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[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 724.      SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1877.      PRICE 1½_d._]




THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.


For ages golf has been pre-eminently the national game of Scotland. As
its history emerges from the mists of antiquity we find football and
it linked together as representative games, in fulminations against
'unprofitabill sportis,' unduly distracting the attention of the people
from more serious affairs. But our game far exceeds this old rival
in interest; and if it were not for the popularity of curling in its
season, no rival pastime could pretend to vie with golf in Scotland.

The mode of playing golf is so well known in these days that it may
suffice to explain that it is a game played over extensive commons, or
'links' as they are termed; that the implements used are peculiarly
constructed clubs, so weighted at the crook or 'head' of the shaft, as
to give great impetus to the small hard gutta-percha ball to be driven
along the grass; and that the object of the players--either as single
antagonists or two against two--is to endeavour to vie with each other
as to who shall drive the ball towards and into a series of small
artificially made holes, in the fewest strokes. From hole to hole the
party proceeds, sometimes one winning a hole, sometimes another, and
occasionally (by evenly contested play) halving: until the whole round
of the green has been traversed; when the party who has gained the
greatest number of holes is declared the winner. The links ought to
be of considerable extent, and the holes several hundred yards apart,
so as to give opportunity for skilful driving and other niceties of
the game. To those unfortunates who have only read of the pastime,
it may appear hard to believe in the reality of the enthusiasm shewn
by its votaries; but whenever they are privileged to come under its
influence, even as spectators, they will find it is one of the most
fascinating of pursuits. How can a man describe in fitting language
the subtle spell that brings him out in all weathers and seasons, and
makes him find perfect pleasure in 'grinding round a barren stretch of
ground, impelling a gutta-percha ball before him, striving to land it
in a succession of small holes in fewer strokes than his companion and
opponent,' as the game might be described by one of that class of men
to whom the 'primrose by the river's brink a primrose is, and nothing
more.'

The fascinations of the game have enlisted in the ranks of its votaries
men of all classes, many of them famous on other fields, who have
made their reminiscences of their beloved pursuit mediums for many a
bright word-picture in prose and verse. Hitherto no attempt has been
made to gather together what has been so said and sung in praise of
the pastime; but in Mr Robert Clark's beautiful volume now before us,
entitled _Golf--a Royal and Ancient Game_, ample amends have been made
for this neglect, by one of the most enthusiastic and best golfers
of the day. Here we have presented in a gossipy way so beloved by
golfers, wealth of material, both as regards the history and literature
of the fascinating game--a labour of love in an artistic guise. What
the author is on the links, so seems he to be among his printers and
artists and binders--_facile princeps_. The volume before us, though
unfortunately too costly to be very generally available, is a marvel
of beautiful typography and tasteful binding. Our author has gone for
his information to the most various sources--old acts of the Scots
parliament, proclamations by kings, burgh records, minutes of the more
prominent golf-clubs, books and magazines; and by judicious editing of
this medley has shewn the many-sidedness of the game in a way that none
but a devotee could.

Mr Clark wastes no space on unprofitable speculations as to the origin
of golf. All that is clear in this vexed subject is that though
Scotland is the chosen home of the game, she is not its birthplace.
It is, however, of little moment whether the game came in with the
Scandinavians who settled on the east coast of Scotland, or whether
it was brought northward over the Border as a variety of the English
'bandy-ball;' or even if we have to go back to the Campus Martius, and
look for the parent of golf in the curved club and feather ball of the
Roman _Paganica_. Games of ball seem to have existed in all ages,
and it is therefore probable that golf is a development of some older
game, or perhaps a 'selection of the fittest' from several previously
existing ball-games. It is sufficient for our purpose that early in the
fifteenth century it was at least as popular with all classes as it is
to-day.

When gunpowder made archery a thing of the past, the conflict between
love of country and love of golf ceased, and the game went on
prospering under the smiles of royal favour, surviving proclamations
of various town-councils directed against sacrilegious golfers whose
sin was held to be, not so much that they played on Sunday, as on that
part of the day called 'the tyme of the sermonnes.' This matter was
set at rest by the decree of James VI. of Scotland, who in 1618 sent
from his new kingdom of England an order that after divine service
'our good people be not discouraged from any harmless recreation,'
but prohibiting 'the said recreations to any that are not present in
the church, at the service of God, before their going to the said
recreations;' or as Charles I., when subsequently ratifying this order,
puts it, 'having first done their dutie to God.'

Besides James VI.'s crowning act of founding the Royal Blackheath Club,
Mr Clark has recalled two other instances of royal connection with
the game in a charming way, as one of the illustrations in his book
is from Sir John Gilbert's picture of Charles I. receiving, during a
game on Leith Links, the intelligence of Sir Phelim O'Neill's rebellion
in Ireland in 1642; while another is a delicately drawn pen-and-ink
sketch by Mr James Drummond, R.S.A., of the house in the Canongate of
Edinburgh, which John Patersone, shoemaker, built for himself with half
the stake in that famous 'foursome'--the Duke of York (James VII.) and
Patersone against two English noblemen.

With the Stuarts went out for a time royal countenance of the game,
till William IV. became patron of the Royal and Ancient Club of St
Andrews, and presented to it for annual competition that coveted
golfing trophy, the gold medal.

But though there came kings who knew not golf, the game lost none of
its old popularity. Still, as before, pre-eminently the game of the
people, we find it associated with many a notable scene and character
in the history of Scotland. So fond of the game was the great Montrose,
that hardly had the minstrels ceased to serenade him and his day-old
bride 'Sweet Mistress Magdalene Carnegie,' when we find him hard at
work with clubs and ball. That fifty years later it continued to be
the favourite amusement of the aristocracy of the Scottish capital, we
can gather from the curious books of expenditure of Sir John Foulis of
Ravelstoun, who seems to have spent most of his leisure time 'losing
at golfe' on Musselburgh and Leith Links with Hamilton and Rothes and
others of the highest quality of the time. We read of Balmerino's
brother, Alexander Elphinston, and Captain Porteous, the victim of
the famous 'mob,' playing in 1724 'a solemn match at golf' for twenty
guineas on Leith Links, where, a few years later, might constantly be
seen Lord President Forbes of Culloden, who was such a keen golfer,
that when Leith Links were covered with snow he played on the sands;
though even he has to yield in all-absorbing devotion to the game to
Alexander M'Kellar, 'the Cock o' the Green,' immortalised in Kay's
_Portraits_, who played every day and all day long, and then practised
'putting' at the 'short holes' by candle-light.

It is almost superfluous to say that in our own day the noble and
ancient pastime is still the game of the Scots, and latterly of the
English, of all classes and in all parts of the world. One little
fact that incontestably proves the eminent respectability of the game
is that 'the minister' can be a golfer without the least fear of the
straitest-laced of presbyteries. It is said that when the canny Scot
abroad 'prospects' for a new settlement, while he naturally rivets one
eye on the main chance, with the other he reckons up the capabilities
of the ground for his favourite game; therefore it is that golf has
taken firm root and flourishes in many a distant colony. Across the
Border the game is so acclimatised that formidable rivals to our
native players are now trained on well-known English greens. That it
may go on and prosper is of course the wish of every true lover of the
invigorating pastime.

Mr Clark gives us some historical notes of the more prominent of the
many golfing clubs that now flourish in different parts of Scotland,
and extracts from their minute-books the leading events of their
career. Now and then we come across eccentricities, such as the feats
of Mr Sceales and Mr Smellie of the Edinburgh Burgess Club in driving
balls over the dome of St Giles's Cathedral, one hundred and sixty-one
feet high; or the even more wonderful achievement of another member
of this club, who drove a ball in forty-four strokes from _inside_
their golf-house on Bruntsfield Links over the hill of Arthur Seat. As
a rule, however, these clubs pursue the even tenor of their way, the
members finding their best happiness in playing the pure and simple
game.

While the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers is generally held to
be the oldest Scotch Club, so great has been the development of its
sister Club at St Andrews, and so great are the attractions of golfing
on the famous links of the venerable city, that the 'Royal and Ancient'
takes precedence over all, and is indisputably _the_ club of the
kingdom. What Newmarket is to racing, or Melton to hunting, St Andrews
is to golf. In St Andrews, it is not a mere pastime, but a business
and a passion. It is the one recreation of the inhabitants from the
Principal of the College to the youngest urchin; it has even invaded
the domain of croquet, and has taken captive the ladies, who now take
so keen an interest in the game, that on more links than those of St
Andrews their green is a charming feature of the place. In short, in
St Andrews 'no living thing that does not play golf, or talk golf, or
think golf, or at least thoroughly knock under to golf, can live.'

The chief prize of the 'Royal and Ancient'--the gold challenge
medal played for every autumn, presented in 1837 by King William
IV.--is termed the 'Blue Ribbon of Golf.' To win it is the dream
of every member of the Club. Other clubs, such as North Berwick,
Musselburgh, Montrose, Perth, Prestwick, Burgess, &c. have each its
own time-honoured challenge trophy, that of the Royal Musselburgh
being laden with more than a century of medals commemorating each
winner. That English clubs too are following fast the fashion set by
their older brethren north of the Tweed, is attested by the prizes
now competed for at Westward Ho! in Devonshire, Hoylake in Cheshire,
and at Wimbledon, &c.; though it is but fair to state that Blackheath
claims with good reason to be father of all English golf-clubs, and has
for long been celebrated for the keenness of its players and the prizes
offered for competition.

So much for the history of the game; let us now glance at its
literature. In the interesting collection of prose papers Mr Clark has
gathered from various quarters, we can study the peculiar features
of the game and the effect it has, for the time, on the tempers of
its votaries. As we have seen at St Andrews, the ardent golfer has
little time for thought or conversation unconnected with the game.
For the time being the be-all and end-all of his life lies within the
pot-hook-shaped course he has to traverse; and not a little of his
happiness or his misery for the day depends on the nature of the match
he succeeds in getting. Though the game is as a rule an exceedingly
social one, and admits of quiet chat and occasional good-natured
banter, the _true_ golfer at work is essentially a man of silence;
chattering during the crises of the game is as abhorrent to him as
conversation during whist; one thing only is as obnoxious as the human
voice to him then--that is, any movement of the human body near him.
'Stand still while I'm putting,' and 'Don't speak on the stroke,'
are two postulates he would fain enforce. This over-sensitiveness
to external influences may explain the seeming ungallantry of the
'Colonel' in H. J. M.'s amusing account of _The Golfer at Home_, which
appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_ a few years ago. After a charming
little picture of the 'Colonel' resenting, though he does not openly
object to Browne being accompanied over the course by 'his women,'
as he ungallantly terms Mrs Browne and her sister, he says to his
partner: 'The Links is not the place for women; they talk incessantly,
they never stand still, and if they do, the wind won't allow their
dresses to stand still.' However, as they settle down to their game,
the 'Colonel's' good temper returns under the healthy influence of an
invigorating 'round,' and gives H. J. M. an opportunity of pointing out
how all ill-humours of body and mind give way before the equable and
bracing exercise of a round or two of the Links of St Rule. That the
reader may see the amount of walking exercise taken in a round of St
Andrews Links, it may be interesting to note that the exact distance,
as the crow flies, is three miles eleven hundred and fifty-four
yards; so that the golfer who takes his daily three rounds walks _at
least_ eleven miles. It is no wonder, then, that in addition to its
own attractions, golf is esteemed as a capital preparation for the
moors or the stubbles, hardening as it does the muscles both of arms
and legs. What hunting does for the cavalry soldier as a training for
more important bursts in the battle-field, the like does golf for the
infantry soldier in bracing him to encounter forced marching with ease.
The Links have formed the training-ground of many a brilliant officer.

