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Minasan Oidemasu! This is Yukkuri demasu!

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Author:

みのろう (Minorou)

Translator:

Yukkuri Oniisan!

Editor:

Online Grammar Editor!

Chapter 2

The Kingdom’s Miscalculation

Part 3

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I stuffed a s.h.i.+rt or two into my old carpet-bag,

tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the

good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Sat.u.r.day

night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet

for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would

offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties

of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it

may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind

was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a

fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old

island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been

gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor

old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original—the

Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the first dead American whale was

stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the

Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where

but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth,

partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the

whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from

the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night

following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it

became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a

very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and

cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my

pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So, wherever you go,

Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street

shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness

towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the

night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too

particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and pa.s.sed the

sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there.

Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came

such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from

before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick

in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me, when I struck my foot

against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the

soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly,

again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and

hear the sounds of the tinkling gla.s.ses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at

last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are

stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that

took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the

cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses,

on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a

tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of

the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light

proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open.

It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering,

the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought

I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that

destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The

Sword-Fish?”—this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked

myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second,

interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in

Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a

black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and

the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and

wailing and teeth-gnas.h.i.+ng there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out,

Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not

far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up,

saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly

representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words

underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular

connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I

suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim,

and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little

wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins

of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of

creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the

best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house,

one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak

corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than

ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a

mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly

toasting for bed. “In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says

an old writer—of whose works I possess the only copy extant—“it maketh a

marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a gla.s.s window where

the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that

sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death

is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this pa.s.sage occurred to my

mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and

this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the c.h.i.n.ks and

the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too

late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is

on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there,

chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his

tatters with his s.h.i.+verings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a

corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous

Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper—(he had a

redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion

glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes

of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer

with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by

holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in

Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the

line of the equator; yea, ye G.o.ds! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to

keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the

curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg

should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a

Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a

temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going

whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us sc.r.a.pe the ice from

our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.

The Knights’ distance with the villagers was just

below 500 meters.

The villagers faces were paralyzed with fear as they

desperately flee.

The drawn swords are the sign of the incoming slaughterfest.

There were also fine women mixed amongst the fleeing ma.s.s. Soon, it will be another

Gim…… Imagining the tragic future that will befall his preys, a smile broke on

Jove’s face.

「Chargeeeeee──────‼!」

「「「UOOOooooooo‼!」

The cavalry squadron increased their horse’s speed even

more and scattered a large amount of dust as they dashed forward.

「── Captain! There’s something glowing in the sky!」

Suddenly, a subordinate with the best eyesight in the

squadron yelled and pointed at the sky.

「Hah?…… What is it !?」

When Jove looked up at the sky, a spear of light flew

straight towards them.

── So fast!

Instinctively sensing a danger, he pulled the reins

and cried out while taking an evasive action.

「Avoid it!!!」

The light spear pierced through the Hawk Knights

Order’s 15th Cavalry Squadron without they able to avoid it.

✦✧✦✧✦

Parun was like seeing a dream.

Just after he shouted towards the Heaven, a spear of

light flew over him.

The ‘Light’ burst open near the Lourian soldiers, and

immediately after that, an ear-splitting thunderous roar and shock wave mowed

down the surroundings.

「Wuuaaaa‼」

Soil was flying around as if the earth itself had erupted,

even the Lourian soldiers outside the blast radius fell down together with

their horse.

It was as if the Wrath of G.o.d hadn’t been satisfied

yet, Light Spears continued to rain down one after another.

Streak of flashes, roar of thunders.

With a tremendous exploding flame, the earth was charred

down.

In the "Three Coins," Charmides asks the

sharper's name.

Sh. You demand an arduous task.

Charmides. How so?

Sh. Because if you were to begin before daylight at

the first part of my name 'twould be dead of night before you could reach the

end of it. I have another somewhat less, about the size of a wine cask.

In the "Persian," Toxilus gives his name as

follows,

"Vaniloquidorus Virginisvendonides

Nugipolyloquides Argentiexterebronides

Tedigniloquides Nummorumexpalponides

Quodsemelarripides

Nunquamposteareddides."

There are a few other cases in which there is a

playing upon sound, as where Demipho remarks that if he had such a good-looking

girl as Pasicompsa for a servant, all the people would be "staring,

gazing, nodding, winking, hissing, twitching, crying, annoying, and

serenading."

