Nihonkoku Shoukan. Volume 1. Chapter 2 Part 3

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Minasan Oidemasu! This is Yukkuri demasu!

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みのろう (Minorou)

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Yukkuri Oniisan!

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Chapter 2

The Kingdom’s Miscalculation

Part 3

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I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. “In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer—of whose works I possess the only copy extant—“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper—(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.

The Knights’ distance with the villagers was just below 500 meters.

The villagers faces were paralyzed with fear as they desperately flee.

The drawn swords are the sign of the incoming slaughterfest. There were also fine women mixed amongst the fleeing mass. Soon, it will be another Gim…… Imagining the tragic future that will befall his preys, a smile broke on Jove’s face.

「Chargeeeeee──────‼!」

「「「UOOOooooooo‼!」

The cavalry squadron increased their horse’s speed even more and scattered a large amount of dust as they dashed forward.

「── Captain! There’s something glowing in the sky!」

Suddenly, a subordinate with the best eyesight in the squadron yelled and pointed at the sky.

「Hah?…… What is it !?」

When Jove looked up at the sky, a spear of light flew straight towards them.

── So fast!

Instinctively sensing a danger, he pulled the reins and cried out while taking an evasive action.

「Avoid it!!!」

The light spear pierced through the Hawk Knights Order’s 15th Cavalry Squadron without they able to avoid it.

✦✧✦✧✦

Parun was like seeing a dream.

Just after he shouted towards the Heaven, a spear of light flew over him.

The ‘Light’ burst open near the Lourian soldiers, and immediately after that, an ear-splitting thunderous roar and shock wave mowed down the surroundings.

「Wuuaaaa‼」

Soil was flying around as if the earth itself had erupted, even the Lourian soldiers outside the blast radius fell down together with their horse.

It was as if the Wrath of God hadn’t been satisfied yet, Light Spears continued to rain down one after another.

Streak of flashes, roar of thunders.

With a tremendous exploding flame, the earth was charred down.

In the "Three Coins," Charmides asks the sharper's name.

Sh. You demand an arduous task.

Charmides. How so?

Sh. Because if you were to begin before daylight at the first part of my name 'twould be dead of night before you could reach the end of it. I have another somewhat less, about the size of a wine cask.

In the "Persian," Toxilus gives his name as follows,

"Vaniloquidorus Virginisvendonides

Nugipolyloquides Argentiexterebronides

Tedigniloquides Nummorumexpalponides

Quodsemelarripides

Nunquamposteareddides."

There are a few other cases in which there is a playing upon sound, as where Demipho remarks that if he had such a good-looking girl as Pasicompsa for a servant, all the people would be "staring, gazing, nodding, winking, hissing, twitching, crying, annoying, and serenading."

The failings of the fair seems always to have been a favourite subject for men's attack, but reflections of this kind have decreased in number and acerbity since the days of Aristophanes. We find, however, some in Plautus, such as the following:—

"Love is a fawning flatterer. For he that is in love, soon as ever he has been smitten with the kisses of the object he loves, forthwith his substance vanishes out of doors, and melts away. 'Give me this, my honey, if you love me.' And then Gudgeon says, 'Oh apple of my eye, both that and still more, if you wish.' He who plunges into love perishes more dreadfully than if he leapt from a rock. Away with you, Love, if you please."

He is fully alive to the power of this destructive passion. In one place Philolaches half mad with love and jealousy sees his mistress looking into a mirror. "Ah, wretched me," he exclaims passionately, "she gave the mirror a kiss. I wish I had a stone to break the head of that mirror."[20]

The love of money has always been a stock subject with humorists. This common weakness of human nature can be played upon even by those who can produce no other wit, and many worse jokes have been made on it than the following,—

Calidorus asks his servant, Pseudolus, to lend him a drachma.

P. What for?

C. To buy a rope to hang myself.

P. Who then will pay me back? Do you wish to hang yourself to cheat me out of my drachma?

The "Concealed Treasure" turns on an old man having found a pot of gold. He conceals it, and his nervousness lest some one should discover it is brought out with excellent humour. He drives the cooks out of the place with his stick. He has a battle-royal with a dunghill cock, who, he imagines is trying to scratch for it, then thinks Strobilus has stolen it, and calls on him to show one hand, and the other, and then the third.

We are the more inclined to lament the utter destruction of ancient African literature on finding that the most refined Roman dramas were placed upon the stage by a Carthaginian, when Plautus, whose enterprize and perseverance had given the great impetus to Latin comedy, was approaching the end of his long life. Terence was born the last, and as some think the greatest master in this branch of Art. He was at one time a slave, but his literary talent was so remarkable that his master set him free, and he became the friend of distinguished men, especially of Scipio the younger. It must seem strange that this brilliancy should have flashed up for a moment, and then been for ever quenched, but it was derived from Greece and not in its nature enduring. The genius of Menander fed the flame of Terence, as that of Diphilus and others gave power to Plautus, and it may well be supposed that men of their talent appropriated all that was most excellent, and left their successors to draw from inferior sources. It may, moreover, be doubted, whether the regular drama was ever popular among the lower classes in Rome, who preferred the more exciting scenes of the circus. Such plays as were intended for them were coarser and more sensational.

