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Of fife of Cl)nrlc5 Jickrns.
A
biography which represents the many-sidedness of an individual
with any character at all is a performance given to few men to achieve
—a monument seldom erected to any of the great and memorable.
The “ subject ” is to his biographer what he sees him, and there is no
help for the public to whom the biographer tells his tale. It is for
him to choose, among the facts of the subject’s life, which he will put
forward or suppress—which among the feasible impressions of the
subject’s character he will suggest and substantiate. In no branch of
literature are the total failures more numerous—is the average of
imperfection and unsatisfactoriness larger. In certain cases, where
the “ life ” cannot be supposed to possess a widely-extended public
interest—where it is a demand as well as a product of cliqueism—
narrow views and extravagant estimates, foolish exaggerations and
eccentric theories, may be allowed to pass with a smile. They do not
hurt the public, who do not think about them ; they do not injure
their judgment, lower their standard of criticism, or do violence to
their common-sense.
The transports of the Mutual Admiration
Society harm nobody but the persons of talent who have established
it, whether they indulged so as to lead the rational rest of the world
to laugh at the living, or pity the dead. But it is a very different
case when a biography is put forward with such claims to general
importance and public interest as that of Mr. Dickens, written by
his friend Mr. Forster. These claims are more readily and heartily
acknowledged than those of the biographies of many men who were
great in spheres of more elevated influence, work and weight, than
that of any novelist. The interest and curiosity felt about even
such lives are much magnified by their writers, and, at their keenest,
are of brief duration, the books passing rapidly into the category of
mémoires pour servir. But the story of the life of the humourist who
had afforded them so much pleasure by the fanciful creations of his
brain, was eagerly welcomed by the public, coming from the pen of the
friend to whom Mr. Dickens had entrusted the task ; for he had, at a
very early stage of his career, foreseen that he should need a bio
grapher, and had no shrinking from what Mr. Palgrave, pleading the
poet’s right to immunity from it, calls the intrusion of “ biography.”
Regarded from the point of view of that disinterested and impartial
public whose eyes are not shut by the promptings of cliqueism nor
their ears beguiled by its jargon—who know nothing of the fatuous
A
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
flattery of “ sets,” but who hold literary men amenable to the same moral
and social laws as any other class of men who do their work in the
world and are paid for it—the book could hardly be more damaging
to the memory of its subject if it had been written by an enemy
instead of a friend. Without impeaching Mr. Forster’s sincerity in
any respect or degree—without imputing to him a particle of the
treacherous ingratitude and deadly damaging cunning which made
Leigh Hunt’s ‘ Life of Byron ’ notorious—it may be gravely doubted
whether the little poet dealt the great one’s memory a more cruel
blow than Mr. Forster, in the character of a mourning Mentor out of
work, has dealt the memory of Telemachus Dickens. To all un
prejudiced persons, with just notions of the relations of men with
their fellows, he presents the object of his preposterously inflated
praise in an aspect both painful and surprising. Who is to correct
this impression ? We are forced to believe that Mr. Forster, from his
long and close association with him, is the person who can best paint
Mr. Dickens as he was in reality; we are forced to accept the man
whose writings so charmed and delighted us on the evidence of a close
and long-sustained correspondence with Mr. Forster, to whom he
apparently assigned the foremost place in his literary and private life
as guide, friend, companion, and critic. Mr. Dickens might have had
no other intimate associate than his future biographer throughout the
long term of years during which he was constantly appealing to his
judgment, adopting his corrections, yielding to his advice, and gushing
about walks, rides, dinners, and drinks in his company. There are
no people in the book but these two; the rest are merely names, to
which casual reference is made in records of jovial dinners and meet
ings for purposes of unlimited flattery. Even Jeffrey is only occa
sionally permitted to offer a modest criticism in a foot-note. In one
instance Mr. Forster relates how Mr. Dickens pooh-pooh’d the criti
cism, and referred it to him, that he too might pooh-pooh as heartily
the idea of Jeffrey’s having presumed to pronounce an opinion on
Miss Fox and Major Bagstock while only three numbers of ‘ Dombey
and Son’ had yet been issued to the world. By every device of
omission, as well as by open assertion, Mr. Forster claims to represent
Mr. Dickens as he was—to be the only licensed interpreter of the
great novelist to the world. The world grants his claim, and, judging
his book by it, is surprised by the nature of the information which is
the outcome of so many years of close and unreserved intercourse.