Space will not allow us to dwell on the genial gossip about St Andrews
and St Andrews players--amateur and professional--that we find in Mr
Clark's book, further than to mention three names. First, that of
the great champion of the professionals, Allan Robertson, who was
'never beaten in a match;' of the brilliant but short-lived career
of poor 'young Tom Morris,' the champion player of his day--son of a
worthy sire who still survives; of Mr Sutherland, an old gentleman
who made golf the chief business of his life, whose interest in his
fellow-men, not as men but as golfers, is well shewn in this anecdote.
His antagonist was about to strike off for the finishing hole at
St Andrews, when a boy appeared on the bridge over the burn. Old
Sutherland shouted out: 'Stop, stop! Don't play upon _him_; he's a fine
young golfer!'

It is in verse, however, that the votary of golf finds the field
congenial to his subject.

In 1842 appeared a clever collection of poems, entitled _Golfiana_, by
George Fullerton Carnegie of Pittarrow, which delighted the golfers
of that day by the humorous way in which it hit off the playing
characteristics of the men he introduced into it. He begins by throwing
down the gauntlet to those students of Scottish history who sigh over
the musty memories and deplore the decayed glories of the city of their
patron saint:

    St Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone,
    That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'er-thrown:
    If thy glories _be_ gone, they are only, methinks,
    As it were by enchantment transferred to thy Links.
    Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates,
    Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots,
    Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers,
    When we say that instead there are Links full of golfers,
    With more of good heart and good feeling among them
    Than the abbots, the monks, and the zealots who sung them!

We have many capital songs in honour of the game; amongst others a
parody of Lord Houghton's well-known song, _Strangers yet_, from which
it will be seen that something more is necessary to make a good golfer
than a set of clubs and an anxious 'cady' to carry them:


DUFFERS YET.--BY TWO 'LONG SPOONS.'

    After years of play together,
    After fair and stormy weather,
    After rounds of every green
    From Westward Ho! to Aberdeen;
    Why did e'er we buy a set
    If we must be duffers yet!
                Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

    After singles, foursomes--all,
    Fractured club and cloven ball;
    After grief in sand and whin,
    Foozled drives and 'putts' not in--
    Ev'n our cadies scarce regret
    When we part as duffers yet,
                Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

    After days of frugal fare,
    Still we spend our force in air;
    After nips to give us nerve,
    Not the less our drivers swerve;
    Friends may back and foes may bet,
    And ourselves be duffers yet,
                Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

    Must it ever then be thus?
    Failure most mysterious!
    Shall we never fairly stand
    Eye on ball as club in hand?
    Are the bounds eternal set
    To retain us duffers yet?
                Duffers yet! Duffers yet!

In conclusion, we may remark that though golf, to the uninitiated, may
appear to be a game requiring considerable strength of muscle for its
achievement, it is not so; for the easier it is played, the better are
the results. To apply much force to the stroke is to imperil the chance
of driving a far ball; whereas by a moderate swing of the club, the
ball is not only driven far and sure, but goes from no effort apparent
to the striker.

A notion also prevails that golf is a game suited for young and
middle-aged folks only. This is a delusion, for no outdoor pastime is
more fitted for elderly people. To attain _great_ excellence in the
game, the player must commence early in life; but to become enamoured
of its joys requires but a beginning, and that beginning may be made
by men who have long passed the meridian of life. We could point
to many elderly gentlemen whose lives are being lengthened by the
vigour-inspiring game, and who, when their daily round or rounds are
finished, can fight their battles o'er again in the cheery club-house,
with all the zest of youth. When games such as cricket have been found
too much, or perhaps the exertion of tramping the moors too severe,
the sexagenarian may safely take to the easy but invigorating pursuit
of golf, and 'bless the chiel who invented it.' If he misgives his
ability to cope with the exertion, or fancied exertion, of pacing a few
miles of green turf and wielding a club, our advice to him is to place
himself in the hands of a professional golf-player--plenty of whom are
to be found wherever there are links--and try; and in a wonderfully
short time our veteran may find himself interested, perhaps absorbed,
in a game the delights of which he has lived all these years without
having been able till now to realise!




FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.


PART III.


CHAPTER THE SECOND.

Deborah waited and watched--a gloom unutterable weighed on her
spirits--and no Mistress Fleming came. At last old Jordan Dinnage
arrived at the castle alone, looking scared and sorrow-stricken.

'The master is very ill,' said Mistress Marjory, as she waited on
Jordan. 'These be bad days, Master Dinnage. I doubt if he lives till
morning. Doctor says he won't; but doctors know naught. In general, if
doctors say "He'll be dead by mornin'," it means he'll live to a good
old age; I've seed it often. But mark my words, Jordan Dinnage: there's
not much life in our dear Master; _he's goin'_. This comes o' leavin'
Enderby. I felt it; I knew'd 'twould be so. _This comes o' Master
Sinclair's leavin's._ O Jordan Dinnage, it's wrong, it's grievous
wrong, this leavin' Enderby, for this grand blowed-out old place, an'
these flaunting livery-men an' maids. Master Sinclair's curse is on us!'

'Nay, nay, Mistress Marjory; these be women's superstitions. Mistress
Deborah did rightly. A goose she would ha' been to fling all this
grandery and gold guineas in the ditch, for fear o' bad luck, 'sooth!
It's no more that, than thou'rt a wise woman! The Master'll pull
through; an' if he don't, better die a prince than a beggar.'

Marjory shook her head. 'Give me honest beggary. An' where's Mistress
Dinnage? Be sure Lady Deb 'ud be glad o' her company now. Why didst not
bring her along, Jordan? It speaks not much for her love.'

Jordan reddened. 'Not a word agen Meg, Mistress Marjory! She'll be
comin' soon. I must see Mistress Deborah.'

'Well, come now. An' heaven send Master Kingston soon.'

Deborah met the dear old man with outstretched hands. 'Jordan, I am so
glad to see ye! Where is Margaret?'

Jordan shuffled from one foot to the other, and twisted his hat round
in his hands. 'Well, Lady Deb--Mistress Deborah--I've not brought Meg
along.'

'I see ye have not!' cried Deborah impetuously. 'But where is she?'

The old gray eyes, growing dim with age, looked straight and honestly
on their young Mistress, yet humbly too, as he answered in a low voice:
'Where she ought to be, Mistress Deborah--off to her young husband,
Master Charlie Fleming.'

'Jordan, Jordan! Is this true? Her husband? Ye bewilder me. Are they
wedded then? Is she gone to Ireland?'

'Sure enow! O Mistress Deborah, I come to ask forgiveness! It isn't
for the like o' Jordan Dinnage to have his daughter Mistress Fleming;
but dear heaven knows I know'd naught, an' never sought it out, nor
had high notions. Mistress Deborah, I ask forgiveness, an' I hope the
master'll forgive me.'

Deborah took the old trembling hand. 'The master is in no state to
blame or to forgive. But, Jordan, thou may'st give me joy o' this. It
gladdens mine heart in my sore troubles like a sunbeam on a dark, dark
cloud. Forgive thee? Ay, I am proud to be Margaret Fleming's sister;
an' well believe my father would bid her welcome too--faithful honest
Jordan. Now come, Jordan, come, and see how he lies. He knows me not,
and he calls ever upon Charlie. Hast sent my letter to Ireland? Hast
the address?'

'Ay, ay; it's gone.'

'Then I will write again to-night. Heaven send he may come in time.
Sometimes, Jordan, he lieth in a stupor; again he calls for Charlie or
for me.'

Reverently pulling his white forelock, with his old habit of respect,
to his fiery but beloved master, Jordan stood at the foot of the bed,
and saw the shadow of death on the face of Vincent Fleming.

'My boy,' murmured the dying man, with his eyes upon Jordan--'my boy
Charlie!'

Old Jordan gazed helplessly and sorrowfully from him to the doctor who
stood by, and Marjory, who entered. 'What's to be done?' he muttered.
'It kills him!'

'Patience, patience!' whispered the solemn doctor; 'he may see his son
yet. There is great hope for him, Mistress Fleming; keep good heart.'

'Not hope of his recovery, Master Allan,' said Deborah, with stern and
still despair. 'I know death when I see it. You have held out hope
before; yet make him live till my brother comes. Ye hear me, Master
Allan?'

'Ay, Mistress Fleming; I will use my poor skill to the utmost. Bear up.
I will return to-night, Mistress Fleming;' and with a courtly bow, he
left her.

But for Deborah, she kneeled beside her father, and with old days and
old memories her heart was like to break. Jordan was weeping bitterly;
she heard the old man's sobs; but on her own heart a still Hand was
laid, enforcing strength and calmness. For two things she prayed: that
Charlie might come in time; and that her father might be himself before
he died, to hear that Charlie had ever been true to him. And so through
the long night she watched; and old Marjory oft slept and nodded, as
age and dulled senses will; and though Sir Vincent at times called
plaintively for his Deb, his 'Rose of Enderby,' his more frequent
plaint was for his boy.


CHAPTER THE THIRD.

In those days there were wild doings in Ireland. 'Liberty and Reform'
were the watch-words which did then, and ever will, electrify the
fiery, rebellious, ardent spirits that flocked under one banner to
struggle and to die. Irish and French met and fought together against
the iron hand of England; thousands perished; the fated isle ran blood.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the eve of a battle. Gray dawn is slowly breaking over forest
and mountain, where strange and wonderful echoes are wont to be heard
amongst the rocks and caves; but in the gray of this dread dawn, on
the eve of battle and blood, all seems silent as the grave, saving the
thunderous roar of the waterfall in its descent into the lake, that
seems to make the silence the more intense.

