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.