enjoy, therefore I exist.' I almost
think those Emersonians are right at times, when they crave the 'life of
plants, and stones, and rain.' Stangrave said to me once, that his ideal
of perfect bliss was that of an oyster in the Indian seas, drinking the
warm salt water motionless, and troubling himself about nothing, while
nothing troubled itself about him."

"Till a diver came and tore him up for the sake of his pearls?" said
Valencia.

"He did not intend to contain any pearls. A pearl, you know, is a
disease of the oyster, the product of some irritation. He wished to be
the oyster pure and simple, a part of nature."

"And to be of no use?" asked Frank.

"Of none whatsoever. Nature had made him what he was, and all beside was
her business, and not his. I don't deny that I laughed at him, and made
him wroth by telling him that his doctrine was 'the apotheosis of
loafing.' But my heart went with him, and the jolly oyster too. It is
very beautiful after all, that careless nymph and shepherd life of the
old Greeks, and that Marquesas romance of Herman Melville's--to enjoy
the simple fact of living, like a Neapolitan lazzaroni, or a fly upon a
wall."

"But the old Greek heroes fought and laboured to till the land, and rid
it of giants and monsters," said Frank. "And as for the Marquesas, Mr.
Melville found out, did he not--as you did once--that they were only
petting and fattening him for the purpose of eating him? There is a dark
side to that pretty picture, Mr. Mellot."

"_Tant pis pour eux_! But that is an unnecessary appendage to the idea,
purely. It must be possible to realise such a simple, rich, healthy
life, without wickedness, if not without human sorrow. It is no dream,
and no one shall rob me of it. I have seen fragments of it scattered up
and down the world; and I believe they will all meet in Paradise--where
and when I care not; but they will meet. I was very happy in the South
Sea Islands, after that, when nobody meant to eat me; and I am very
happy here, and do not intend to be eaten, unless it will be any
pleasure to Miss St. Just. No; let man enjoy himself when he can, and
take his fill of those flaming red geraniums, and glossy rhododendrons,
and feathered crown-ferns, and the gold green lace of those acacias
tossing and whispering overhead, and the purple mountains sleeping there
aloft, and the murmur of the brook over the stones; and drink in scents
with every breath,--what was his nose made for,