The failings of the fair seems always to have been a

favourite subject for men's attack, but reflections of this kind have decreased

in number and acerbity since the days of Aristophanes. We find, however, some

in Plautus, such as the following:—

"Love is a fawning flatterer. For he that is in

love, soon as ever he has been smitten with the kisses of the object he loves,

forthwith his substance vanishes out of doors, and melts away. 'Give me this,

my honey, if you love me.' And then Gudgeon says, 'Oh apple of my eye, both

that and still more, if you wish.' He who plunges into love perishes more

dreadfully than if he leapt from a rock. Away with you, Love, if you

please."

He is fully alive to the power of this destructive

pa.s.sion. In one place Philolaches half mad with love and jealousy sees his

mistress looking into a mirror. "Ah, wretched me," he exclaims

pa.s.sionately, "she gave the mirror a kiss. I wish I had a stone to break

the head of that mirror."[20]

The love of money has always been a stock subject with

humorists. This common weakness of human nature can be played upon even by

those who can produce no other wit, and many worse jokes have been made on it

than the following,—

Calidorus asks his servant, Pseudolus, to lend him a

drachma.

P. What for?

C. To buy a rope to hang myself.

P. Who then will pay me back? Do you wish to hang

yourself to cheat me out of my drachma?

The "Concealed Treasure" turns on an old man

having found a pot of gold. He conceals it, and his nervousness lest some one

should discover it is brought out with excellent humour. He drives the cooks

out of the place with his stick. He has a battle-royal with a dunghill c.o.c.k,

who, he imagines is trying to scratch for it, then thinks Strobilus has stolen

it, and calls on him to show one hand, and the other, and then the third.

We are the more inclined to lament the utter

destruction of ancient African literature on finding that the most refined

Roman dramas were placed upon the stage by a Carthaginian, when Plautus, whose

enterprize and perseverance had given the great impetus to Latin comedy, was

approaching the end of his long life. Terence was born the last, and as some

think the greatest master in this branch of Art. He was at one time a slave,

but his literary talent was so remarkable that his master set him free, and he

became the friend of distinguished men, especially of Scipio the younger. It

must seem strange that this brilliancy should have flashed up for a moment, and

then been for ever quenched, but it was derived from Greece and not in its

nature enduring. The genius of Menander fed the flame of Terence, as that of

Diphilus and others gave power to Plautus, and it may well be supposed that men

of their talent appropriated all that was most excellent, and left their

successors to draw from inferior sources. It may, moreover, be doubted, whether

the regular drama was ever popular among the lower cla.s.ses in Rome, who

preferred the more exciting scenes of the circus. Such plays as were intended

for them were coa.r.s.er and more sensational.

Terence has not the rough power and drollery of

Plautus; his whole attraction lies in the subtlety of his amorous intrigues.

Steele, speaking of one of the plays, "The Self-Tormentor," observes,

"It is from the beginning to the end a perfect picture of human life, but

I did not observe in the whole one pa.s.sage that could possibly raise a

laugh." It was for this reason, no doubt, that Cæsar spoke of him as only

"half a Menander," and as deficient in comic force. Ingenious

complexity is so exclusively his aim, that we have neither the coa.r.s.eness nor

the sparkle of earlier writers. He was the first to introduce Comedies, which

were not comic, and whatever humour he introduces is that of situation.

「T-…… the Louria soldiers scattered!!」

「W-what is happening!?」

Someone shouted.

The scarred and frightened Louria soldiers scattered

to all directions, their file and rank completely fell into chaos.

The scattered cavalry on the front was struck by yet

another Light Spear.

With a power enough to turn the earth inside out, the

cavalry engulfed by that shock blown away into pieces together with their

horse.

✦✧✦✧✦

「d.a.m.n it !! What the h.e.l.l is that !!」

Red Eyed Jove looked up at the sky.

A phenomenon that they couldn’t understand was

happening before their eyes. Black and slender inorganic objects were hovering in

the sky while giving off whirling loud roars. Every time it emitted a light, their

comrade blown apart by a violent explosion.

The enemy was in the sky, they had no means to attack them

from ground.

「b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! This is a foul play!」

Jove and his surviving subordinates were trying to turn

around towards their encampments―――

「Eh……?」

On the next moment, his eyes saw a sight of himself

and his horse shattered. Red Eyed Jove was smashed to smithereens by a rocket

from the JGSDF’s attack helicopter, 『AH-1S Cobra』.

