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<head>
<title>Chapter 7</title>
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<section id="chapter-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h2 epub:type="title z3998:roman">VII</h2>
<p>A new visitor arrived at the Abbey, in the person of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias, the ichthyologist. This gentleman had passed his life in seeking the living wonders of the deep through the four quarters of the world; he had a cabinet of stuffed and dried fishes, of shells, seaweeds, corals, and madrepores, that was the admiration and envy of the Royal Society. He had penetrated into the watery den of the Sepia Octopus, disturbed the conjugal happiness of that turtledove of the ocean, and come off victorious in a sanguinary conflict. He had been becalmed in the tropical seas, and had watched, in eager expectation, though unhappily always in vain, to see the colossal polypus rise from the water, and entwine its enormous arms round the masts and the rigging. He maintained the origin of all things from water, and insisted that the polypodes were the first of animated things, and that, from their round bodies and many-shooting arms, the Hindus had taken their gods, the most ancient of deities. But the chief object of his ambition, the end and aim of his researches, was to discover a triton and a mermaid, the existence of which he most potently and implicitly believed, and was prepared to demonstrate, <i xml:lang="la">a priori, a posteriori, a fortiori</i>, synthetically and analytically, syllogistically and inductively, by arguments deduced both from acknowledged facts and plausible hypotheses. A report that a mermaid had been seen “sleeking her soft alluring locks” on the seacoast of Lincolnshire, had brought him in great haste from London, to pay a long-promised and often-postponed visit to his old acquaintance, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Glowry.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias was accompanied by his son, to whom he had given the name of Aquarius—flattering himself that he would, in the process of time, become a constellation among the stars of ichthyological science. What charitable female had lent him the mould in which this son was cast, no one pretended to know; and, as he never dropped the most distant allusion to Aquarius’s mother, some of the wags of London maintained that he had received the favours of a mermaid, and that the scientific perquisitions which kept him always prowling about the seashore, were directed by the less philosophical motive of regaining his lost love.</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias perlustrated the seacoast for several days, and reaped disappointment, but not despair. One night, shortly after his arrival, he was sitting in one of the windows of the library, looking towards the sea, when his attention was attracted by a figure which was moving near the edge of the surf, and which was dimly visible through the moonless summer night. Its motions were irregular, like those of a person in a state of indecision. It had extremely long hair, which floated in the wind. Whatever else it might be, it certainly was not a fisherman. It might be a lady; but it was neither <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hilary nor Miss O’Carroll, for they were both in the library. It might be one of the female servants; but it had too much grace, and too striking an air of habitual liberty, to render it probable. Besides, what should one of the female servants be doing there at this hour, moving to and fro, as it seemed, without any visible purpose? It could scarcely be a stranger; for Claydyke, the nearest village, was ten miles distant; and what female would come ten miles across the fens, for no purpose but to hover over the surf under the walls of Nightmare Abbey? Might it not be a mermaid? It was possibly a mermaid. It was probably a mermaid. It was very probably a mermaid. Nay, what else could it be but a mermaid? It certainly was a mermaid. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias stole out of the library on tiptoe, with his finger on his lips, having beckoned Aquarius to follow him.</p>
<p>The rest of the party was in great surprise at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias’s movement, and some of them approached the window to see if the locality would tend to elucidate the mystery. Presently they saw him and Aquarius cautiously stealing along on the other side of the moat, but they saw nothing more; and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias returning, told them, with accents of great disappointment, that he had had a glimpse of a mermaid, but she had eluded him in the darkness, and was gone, he presumed, to sup with some enamoured triton, in a submarine grotto.</p>
<p>“But, seriously, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias,” said the Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless, “do you positively believe there are such things as mermaids?”</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Most assuredly; and tritons too.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>What! things that are half human and half fish?</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Precisely. They are the oran-outangs of the sea. But I am persuaded that there are also complete sea men, differing in no respect from us, but that they are stupid, and covered with scales; for, though our organisation seems to exclude us essentially from the class of amphibious animals, yet anatomists well know that the <i xml:lang="la">foramen ovale</i> may remain open in an adult, and that respiration is, in that case, not necessary to life: and how can it be otherwise explained that the Indian divers, employed in the pearl fishery, pass whole hours under the water; and that the famous Swedish gardener of Troningholm lived a day and a half under the ice without being drowned? A nereid, or mermaid, was taken in the year 1403 in a Dutch lake, and was in every respect like a French woman, except that she did not speak. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, an English ship, a hundred and fifty leagues from land, in the Greenland seas, discovered a flotilla of sixty or seventy little skiffs, in each of which was a triton, or sea man: at the approach of the English vessel the whole of them, seized with simultaneous fear, disappeared, skiffs and all, under the water, as if they had been a human variety of the nautilus. The illustrious Don Feijoo has preserved an authentic and well-attested story of a young Spaniard, named Francis de la Vega, who, bathing with some of his friends in June, 1674, suddenly dived under the sea and rose no more. His friends thought him drowned; they were plebeians and pious Catholics; but a philosopher might very legitimately have drawn the same conclusion.