Terence has not the rough power and drollery of Plautus; his whole attraction lies in the subtlety of his amorous intrigues. Steele, speaking of one of the plays, "The Self-Tormentor," observes, "It is from the beginning to the end a perfect picture of human life, but I did not observe in the whole one passage that could possibly raise a laugh." It was for this reason, no doubt, that Cæsar spoke of him as only "half a Menander," and as deficient in comic force. Ingenious complexity is so exclusively his aim, that we have neither the coarseness nor the sparkle of earlier writers. He was the first to introduce Comedies, which were not comic, and whatever humour he introduces is that of situation.

「T-…… the Louria soldiers scattered!!」

「W-what is happening!?」

Someone shouted.

The scarred and frightened Louria soldiers scattered to all directions, their file and rank completely fell into chaos.

The scattered cavalry on the front was struck by yet another Light Spear.

With a power enough to turn the earth inside out, the cavalry engulfed by that shock blown away into pieces together with their horse.

✦✧✦✧✦

「Damn it !! What the hell is that !!」

Red Eyed Jove looked up at the sky.

A phenomenon that they couldn’t understand was happening before their eyes. Black and slender inorganic objects were hovering in the sky while giving off whirling loud roars. Every time it emitted a light, their comrade blown apart by a violent explosion.

The enemy was in the sky, they had no means to attack them from ground.

「Bastards! This is a foul play!」

Jove and his surviving subordinates were trying to turn around towards their encampments―――

「Eh……?」

On the next moment, his eyes saw a sight of himself and his horse shattered. Red Eyed Jove was smashed to smithereens by a rocket from the JGSDF’s attack helicopter, 『AH-1S Cobra』.

The Hawk Knights Order 15th Cavalry Squadron was annihilated in just mere seconds.

✦✧✦✧✦

Before long, numerous flying ships appeared from the eastern sky.

While giving off fear-inducing whirling sounds, the objects, that had cast huge magic capable to roast the earth, passed through the over the villagers with great speed. Fierce winds flew underneath the big objects, the raging strong wind increased the villagers’ fear.

Parun looked up at the objects.

He was captivated by the mysterious arks with various shape, but he noticed that on each hull there was a red circle like a sun drawn on it.

(―――! Sun? There is a drawing of the sun’s symbol‼ So the Sun God’s Messenger really comes‼)

The flying ships with long plate turning around on its front and back descended to the ground, and the door on its side hull opened, where people wearing green clothing alighted from inside.

「Who are them? Those people with dirty looking green clothes?」

「They don’t look like soldiers, but…… What their identity is?」

The villagers who, was saved from Louria Kingdom’s Soldiers and relieved that they still held their lives for the moment,  became wary of the people that appeared before them. They were not a member of Louria Kingdom Army, but they also were not Qua-Toyne Principality Army either. Although they looked like belong to the human race, they didn’t appear like soldier at all, their whole body was smeared with mud or sand, and they wore clothing with a disordered pattern like ruffians. They were carrying something like a black tube with handle in their hand.

One of them, a person who didn’t carry the black thing, put a strange thing near his mouth and let out a loud voice.

『Is there anyone injured?』

To that loud voice that couldn’t be thought of coming out from a human, the villagers were surprised and frozen in silence.

In the first place, those people hold overwhelming power enough to annihilate the cavalry in mere seconds. If the villagers made them angry, they might lose their own lives. Perhaps if they report the injured people, would they be killed since they wouldn’t be useful for the labor force? Or will they be sacrificed to the monster that cast those powerful magic?

Parun who believes that they are the Sun God’s Messengers moved forward without fear.

「Thank you for helping us. Are ojii-chan(uncles)s the Sun God’s Messenger-sama?」

At the boy’s question, the SDF personnel was confused for a few moments and tilted his head.

(Sun’s Messenger? ―――Oh, perhaps because the Japanese flag is the sun, so he misunderstands? It’s simple to correct him…… but this is just a child’s word. It will be less troublesome if I just agree with him.)

During this military operation, they must guide civilians and evacuate them as soon as possible. He thought that a white lie will be alright, so he nodded and answered.

「Yes, that's right. We came to save you, so you don’t need to worry anymore.」

The villagers looked at each other and began a commotion.

Seeing this situation, the SDF personal slightly regretted, (Ah! I’ve done it).

「Th-…… The Sun God’s Messenger he says!?」

「Now that he mentioned, there is a picture of the sun on the hull!!」

「You’re right!! The sun is also on their clothes’ shoulder!」

「A Divine Ship that flies in the sky…… a powerful magic that burns the earth…… and a mark that symbolizes the sun god! There is no mistake!! The God of the Elves once again prayed for the Sun God to sent His Messengers.」

「Oh…… Sun God! We offer our gratitude for sending Your Mighty Messenger to rescue us.」

The village chief, as the representative of the village, moved forward and stood beside Parun before offering his gratitude.

