Was getting on towards the fifties;—
My hair was slowly growing grizzled;
And, though my health was excellent,
Yet painfully the thought beset me:
Who knows how soon the hour may strike,
The jury-verdict be delivered
That parts the sheep and goats asunder?
What could I do? To stop the trade
With China was impossible.
A plan I hit on—opened straightway
A new trade with the self-same land.
I shipped off idols every spring,
Each autumn sent forth missionaries,
Supplying them with all they needed,
As stockings, Bibles, rum, and rice
Mr. Cotton.
Yes, at a profit?
Peer.
Why, of course.
It prospered. Dauntlessly they toiled.
For every idol that was sold
They got a coolie well baptized,
So that the effect was neutralised.
The mission-field lay never fallow,
For still the idol-propaganda
The missionaries held in check.
Mr. Cotton.
Well, but the African commodies?
Peer.
There, too, my ethics won the day.
I saw the traffic was a wrong one
For people of a certain age.
Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/168
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.