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Reverend <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Larynx</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Nothing could be more logical.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Five years afterwards, some fishermen near Cadiz found in their nets a triton, or sea man; they spoke to him in several languages—</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Reverend <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Larynx</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>They were very learned fishermen.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hilary</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>They had the gift of tongues by especial favour of their brother fisherman, Saint Peter.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Is Saint Peter the tutelar saint of Cadiz?</p>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">None of the company could answer this question, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias proceeded</i>
</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>They spoke to him in several languages, but he was as mute as a fish. They handed him over to some holy friars, who exorcised him; but the devil was mute too. After some days he pronounced the name Lierganes. A monk took him to that village. His mother and brothers recognised and embraced him; but he was as insensible to their caresses as any other fish would have been. He had some scales on his body, which dropped off by degrees; but his skin was as hard and rough as shagreen. He stayed at home nine years, without recovering his speech or his reason: he then disappeared again; and one of his old acquaintance, some years after, saw him pop his head out of the water near the coast of the Asturias. These facts were certified by his brothers, and by Don Gaspardo de la Riba Aguero, Knight of Saint James, who lived near Lierganes, and often had the pleasure of our triton’s company to dinner.—Pliny mentions an embassy of the Olyssiponians to Tiberius, to give him intelligence of a triton which had been heard playing on its shell in a certain cave; with several other authenticated facts on the subject of tritons and nereids.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>You astonish me. I have been much on the seashore, in the season, but I do not think I ever saw a mermaid. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He rang, and summoned Fatout, who made his appearance half-seas-over.</i> Fatout! did I ever see a mermaid?</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Fatout</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Mermaid! mer-r-m-m-aid! Ah! merry maid! <i xml:lang="fr">Oui, monsieur!</i> Yes, sir, very many. I vish dere vas von or two here in de kitchen—<i xml:lang="fr">ma foi!</i> Dey be all as melancholic as so many tombstone.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>I mean, Fatout, an odd kind of human fish.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Fatout</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>De odd fish! <i xml:lang="fr">Ah, oui!</i> I understand de phrase: ve have seen nothing else since ve left town—<i xml:lang="fr">ma foi!</i></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>You seem to have a cup too much, sir.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Fatout</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Non, monsieur: de cup too little. De fen be very unwholesome, and I drink-a-de ponch vid Raven de butler, to keep out de bad air.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Fatout! I insist on your being sober.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Fatout</p>
</td>
<td>
<p><i xml:lang="fr">Oui, monsieur</i>; I vil be as sober as de <i xml:lang="fr">révérendissime père Jean</i>. I should be ver glad of de merry maid; but de butler be de odd fish, and he swim in de bowl de ponch. Ah! ah! I do recollect de leetle-a song:—“About fair maids, and about fair maids, and about my merry maids all.” <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Fatout reeled out, singing.</i></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>I am overwhelmed: I never saw the rascal in such a condition before. But will you allow me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias, to inquire into the <i xml:lang="la">cui bono</i> of all the pains and expense you have incurred to discover a mermaid? The <i xml:lang="la">cui bono</i>, sir, is the question I always take the liberty to ask when I see anyone taking much trouble for any object. I am myself a sort of Signor Pococurante, and should like to know if there be anything better or pleasanter, than the state of existing and doing nothing?</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>I have made many voyages, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless, to remote and barren shores: I have travelled over desert and inhospitable lands: I have defied danger—I have endured fatigue—I have submitted to privation. In the midst of these I have experienced pleasures which I would not at any time have exchanged for that of existing and doing nothing. I have known many evils, but I have never known the worst of all, which, as it seems to me, are those which are comprehended in the inexhaustible varieties of <i xml:lang="fr">ennui</i>: spleen, chagrin, vapours, blue devils, time-killing, discontent, misanthropy, and all their interminable train of fretfulness, querulousness, suspicions, jealousies, and fears, which have alike infected society, and the literature of society; and which would make an arctic ocean of the human mind, if the more humane pursuits of philosophy and science did not keep alive the better feelings and more valuable energies of our nature.