But hark! through the mist of morning a bugle suddenly sounds loud and
clear; and when it ceases--far away, a spirit-bugle answers. A soldier,
driven to frenzy, they say, by an insulting taunt from a superior
officer, had struck him down in the heat of the instant. Short shrift
in those days; the man has been tried, condemned, and is about to be
led out to execution. So, loud and clear the bugle calls: 'Come forth
to thy death,' as plain as a human voice could speak; and he whom
it summons cannot mistake that voice, and comes forth guarded, but
with steady step, and head erect and soldierly; while in front of him
bristles a long line of musketry, and behind yawns an open grave. The
condemned soldier is Charles Fleming. Have his ungovernable passions
and his strong uncurbed will brought him to this? Ay; and the stubborn
pride which has ever been his bane, leads him now to die without that
word of extenuation or appeal which even yet might save him.

Yet who may tell how that proud heart swells well-nigh to breaking
beneath the broad breast, as he thinks on the old white-haired father
and his son's death of shame! He sees too the shadows on the woods
of Enderby. He hears the voice of a little sister, calling 'Charlie,
Charlie!' at play. And the trees are waving their long arms round
the old, old home; and his little playmate Margaret--his _young wife
Margaret_--stands beneath and smiles. And then his bold eyes ask for
death, merciful death, which shall put him out of his anguish. Yet
hold! Even as the muskets are raised, but ere the triggers are pressed,
there is a wild shriek of 'Rescue! rescue! Pardon! pardon for Charles
Fleming!'

And there, headlong down the way--while all reel back before
him--rides one spurring for life or death, his horse in a lather of
foam, his head bare, and his long hair flying in the wind. In one hand
he clenches a packet, and waves it above his head--the Royal pardon! He
reaches them; he stays the deadly fire with his wild outstretched arms
raised to heaven, with white face and blazing eyes, and lips which fail
to speak. But _one_ could have undertaken and accomplished that famous
ride; but _one_ could have saved him in this strait. In male disguise,
that _one_ proves to be Margaret Dinning! ''Tis my wife!' cried Charles
Fleming in piercing accents; ''tis my wife Margaret!' And with that,
the king's messenger sways in the saddle, and is supported to the
ground by the commanding officer....

       *       *       *       *       *

And thus it came to pass that Deborah, watching at her father's
bedside, heard rumours of that battle by which the name of Charles
Fleming became famous. It was early morning. The great wild clouds of
dawn were parted, and rolled asunder. The glorious sun rose on the
watcher's weary eyes, and steeped the land in splendour. Deborah threw
up the windows wide, and returned to the dying man. O heaven, tender
mercy, cannot the light of summer sunrise rob that dear face of aught
of its wintry wanness?

'Father, sweet father!' she said in thrilling tones of grief, 'art thou
not better? See the glorious sun, father!'

'Nay, Deb,' he answered plaintively; 'I see no sun; mine eyes are dark.
How little thou dost look to me! Thou'rt grown so small! My child, my
darling, I am very ill.'

Then Deborah raised his head upon her shoulder; she knew that he was
himself again, himself but to die; her brave heart sank, yet she
answered calmly: 'Yes, thou hast been very ill. Dost thou remember all
that happed?'

'Ay, ay. My boy, my boy!' And he sobbed.

'Hush, father; that was wrong; that was false! That was a wicked
forgery. Charlie never wronged thee by thought or deed. Charlie hath
ever been loyal to thee and thine. Art thou content now, dear?'

A brilliant smile stole over the fading face of Vincent Fleming. 'Ay,'
said he, 'content to _die_!' He lay musing, his eyes closed. 'Deb,'
said he at last, 'whisper me. My boy is true to me--is't not so?'

'Yes, father; true as steel: he loves thee dearly. And for _thee_,' she
went on, with heaving breast, 'he hath done brave things! Charlie is a
soldier, and men are all saying he hath won great honour and renown.'

'Ah, Deb; thank God, thank God for this! And thou, Deb, sweet Deb, how
is't with thee?'

'I am rich, dear. I am betrothed to King Fleming, whom I love most
dearly; and I have wealth enough for all. It is well with thy two
children, thou seest.'

And ere the night fell, two messengers came gently to his side. One,
radiant with 'white raiment' and drooped wings; the other, footsore,
travel-stained, and war-worn. And one was the Angel of Death, who stood
and looked upon them pitifully; the other was his prodigal son, who
kneeled and folded his arms around his father, and bowed his head and
wept.

'Now,' said Sir Vincent, 'I die in peace. How have I yearned for thee!
God bless thee! I bless thee, my boy! Deb, this is death!'

And so, raised in Charlie's strong arms and with his hands in
Deborah's, without a struggle, the spirit passed away.


CHAPTER THE LAST.

Two figures stand together in one of the deep oriel windows of the
old hall at Enderby. The blood-red splendour of a setting sun fills
the marsh, the low land, and the hanging woods; and streaming like a
beacon in at the windows, floods those two with radiant light. They are
Charles Fleming and his bride. The storms have swept by, and left her
thrice his own, with the old walls and the sacred hearth of Enderby.
Thus may God send on us the lightning of His chastisement, and yet
guide and guard us through all--through the morning of wild and sunny
childhood; through the noon of gay and love-bright youth, environed as
it is by perils; through the sudden-falling night of dread, despair,
and death. He does not leave us 'comfortless.' As for Deborah Fleming,
passionately as she loved the beauteous world, she never again lost
sight of the valley up which had passed the souls of those she loved,
and the golden gates across the shining flood. And in later days, when
children's children clustered eagerly round the stately old Lady of
Lincoln, she, with the faithfulness of old age, would return lovingly,
lingeringly to the days of her youth, when 'Charlie and she were young.'

O happy time--blessed childhood--how can I end better than with thee?
Over the shadows of evening rises the day-star of childhood's memories.

    It knows no night--
    There is _no_ night in a glad and green old age.

THE END.




CHARLES DICKENS' MANUSCRIPTS.


A glimpse of the manuscripts of the late Charles Dickens, which now
form part of the 'Forster Collection' in the South Kensington Museum,
conjures up a vision of numerous characters in his popular novels. On
looking attentively at the manuscripts, we are at once struck by the
number of alterations and interlineations with which the pages abound;
and our first sentiment is one of surprise that the books which appear
so wonderfully natural and fluent when we read them, should evidently
have been the result of much anxious thought, care, and elaboration.

The collection comprises the original manuscripts of the following
works: _Oliver Twist_, published in 1838-39; _Master Humphrey's Clock_,
comprising the _Old Curiosity Shop_ and _Barnaby Rudge_, published
in 1840-41; _Barnaby Rudge_, a separate volume, 1840-41; _American
Notes_, 1842; _Martin Chuzzlewit_, 1843-44; _The Chimes_, Christmas
1844; _Dombey and Son_, 1846-48; _David Copperfield_, 1849-50; _Bleak
House_, which has in the original manuscript a secondary title, _The
East Wind_, 1852-53; _Hard Times_, 1854; _Little Dorrit_, 1855-57; _A
Tale of Two Cities_, 1859; and _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ (his last
but unfinished work), 1870. There are also proof volumes from the
printers, consisting of _Dombey and Son_, _David Copperfield_, _Bleak
House_, and _Little Dorrit_, the pages of which bear marginal and other
corrections and alterations, in ink, by the author.

Of course, as the collection is placed under a glass case, the public
can only see one or two pages of each work; but even with this meagre
guide, the acute observer is able in some degree to trace the working
of the writer's mind, and to follow to some extent the development of
his ideas. As we have already remarked, the first thing which strikes
us is the comparatively large number of alterations and interlineations
which occur in the manuscript. It is evident that Charles Dickens wrote
with the greatest care, and scrupulously revised his writing, in order
to render each sentence as perfect as might be. Taking the works in
their chronological order, we may notice that in _Oliver Twist_, which
is open at 'Chapter the Twelfth'--'In which Oliver is taken better
care of than he ever was before, with some particulars concerning a
certain picture'--there are few alterations in the manuscript; the
writing also being larger and firmer than in the majority of the later
works. Charles Dickens made his alterations so carefully that it is
difficult to trace the words which he had originally written; but the
one or two which occur on this page give us some little insight into
the careful manner in which the author worked up his sentences into a
well-rounded and euphonious form. The passage at which this manuscript
is opened runs as follows: 'The coach rattled away down Mount Pleasant
and up Exmouth Street--over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver
had traversed when he first entered London in;' and here occurs the
first alteration, 'the D----' is erased, and 'company with the Dodger'
is written in its place; the author evidently considering the latter
a more euphonious form of expression than 'in the Dodger's company,'
as it was doubtless his original intention to make the passage. The
alteration to which we have referred may appear, as indeed it is, of
exceedingly small significance; but we have mentioned it simply as an
instance of the extremely careful way in which Dickens studied the
details and minutiæ of composition.

The next manuscript in point of date is _Master Humphrey's Clock_,
which is open at 'No. IV.,' headed 'Master Humphrey from his clock-side
in the chimney corner,' and commences as follows: 'Night is generally
my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home early in the
morning and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for
days or weeks together, but, saving in the country' [this originally
stood 'but, at other seasons of the year;' but Dickens doubtless saw
that the expression as it now stands would be more consistent with the
context], 'I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked,
I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth
as much as any creature living.' This page of manuscript has only a
moderate share of alterations.

Then we come to the volume of _Barnaby Rudge_, which is opened at
'Chapter One,' and also contains only a moderate number of alterations,
one being in the height of the _Maypole_ sign, and another in the
distance of Epping Forest from Cornhill; both of which are noticeable
as further illustrations of the conscientious love of accuracy which
characterised the author's mind. Next in order follows the _American
Notes_, which has very few corrections, and is opened at the page
headed 'Chapter the First. Introductory and necessary to be read;' in
which the author challenges the right of any person 'to pass judgment
on this book or to arrive at any reasonable conclusion in reference to
it without first being at the trouble of becoming acquainted with its
design and purpose.' Surely a caution fair and reasonable enough on the
part of the writer of a book which he could not but feel would probably
give offence, where such an end was farthest from his wish.

_The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit_ comes next, open at
'Chapter I. Introductory. Concerning the Pedigree of the Chuzzlewit
Family;' and giving us a brief but telling satire on the pride of birth
by assuring us that this family 'undoubtedly descended in a direct
line from Adam and Eve, and was in the very earliest times closely
connected with the agricultural interest.' This page is notably full
of alterations, and seems a fair indication that with Charles Dickens,
as with many others, the first step was the most difficult of all.
The caligraphy in this as in all the other manuscripts is legible but
rather small, the letters being distinctly formed, and the use of
abbreviations studiously avoided.

