She implored permission to leave the court, and return to her wretched
home in Cashmere; but that was refused. In the midst of the Mohurrim,
she suddenly disappeared. There were none to inquire for her.[1]
[Footnote 1: Private Life of an Eastern King.]
Oh, they may say what they please about the irresistible march of
civilization, and clearing the way for Webster's Spelling-Book,--about
pumps for Afric's sunny fountains, and Fulton ferry-boats for India's
coral strand; but there's nothing in what the Atlantic Cable gives,
like that it takes away from the heart of the man who has looked the
Sphinx in the face and dreamed with the Brahmin under his own banian.
Spare the shrinking Nunas of our poetry your Europe-fashions!
Because the De Sautys are scientifically virtuous, shall there be no
more barbaric cakes and ale for us? Because they are joined to their
improved Shanghaes, must we let our phoenixes alone? Must we deny our
crocodiles when they preach to us codfish? And shall we abstain from
crying, "In the name of the Prophet, figs!" in order that they may
bawl, "In the name of Brother Jonathan, doughnuts"?
Yes, the world is visibly shrinking in the hard grip of commerce, and
the magic and the marvels that filled our childish souls with
adventurous longing are fading away in the change.
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