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>You are pleased to be severe upon our fashionable <i xml:lang="fr">belles lettres</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Asterias</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Surely not without reason, when pirates, highwaymen, and other varieties of the extensive genus Marauder, are the only <i xml:lang="fr">beau idéal</i> of the active, as splenetic and railing misanthropy is of the speculative energy. A gloomy brow and a tragical voice seem to have been of late the characteristics of fashionable manners: and a morbid, withering, deadly, antisocial sirocco, loaded with moral and political despair, breathes through all the groves and valleys of the modern Parnassus; while science moves on in the calm dignity of its course, affording to youth delights equally pure and vivid—to maturity, calm and grateful occupation—to old age, the most pleasing recollections and inexhaustible materials of agreeable and salutary reflection; and, while its votary enjoys the disinterested pleasure of enlarging the intellect and increasing the comforts of society, he is himself independent of the caprices of human intercourse and the accidents of human fortune. Nature is his great and inexhaustible treasure. His days are always too short for his enjoyment: <i xml:lang="fr">ennui</i> is a stranger to his door. At peace with the world and with his own mind, he suffices to himself, makes all around him happy, and the close of his pleasing and beneficial existence is the evening of a beautiful day.<a href="../text/endnotes.xhtml#note-6" id="noteref-6" epub:type="noteref">6</a></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="long" epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>The Honourable <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Listless</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>Really I should like very well to lead such a life myself, but the exertion would be too much for me. Besides, I have been at college. I contrive to get through my day by sinking the morning in bed, and killing the evening in company; dressing and dining in the intermediate space, and stopping the chinks and crevices of the few vacant moments that remain with a little easy reading. And that amiable discontent and antisociality which you reprobate in our present drawing-room-table literature, I find, I do assure you, a very fine mental tonic, which reconciles me to my favourite pursuit of doing nothing, by showing me that nobody is worth doing anything for.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Marionetta</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>But is there not in such compositions a kind of unconscious self-detection, which seems to carry their own antidote with them? For surely no one who cordially and truly either hates or despises the world will publish a volume every three months to say so.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Flosky</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>There is a secret in all this, which I will elucidate with a dusky remark. According to Berkeley, the <i xml:lang="la">esse</i> of things is <i xml:lang="la">percipi</i>. They exist as they are perceived. But, leaving for the present, as far as relates to the material world, the materialists, hyloists, and antihyloists, to settle this point among them, which is indeed</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse z3998:non-fiction">
<p>
<span>A subtle question, raised among</span>
<br/>
<span>Those out o’ their wits, and those i’ the wrong</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>for only we transcendentalists are in the right: we may very safely assert that the <i xml:lang="la">esse</i> of happiness is <i xml:lang="la">percipi</i>. It exists as it is perceived. “It is the mind that maketh well or ill.” The elements of pleasure and pain are everywhere. The degree of happiness that any circumstances or objects can confer on us depends on the mental disposition with which we approach them. If you consider what is meant by the common phrases, a happy disposition and a discontented temper, you will perceive that the truth for which I am contending is universally admitted.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Flosky suddenly stopped: he found himself unintentionally trespassing within the limits of common sense.</i>
</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hilary</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>It is very true; a happy disposition finds materials of enjoyment every where. In the city, or the country—in society, or in solitude—in the theatre, or the forest—in the hum of the multitude, or in the silence of the mountains, are alike materials of reflection and elements of pleasure. It is one mode of pleasure to listen to the music of “Don Giovanni,” in a theatre glittering with light, and crowded with elegance and beauty: it is another to glide at sunset over the bosom of a lonely lake, where no sound disturbs the silence but the motion of the boat through the waters. A happy disposition derives pleasure from both, a discontented temper from neither, but is always busy in detecting deficiencies, and feeding dissatisfaction with comparisons. The one gathers all the flowers, the other all the nettles, in its path. The one has the faculty of enjoying everything, the other of enjoying nothing. The one realises all the pleasure of the present good; the other converts it into pain, by pining after something better, which is only better because it is not present, and which, if it were present, would not be enjoyed. These morbid spirits are in life what professed critics are in literature; they see nothing but faults, because they are predetermined to shut their eyes to beauties. The critic does his utmost to blight genius in its infancy; that which rises in spite of him he will not see; and then he complains of the decline of literature. In like manner, these cankers of society complain of human nature and society, when they have wilfully debarred themselves from all the good they contain, and done their utmost to blight their own happiness and that of all around them. Misanthropy is sometimes the product of disappointed benevolence; but it is more frequently the offspring of overweening and mortified vanity, quarrelling with the world for not being better treated than it deserves.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Scythrop</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">To Marionetta.</i>
</p>
<p>These remarks are rather uncharitable. There is great good in human nature, but it is at present ill-conditioned. Ardent spirits cannot but be dissatisfied with things as they are; and, according to their views of the probabilities of amelioration, they will rush into the extremes of either hope or despair—of which the first is enthusiasm, and the second misanthropy; but their sources in this case are the same, as the Severn and the Wye run in different directions, and both rise in Plinlimmon.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">
<p>Marionetta</p>
</td>
<td>
<p>“And there is salmon in both;” for the resemblance is about as close as that between Macedon and Monmouth.</p>
</td>
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</tbody>
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</section>
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