Not only is the one-sidedness common to biographies conspicuous in this
one, but the two large volumes published up to the present time are as
scanty in one sense as they are diffuse in another. Did Mr. Dickens
correspond with no one but Mr. Forster ? Has no one preserved
letters from him to which his biographer might have procured access ?
Were there no side-lights to be had ? The most fantastic of his own
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
171
creations is hardly less like a living responsible man than the excited,
restless, hysterical, self-engrossed, quarrelsome, unreasonable egotist
shown to the world as the real Charles Dickens throughout at least
three-fourths of these two volumes; shown, it is true, upon the evi
dence of his own letters — perhaps the most wonderful records of
human vanity which have ever seen the light of print—but shown
also, through the fault of his biographer, in appalling nakedness, by
hisi strict limitation of Mr. Dickens’s “life” to the chronicle of his
relations with Mr. Forster.
It is a property of genius to raise up a high ideal of its possessors
in the minds of men who derive pleasure from its productions: it
seems to be too frequently the main business of its biographers to
pull this ideal down. That Mr. Forster has done so in the case of
Mr, Dickens every reader will admit who is not infected with the
arrogant ideas or carried away by the inflated jargon of the cliqueism
of light literature—an essentially insolent and narrow cliqueism
which, when contemplated from a philosophical or practical stand
point, seems to be the modern rendering of the satirical fable of the
fly upon the wheel. The members of this clique live in an atmosphere
of delusion, in which no sense is preserved of the true proportions
in which various employments of human intellect respectively aid
the development of human progress and social greatness. The people
who form the clique have no notion of the absurd effect they produce
on the big world outside it, which takes account of and puts its trust
in talent and energy of many kinds other than the literary; hence
it is generally a mistake that the life of a man of this kind of letters
should be written at all, and doubly so that it should be written by
one who has done it in the spirit of a clique inside a clique. The
reader’s notions of the life and character of a great humourist, who
was flattered, and who flattered himself, into the belief that he was
also a great moralist, are painfully disconcerted by Mr. Forster, who
leaves the most diverting of jesters, the most strained of sentimentalists,
no loophole of escape, by strongly insisting, in the before-mentioned
jargon, that he lived “ in ” his books and “ with ” his characters.
Thus the reader finds himself obliged to conclude that, if that state
ment be correct, Mr. Dickens was a foolish, and if it be not correct, he
was an affected person. His own letters confirm it; but then all the
letters he ever wrote to everybody were by no means so exclusively
occupied with himself and his sensations as those by which only he
is interpreted to the public, and which, instead of being quite repul
sive, would have been pardonable, and sometimes pleasing, if they had
been episodical—if the reader could believe that their writer had not
unconsciously sat for the portrait, drawn by his own pen, of the
individual who was “ so far down in the school of life, that he was
perpetually making figures of 1 in his copybook, and could not get
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THE LIFE OF CHAKLES DICKENS.
any further. A fair test of the effect of such a posthumous picture
of a man who deservedly gained a vast popularity is to imagine its
being drawn and exhibited in the case of any other man who had
achieved a similar reputation by similar means. Let us take, for
instance, the death of Colonel Newcome, the finest piece of pathos in
all Mr. Thackeray s writings, and try to imagine the author writing
to the closest of his friends, while the end was coming in the strain
of Mr. Dickens’s letters about the death of Nelly Trent: “ I went to
bed last night utterly dispirited and done up. All night I have been
pursued by the old man, and this morning I am unrefreshed and
miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself. I think the close
of the story will bo great. . . . The difficulty has been tremendous,
the anguish unspeakable. I think it will come favourably ; but I am
the wretchedest ol the wretched. It casts the most horrible shadow
upon me, and it is as much as I can do to keep moving at all.” In
the impossible case of Mr. Thackeray’s having written such effusive
rant, he would surely have cautioned his pre-ordained biographer
that it was not intended for publication. It is equally difficult to
imagine Mr. Trollope signing his letters, “ Yours truly, John Eames,”
or “ Ever yours, Phineas Finn.” But Mr. Forster prints letter after
letter in which Mr. Dickens calls himself “the inimitable” (a joke
which really does not bear so much repetition), quotes his own books
in illustration of all such incidents as, seeing that they concern him
self, he thinks worth mentioning, and signs himself “ Pickwick ” and
“Wilkins Micawber.” He is in “Dombeian spirits” or “Chuzzlewit
agonies,” or he is “ devilish sly,” or his wife is thrown from a carriage,
and laid on a sofa, “chock full of groans, like Squeers.” In short, he
is always quoting or suggesting quotations from himself, while his
voluminous letters are remarkable for their silence concerning any
other writer of the day. Then we have an overdone dedication of a
book to Mr. 1< orster, and a letter, accompanying a present of a claret
jug, which for pompousness might have been written in the Augustan
age. It is not wholly inconceivable that humour of this kind may
have had its charm for friends who conducted their relations on the
mutual admiration principle, but it is wholly inconceivable that Mr.
