wickedness of man? "So far shaltthou go, but no further," was the fiat; and, arrived at the prescribedlimit, we must commence again. At this moment intellect has seized uponthe seven-league boots of the fable, which fitted every body who drewthem on, and strides over the universe. How soon, as on the decay ofthe Roman empire, may all the piles of learning which human endeavourswould rear as a tower of Babel to scale the heavens, disappear, leavingbut fragments to future generations, as proofs of pre-existentknowledge! Whether we refer to nature or to art, to knowledge or topower, to accumulation or destruction, bounds have been prescribed whichman can never pass, guarded as they are by the same unerring and unseenPower, which threw the planets from his hand, to roll in their appointedorbits. All appears confused below, but all is clear in heaven.
I have somewhere heard it said, that where heaven may be, those whoreach it will behold the mechanism of the universe in its perfection.Those stars now studding the firmament in such apparent confusion, willthere appear in all their regularity, as worlds revolving in theirseveral orbits, round suns that gladden them with light and heat, all inharmony, all in beauty, rejoicing as they roll their destined course inobedience to the Almighty fiat; one vast, stupendous, and, to the limitsof our present senses, incomprehensible mechanism, perfect in all itsparts, most wonderful in the whole. Nor do I doubt it: it is butreasonable to suppose it. He that hath made this world and all upon it,can have no limits to His power.
I wonder whether I shall ever see it.
I said just now, let us think. I had better have said, let us notthink; for thought is painful, even dangerous when carried to excess.Happy is he who thinks but little, whose ideas are so confined as not tocause the intellectual fever, wearing out the mind and body, and oftenthreatening both with dissolution. There is a happy medium ofintellect, sufficient to convince us that all is good--sufficient toenable us to comprehend that which is revealed, without a vain endeavourto pry into the hidden; to understand the one, and lend our faith untothe other; but when the mind would soar unto the heaven not opened toit, or dive into sealed and dark futurity, how does it return from itsseveral expeditions? confused, alarmed, unhappy; willing to rest, yetrestless; willing to believe, yet doubting; willing to end its futiletravels, yet setting forth anew. Yet, how is a superior understandingenvied! how coveted by all! a gift which always leads to danger, andoften to perdition.
Thank Heaven! I have not been intrusted with one of thosethorough-bred, snorting, champing, foaming sort of intellects, which runaway with Common Sense, who is jerked from his saddle at the beginningof its wild career. Mine is a good, steady, useful hack, who trotsalong the high-road of life, keeping on his own side, and only stumblinga little now and then, when I happen to be careless,--ambitious only toarrive safely at the end of his journey, not to pass by others.
Why am I no longer ambitious? once I was, but 'twas when I was young andfoolish. Then methought "It were an easy leap to pluck bright honourfrom the pale-faced moon;" but now I am old and fat, and there issomething in fat which chokes or destroys ambition. It would appearthat it is requisite for the body to be active and springing as themind; and if it is not, it weighs the latter down to its own gravity.Who ever heard of a fat man being ambitious? Caesar was a spare man;Bonaparte was thin, as long as he climbed the ladder; Nelson was ashadow. The Duke of Wellington has not sufficient fat in hiscomposition to grease his own Wellington-boots. In short, I think myhypothesis to be fairly borne out, that fat and ambition areincompatible.
It is very melancholy to be forced to acknowledge this, for I amconvinced that it may be of serious injury to my works. An author witha genteel figure will always be more read than one who is corpulent.All
his etherealness departs. Some young ladies may have fancied me anelegant young man, like Lytton Bulwer, full of fun and humour,concealing all my profound knowledge under the mask of levity, and havetherefore read my books with as much delight as has been afforded byPelham. But the truth must be told. I am a grave, heavy man, with myfinger continually laid along my temple, seldom speaking unless spokento--and when ladies talk, I never open my mouth; the consequence is,that sometimes, when there is a succession of company, I do not speakfor a week. Moreover, I am married, with five small children; and nowall I look forward to, and all I covet, is to live in peace, and die inmy bed.
I wonder why I did not commence authorship before! How true it is thata man never knows what he can do until he tries! The fact is, I neverthought that I could make a novel; and I was thirty years old before Istumbled on the fact. What a pity!
Writing a book reminds me very much of making a passage across theAtlantic. At one moment, when the ideas flow, you have the wind aft,and away you scud, with a flowing sheet, and a rapidity which delightsyou: at other times, when your spirit flags, and you gnaw your pen (Ihave lately used iron pens, for I'm a devil of a crib-biter), it is likeunto a foul wind, tack and tack, requiring a long time to get on a shortdistance. But still you do go, although but slowly; and in both caseswe must take the foul wind with the fair. If a ship were to furl hersails until the wind again was favourable, her voyage would beprotracted to an indefinite time; and, if an author were to wait untilhe again felt in a humour, it would take a life to write a novel.
Whenever the wind is foul, which it now most certainly is, for I amwriting any thing but "Newton Forster," and which will account for thisrambling, stupid chapter, made up of odds and ends, strung together likewhat we call "skewer pieces" on board of a man-of-war; when the wind isfoul, as I said before, I have, however, a way of going a-head, bygetting up the steam which I am now about to resort to--and the fuel isbrandy. All on this side of the world are asleep, except gamblers,house breakers, the new police, and authors. My wife is in the arms ofMorpheus--an allegorical _crim con_, which we husbands are obliged towink at; and I am making love to the brandy bottle, that I may stimulatemy ideas, as unwilling to be roused from their dark cells of the brainas the spirit summoned by Lochiel, who implored at each response, "Leaveme, oh! leave me to repose."
Now I'll invoke them, conjure them up, like little imps, to do mybidding:--
By this glass, which now I drain, By this spirit, which shall cheer you, As its fumes mount to my brain, From thy torpid slumbers rear you.
By this head, so tired with thinking, By this hand, no longer trembling, By these lips, so fond of drinking, Let me feel that you're assembling.
By the bottle placed before me, (Food for you, ere morrow's sun), By this second glass, I pour me, Come, you _little beggars_, route.