The kindly
Dutchman and his wife were aware of some burden on his mind, because of
its many groaning sallies while astray from judgment. But as soon as his
wits were clear again, and his body fit to second them, Blyth saw that
he could not crave their help, against the present interests of their
own land. Holland was at enmity with England, not of its own accord,
but under the pressure of the man who worked so hard the great European
mangle. Captain Van Oort had picked up some English, and his wife could
use tongue and ears in French, while Scudamore afforded himself and them
some little diversion by attempts in Dutch. Being of a wonderfully happy
nature--for happiness is the greatest wonder in this world--he could not
help many a wholesome laugh, in spite of all the projects of Napoleon.
Little things seldom jump into bigness, till a man sets his microscope
at them. According to the everlasting harmonies, Blyth had not got a
penny, because he had not got a pocket to put it in. A pocketful of
money would have sent him to the bottom of the sea, that breezy April
night, when he drifted for hours, with eyes full of salt, twinkling
feeble answer to the twinkle of the stars. But he had made himself light
of his little cash left, in his preparation for a slow decease,
and perhaps the fish had paid tribute with it to the Caesar of this
Millennium. Captain Van Oort was a man of his inches in length, but in
breadth about one-third more, being thickened and spread by the years
that do this to a body containing a Christian mind.
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