We next turn to _The Chimes_, one of those delightful stories with
which Dickens introduced to us those Christmas annuals, which now form
so important a section of our periodical literature. This again is
open at the commencement, where the author lays down the dogma that
there are not many people who would care to sleep in a church: 'I
don't mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually
been done once or twice), but in the night, and alone.' This sentence
originally finished with 'in the night;' but we can readily imagine the
development of the idea in the brain of the writer; and the words 'and
alone' suggesting themselves as lending an additional ground of fear
for the situation. The manuscript of this page bears a moderate number
of alterations.

In _Dombey and Son_ we find a large number of alterations on the first
page, the very title itself having been altered more than once. The
sketch of the newly-born Paul, who was placed in front of the fire,
'as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it
was essential to toast him brown while he was very new,' is very good
indeed; but it is evident that the passage was rather the result of
careful elaboration than of spontaneous humour. And the same remark
will apply to the opening chapter of _David Copperfield_, in which,
although the passage descriptive of the birth of the hero is very neat
and natural as it now stands, the same careful revision and alteration
are again apparent.

_Bleak House_ too is notably full of alterations on the first page,
especially in the passage which tells us that in the muddy condition of
the London streets 'it would not be wonderful to meet a Mesalosaurus
forty feet long or so waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn
Hill.'

In _Hard Times_, where we are introduced to the gentleman who wants
nothing but 'Facts,' and in the opening chapter of _Little Dorrit_,
in which we have a description of Marseilles as it 'lay broiling
in the sun one day,' we find a large number of alterations; but in
these, as in most of the other instances, the primary words have been
erased so carefully, that it is next to impossible to form an idea
of how the passages originally stood. The _Tale of Two Cities_, on
the contrary, contains remarkably few corrections; and the opening
passage descriptive of 'The Period' is telling, and apparently written
spontaneously. _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ has been opened with good
judgment at the last page. The manuscript is very small, but fairly
legible, and having but a moderate number of alterations. In a literary
sense, it is not perhaps so interesting as some of the others; but it
possesses a sad and melancholy claim upon our attention and sympathy,
inasmuch as it is the last page of manuscript ever written by this
gifted hand.

In the proof volumes with corrections in the handwriting of the author
there is nothing which calls for especial note save an unimportant
deletion in _Bleak House_, and a more interesting alteration in _David
Copperfield_. In the former there is a passage marked 'out,' in which
Sir Leicester Dedlock speaks to Mrs Rouncewell of her grandson in the
following passage: 'If (he said) the boy could not settle down at
Chesney Wold, in itself the most astonishing circumstance in the world,
could he not serve his country in the ranks of her defenders, as his
brother had done? Must he rush to her destruction at his early age and
with his parricidal hand strike at her?'

In _David Copperfield_ we find by a passage in which Mr Dick is
referring to his Memorial that his original hallucination took the form
of a 'bull in a china shop;' a rather trite idea, and it was not until
after the proof had actually been submitted to him by the printers that
Charles Dickens introduced the whimsical and happier notion of 'King
Charles's Head.'

Before bringing our brief paper to a conclusion, we would venture
to suggest to the gentleman or gentlemen to whom is intrusted the
arrangement of these manuscripts, that the present positions of the
manuscripts and printed volumes should be transposed, so that the
manuscripts should occupy the lower half of the case, as in their
present position it is rather difficult to decipher the caligraphy;
and to any one below the ordinary height it must involve an amount
of physical contortion as uncomfortable as it is inelegant. The
manuscripts being of course of greater interest than the printed
proofs, should certainly occupy the more prominent space, especially as
the latter could be read without any difficulty if placed in the rear
rank.

We have no doubt that many of those who read this short article will
have seen the Dickens manuscripts for themselves; many more doubtless
will see them; but there will still be a large number who will not
have the opportunity; and while we think that our remarks will be
endorsed by the first and second classes, we hope that they will prove
interesting to the third less fortunate class, and will enable them
to enjoy, at least in imagination, a somewhat closer intimacy than
they have known before with that great and gifted man, whose books
have effected so many beneficial changes both in society at large and
in many an individual heart and life, uprooting and casting to the
winds much that was base, worthless, and contemptible, and implanting
in their stead the seeds of those gentler sympathies and nobler
aspirations which find their fruition in a well-spent life.




THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.


CHAPTER XII.--OTHER EVENTS OF THAT EVENING.

Lady Dillworth's reverie is doomed to be a short one. She feels a soft
caressing touch on her arm, and looks up to see Miss Delmere close by
her chair. Her long light hair is streaming over her shoulders, and an
embroidered Indian dressing-gown covers her antique dress.

'Liddy, you quite frightened me! Why do you come creeping in like a
mouse? You ought to be in bed.'

'I have something to tell you, Katie; something you will be _so_ glad
to hear, and something that makes me _so_ happy. I cannot sleep till I
tell you all about it.'

Miss Delmere flings herself on a low stool at Katie's feet, and looks
up through her mass of sunny hair with flushed cheeks, glowing eyes,
and lips that _will_ form themselves into smiles. She cannot hide her
joy.

'Walter Reeves has asked me to be his wife. Are you surprised, Katie?'

'Not exactly; I thought there must be some outcome from all that
flirting. Do you know, Liddy, if he had not made you an offer, and if
you had not accepted him, I should have been very angry, and should
have given you a lecture.'

Liddy looks up at her friend with surprise, the words are so cold, the
tone of voice so hard and unsympathising.

'Are you not glad about it, Katie?'

'Of course I am; and I hope you will both be happy.'

'I owe it all to _you_, darling Katie! Had it not been for this dear
delightful charade party, I should never have found out that Walter
really cared for me. How sudden it has all been! And what good news
I shall have to carry home to-morrow! Little did I think when I
came to stay with you, that my wedding was so near!' The words came
out in joyous gasps between hugs and kisses, for Miss Delmere is
demonstrative, and shews it.

Then Liddy flits away, radiant in her delight, never dreaming of the
anguish in Katie's heart that constrains her again to bury her face in
her hands, and utter short, eager, impassioned prayers for the poor
sailors whom she believes are at that very hour in dire and mortal
conflict with the winds and waves.

But we must take a glimpse at Sir Herbert's proceedings. He never
even glances at the order after his wife's fingers have altered it
to her will; he merely folds it up, puts it in the envelope, and
despatches it to its destination. Though he decides the _Leo_ shall
proceed on the dangerous enterprise, no thought of malice towards
Captain Reeves actuates him. It never enters his thought that it is
a good way of getting rid of him for a while, and thus stopping the
constant visits to Government House. The idea is altogether too paltry
and despicable--it is beneath a man of Sir Herbert's tone of mind. He
fixes on that particular ship simply because she is best fitted for
the duty. Weighing anchor in such a storm near the Short Reefs on an
iron-bound coast, and rendering assistance to a vessel in danger, is
an undertaking that requires a good ship, a steady crew, and an able
captain.

All these qualifications the _Leo_ possesses to perfection. She
is a well-built handsome craft; her hardy tars are smart and well
disciplined; and there is no braver officer in the British navy
than Walter Reeves. True, when on shore he seems rather too fond of
amusement, and has been called 'conceited,' 'trifling,' 'frivolous,'
'dandified,' and what not, by men who are jealous of him; but let his
foot once touch the quarter-deck, and even his enemies can never charge
him with these questionable qualities. There all his frippery and
nonsense vanish away like dew in the sunshine; and he becomes the true
sailor, with courage to plan and carry out deeds of daring; he becomes
the gallant officer fired with vigour and ambition. Never would he
shirk a duty or hesitate to undertake any lawful enterprise even though
it led to danger or death. Sir Herbert knows all this, and therefore he
is right in selecting the _Leo_.

Hardly has he sent away the order when he is called off to Hillview;
and when his duties there are over, he determines to pay a farewell
visit to Lady Ribson. He thinks of Katie all the way he is going to
Belton Park. But when is he _not_ thinking of her? His love has not
lessened, though he has begun to see her faults. He is sorry she is
not with him, and that she has never paid the needful respect to
his god-mother. He has often and often urged her to call, but his
persuasions have failed. Whenever he has made the suggestion, Katie has
been so overwhelmed with engagements that she has hardly given him a
hearing, and of late he has dropped the subject. He goes towards Belton
Park in rather a gloomy mood after all. Lady Ribson quite expects Katie
on this last evening, and while she welcomes the Admiral, she looks
over his shoulder inquiringly.

'Ah! I knew you would come to say "good-bye," Herbert. But where is the
"gudewife," the bonnie Katie?'

'Miss Delmere is staying with her, and she has many engagements;
besides, you could hardly expect her out in this storm.'

'Ah no, certainly not. There are many reasons for Lady Dillworth's
staying at home, and but few inducements for her to come out to see an
old woman like me.'

'Katie has often said how anxious she is to know you.'

'True, true, Herbert; so you must bring her to Scotland with you in
the bright summer-time--that is, if I'm spared to see it; but life is
uncertain, my friend, life is uncertain.'

Lady Ribson, who is the brightest, kindest, dearest old woman in the
world, smiles on her god-son, and does not let him see how much she
is hurt by Katie's neglect of her; but in her heart she is sorry for
him, more sorry than she would like him to know. Bessie his first wife
was in her opinion perfection; and Katie she suspects is very much the
reverse.

To her old eyes, the Admiral is still young, and she thinks there is
hardly a woman in the world good enough to mate with him. 'I can see
Herbert is not happy; and Laura Best was right when she foretold the
risk her father ran in marrying a mere frivolous girl,' she decides
in her own mind; but none of her suspicions float to the surface, so
gay, so kindly, so warm is her manner. The Admiral sets out early on
his homeward journey; his thoughts still turn to Katie, but they have
grown softer, more tender. The gloom has passed from his spirit; the
interview with Lady Ribson has calmed his ruffled thoughts; his reserve
and pride have altogether melted down, and he longs to press his
darling wife to his heart and forgive all her follies. He feels, even
with all her failings, he loves her more completely, more passionately
than he has ever loved the dead Bessie.

When he reaches Government House, it is brilliantly lighted up. The
guests are assembled, and fragments of song and melody are floating
out on the rough night-wind. Sir Herbert makes his way at once to
the scene of festivity, and pauses at the door, astonished at the
unwonted appearance of the rooms. As he has not been initiated into
the arrangements, nor witnessed the preparations, the merest stranger
present is not more ignorant than he is of all that has been going
on. So he looks on the scene with curiosity. The music-room has been
turned into a raised stage, with painted wings and festoons of scarlet
curtains. A crescent-shaped row of gas jets serves as foot-lights, and
throws a soft clear brilliance on the performers. Wreaths of flowers,
clusters of trailing evergreens, pots of rich exotics, groups of
banners, add to the display. Nothing that taste, art, fancy, or money
can accomplish is wanting. The Admiral looks at all this; then at the
rows of spectators; then at his wife, who comes forward on the stage
at that moment leaning on Liddy's arm. Presently their voices ring out
through the rooms; then a solo falls to Katie's share, and her husband
listens spell-bound to her singing. Her voice is tuned to the deepest
pathos, and her face is sad as her song.