「Sun God’s Messenger-sama, we offer our utmost gratitude for saving our life on this occasion.」

「We-…… We are just doing the right thing. I’m really glad that we make it on time. Now, this way ―――」

While having a cramp on his face, the SDF personnel attempted to guide the villagers into the transport helicopter 『CH-47 Chinook』, when the villagers suddenly bowed down to the ground.

「We are truly…… truly thankful!!」

「Ah, please raise your head! Come now, quick enter. We will transport you to a safer place……」

「It will be disrespectful for us to not supplicate ourselves in front of the Sun God’s Messenger-sama……」

「Umm, it will be alright…… So, please could you quickly get on here?」

「We can’t possibly do that! To ride on the Divine Ship, we are not worthy……」

The SDF personnel who came to the rescue would need a considerable amount of time to solve this misunderstanding.

Following this view we find him often sarcastic, but not personal, the names being fictitious, or if not, those of well known public men. In a few instances he is a little ill-natured, and writes, "Laugh, if thou art wise, girl, laugh, said Ovid, but he did not say this to all girls, not, for instance, to Maximina, who has only three teeth, and those the colour of pitch and boxwood. Avoid the pantomimes of Philistion and gay feasts. It befits you to sit beside an afflicted mother, and a wife lamenting her husband. Weep, if thou art wise, girl, weep."

Martial often uses the figure called by the Greek grammarians "contrary to expectation." The point of the whole epigram lies in the last word or line, which changes the drift of the whole.

"His funeral pile was strewn with reed,

His tearful wife brought fragrant myrrh,

The bier, the grave, the ointment were prepared,

He named me as his heir, and he—got well."

"Sorry is Athenagoras not to send the gifts,

Which in mid-winter he is wont to send;

Whether he be sorry I shall shortly see,

But sorry he has certainly made me."

"You feast so often without me, Lupercus,

I've found a way by which to pay you out,

I am incensed, and if you should invite me,

What would I do, you ask me? Why—I'd come."

The growing appreciation of this kind of writing had already led Meleager, a cynic philosopher of Gadara, to form the first collection of Greek epigrams, which he prettily termed the anthology or bouquet. Martial has been commended at the expense of the Greeks, but he borrowed considerably from them in form and matter. His epigrams were more uniformly suggestive and concentrated than those of any previous writer, and he largely contributed to raise such compositions from being merely inscriptive into a branch of literature. He opened a new field, and the larger portion of these productions in Greek were written about this time. They are not generally humorous, with the exception of a few from Philo and Leonidas of Alexandria who lived about 60 B.C., from Ammianus in 120 B.C., and from Lucilius, a great composer of this kind, of whose history nothing is known but that he lived in the reign of Nero. The following are from the last-mentioned.

"Some say, Nicylla, that thou dyest thy hair, which thou boughtest most black at the market."

"All the astrologers prophesied that my uncle would be long-lived except Hermocleides, who said he would not be so. This, however, was not until we were lamenting his death."

The following are free translations from the same writer.

"Poor Cleon out of envy died,

His brother thief to see

Nailed near him to be crucified

Upon a higher tree."

On a bad painter.

"You paint Deucalion and Phaeton,

And ask what price for each you should require;

I'll tell you what they're worth before you've done,

One deserves water, and the other fire."

The works of Lucian are generally regarded as forming a part of Roman literature, although they were written in Greek by a native of Samosata in Syria. In them we have an intermingling of the warm imagination of the East with the cold sceptical philosophy of the West. Lucian was originally brought up to be a stone-cutter, but he had an insatiable desire for learning, and in his "Dream" he tells us how he seemed to be carried aloft on the wings of Pegasus. He became a pleader at the bar, but soon found that "deceit, lies, impudence, and chicanery" were inseparable from that profession. In disgust he betook himself to philosophy, but could not restrain his indignation when he found so many base men throwing the blame of their conduct on Plato, Chrysippus, Pythagoras, and other great men. "A fellow who tells you that the wise man alone is rich, comes the next moment and asks you for money—just as if a person in regal array should go about begging." He says they pay no more attention to the doctrines they teach than if their words were tennis balls to play with in schools. "There is," he continues, "a story told of a certain king of Egypt, who took a fancy to have apes taught to dance. The apes, as they are apt to mimic human actions, came on in their lessons and improved very fast, and were soon fit to appear on the public stage, and display their skill, dressed in purple robes, with masks on their faces. The spectators were much pleased with them for a considerable time, when a wag who was present, having brought with him a quantity of nuts, threw a handful amongst them. The dance was immediately forgotten, and the performers from pyrrhic dancers, relapsed into apes, who went chattering and snapping at one another, and fighting for nuts; so that in a few moments the masks were crumpled, the clothes torn to rags, and the ape dance, which had been so much extolled, terminated amidst peals of laughter. Such is the history of mock philosophers."

The above story may serve to exhibit Lucian's views, and his love of humorous illustration. He indulges in many fancies, such as the complaint of the letter S against T, which had in Attic been substituted for it.

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