Forster should believe its details to be interesting to the public, and
surprising that he should fail to see that just in proportion as it is
*’ characteristic ” it is injurious to their ideal of Air. Dickens.
Was it also characteristic of Mr. Dickens to act, in all the grave
circumstances of life, with a hard self-assertion, an utter ignoring of
everybody’s rights, feelings, and interests except his own—an assump
tion of the holy and infallible supremacy of his own views’and his
own claims which are direct contradictions of all his finest and most
effusive sentimonts ? If not, then his biographer has to answer for
producing the impression upon the mind of the reader, who looks in
�THR LIFE OF CHABLES DICKENS.
173
vain throughout these volumes for any indication that Mr. Dickens’s
fine writing about human relations has any but a Pecksniffian sense.
In every reference to Mr. Dickens in his filial capacity there is
evident a repulsive hardness, a contemptuous want of feeling. His
parents were poor, in constant difficulties, and their son made capital
of the fact for some of his cleverest and some of his least pleasing
fictions; the Micawbers among the former, the Dorrits among the
latter. Every allusion to his father grates upon the reader’s feel
ings. A very amusing but exaggerated description of the difficulties of
stenography, and of the steam-engine-like strength and perseverance
with which Mr. Dickens worked at the art, is transferred from ‘ David
Copperfield’ to the biography, with such a flourish of trumpets
that readers unversed in the jargon of mutual admiration, might
suppose no man but Mr. Dickens had ever thoroughly mastered such
difficulties, and that he alone had invented and patented the “ golden
rules,” which he promulgates apropos of his becoming a shorthand
writer: “ Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all
my heart to do well. What I have devoted myself to, I have devoted
myself to completely. Never to put one hand to anything on which
I could not throw my whole self, and never to affect depreciation of my
work, whatever it was.” Of any inclination to depart from the second
of these “ golden rules,” no reader of Mr. Forster will suspect Mr.
Dickens; but of falling on the other side into an outrageous glorifi
cation of his work, whatever it was, he is convicted in countless
instances by his cruel biographer.
Voltaire’s cynical conceit of the chorus who sang incessant praises
of the poor prince until they made him laughable to all mankind
and loathsome to himself, is reflected in Mr. Forster. Pages are
devoted to the energy with which a young man of nineteen, with
a “ Dora ” in view to stimulate him, engaged in the acquisition of
an art which hundreds of quiet, industrious, well-educated gentle
men practised; but the fact that his father, who was not young,
and who had gone through much toil and care, had conquered
the same stubborn art, and was working hard at it, is mentioned
as “ his father having already taken to it, in those later years, in
aid of the family resourcesand again, as “ the elder Dickens having
gone into the gallery.” When Mr. Dickens writes to his friend that
he has been securing a house for his parents, the tone of the letter is
singularly unpleasant; and people who are not literary or gifted, but
merely simple folks, who hold that the God-formed ties of actual ¡life
should rank above the creations of even the brightest fancy, must
condemn the publication of the letter which Mr. Dickens wrote on the
31st of March, 1851, the very day of his fathers death, in which he
points out that he must not let himself be “ distracted by anything,”
though he has “ left a sad sight!”—(he was present when his father
�174
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
expired)—from “ the scheme on which so much depends,” and “most
part of the proposed ^Iterations,” which he thinks “ good.” He is
going up to Highgate at two, and hopes Mr. Forster will go with him.
The scheme was the Guild of Literature and Art, and the chief matter
under discussion was Bulwer’s comedy, written in aid of it. Mr.
