“Good again. Now then, thou not only wantest to go a-whaling, to find out by experience what whaling is, but ye also want to go in order to see the world? Was not that what ye said? I thought so. Well then, just step forward there, and take a peep over the weather-bow, and then back to me and tell me what ye see there.”
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There sat the seniors of the Trojan race: (Old Priam’s chiefs, and most in Priam’s grace,) The king the first; Thymœtes at his side; Lampus and Clytius, long in council tried; Panthus, and Hicetaon, once the strong; And next, the wisest of the reverend throng, Antenor grave, and sage Ucalegon, Lean’d on the walls and bask’d before the sun: Chiefs, who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer days, like grasshoppers rejoice, A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice. These, when the Spartan queen approach’d the tower, In secret own’d resistless beauty’s power: They cried, “No wonder[113] such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms; What winning graces! what majestic mien! She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen! Yet hence, O Heaven, convey that fatal face, And from destruction save the Trojan race.”
“How do you mean?”
“Where, Pandarus, are all thy honours now, Thy winged arrows and unerring bow, Thy matchless skill, thy yet unrivall’d fame, And boasted glory of the Lycian name? O pierce that mortal! if we mortal call That wondrous force by which whole armies fall; Or god incensed, who quits the distant skies To punish Troy for slighted sacrifice; (Which, oh avert from our unhappy state! For what so dreadful as celestial hate)? Whoe’er he be, propitiate Jove with prayer; If man, destroy; if god, entreat to spare.”
“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly.
“People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don’t commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me—reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?”
Apollo thus from Ilion’s lofty towers, Array’d in terrors, roused the Trojan powers: While war’s fierce goddess fires the Grecian foe, And shouts and thunders in the fields below. Then great Diores fell, by doom divine, In vain his valour and illustrious line. A broken rock the force of Pyrus threw, (Who from cold Ænus led the Thracian crew,)[142] Full on his ankle dropp’d the ponderous stone, Burst the strong nerves, and crash’d the solid bone. Supine he tumbles on the crimson sands, Before his helpless friends, and native bands, And spreads for aid his unavailing hands. The foe rush’d furious as he pants for breath, And through his navel drove the pointed death: His gushing entrails smoked upon the ground, And the warm life came issuing from the wound.
“Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”
“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.”
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each.
Two sons of Priam in one chariot ride, Glittering in arms, and combat side by side. As when the lordly lion seeks his food Where grazing heifers range the lonely wood, He leaps amidst them with a furious bound, Bends their strong necks, and tears them to the ground: So from their seats the brother chiefs are torn, Their steeds and chariot to the navy borne.
“Sir,” said I, “I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in the merchant—”
“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”
Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter’s head. “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money.”
Then Helen thus: “Whom your discerning eyes Have singled out, is Ithacus the wise; A barren island boasts his glorious birth; His fame for wisdom fills the spacious earth.”
Great Ajax first to conquest led the way, Broke the thick ranks, and turn’d the doubtful day. The Thracian Acamas his falchion found, And hew’d the enormous giant to the ground; His thundering arm a deadly stroke impress’d Where the black horse-hair nodded o’er his crest; Fix’d in his front the brazen weapon lies, And seals in endless shades his swimming eyes. Next Teuthras’ son distain’d the sands with blood, Axylus, hospitable, rich, and good: In fair Arisbe’s walls (his native place)[161] He held his seat! a friend to human race. Fast by the road, his ever-open door Obliged the wealthy, and relieved the poor. To stern Tydides now he falls a prey, No friend to guard him in the dreadful day! Breathless the good man fell, and by his side His faithful servant, old Calesius died.
“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”
We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What’s that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people? “But look, Queequeg, ain’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”
“Ah! Harry, your views terrify 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.