And when the emigrant has a surplus of gold, when his capital is such as can not be dissipated on a suit of shoddy, a fortnight’s lodging, and a passage across the Atlantic, the ingenious ones proceed with the Fourth Act of Open Thy Purse .
“Instead of starting in New York as a peddler,” they say, unfolding before him one of their alluring schemes, “why not do so as a merchant?”
And the emigrant opens his purse for the fourth time in the office of some French manufacturer, where he purchases a few boxes of trinketry—scapulars, prayer-beads, crosses, jewelry, gewgaws, and suchlike—all said to be made in the Holy Land. These he brings over with him as his stock in trade.
Now, Khalid and Shakib, after passing a fortnight in Marseilles, and going through the Fourth Act of the Sorry Show, find their dignity as merchants rudely crushed beneath the hatches of the Atlantic steamer.
For here, even the pleasure of sleeping on deck is denied them. The Atlantic Ocean would not permit of it. Indeed, everybody has to slide into their stivy bunks to save themselves from its rising wrath.
A fortnight of such unutterable misery is quite supportable, however, if one continues to cherish the Paradise already mentioned. But in this dark, dingy smelling hole of the steerage, even the poets cease to dream.
The boatmen of Beirut and the sharpers of Marseilles we could forget; but in this grave among a hundred and more of its kind, set over and across each other, neither the lute nor the little that remained in that Ksarah bottle, could bring us any solace.
We are told that Khalid took up his lute but once throughout the voyage. And this when they were permitted one night to sleep on deck.
We are also informed that Khalid had a remarkable dream, which, to our Scribe at least, is not meaningless. And who of us, thou silly Scribe, did