The man of
purpose does not understand, and goes on, full of contempt. He never
loses his way. He knows where he is going and what he wants. Travelling
on, he achieves great length without any breadth, and battered,
besmirched, and weary, he touches the goal at last; he grasps the
reward of his perseverance, of his virtue, of his healthy optimism: an
untruthful tombstone over a dark and soon forgotten grave.
Lingard had never hesitated in his life. Why should he? He had been
a most successful trader, and a man lucky in his fights, skilful in
navigation, undeniably first in seamanship in those seas. He knew it.
Had he not heard the voice of common consent?
The voice of the world that respected him so much; the whole world to
him--for to us the limits of the universe are strictly defined by those
we know. There is nothing for us outside the babble of praise and blame
on familiar lips, and beyond our last acquaintance there lies only
a vast chaos; a chaos of laughter and tears which concerns us not;
laughter and tears unpleasant, wicked, morbid, contemptible--because
heard imperfectly by ears rebellious to strange sounds.
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