Forster was going to Knebworth, and the son, just come from the
father’s deathbed, and going to buy his father’s grave, would “ like to
have gone that way, if ‘ Bradshaw ’ gave him any hope of doing it.”
There are men of whom this might be published without conveying
the disappointing, disenchanting effect which it conveys in this instance,
though in itself it is hard and shocking; but in the case of Mr. Dickens
the terrible frankness of it is much to be regretted. Such testimony
as this to the practical want of feeling of the man who described him
self as utterly good for nothing, prostrated with anguish, pursued by
phantasmal misery when Little Nell and Paul Dombey were dying,
whose hysterical sensibility about every fancy of his imagination was
so keen, is overwhelming. Mr. Forster ought to have shown us
one side of the medal only—his friend in fantastic agonies over a
fiction—“ knocked over, utterly dejected,” for instance, by “ the Ham
and Steerforth chapter,” or his friend eminently business-like over one
of the most solemn events possible in a human life. When he exhibits
him in both characters to plain people, he, no doubt unintentionally,
paints the portrait of a charlatan.
In another instance the biographer shocks yet more profoundly the
moral sense of persons who believe that genius is not less, but more,
bound by the common law of duty in feeling and in action. There
is a vast amount of sentiment, there are numerous prettinesses about
mothers and babies, and about motherhood and sonhood in the abstract,
in Mr. Dickens’s works; and in this case also, he, for whom it is so
persistently claimed that he lived in and with his books that he must
needs incur the penalty of this praise, is made by Mr. Foster to
produce the effect of falseness and inconsistency. The slight mention
made of Mr. Dickens’s mother by the biographer is contemptuous,
and his own solitary direct allusion to her is unjust and unfilial.
Could not Mr. Forster recall anything, ever so slight, in all that long
intimacy, so close and constant that it seems to have left no room and
no time in the novelist’s life for any other, to counterbalance that
impression ? The temptation, which no doubt strongly beset the
litterateur, to colour as highly as possible the picture of the “ blacking
bottle period,” has been too strong for the biographer, who has failed
to perceive that in making the episode exceedingly interesting, very
alluring to public curiosity, he has made the subject of it con
temptible. The picture is a paintul one, not altogether and only
from the side on which alone it is contemplated by Mr. Dickens and
Mr, Forster ; it is pervaded by the characteristics of all the pictures
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
175
of Mr. Dickens’s earlier years, and of all dealings with everybody on
occasions when they did not turn out to his entire satisfaction.
Neither Mr. Dickens nor his biographer regard this period of the
celebrated novelist’s life justly ; they both look at it from the stand
point of accomplished facts, of mature life, developed genius, and
achieved fame. The truth is, that the poor parents of a large and
helpless family were naturally glad to accept the proposal of a rela
tive who offered to give the means of existence to one of their
children, a boy of weak frame, indifferent health, and odd “ ways,” in
which they were too dull, too troubled, and too busy to suspect arid
look for genius. They were not clever, literary, or fanciful; they
were struggling and common-place. Mrs. Dickens was promised
that the child should be taught something, and given the precedence
of a relative of the master among the boys in the blacking ware
house. Both promises were kept for a time ; when they came to be
disregarded the family turmoil had subsided into the temporary
repose of imprisonment for debt. It is very sad that respectable
decent people should be reduced to being glad to have one child lodged
and fed, ever so meagrely, away from them ; but the man who was that
child, who laid claim afterwards to an exceptional and emotional sym
pathy with poverty, and comprehension of all its straits, could not
sympathise with his parents’ poverty. He could not comprehend that
to them to be spared the lodging and the feeding of one child was an
important boon, and he has been so unfortunate as to find a biographer
who records, as the only utterance of Mr. Dickens concerning his
mother, this, deliberately spoken in his full manhood, when he was
relating how his father and the relative who had given him his
wretched occupation had quarrelled about him : “ My mother set her
self to accommodate the quarrel, and did so next day. She brought
home a request for me to return next morning, and a high character
of me, which I am very sure I deserved. My father said I should go
to school, and should go back no more. I do not write resentfully
or angrily, for I know how all these things have worked together to
make me what I am; but I never afterwards forgot, I never shall
forget, I never can forget, that my mother was warm for my being
sent back. . . . From that hour until this my father and my mother
have been stricken dumb upon it.”