The Hawk Knights Order 15th Cavalry Squadron was

annihilated in just mere seconds.

✦✧✦✧✦

Before long, numerous flying s.h.i.+ps appeared from the

eastern sky.

While giving off fear-inducing whirling sounds, the

objects, that had cast huge magic capable to roast the earth, pa.s.sed through

the over the villagers with great speed. Fierce winds flew underneath the big

objects, the raging strong wind increased the villagers’ fear.

Parun looked up at the objects.

He was captivated by the mysterious arks with various

shape, but he noticed that on each hull there was a red circle like a sun drawn

on it.

(―――! Sun? There is a drawing of the sun’s symbol‼ So the Sun G.o.d’s Messenger

really comes‼)

The flying s.h.i.+ps with long plate turning around on its

front and back descended to the ground, and the door on its side hull opened, where

people wearing green clothing alighted from inside.

「Who are them? Those people with dirty looking green clothes?」

「They don’t look like soldiers, but…… What their ident.i.ty is?」

The villagers who, was saved from Louria Kingdom’s

Soldiers and relieved that they still held their lives for the moment,  became wary of the people that appeared before

them. They were not a member of Louria Kingdom Army, but they also were not

QuToyne Princ.i.p.ality Army either. Although they looked like belong to the human

race, they didn’t appear like soldier at all, their whole body was smeared with

mud or sand, and they wore clothing with a disordered pattern like ruffians.

They were carrying something like a black tube with handle in their hand.

One of them, a person who didn’t carry the black thing,

put a strange thing near his mouth and let out a loud voice.

『Is there anyone injured?』

To that loud voice that couldn’t be thought of coming

out from a human, the villagers were surprised and frozen in silence.

In the first place, those people hold overwhelming

power enough to annihilate the cavalry in mere seconds. If the villagers made

them angry, they might lose their own lives. Perhaps if they report the injured

people, would they be killed since they wouldn’t be useful for the labor force?

Or will they be sacrificed to the monster that cast those powerful magic?

Parun who believes that they are the Sun G.o.d’s

Messengers moved forward without fear.

「Thank you for helping us. Are ojii-chan(uncles)s the Sun G.o.d’s Messenger-sama?」

At the boy’s question, the SDF personnel was confused for

a few moments and tilted his head.

(Sun’s Messenger? ―――Oh, perhaps because the j.a.panese flag is the sun, so he misunderstands? It’s

simple to correct him…… but this is just a child’s word. It will be less

troublesome if I just agree with him.)

During this military operation, they must guide civilians

and evacuate them as soon as possible. He thought that a white lie will be

alright, so he nodded and answered.

「Yes, that's right. We came to save you, so you don’t need to worry anymore.」

The villagers looked at each other and began a

commotion.

Seeing this situation, the SDF personal slightly regretted,

(Ah! I’ve done it).

「Th-…… The Sun G.o.d’s Messenger he says!?」

「Now that he mentioned, there is a picture of the sun on the hull!!」

「You’re right!! The sun is also on their clothes’ shoulder!」

「A Divine s.h.i.+p that flies in the sky…… a powerful magic that burns the

earth…… and a mark that symbolizes the sun G.o.d! There is no mistake!! The G.o.d

of the Elves once again prayed for the Sun G.o.d to sent His Messengers.」

「Oh…… Sun G.o.d! We offer our grat.i.tude for sending Your Mighty Messenger to

rescue us.」

The village chief, as the representative of the

village, moved forward and stood beside Parun before offering his grat.i.tude.

「Sun G.o.d’s Messenger-sama, we offer our utmost grat.i.tude for saving our life

on this occasion.」

「We-…… We are just doing the right thing. I’m really glad that we make it on

time. Now, this way ―――」

While having a cramp on his face, the SDF personnel

attempted to guide the villagers into the transport helicopter 『CH-47 Chinook』, when the villagers suddenly bowed down to the ground.

「We are truly…… truly thankful!!」

「Ah, please raise your head! Come now, quick enter. We will transport you to

a safer place……」

「It will be disrespectful for us to not supplicate ourselves in front of the

Sun G.o.d’s Messenger-sama……」

「Umm, it will be alright…… So, please could you quickly get on here?」

「We can’t possibly do that! To ride on the Divine s.h.i.+p, we are not worthy……」

The SDF personnel who came to the rescue would need a

considerable amount of time to solve this misunderstanding.