Never has he seen Katie look like that before. The curiously cut
costume suits her wonderfully well; the dress of azure silk falls in
rich bright folds; her bodice glitters with gold and gems; and her hair
turned back in its own luxuriant wealth of tresses, has no ornament
but a diamond cluster. The mellowed rays from gas jets, hidden by
the curtains, fall full on her head, and she shines out as though
surrounded by a strange unearthly glory.

She seems altered, spiritualised, refined, incorporealised in her
marvellously weird-like beauty, and her husband cannot remove his rapt
gaze from her. But presently a single turn of his head changes his
glance of admiration into one of surprise and anger. In the shade of a
gigantic azalea he spies Captain Walter Reeves, standing in an attitude
of calm listening enjoyment. Instantly the Admiral's eye flashes
with indignation. How dares Walter Reeves to be here, in his wife's
drawing-room, when he ought to be miles away out on the stormy seas?

In an instant the offender is called out of the room, and Sir Herbert
demands to know why he has disobeyed orders by staying on shore.

'I have had no orders to weigh anchor, Sir Herbert.'

'Perhaps the order is still lying on your cabin table; it was issued at
ten o'clock this morning.'

'No despatch has reached the _Leo_, for I've been on board all day, Sir
Herbert, and came direct to Government House.'

'Very strange, very! There must be some terrible mistake in the matter.
Is Mr Grey here to-night?'

'No, Sir Herbert.'

'I must see him at once. The subject admits of no delay.'

'Shall _I_ go to North Street, and fetch him here?'

The Admiral pauses for a moment, and takes a survey of Walter from
head to foot. He notes the velvet suit, the delicate lace ruffles,
the Montero cap, the large plume of feathers, the dark cloak set
so jauntily on his shoulder, the thin shining shoes, and the huge
glittering buckles; and a _soupçon_ of contempt glances from his eyes,
a slight sneer trembles on his lip. 'I think I am more fitted to brave
the storm than you are to-night, so I'll go to Mr Grey myself.' Then
without another word, he walks down the stairs, and passes out into the
wind and rain. The house in North Street is closed for the night, and
Mrs Grey and Helen are sleeping the sleep of the quiet-minded. Only the
master of the house is still up, and he is finishing a cigar in his
library. He starts up in alarm when he hears the authoritative knock
at the door, and visions of fire and thieves start up before him. His
alarm is in no whit lessened when he sees his august son-in-law on the
steps.

'Sir Herbert! Who would have thought of seeing you so late! Is anything
wrong? Is Katie ill?'

'No; your daughter is quite well. I left her just now dressed up like
some medieval heroine, and lamenting her woes in song.'

'True; I recollect this is the night of Katie's charade party.'

They have both gone into the library now; Mr Grey has flung the stump
of his cigar aside, and the Admiral speedily explains the cause of his
late visit.

'I acted as your note directed, Sir Herbert, and at once sent off the
_Leoni_ to assist the _Daring_.'

'The _Leoni_! Were you mad, Grey?'

'I confess your order amazed me. I did all I could to consult with you
about it, but you were gone to Hillview. Here is the order; you will
see the _Leoni's_ name written plainly.'

The Admiral takes the paper in his hand, holds it near his gaze,
scrutinises it afar off, glances at it through his eye-glass; but the
fact is indisputable--there is the word _Leoni_, apparently in his own
writing.

'This is a vile forgery, Grey! I never wrote that, never dreamt
of giving such a mad order. Heaven alone knows what results, what
complications may arise from it! I shudder to think of the _Daring_
still aground on the Short Reefs, or perhaps altogether broken up long
ere this.'

'The _Leoni_ couldn't help her much, I fear.'

'Help her! She'll never reach her. I should not be surprised if she
were a wreck herself by this time; a hideous, top-heavy, unmanageable
craft like that couldn't take care even of herself in such a storm.'

'What had better be done now, Sir Herbert?'

'Despatch the _Leo_ at once; though I fear her services will come too
late.'

Practical discussions follow, that keep the Admiral and his secretary
employed for some time longer. When Sir Herbert returns home, it is
no vain excuse that makes him retire to his room in very weariness of
spirit, very fatigue of body. He finds Walter Reeves is already gone
away; but some of the guests are still lingering in the rooms, trying
to prolong their amusements to the last minute.


CHAPTER XIII.--CONFESSION.

The storm has spent itself before the next morning. Katie can see that,
as she listlessly looks out of the bay-window of the breakfast-room.
One would hardly suppose the treacherous gale had been holding such
wild revels the night before. The tossing waves that had leaped with
frothy crests over the serrated rocks of the Short Reefs, are placid
enough now--dancing perhaps over those who went down a few hours
before into the cruel depths. Lady Dillworth has a headache; she
listens calmly to Liddy, who blushing and blooming, pours forth her
rose-coloured confidences, and swallows her coffee between whiles.
Hunter is helping the groom to carry her boxes down-stairs; and Miss
Delmere, with only a few minutes to spare, is selfish in the exuberance
of her joy, and cannot see the dark circles round Katie's sleepless
eyes nor note the deep sadness of her looks. At length she goes away,
and the Admiral enters the room.

'You are just in time, Herbert; Hunter has brought up some fresh
coffee.'

'None for me, thank you. I knew you would be engaged with Miss Delmere;
and as I had papers to examine, I had my breakfast brought to the
library.'

'Liddy is gone away now.'

'Yes; I met her in the hall, and saw her into the carriage. I've
brought you the newspaper, Katie; you will see the wreck of the
unfortunate ship I told you of yesterday.'

'The _Daring_! Is she wrecked?' Katie takes the paper into her
trembling hands, but cannot read a word for the throbbing of her brows
and the dizziness of her eyes.

Her husband goes on: 'Yes; she went to pieces in the gale, and every
soul on board would have gone down with her had not a merchant-ship
passed by the merest chance. Twenty-three men are lost. At least they
went away in the _Daring's_ large cutter; but no boat could have lived
out the storm.'

'How dreadful!' Katie starts at the sound of her own voice, it is so
deep and hoarse.

'Dreadful indeed! What makes the matter worse is, that in all human
probability every man might have been saved and the ship also, had not
an atrociously wrong act been perpetrated.'

Katie hears a rustle of paper; she knows by instinct what is coming,
but she dares not lift her head.

The Admiral goes on in an agitated tone: 'Some one has tampered with my
papers, has even dared to meddle with my orders. I directed the _Leo_
to be sent out at once to the scene of the wreck; but from malignity or
some other motive, the name _Leoni_ was substituted.'

'Wouldn't that ship do as well, Herbert?'

'Certainly not. She would never reach the Short Reefs in such a gale.
I fully suspect she's foundered at sea or gone on the rocks herself.
I'll find out who did it! If I thought Reeves, or any one else at his
instigation, had been guilty, I'd, I'd'----

There is no saying how the sentence might have ended. Katie has risen
from her seat, and stands before her husband trembling.

'I did it, Herbert! _I_ altered your order!'

'You, Katie!--you, my wife!'

'Yes; but I never thought my silly act would lead to such misfortune.'

'What was your motive, Kate? Surely you could not have wished to injure
_me_? To set me up as a mark of inefficiency and ridicule?'

'O no; a thousand times _no_. But Captain Reeves was helping me to get
up our charade, and I altered the ship's name that he might not have
to go away.' Here Lady Dillworth's voice fails her. She cannot utter
another word, so choked and gasping is her breath; the bare blank
sentence remains as it was: 'I altered the ship's name that he might
not have to go away.'

The Admiral does not reply. There is a stillness in the room as though
some one had died there. A burst of passion, an angry storm of words
would be a relief; and Katie glances up in alarm to see her husband
looking down sadly at her. He is pale as death; his lips are set and
firm; a dim haze has clouded his eyes, as though unshed tears are
springing there; but there is no sign of resentment in his face--only
pity, a tender, touching, tremulous pity, an infinite yearning for
something gone, a regret, sorrowful and deep! Yet all so mixed with
intense love, that Katie knows for the first time in her life what
passionate boundless strength there is in his affection for her. A
sudden understanding of how dear she is to him dawns upon her; she
feels he would give his very life for her.

Katie would have flown to his arms, and told him his love is fully
returned, that at last she feels his worth and goodness; she would have
fallen at his feet and there have craved for pardon; but he puts her
gently yet firmly away.

'My poor, poor Katie! Have I then spoiled your young life? I might have
suspected this; but I was blind and selfish. Forgive me, my poor child,
forgive me! I would give worlds to restore you your freedom again!'

Ere Katie has fully grasped the meaning of his words, he has gone out
of the room; she hears him walk rapidly down the stairs and out of
the house. A sense of numbness creeps over her; she sits for a while
like one stunned. How long she remains crouching on the sofa she never
knows; a whole lifetime of anguish seems crushed into that space. All
the brightness of youth appears to die out at her husband's departure;
his retreating footstep sounds like a knell of departed hope.

After a time, Lady Dillworth rouses herself; even sorrow cannot endure
for ever. She recollects it is near the hour for luncheon, and then
Herbert will come home. She dresses herself in the robes she had on
when he made her the offer of marriage. _Why_ she has done this,
she does not confess even to herself; but perhaps she imagines old
associations may soften present misunderstandings. She goes down to the
dining-room and waits. The table is laid for luncheon, and the bright
fire glitters on the silver and glasses and flowers. All is so pleasant
and cheerful and homelike! And even then a thrill of satisfaction comes
over her that now Liddy Delmere is gone she will be able to devote
all her time to her husband--have him all to herself. But the luncheon
hour passes, and then the door opens and Hunter enters with a letter on
a salver. The address is written in a rapid unsteady hand, as though
the fingers trembled. She sees it is Sir Herbert's writing, and tears
open the envelope with a sense of impending trouble, that blanches her
cheeks and chills her heart. The words run thus:

'No one shall ever know you did the mischief, my poor Katie; the blame
shall rest on me alone, and I will bear it willingly for your sake. But
my professional career is over; men will never again trust my judgment
or deem me fit to command. I was proud of my standing in the service
and of an untarnished reputation; but you have spoiled it all, merely
to enjoy a short interval more of Walter Reeves's society. Why did
you not tell me he was so dear to you? You should have said before we
married _I_ could never make you happy. Yet I will not blame you, my
poor wife. My own selfish blindness has caused all this misery. Before
this letter reaches you, I shall be on my way to London to resign my
appointment.'