A great deal of public feeling upon this point has been taken for
granted in perfect good faith by a great many people, for want of plain
matter-of-fact comprehension of the case on its real merits. Mr. and
Mrs. Dickens were in deep poverty. “ All our friends were tired
out ”—these are their son’s own words. His sister Fanny, who was
gifted with musical talent, was a pupil in an academy of music,
as a preparation for earning her own livelihood; and when he was
sent to the employment which he so bitterly resented afterwards he
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
describes the family home thus : “ My mother and my brothers and
sisters (excepting Fanny) were still encamped with a young servant
girl from Chatham workhouse in two parlours of the house in Gower
Street. Everything had gone gradually; until at last there was
nothing left but a few chairs, a broken table, and some beds.” The
mother who sent her child to earn seven shillings a week in a
blacking warehouse from such a home—to be exchanged only for
her husband’s prison—was not, we think, quite a monster. What
became of the “brothers and sisters”? Did any one outrage the
family by offering help equally ignoble to another individual in whom
Sam Weller’s “ double million gas-magnifying glasses ” themselves
could hardly then have detected an embryo genius? When Mr. '
Dickens left the prison it was as a bankrupt, and though he imme
diately began the toil which was merely “ praiseworthy industry ” in
him, while it was magnified to heroism m his son, there is nothing
heinous, to our thinking, in the mother’s endeavour to keep those
seven weekly shillings wherewith one child might be fed, and in her
demur to a “ cheap school,” which, however cheap, must be paid for
out of nothing. Stripped of verbiage, this is the literal truth, and
Mr. Forster makes one of his gravest mistakes when he dwells with
would-be pathos upon the effect of this childish expression upon Mr,
Dickens’s mind and manners in after life. The picture, if true, is a
sorry one, for it is full of vanity, self-engrossment, and morbid feeling.
That a man who had achieved such renown, had done such work,
had so employed his God-given genius, should be awkward and ill at
ease in the society of well-bred unpretending people, should go about
under a kind of self-compelled cloud, because, being the child of poor
parents, he had, in his childhood, pursued, for a short time, a lowly
but honest occupation, is, to simple minds, an incomprehensibly foolish
and mean weakness.
If Mr. Dickens were represented as having been proud of the fact
that as a small and feeble child he had worked for his own living
with the approbation of his employers, and thus eased off her shoulders
some of the burthen his 4 mother had to carry, it would be con
sistent with the self-reliance of David Copperfield, the devotion of
Little Nell, the helpfulness of Jenny Wren, in short, with a number
of the virtues of the personages “ with ” and “ in ” whom we are told
his real life was to be found. Mr. Forster looks upon the childhood
and youth of Mr. Dickens with the eyes of his fame and maturity,
and cries out against the ignoring of a prodigy before there had been
anything prodigious about him, just as Mr. Dickens himself complains
of the publishers, to whom he owed the opportunity of making a
reputation, for ill-treating a famous author, and fattening on his
brains. Mr. Foster is emphatic in his blame of every one who was
concerned in the matter-—or indeed who was not, for “ friends ” are
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
177
taken to task—that Charles Dickens was not given a good education,
and eloquent about the education which he afterwards gave himself.
Here, again, the besetting temptation of the biographer to invest his
subject with attributes which do not belong to him, as well as to
exaggerate those which do, assails Mr. Forster. There are no facts
in his narrative to prove that Mr. Dickens ever was an educated man,
and all the testimony of his works is against the supposition. No
trait of his genius is more salient than its entire self-dependence ; no
defects of it are more marked than his intolerance of subjects which
he did not understand, and his high-handed dogmatic treatment of
matters which he regarded with the facile contempt of ignorance.
This unfortunate tendency was fostered by the atmosphere of flattery
in which he lived ; a life which, in the truly educational sense, was
singularly narrow; and though he was not entirely to blame for the
extent, it affected his later works very much to their disadvantage.
As a novelist he is distinguished, as a humourist he is unrivalled in
this age; but when he deals with the larger spheres of morals, with
politics, and with the mechanism of state and official life, he is absurd.
He announces truisms and tritenesses with an air of discovery im
possible to a well-read man, and he propounds with an air of convic
tion, hardly provoking, it is so simply foolish, flourishing solutions of
problems, which have long perplexed the gravest and ablest minds in
the higher ranges of thought.