Following this view we find him often sarcastic, but

not personal, the names being fict.i.tious, or if not, those of well known public

men. In a few instances he is a little ill-natured, and writes, "Laugh, if

thou art wise, girl, laugh, said Ovid, but he did not say this to all girls,

not, for instance, to Maximina, who has only three teeth, and those the colour

of pitch and boxwood. Avoid the pantomimes of Philistion and gay feasts. It

befits you to sit beside an afflicted mother, and a wife lamenting her husband.

Weep, if thou art wise, girl, weep."

Martial often uses the figure called by the Greek

grammarians "contrary to expectation." The point of the whole epigram

lies in the last word or line, which changes the drift of the whole.

"His funeral pile was strewn with reed,

His tearful wife brought fragrant myrrh,

The bier, the grave, the ointment were prepared,

He named me as his heir, and he—got well."

"Sorry is Athenagoras not to send the gifts,

Which in mid-winter he is wont to send;

Whether he be sorry I shall shortly see,

But sorry he has certainly made me."

"You feast so often without me, Lupercus,

I've found a way by which to pay you out,

I am incensed, and if you should invite me,

What would I do, you ask me? Why—I'd come."

The growing appreciation of this kind of writing had

already led Meleager, a cynic philosopher of Gadara, to form the first

collection of Greek epigrams, which he prettily termed the anthology or

bouquet. Martial has been commended at the expense of the Greeks, but he

borrowed considerably from them in form and matter. His epigrams were more

uniformly suggestive and concentrated than those of any previous writer, and he

largely contributed to raise such compositions from being merely inscriptive

into a branch of literature. He opened a new field, and the larger portion of

these productions in Greek were written about this time. They are not generally

humorous, with the exception of a few from Philo and Leonidas of Alexandria who

lived about 60 B.C., from Ammia.n.u.s in 120 B.C., and from Lucilius, a great

composer of this kind, of whose history nothing is known but that he lived in

the reign of Nero. The following are from the last-mentioned.

"Some say, Nicylla, that thou dyest thy hair,

which thou boughtest most black at the market."

"All the astrologers prophesied that my uncle

would be long-lived except Hermocleides, who said he would not be so. This,

however, was not until we were lamenting his death."

The following are free translations from the same

writer.

"Poor Cleon out of envy died,

His brother thief to see

Nailed near him to be crucified

Upon a higher tree."

On a bad painter.

"You paint Deucalion and Phaeton,

And ask what price for each you should require;

I'll tell you what they're worth before you've done,

One deserves water, and the other fire."

The works of Lucian are generally regarded as forming

a part of Roman literature, although they were written in Greek by a native of

Samosata in Syria. In them we have an intermingling of the warm imagination of

the East with the cold sceptical philosophy of the West. Lucian was originally

brought up to be a stone-cutter, but he had an insatiable desire for learning,

and in his "Dream" he tells us how he seemed to be carried aloft on

the wings of Pegasus. He became a pleader at the bar, but soon found that

"deceit, lies, impudence, and chicanery" were inseparable from that

profession. In disgust he betook himself to philosophy, but could not restrain

his indignation when he found so many base men throwing the blame of their

conduct on Plato, Chrysippus, Pythagoras, and other great men. "A fellow

who tells you that the wise man alone is rich, comes the next moment and asks

you for money—just as if a person in regal array should go about begging."

He says they pay no more attention to the doctrines they teach than if their

words were tennis b.a.l.l.s to play with in schools. "There is," he

continues, "a story told of a certain king of Egypt, who took a fancy to

have apes taught to dance. The apes, as they are apt to mimic human actions,

came on in their lessons and improved very fast, and were soon fit to appear on

the public stage, and display their skill, dressed in purple robes, with masks

on their faces. The spectators were much pleased with them for a considerable

time, when a wag who was present, having brought with him a quant.i.ty of nuts,

threw a handful amongst them. The dance was immediately forgotten, and the

performers from pyrrhic dancers, relapsed into apes, who went chattering and

snapping at one another, and fighting for nuts; so that in a few moments the

masks were crumpled, the clothes torn to rags, and the ape dance, which had

been so much extolled, terminated amidst peals of laughter. Such is the history

of mock philosophers."

The above story may serve to exhibit Lucian's views,

and his love of humorous ill.u.s.tration. He indulges in many fancies, such as the

complaint of the letter S against T, which had in Attic been subst.i.tuted for

it.

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NEXT CHAPTER:

What the Louria Kingdom reaction at their mysteriously annihilated Cavalry

Squadron?