This was all! But the contents fell like a blow on her heart. Katie
sits alone in that quiet room while the iron pierces her soul. The
untasted luncheon stands on the table till the fire goes out and the
shades of night gather round. Then Hunter knocks at the door in alarm,
to know if 'my Lady' will have the things removed. Katie rouses herself
to tell him that while his master is away she will henceforth have her
meals laid in her boudoir, and that she will receive no visitors in Sir
Herbert's absence.

Hunter sees her pallid face and tear-stained eyes, and draws his own
conclusions, and thinks things 'never went on like that in the _first_
Lady Dillworth's time, anyhow.'




THE GUACHO.


'Will you ride over with me to the neighbouring village?' asked my
friend Senhor Pedro da Silva. 'There is a _festa_ there to-day. And
as you are a stranger in the country, you will see some feats of
horsemanship quite as clever as can be shewn in the circus rings of old
England.'

'With the greatest pleasure,' I replied. 'I have often heard of the
wonderful horsemen called Guachos, and desire much to see if the
accounts are really true.'

'I think you will not be disappointed. He and his horse are one;
sometimes he acts as its tyrant, but more frequently they are friends.
From infancy they have scoured over the immense Pampas of South
America, frequently amidst violent storms of thunder, wind, and
rain. His address and grace on horseback yield neither to your best
fox-hunters nor to the American Indian. But here is Antonio with our
steeds; let us mount.'

An hour's ride over the dull arid plains of Buenos Ayres, covered with
the grass now so much cultivated in our gardens, and admired for its
light leathery tufts waving in the wind, brought us to San Joachim,
where the people were already collecting in their holiday attire, and
exchanging friendly greetings on all sides. The gay striking dresses of
the Guachos mingled in every group. The _poncho_ or mantle of cloth,
woven in bright coloured stripes, has a hole in the centre through
which the head is passed, and falls down to the hips in graceful folds.
The nether garment is a combination of bedgown and trousers, bordered
by a fringe or even rich lace on these festa days, which varies from
two to six inches deep according to the wealth of the wearer. Then
to-day the great jack-boots of untanned leather are exchanged for the
smartest patent leather, with bright scarlet tops, and enormous spurs
at the heels. A wide-brimmed Spanish hat is worn, a purple or yellow
handkerchief twisted round it; whilst the belt encircling the waist
sparkles with the dollars sewn upon it--often the whole fortune of
the owner. His weapons are attached to this girdle, consisting of a
formidable knife, a lasso, and a bolas, which may not be so familiar
to the English reader as the lasso. There are two balls fastened
together by short leathern straps, to which another thong is attached,
by which it is thrown; this is whirled violently round the head before
propulsion, and entangles itself in the legs of the horse or cow to be
captured.

But whilst we are gaily chatting to Senhor Pedro's many friends the
games are beginning, and we hasten off to the ground. There we find two
lines of mounted Guachos, from ten to twenty on each side, just so far
apart as to allow a rider to pass between the ranks; all are on the
alert and holding the lasso ready for use. One whom they call Massimo,
an evident favourite with the crowd, comes tearing along at a gallop
and dashes in between the lines. The first horseman in the ranks throws
his lasso at Massimo's horse as he flashes past, but misses, amidst the
derisive shouts of those around; then the second, quick as lightning
casts his; and so on down the ranks. Presently, however, the horse
is lassoed and brought to the ground; and the skilful rider alights
uninjured on his feet, smoking his cigarette as coolly as when he
started from the post. The dexterity and watchfulness of the men, who
can throw the lasso so as to entangle the feet of a horse while going
at full speed, are simply wonderful. Another and another followed with
varying fortunes; sometimes the first struck down the horse and rider,
rarely was it that one escaped altogether. The popularity of the famous
chief Rosas was said to be founded on his proficiency in this adroit
but cruel art, and no man can be their chief who is not the cleverest
among them: renown on horseback is the one great virtue that exalts a
man in their eyes; cruelty to their favourite animal does not seem to
enter into their thoughts!

But at length they weary of this sport, and move off a little way to
vary it with another. Now we seem to have moved back a few hundred
years, and find a pastime of the middle ages still lingering among
these descendants of the Spaniards, who doubtless introduced it into
the New World. In those days it was called the game of the quintain. A
pole was firmly planted in the ground, with a cross-bar, to which was
hung the figure of a misbelieving Saracen, well armed and holding a
large sword. The horseman tilted at full gallop against this puppet;
and as it moved lightly on a pivot, unless it were well struck in the
breast, it revolved, and the sword smote the assailant on the back
amidst the laughter of the crowd. Here in the wild Pampas the trial
of skill is greater. A kind of gibbet is erected, to which is hung a
finger-ring by a string. The Guacho, instead of the spear of knightly
days, holds a weapon more characteristic of his work in the _saladero_,
where the cattle are killed and salted--namely, a skewer. One after
another the Guachos gallop at full speed and try to push the skewer
into the ring and carry it off. Antonio, Luis, and Melito succeeded
admirably; but many a novice failed in the difficult task. Still it was
a pretty sight, and enjoyed apparently by both horses and men.

Then came the inevitable horse-races, which are of almost daily
occurrence, when associates challenge one another, and they strike off
in a moment in a straight line until they disappear in the horizon. In
this case, however, a wide straight avenue near the village was chosen
for a short, rapid, and often renewed race; a pastime for the idle, and
the occasion of ruinous bets. The riders were dressed with the greatest
elegance; their horses well chosen from the corral, and covered with
silver ornaments. The bridle is of the leather of a foal, finely
plaited and mounted with silver; stirrup, bit, and spurs of the same
metal. A glittering silver belt, sometimes of a flowery pattern, and of
colossal proportions, hangs round the breast, and a silver strap across
the forehead. The saddle is a wonderful piece of mechanism, forming the
Guacho's 'bed by night and chest of drawers by day;' it is very heavy,
and consists of ten parts; skins, carpets, and cow-hides intermingled
with other necessaries. Off they go at last from the post, spurring and
urging their steeds like modern centaurs, handling them in a manner
well worthy of admiration, and with the most perfect elegance. When
the winner came in, many a by-stander had lost all his possessions,
so mad a race of gamblers are they. As a last resource, they pledge
their horse, and expose themselves, if they lose, to the lowest of
humiliations--that of going away on foot!

We turned at last towards home, leaving the roystering spirits to
finish off their day at the _pulperia_. This it is which takes the
place of the club, the café, the newsroom, and the home. A cottage,
neither more simple nor more luxurious than any other to be found
in the Pampas, covered with thatch; the walls of dried mud, or more
frequently of rushes sparged with mud; the flooring being of trodden
earth; into which the rain penetrates, the sun never enters, and where
a hot damp air is the prevailing atmosphere. Before the door stands a
row of strong posts, to which the horses of the guests are tied; the
new-comer jumps off, and there leaves his steed, saddled and bridled,
for many weary hours in the hot sun or pouring rain; whilst he, to use
a native expression, 'satisfies his vices' in the _pulperia_. The door
is open to all comers, and great outward politeness reigns within;
there is a continual exchange of gallantries, to which the Spanish
language easily lends itself; but reason soon loses its sway, and the
strangest bets are offered and taken. Sometimes it is between two
friends as to who shall first lose blood; when the whole company sally
out, knives are drawn between the duellers, and a combat, often much
more ridiculous than valiant, ensues!

The following morning, Senhor Pedro proposed that we should ride out
and see the Guacho at work and in his home. 'You seem to have been
interested in him yesterday,' he said, 'and he belongs to a type that
is unique. Notwithstanding the hatred of the original inhabitants
towards their invaders, the two races were mixed, and these unions
produced the Guacho. Look at his tall figure, bony square face
embrowned by the sun, and stiff black hair--there you see the Indian;
whilst the Spaniard is in his proud haughty manner, in his vanity, and
also in his great sobriety. He drinks water and eats his dried meat
without bread, not from contempt for better food, but from a horror of
work. To earn his daily food is not so much his aim as to get money
to bet with. He will go into the _saladero_, where, knife in hand, he
will kill, skin, and cut up the cattle for salting, and find enjoyment
rather than labour in it. He easily gains in a few hours a wage that
suffices; and as soon as it is paid, he jumps on his horse and rides
off to the _pulperia_ to gamble it away.'

Thus conversing, we reached a hut which could scarcely be surpassed in
its misery. Placed alone in the middle of the plain, without any garden
or cultivated ground, not a tree to cast a welcome shadow, or a hand to
repair the dilapidated walls, it seemed formed to repulse rather than
attract the owner. At our approach, the mother came out, surrounded by
her children, her complexion approaching the mulatto, for the air of
the Pampas quickly destroys the fineness of the skin. It is only in the
capital, Buenos Ayres, that handsome Creole types are to be seen, where
fine features of an Indian class surpass European beauty, even when
the tint is olive. The wife, like the husband, hates work: her only
occupation is to boil some water, pour it over maté or tea of Paraguay,
and drink it through a metal tube. Her children, at the age of three
or four, can sit on horseback and gallop over the plain with no other
bridle than a cord passed through the horse's mouth. At six they watch
the sheep, and at ten are ready to break in the most spirited colts.
Only everything they do must be on horseback: they will neither use
their arms nor legs.

'Good-morning, Senorita,' said my friend. 'Where shall we find your
husband?'

'He is gone, Senhor, to break in some horses for Senhor Melisos; it is
not far from here.'

'So much the better. We will ride on and see him at work.'

We reached the place; and the Guacho came out to meet us.

'Will you shew my friend your feat at the gate?' said Senhor Pedro.

'With the greatest pleasure,' answered the flattered Guacho. He jumped
on to the top transverse bar which forms the gate of the corral, and
calling to another man to open the lower ones and drive out a troop of
horses at full gallop, he, with the most astonishing skill, singled one
out with his eye, dropped down on to it, and rode off without saddle or
bridle at the top of its speed. Soon returning, he proceeded to break a
horse that had been previously caught in the plains. The Guacho threw
two lassos, one over the neck, the other on the hind-legs. Several men
hold the colt tightly whilst he saddles and passes a cord through the
mouth of the animal; and when the first paroxysms of fear have passed,
the tamer jumps on, and pressing his powerful knees into its sides,
the lasso is withdrawn. The horse and rider then start on a furious
course, from which they both return exhausted, in the midst of the
_vivats_ which resound from every side. All that is now required is for
the breaker to ride ten or fifteen leagues, when he gives up the horse
to the owner and receives his fee. They are never taught to trot, but
have an easy movement; and a man has been known to ride two hundred
miles a day without fatigue, and living only on dried meat and maté.




THE GERM THEORY AGAIN.