We hear of his extensive and varied reading. Where is the evidence
that he ever read anything beyond fiction, and some of the essayists ?
Certainly not in his books, which might be the only books in the
world, for any indication of study or book-knowledge in them. Not a
little of their charm, not a little of their wide-spread miscellaneous
popularity, is referable to that very thing. Every one can understand
them; they are not for educated people only ; they do not suggest com
parisons, or require explanations, or imply associations; they stand
alone, self-existent, delightful facts. A slight reference to Fielding
and Smollett, a fine rendering of one chapter in English history—
the Gordon riots—very finely done, and a clever adaptation of
Mr. Carlyle’s ‘ Scarecrows ’ to his own stage, in ‘ A Tale of Two
Cities,’ are positively the only traces of books to be found in the long
series of his works. His ‘ Pictures from Italy ’ is specially curious as
an illustration of the possibility of a man’s living so long in a country
with an old and famous history, without discovering that he might
possibly understand the country better if he knew something about
the history. He always caught the sentimental and humourous
elements in everything; the traditional, spiritual, philosophic, or
¿esthetic not at all. His prejudices were the prejudices, not of one
sided opinion and conviction, but of ignorance “ all round.” His mind
held no clue to the character of the peoples of foreign countries, and
vol. xxxviii.
N
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
their tastes, arts, and creed were ludicrous mysteries to him. His
vividness of mind, freshness and fun, constitute the chief charm of his
stories, and their entire originality is the ‘ note ’ which pleases most;
but when he writes “ pictures ” of a land of the great past of poetry,
art, and politics, with as much satisfied flippancy as when he describes
the common objects of the London streets (for which he yearned in
the midst of all the mediaeval glories of Italy), he makes it evident
that he had never been educated, and had not educated himself. If
we are to accept Mr. Forster’s version of his friend’s judgment and
intellectual culture, apart from his own art as a novelist, we get a sorry
notion of them from the following sentence, which has many fellows.
At page 82 of the first volume, Mr. Forster writes : “ His (Mr. Dickens’)
observations, during his career in the gallery, had not led him to form
any high opinion of the House of Commons or its heroes; and of the
Pickwickian sense, which so often takes the place of common sense,
in our legislature, he omitted no opportunity of declaring his contempt
at every part of his life.” This is unkind. We do not like to believe
that the famous novelist was so insolent and so arrogant as his
biographer makes him out to have been, and it is only fair to remark
that it is Mr. Forster who represents his ‘ subject’s ’ contempt for
men and matters entirely out of his social and intellectual sphere as
something serious for those men and those matters. That Mr. Dickens
was rather more than less unfortunate than other people when, like
them, he talked of things he did not understand, is abundantly
proved by his £ Hard Times,’ the silly Doodle business in ‘ Bleak
House,’ the ridiculous picture of an M.P. in ‘ Nickleby,’ and the in
variable association of rank with folly and power with incompetence
in all his works. He knew nothing of official life; he had no com
prehension of authority, of discipline, of any kind of hierarchical
system, and his very humour itself is dull, pointless, laboured, and
essentially vulgar, when directed against the larger order of politics;
it becomes mere flippant buzzing, hardly worth notice or rebuke.
It is not only in the education of books that we perceive Mr.
Dickens to have been defective. Mr. Forster’s account of him makes
it evident that he was deficient in that higher education of the mind, by
which men attain to an habitually nice adjustment of the rights of
others in all mutual dealings, and to that strictly-regulated considera
tion which is a large component of self-respect. If this biography is
true and trustworthy; if the public, to whom the author of books
which supplied them with a whole circle of personal friends was an
abstraction, are to accept this portrait of Mr. Dickens as a living
verity, then they are forced to believe that, though a spasmodically
generous, he was not a just man. According to the narrative before
the world, he had a most exacting, even a grinding estimate, of the
sacredness and inviolability of his own rights. To under-estimate his
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
179
claims was the unpardonable stupidity ; to stand against liis interests
was the inexpiable sin. This deplorable tendency was lamentably
encouraged by Mr. Forster—who in 1837 made his appearance on the
scene which thenceforward he occupied so very conspicuously as a party
to Mr. Dickens’s second quarrel in the course of a literary career then
recently commenced. He had already quarrelled with Mr. Macrone,
the publisher of ‘ Sketches by Boz,’ and his subsequent kindness to
that gentleman’s widow by no means blinds a dispassionate observer
to the fact that the strict right—not the fine feeling, not the genius
recognising disinterestedness, but the mere honest right—was, not
with the author, but with the publisher. His second quarrel was
with Mr. Bentley, his second publisher ; his third quarrel was with
Messrs. Chapman and Hall, his third publishers. His fourth quarrel
is recorded in the second volume ; with the proprietors of the Daily
News, after a very brief endurance of the ineffable stupidity, the
intolerable exaction, and the general unbearableness of everybody con
cerned in the management of that journal—qualities which, by an
extraordinary harmony of accident, invariably distinguished all per
sons who came into collision with Mr. Dickens in any situation of
which he was not absolutely the master. We know that there is a
fifth quarrel—that with Messrs. Bradbury and Evans—yet to be re
corded ; and we submit, that to plain people, who do not accord ex
ceptional privileges to men of genius with regard to their dealings
with their fellows, those facts indicate radical injustice and bad temper.
