Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/168

 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

Yes, at a profit?

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.

Well, but the African commodies?

There, too, my ethics won the day. I saw the traffic was a wrong one For people of a certain age.