We have on several occasions alluded to the Germ theory, by which is
meant the theory that invisible germs, capable of producing animalculæ
and of spreading disease are constantly floating in the atmosphere--and
that the more impure the air the greater are the number of these germs.
We revert to the subject, because it is debated in all quarters, and it
is as well that our readers should know something of what is causing so
much controversy. Some surgeons distinguished as operators are great
believers in the Germ theory; so much so, that before beginning, for
instance, to cut off a leg, they cause a certain germ-killing liquid to
shower like spray near the part operated on; by which, as is alleged,
the wound is kept free of anything noxious. Whether there be germs or
not, the use of disinfectants in the air is said to be beneficial.
Notably the celebrated carbolic-acid plan of Professor Lister has met
with marked success, and is practised by the greatest surgeons of our
time. But though the air certainly contains something which favours
decomposition, it is by no means yet proved that that something _is_
made up of germs.

Professor Tyndall has been the principal advocate of the Germ theory,
and has written some papers strongly in its favour. Professor Bastian
takes an opposite opinion. He thinks that living organisms may
originate in disease by spontaneous generation. His notions are that
if germs are continually floating about in the air, they would drop
everywhere and anywhere alike. This argument applies more forcibly
to the fact which Dr Bastian discovered--namely, that he was able to
get life in flasks containing inorganic solutions, but that he always
failed if such solutions were not made up of salts containing oxygen,
hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen; that is to say, of the elements of
life. If the organisms are really the result of a molecular arrangement
of the 'mother-liquid,' we should expect to find them only in those
fluids which already contain the elements necessary for their
composition. Three speculations are involved in these experiments:
on the one hand, that low forms of life do occasionally arise by
spontaneous generation; on the other hand, either that the heat which
is usually considered destructive of life and germinating power is in
reality nothing of the kind; or that Dr Bastian's experiments were
incorrectly performed.

Since the publication of Dr Bastian's observations, a very lively
controversy has been carried on in scientific quarters between the
supporters of the germ theory and of the theory of spontaneous
generation. Dr Bastian's work was conducted with great care and in
the presence of some distinguished authorities. Dr Sanderson, on the
other hand, found that upon increasing the heat which is applied to the
flasks, no organisms were produced; but until we have reason to doubt
the generally received opinion as to the amount of heat necessary to
destroy life, this result may be equally well explained according to
either of the two theories.

Dr Bastian insists that the organic solutions in his own flasks are
not found by him to undergo putrefaction where every precaution is
taken for withholding the entrance of air. Thus a simple piece of
cotton-wool, which acts as a kind of sieve, will when placed in
the mouth of a flask prevent decomposition. Professor Tyndall has
invented the most ingenious contrivances for illustrating his views.
In one case he employed a chamber the walls of which were covered by
a sticky substance. The particles of dust in the air were allowed to
collect and adhere to the sides, and the air in the vessel, as shewn
by its non-reflection of a beam of light, was rendered comparatively
dustless. Flasks were now introduced, and they remained for a long
period free from organisms. On repeating some of these experiments
this year, however, Professor Tyndall found that many of the infusions
which had previously been preserved from putrefaction with ease,
were now found, when placed under the same conditions, to swarm
with life. Still he refused to believe in 'spontaneous generation,'
and preferred to consider that the production of life in his flasks
was due to some fault in his experiments, and that the air of the
Royal Institution was not so pure this year as it was last. Instead,
therefore, of introducing his fluids by means of an open pipette, as he
had previously done, he now made use of a 'separating funnel,' and by
this means the fluids found their way into the flasks without exposure
to the air. The result of these precautions was that no organisms
appeared. The objection, however, that we have to find is, that no
guarantee can be given that will enable us to ascertain whether the air
is really free from particles of organic matter or not. Last year the
air was considered to be pure because moteless; but this year, though
moteless, it was found to be impure.

Professor Tyndall and his friends are so exceedingly confident in the
power of the germs of the atmosphere, that they attribute to their
influence every known case of putrefaction; and they do so because they
believe that they have proved that whenever the air can be excluded
from a putrescible fluid, putrefaction will not take place. But Dr
Bastian has succeeded in producing life out of organic infusions from
which the air has been excluded, and which have been previously raised
by him to temperatures hitherto considered by scientific authority as
fatal to life. Thus the question resolves itself into this: What is the
exact point of heat which kills the germs of bacteria? At present we do
not know, and we have therefore no right to make any supposition upon
this point in favour of either of the two theories.

Since Dr Bastian's experiments were first made public, the holders of
the Germ theory have gradually raised what we may call the thermal
death-point of bacteria, in order to explain away the results of his
experiments by the light of their own theory. If Dr Bastian's fluids
did develop life, they say, the germs must have entered into them by
some means or other; and if he superheated these fluids, the fact of
the germs surviving the process shews that they must be possessed of
greater enduring power than we have given them credit for.

Curiously enough, Professor Tyndall declares that frequent applications
of a low degree of heat, and applied at intervals, have a far greater
'sterilising effect' than a single application of a high temperature.
For a given fluid may contain germs of all ages. If such a fluid be
boiled for a considerable time, all the germs of recent formation will
be killed; but those of a greater age will merely be softened, but
still capable of reanimation. If, however, the fluid be heated for a
short time only, the recent germs will be destroyed, while an older
crop will be liberated. A second application of heat destroys this
second crop, and brings a third into play. Further heat will awaken
successive crops, until at length a point is reached when the toughest
germ must yield. This is certainly a most ingenious explanation of the
difficulty.

A very interesting contribution to this subject has lately been made
by Dr Bastian and others; and we will now briefly describe the main
results of their researches. It has long been known that slightly
alkaline organic fluids are more difficult to sterilise than those
which are slightly acid. Pasteur the French chemist says that animal
water in its normally acid state becomes sterile at one hundred degrees
centigrade; but that if the infusion is first rendered alkaline by the
addition of potash, the application of a little more heat is necessary,
in order to insure sterility. If we bear in mind the two theories, we
shall see that these observations of Pasteur may be explained according
to either of them. We may believe that the germs in the infusion are
fortified against the destructive action of heat by liquor potassæ;
or on the other hand, we may hold that the spontaneous generation of
organisms is favoured by the presence of an alkali. Acting upon these
data, Dr Bastian heated a similar fluid in its acid condition to the
temperature of one hundred degrees; so that, according to Pasteur,
it was now barren. He then added a quantity of potash sufficient to
neutralise the acid, the addition of the alkali thus being made _after_
instead of before the boiling; and he then allowed the fluid so treated
to stand at a temperature of about one hundred and fifteen degrees
Fahrenheit. In a short time swarms of bacteria appeared.

Dr Roberts, however, considers that this result was obtained because
sufficient precaution had not been taken by Dr Bastian to prevent
the entry of germs, which might have been introduced by the potash.
Accordingly, he filled a small flask with an ounce of the acid
infusion, and then sealed up his potash in a capillary tube. The potash
was then heated in oil to two hundred and eighty degrees Fahrenheit,
and kept for fifteen minutes. The tube of potash was now introduced
into the flask containing the infusion, and the flask was boiled for
five minutes, and sealed. The flask was now kept for some time in order
to test its sterility. When this was ascertained, the flask was shaken,
so that the little tube of potash inside was broken, and the potash
was thus allowed to mingle with and neutralise the infusion. The flask
was now maintained at a low temperature of one hundred and fifteen
degrees Fahrenheit, and it remained perfectly clear. And so Dr Roberts
concludes that liquor potassæ has no power to excite the generation of
organisms in a sterilised infusion. Professor Tyndall repeated these
experiments with additional precautions, and obtained similar results.

The _general_ conclusion which is drawn from various experiments by the
advocates of the Germ theory is, that liquor potassæ has no inherent
power to stimulate the production of bacteria, and that any apparent
power of this kind which it may seem to possess is due to the presence
of germs within it. These germs they consider are not destroyed until
the potash has been raised to the temperature of one hundred degrees
centigrade if solid, and to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade if
liquid. Dr Bastian, who repeated his former experiments with every
possible precaution, found no difference in his results. Moreover, he
discovered that liquor potassæ, when added in proper quantities, is
just as efficacious in stimulating the development of life after it has
been heated to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade, as when it has
been heated to only one hundred degrees. Pasteur will consequently have
to raise the temperature which he considers sufficient to destroy the
germs contained in a solution of strong liquor potassæ to a point still
higher than one hundred and ten degrees.

But there is still another proof that liquor potassæ if previously
heated to one hundred degrees does not induce fermentation in virtue
of its germs, because if only one or two drops be added, the infusion
will remain as barren as ever; while a few more drops will immediately
start the process of fermentation. Now if the potash really induced
fermentation because it brought germs along with it, two drops would be
quite as efficacious as any other amount. Finally, Dr Bastian has shewn
us that an excess of alkali prevents fermentation, and to this fact
he attributes the failure of Pasteur to develop life when he employed
solid potash. He had added too much of the alkali.

It is impossible to draw any _definite_ conclusion from these as from
the other experiments, until we know the precise temperature which
is fatal to germinal life. Dr Bastian indeed thinks that he has been
able to shew that bacteria and their germs cannot exist at higher
temperatures than one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit; but his
evidence here is not quite conclusive. He does not deny the existence
of germs nor their probable influence in producing life; he merely
says that his experiments furnish evidence to shew that in some cases
organisms may spring into existence without the aid of a parent. The
strong points of his case are, that as fast as his adversaries can
suggest precautions to insure the destruction of germs, he has been
able to shew life under the altered conditions; and that whenever the
supposed death-point of bacteria has been raised on account of his
experiments, he has succeeded in obtaining life after having submitted
his flasks to the required temperatures.

How this most interesting controversy will end, we cannot foretell;
but we hope that the further researches of our scientific men upon the
subject will ultimately lead to the discovery of the truth. Meanwhile,
we observe that Dr Richardson, at the late Sanitary Congress at
Leamington, entirely dissented from the theory of germs being the
origin of disease, and characterised it as the wildest and most distant
from the phenomena to be explained, ever conceived. As no one contests
the fact that pure air is a very important factor in promoting health
and averting the insidious approaches of disease, people keeping that
in mind need not practically give themselves much concern about germs.
See that you draw pure air into the lungs. That is an advice to which
no theorist can take exception.




OCEAN-VOYAGES IN SMALL BOATS.