The pages of Temple Bar are not the place in which the merits of
the indictment of Mr. Bentley at the bar of public opinion by Mr.
Forster ought to be discussed. They form matter for fuller dis
closure and more abundant proof ; but the editor must permit us an
allusion to this case so pompously stated by Mr. Forster, because it
differs in kind from the subsequent instances. In 1836 Mr. Dickens
was what his biographer calls “ self-sold into bondage,” i.e. he was
employed by Mr. Bentley to edit the ‘ Miscellany,’ to supply a serial
story, and to write two others, the first at a specified early date, “ the
expressed remuneration in each case being certainly quite inadequate
to the claims of a writer of any marked popularity.” We have only
to refer to the letter written by Mr. George Bentley, and published
in the Times on the 7th of December, 1871, to perceive the absurdity
of this statement, unless Mr. Forster’s estimate of the claims of rising
young littérateurs be of quite unprecedented liberality, in which case
it is to be hoped he may make numerous converts among the pub
lishers ; while the notion that a man so keenly alive to his own value
would have made a bad bargain, is à priori totally inconsistent with
his whole portrait of Mr. Dickens. But Mr. Dickens never seems to
have understood practically at any time of his life that there were two
sides to any contract to which he was a party. The terms of the first
n 2
�180
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were as follows:
Mr. Dickens was to write two works of fiction, ‘ Oliver Twist,’ and
another, subsequently entitled ‘ Barnaby Budge,’ for £1000, and toedit the ‘ Miscellany’ for £20 a month; this sum of course not toinclude payment for any of his own contributions. No rational person
can entertain a doubt that these conditions were exceedingly advan
tageous to Mr. Dickens at the then stage of his career. The term»
of the second agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were,
that he should receive £30 a month as editor of the ‘ Miscellany?
The terms of the third agreement which he made, and did not carry
out, were, that he should receive £750 for each of the two novels and
£360 per annum as editor of the ‘ Miscellany.’ The story of the fourth
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, will be told elsewhere.
It suffices here to say that he had his own way in all. Throughout
the whole of this affair, as Mr. Forster relates it, Mr. Dickens was
childishly irritable and ridiculously self-laudatory; and it never seems
to have occurred to either of them that a writer of books, employed
by a publisher, is a man of business executing a commission, by
business rules and under business laws. If Mr. Dickens, writing
‘ Pickwick ’ for Messrs. Chapman and Hall and ‘ Oliver Twist ’ for
Mr. Bentley at the same time, “ was never even a week in advance
with the printer in either,” outsiders will think that neither Messrs?.
Chapman and Hall nor Mr. Bentley were to blame for the circum
stance, that it was no business whatever of theirs, and that it had
nothing to do with Mr. Dickens’s objection to furnish the works he
had contracted to write, at the price for which he had contracted to
write them. The truth is, that Mr. Dickens was not a famous author,,
on whose brains Mr. Bentley designed to fatten, when he made thefirst agreement of that “ network in which he was entangled ” (Mr.
Forster’s astounding description of a series of contracts, each made on
Mr. Dickens’s own terms, and each altered at his own request,) for
he had written nothing but the ‘ Sketches by Boz ’ (‘ Pickwick,’ had
not even been commenced) and he had never edited anything, or
given any indication of the kind of ability requisite in an editor,
while he was evidently not an educated man. In fact, the first bar
gain strikes impartial minds as a rather daring speculation on Mr.
