“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head.
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I was a little alarmed by his energy, perhaps also a little touched at the hearty grief in his concluding exclamation, but said as calmly as I could, “What you say is no doubt true enough, sir; but how could I know there was any peculiar ferocity in that particular whale, though indeed I might have inferred as much from the simple fact of the accident.”
“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so wonderfully as you do.”
The prince replies: “Ah cease, divinely fair, Nor add reproaches to the wounds I bear; This day the foe prevail’d by Pallas’ power: We yet may vanquish in a happier hour: There want not gods to favour us above; But let the business of our life be love: These softer moments let delights employ, And kind embraces snatch the hasty joy. Not thus I loved thee, when from Sparta’s shore My forced, my willing heavenly prize I bore, When first entranced in Cranae’s isle I lay,[124] Mix’d with thy soul, and all dissolved away!” Thus having spoke, the enamour’d Phrygian boy Rush’d to the bed, impatient for the joy. Him Helen follow’d slow with bashful charms, And clasp’d the blooming hero in her arms.
“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been studying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my certain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad?”
“Oh! never thee mind about that, Bildad,” said Peleg. “Has he ever whaled it any?” turning to me.
Had some brave chief this martial scene beheld, By Pallas guarded through the dreadful field; Might darts be bid to turn their points away, And swords around him innocently play; The war’s whole art with wonder had he seen, And counted heroes where he counted men.
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
But Pallas now Tydides’ soul inspires,[143] Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires, Above the Greeks his deathless fame to raise, And crown her hero with distinguish’d praise. High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield emits a living ray; The unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies, When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight, And, bathed in ocean, shoots a keener light. Such glories Pallas on the chief bestow’d, Such, from his arms, the fierce effulgence flow’d: Onward she drives him, furious to engage, Where the fight burns, and where the thickest rage.
“O friend! two chiefs of force immense I see, Dreadful they come, and bend their rage on thee: Lo the brave heir of old Lycaon’s line, And great Æneas, sprung from race divine! Enough is given to fame. Ascend thy car! And save a life, the bulwark of our war.”
“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.”
“Harry, how can you?”
Then fierce Æneas, brandishing his blade, In dust Orsilochus and Crethon laid, Whose sire Diocleus, wealthy, brave and great, In well-built Pheræ held his lofty seat:[152] Sprung from Alpheus’ plenteous stream, that yields Increase of harvests to the Pylian fields. He got Orsilochus, Diocleus he, And these descended in the third degree. Too early expert in the martial toil, In sable ships they left their native soil, To avenge Atrides: now, untimely slain, They fell with glory on the Phrygian plain. So two young mountain lions, nursed with blood In deep recesses of the gloomy wood, Rush fearless to the plains, and uncontroll’d Depopulate the stalls and waste the fold: Till pierced at distance from their native den, O’erpowered they fall beneath the force of men. Prostrate on earth their beauteous bodies lay, Like mountain firs, as tall and straight as they. Great Menelaus views with pitying eyes, Lifts his bright lance, and at the victor flies; Mars urged him on; yet, ruthless in his hate, The god but urged him to provoke his fate. He thus advancing, Nestor’s valiant son Shakes for his danger, and neglects his own; Struck with the thought, should Helen’s lord be slain, And all his country’s glorious labours vain. Already met, the threatening heroes stand; The spears already tremble in their hand: In rush’d Antilochus, his aid to bring, And fall or conquer by the Spartan king. These seen, the Dardan backward turn’d his course, Brave as he was, and shunn’d unequal force. The breathless bodies to the Greeks they drew, Then mix in combat, and their toils renew.
“O friend! two chiefs of force immense I see, Dreadful they come, and bend their rage on thee: Lo the brave heir of old Lycaon’s line, And great Æneas, sprung from race divine! Enough is given to fame. Ascend thy car! And save a life, the bulwark of our war.”
“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.”
“Sir,” said I, “I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in the merchant—”
“Well, bring him along then.”
So fought each host, with thirst of glory fired, And crowds on crowds triumphantly expired.
“O suffer not the foe to bear away My helpless corpse, an unassisted prey; If I, unbless’d, must see my son no more, My much-loved consort, and my native shore, Yet let me die in Ilion’s sacred wall; Troy, in whose cause I fell, shall mourn my fall.”