openly, as on the banks of the Agulhas homeward bound from the East
Indies, or on the outward passage round the Horn, he struck at you
fairly his stinging blows (full in the face, too), and it was your
business not to get too much staggered. And, after all, if you
showed anything of a countenance, the good-natured barbarian would
let you fight your way past the very steps of his throne. It was
only now and then that the sword descended and a head fell; but if
you fell you were sure of impressive obsequies and of a roomy,
generous grave.

Such is the king to whom Viking chieftains bowed their heads, and
whom the modern and palatial steamship defies with impunity seven
times a week. And yet it is but defiance, not victory. The
magnificent barbarian sits enthroned in a mantle of gold-lined
clouds looking from on high on great ships gliding like mechanical
toys upon his sea and on men who, armed with fire and iron, no
longer need to watch anxiously for the slightest sign of his royal
mood. He is disregarded; but he has kept all his strength, all his
splendour, and a great part of his power. Time itself, that shakes
all the thrones, is on the side of that king. The sword in his
hand remains as sharp as ever upon both its edges; and he may well
go on playing his royal game of quoits with hurricanes, tossing
them over from the continent of republics to the continent of
kingdoms, in the assurance that both the new republics and the old
kingdoms, the heat of fire and the strength of iron, with the
untold generations of audacious men, shall crumble to dust at the
steps of his throne, and pass away, and be forgotten before his own
rule comes to an end.