There are different opinions as to how the world is to end. Some say it
will eventually fall a prey to that rapacious monster, the sun, which
seems to be according to these people a veritable gourmand; requiring an
enormous quantity of food to keep him going, and thinking no more of a
planet than an ordinary individual does of an oyster. Others seem to
think that the present inhabitants are to be frozen out, while others
again think that the balance of things is to be upset, and that some day
we shall, world and all, be flung into unlimitable space, waking up
eventually perhaps the peace and quiet of some far off system. Whatever
the method, the result will be the same, so far as the inhabitants are
concerned. All people are selfish enough to hope that things will last
their time, for no matter how the world is abused, and called all sorts
of bad names, but few leave it willingly, and if they could look out
upon the many beauties with which they are surrounded; if they could be
cured of their blindness, they would see something fresh every day to
give them pleasure.
It was equally a matter of doubt as to how this brave old Buccaneer was
to make his final exit. Frequently the last stroke of death is not given
by that ailment that has been threatening through life. But as to the
Buccaneer? Would his neighbours step in, and taking advantage of his
weakness, knock the old gentleman on the head, and then divide his
riches amongst themselves, and thus save all further trouble to
administrators and executors? Would Demos, taking advantage of the
position his wanton mother Liberty had placed him in, club the old
gentleman, and so give him the finishing stroke? Such a thing has
happened before now, in the world's history, and it may happen again.
Children petted and spoiled, have ere now risen against their parents,
and have cruelly treated them. Was the old Buccaneer, the prosperous
trader, to have the last drop of blood sucked out of him, by the foreign
parasites and cheap-Jacks, or was he doomed to have the last spark of
life trampled out of him by the Ojabberaways? Again, what if this old
Buccaneer, who had sailed for so many years under the death's head and
cross-bones, were destined to end his days under Petticoat Government?
There would be a strange irony in this, and such a thing would go far,
no doubt, to rectify the many injustices that the fair sex from the
beginning has been subjected to. Revenge is sweet, and no doubt if this
were to happen, the last moments of the Buccaneer would not be passed in
peace. But of his end who can tell? It would be but waste of time
further to surmise, for we must say farewell to our brave old friend. We
will leave him in the hands of the great quack doctor and his numerous
attendants. What matters it, whether after lingering for a while below,
he was taken up to heaven on a snow white cloud, the fringe of which was
illumined by the glowing embers of a world he loved so well, and in
which he had played a by no means insignificant part? What if he passed
away before the final consummation of all things, leaving his spirits
behind to walk the earth, and to encourage some weary traveller who,
commencing life as a Buccaneer, lives in after years under the
protection of the great uncrowned queen Respectability, and takes for
his fancy dress the cowl and frock of a monk?
The last moments of the great and powerful are sad to contemplate, and
are not lightly to be intruded upon. We see the mighty intellect
impaired, and the babbling tongue let loose. We see the strong arm that
was once the terror of all those who came within its reach lying
listless on the counterpane, with emaciated fingers whose strength is
not sufficient to crush a fly. Character, virtue, intellect, all that
goes to make a man great, have to retire into the shade of the sick
chamber, and wait patiently there, silently watching the ravages that
are being made. Then with the last breath of the dying man, Reputation
spreads her wings, soiled perhaps, and torn by slander, and pierced by
the sharp pointed shafts of ill-nature, and takes refuge in the marble
palaces of History, where things are cleansed and purified, or condemned
to everlasting obloquy.
We drop the curtain, and wish this celebrated Buccaneer a long good
night.
THE END.