It is perhaps not generally known that adventurous persons occasionally
cross the Atlantic from the American coast to England in small boats.
The undertaking is dangerous, but is accomplished. Twenty-four years
ago, when on board a Cunard steamer, our vessel passed an open
sailing-boat containing two men on a voyage from America to Europe.
They had no means for taking an observation, but trusted to fall in
with large ships, from which they would get information as to where
they were. On sighting them, our captain knew what they wanted, and
hung out a black board on which were inscribed in chalk the latitude
and longitude. This was satisfactory, and on they went on their
perilous expedition. What came of them we know not. We were told
that men who run risks of this kind, and who happen not to procure
information as to their whereabouts, are apt to make strange mistakes
in their voyage to England; such, for instance, as running on the coast
of Spain instead of the British Islands--the whole thing a curious
instance of reckless daring.

Small vessels, possibly better provided, have made runs which have
attracted the admiring attention of nautical men, for the exceptional
circumstances under which they occurred, but without reference
to competition or bonus. In 1859 three Cornish fishermen, in a
fishing-boat of small tonnage, sailed from Newlyn near Penzance to the
Cape of Good Hope, and thence across the Indian Ocean to Melbourne,
where they arrived 'all well.' We do not find the actual tonnage named.
In 1866 a small yacht of twenty-five tons, hailing from Dublin, set out
from Liverpool, and safely reached New South Wales after a run of a
hundred and thirty days. The distance was set down at sixteen thousand
miles. It was regarded, and justly regarded, as a bold adventure in
1874, when a schooner of only fifty-four tons safely brought over a
cargo of deals from St Johns, New Brunswick, to Dublin, with but seven
hands to manage the craft.

Boat-voyages, however, are evidently more remarkable than those of
clippers, yachts, and schooners; on account of the extremely small
dimensions of the craft which have ventured to brave the perils of the
ocean, and of the paucity of hands to manage the sails and helm during
a period measured by months--under privations of various kinds.

Eleven years ago the Americans gave an indication of spirit and pluck
in the conception and fulfilment of a very bold enterprise. Mr Hudson,
the owner of a small craft named the _Red White and Blue_, fitted
it up for an ocean-trip to England. It was a life-boat, built of
galvanised iron, only twenty-six feet in length, six feet in breadth
of beam, and three feet deep from deck to hold. Small as it was, the
_Red White and Blue_ carried what sailors call a very cloud of canvas;
it had mainsail, spritsails, staysails, courses, topsails, royals,
top-gallants, sternsails, trysails, three masts, bowsprit, booms,
yards, gaffs, jib-boom, yard-tops, cross jack yards, spankers, and all
the rest of it--an enormous amount of furniture, one would think, for
so small a house. The boat was sharp at both ends, had water-tight
compartments lengthwise and transverse, and safety-valves which would
enable her to right herself in a few minutes if flooded. There was
a tiny cockpit for the steersman near the mizzen-mast, in which he
sat somewhat in the same position as Mr Macgregor in his _Rob Roy_
canoe. The air-cylinders at each end of the boat and along the sides,
customary in life-boats, assisted in maintaining the buoyancy and
upright position. It is amusing to read of a mainmast only seven feet
high and a bowsprit of two feet in length; but the juvenile ship was
proportionate in all these matters, and bravely she looked, a plucky
handsome little craft.

The crew of the _Red White and Blue_ was as exceptional as the boat
itself. The owner, Captain John M. Hudson, took the command; Mr Frank
E. Fitch acted as mate; while in lieu of petty officers, able seamen,
and ordinary seamen was a dog named 'Fanny.' On the 9th of July 1866
the pigmy ship took farewell of Sandy Hook, near New York, on a voyage
of unknown duration and uncertain vicissitude. At midnight on the 18th
the boat struck against something hard and solid, but fortunately
without receiving much damage. They sailed on till the 5th of August,
when they fell in with the brig _Princess Royal_, hailing from
Yarmouth, and obtained a bottle of rum, two newspapers (very precious
to the wayfarers), and a signal-lamp. Narrowly escaping a complete
overturn on the 8th, they spoke with the barque _Welle Merryman_, from
which they obtained two bottles of brandy. After another peril of
capsizing, they at length sighted English land, the Bill of Portland,
on the 14th. Beating up the Channel, the boat entered Margate Harbour
on the 16th, after being thirty-seven days at sea. The little craft
created no small astonishment at Margate. As there was no chronometer
on board, the calculations of distance, direction, &c. had to be made
by compass, line, and dead-reckoning. So little opportunity had there
been of obtaining a fire, that the food (mostly preserved in air-tight
tins) had to be eaten cold. The original store of a hundred and twenty
gallons of water supplied their wants with this essential requisite.
Poor Fanny the dog did not at all relish the voyage; constant exposure
to the weather so weakened her that she died soon after reaching
Margate. When the _Red White and Blue_ was afterwards exhibited at the
Crystal Palace, a little incredulity was expressed as to the reality of
the voyage; but as the names of the vessels spoken with were given and
the dates of meeting, there seems no reason to doubt the faithfulness
of the narrative. The two navigators, however, did not return to
America in the same way; they had 'had enough of it.'

A still bolder achievement, in so far as the number of the crew was
concerned, was that of Alfred Johnson, who in June 1876 started from
America in a small boat manned only _by himself_. Quitting the port
of Gloucester, Massachusetts, on the 15th, he had fine weather for a
time, but then experienced some of the peril of Atlantic voyaging
under exceptional circumstances. Fogs and head winds compelled him to
put into Shake Harbour, where he had his compass corrected. Starting
again on the 25th, he experienced tolerably fair weather until the 7th
of July, when a heavy gale set in from the south-west. The combings of
the hatchway were started, and the water, finding entrance, damaged
some of his provisions. The gale subsiding, he was favoured with fine
weather and fair wind until the 16th; and a strong breeze in the right
direction coming on, he made good progress till the 2d of August. When
about three hundred miles from the Irish coast, the wind increased to
a hurricane; he hove to, but in unshipping his mast for this purpose,
the boat got broadside on a large wave and was upset. Johnson clambered
on the upturned bottom, where he remained for about twenty minutes. By
dexterous management he succeeded in righting the boat, got in, and
pumped it dry; everything, however, was wetted by the upset, and he
lost his square-sail and kerosene lamp.

Wending his way as winds permitted, he reached within a hundred miles
of the Irish coast by the 7th, spoke a ship, and obtained some bread
and fresh water--both of which had become very scanty with him. On
the following day he got soundings, but fog prevented him from seeing
land. On the 10th he sighted Milford, near the south-west extremity
of Wales. He landed at Abercastle in Pembrokeshire on the 11th, after
being fifty-seven days at sea; starting again, he put into Holyhead,
and finally arrived at Liverpool on the 21st. The little _Centennial_,
which measured only twenty feet in length over all, had run about
seventy miles a day on an average. Johnson maintained his general
health excellently well, though suffering from want of sleep.

The little boat that has recently crossed the Atlantic differed from
Johnson's in this among other particulars, that it had a crew of two
persons, one of whom was a woman. Certainly this woman will have
something to talk about for the rest of her life: seeing that we may
safely assign to her a position such as her sex has never before
occupied--that of having managed half the navigation of a little
ocean-craft for some three thousand miles. The _New Bedford_, so
designated after the town of the same name in Massachusetts (the state
from which Johnson also hailed), is only twenty feet long, with a
burden of a little over a ton and a half; built of cedar, and rigged as
(in sailor-phrase) a 'leg-of-mutton schooner;' with two masts and one
anchor. Anything less ocean-like we can hardly conceive. Captain Thomas
Crapo, the owner of this little affair, is an active man in the prime
of life; and his better-half proves herself worthy to be the helpmate
of such a man. On the 28th of May in the present year, Captain and Mrs
Crapo embarked in their tiny ocean-boat, provided with such provisions
and stores as they could stow away under the deck. The steersman (or
steerswoman) sat in a sunken recess near the stern, with head and bust
above the level of the deck; the other took any standing-place that he
could get for managing the sails, rope, anchor, &c. The boat had no
chronometer; and the progress had to be measured as best it could by
dead-reckoning.

The boat, soon after leaving New Bedford, was forced by stress of
weather to seek a few days' shelter at Chatham, a small port in the
same state. Hoisting sail again on the 2d of June, the boat set off
with a fair wind; and all went well for three days. An adverse wind
then sprang up, a fog overspread the sky, and for ten days the voyage
continued under these unfavourable circumstances. Whilst near the
shoal known as the Great Banks, a keg was seen floating; this was
secured, and the iron hoops utilised (with the aid of canvas) in making
a drogue--one which was included among the outfit of the boat being
found too light for its purpose. The boat, after lying to for three
or four days in a gale of wind, started again, and sailed on till the
21st of June, when another gale necessitated another stoppage. The
_New Bedford_ sighted the steamer _Batavia_, which offered to take
the lonely pair of navigators on board: an offer kindly appreciated,
but courteously declined. After this meeting, a succession of gales
was encountered, and the rudder broke; a spare oar was made to act as
a substitute. The sea ran so very high that even when lying down to
rest, husband and wife had to lie on wet clothes, everything on board
being sloppy and half saturated. At one portion of this trying period
Captain Crapo had to steer for seventy hours uninterruptedly, his wife
being incapacitated from rendering the aid which was her wont; and on
another occasion he had to pay eighteen hours' close attention to the
drogue. The voyage terminated on the 21st of July, after a duration of
fifty-four days. The average sleep of the captain did not exceed four
hours a day; and he had no sleep at all during the last seventy hours
of the run. He had intended to make Falmouth his port of arrival, but
was glad to make for Penzance instead.

The surname of Crapo, we were informed by the captain, is not uncommon
at New Bedford. The good wife is Swedish by descent, Scotch by birth,
American by marriage--a citizen of the world. In examining the boat
closely (which we have done), it becomes more than ever a marvel how
it could have formed the home of a married couple for seven weeks.
Descending through a small hatchway, the feet rest on the floor of (let
us say) the state-cabin, an apartment three feet high; consequently the
head and body project above the hatchway. By spreading blankets and
rugs, and crouching down by degrees, a would-be sleeper can lie down
under the deck, or two sleepers close to the two sides of the boat. The
wife of course acted as stewardess, cook, parlour-maid, scullery-maid,
&c., leaving her husband to manage most of the navigation. The
sperm-oil lamp for the compass-binnacle; the kerosene or petroleum lamp
for the cooking-stove; the receptacles for biscuit and preserved meats
and vegetables; the butler's pantry for a few bottles of spirits; the
vessels for containing water--all were packed into a marvellously small
space. The drogue (already mentioned) is a kind of floating anchor
which, dragged after the vessel by means of a long rope, helps to
steady it in certain states of the wind. Five hundred pounds weight of
stores and six hundred of iron ballast, kept the boat sufficiently low
in the water.

Such were the interior arrangements of one of those strange small
vessels which adventurously attempt to cross the Atlantic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular
Literature, Science, and Art, No. 724, by Various

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