Bentley’s part; and there can be only one opinion that, when the
whole matter was concluded, it was on extraordinarily advantageous
terms to Mr. Dickens. For £2250 Mr. Bentley ceded to him the
copyright of ‘Oliver Twist’ (with the Cruiksliank illustrations,
whose value and importance Mr. Forster vainly endeavours to decry,
but on which public opinion cannot be put down), the stock of an
addition of 1002 copies, and the cancelled agreement for ‘Barnaby
Budge.’ We have the progressive figures which tell us what Mr.
Dickens’ salary as editor of ‘ Bentley’s Miscellany ’ had been. We
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
181
have the records of his early experience, and of his exact position when
Mr. Bentley employed him in that capacity. Taking all these things
into account, the discretion of his biographer in recording his poor
joke when he relinquished the editorship, saying, “it has always
been literally Bentley’s miscellany, and never mine,” may be denied
without impertinence.
From a more general point of view than merely that of this bio
graphy and its subject, the story of Mr. Dickens’s frequent quarrels
with everybody with whom he made contracts is lamentable. Mr.
Forster seems seriously and genuinely to regard the persons who
expected Mr. Dickens to keep his engagements, merely because he
had made them, as heinous offenders. In vol. ii. page 42, we find
a story about Messrs. Chapman & Hall’s having ventured to hint
their expectation of his fulfilment of a contract by which, in the event
■of a certain falling off in a certain sale, which falling off actually did
take place, he was to refund a certain sum, and this conduct is de
scribed with a sort of “ bated breath ” condemnation, as though it were
a dreadful departure from honour and decency, which, having been
atoned for, is merely referred to, pityingly, under extreme pressure of
biographical obligation. And all this because one of the contracting
parties is a novelist, whose fame is built upon the very articles which
he has supplied by the contract! Why do publishers employ authors ?
Is it that they may write successful or unsuccessful books ? Fancy a
man undertaking to write a serial novel—which must be a venture for
his publisher, who purchases it unread, unwritten—for a certain sum of
money, writing it well, so that it succeeds, and that his publisher is a
gainer by it—the writer’s gain being of course, in the nature of things,
a foregone conclusion, and the transaction being described as “ an obli
gation incurred in ignorance of the sacrifices implied by it.” What an
absence of commercial morality and of a sense of fair dealing is implied
by the notion! If we could suppose this line of argument to be
transferred to the productions of other orders of genius than the
literary, its uncandidness would come out with startling distinctness.
Supposing an artist were to contract with a picture dealer to paint a
picture for him within a given time and for a stated sum, and that
during the painting of that picture the artist’s reputation were to rise
considerably, in consequence of his excellent execution of another task,
so that not only would the picture be of greater value to the purchaser
than he had had reason to believe it would be at the date of the com
mission, but the artist would be entitled to ask a larger sum for his
next work. What would be thought of the artist, if he denounced
the dealer as everything that was mean and dastardly, because he
proposed to pay him the price agreed upon, and not a larger price ?
What would be thought of the same artist if, an agreement to paint
a second picture on the same terms as the first having Leen changed
�182
THE LIFE OF CHALLES DICKENS.
at his request and to his advantage, he deliberately instructed a friend
to cancel that agreement also, and bemoaned himself in terms so un
manly and so unbusinesslike as the following: “The consciousness
that I have still the slavery and drudgery of another work on th©
same journeyman terms,” Azs own terms, “ the consciousness that my
work is enriching everybody connected with it but myself, and that i,
with such a popularity as 1 have acquired, am struggling in old toils,
and wasting my energies in the very height and freshness of my fame
in the best part of my life, to fill the pockets of others, while for those
who are nearest and dearest to me I can realise little more than a
genteel subsistence; all this puts me out of heart and spirits............
I do most solemnly declare that morally, before God and man, I hold
> myself released from such hard bargains as these, after I have done
so much for those who drove them.” It is impossible to conceive any
great man in the world of art or any other world, which involves
production and purchase, writing in such a style as this, and no
blame can be too severe for the indiscretion which has given to the
public such a picture of mingled vanity and lack of conscience. If
this view of the business relations of author and publisher were to be
accepted as the just view, the success of the author would be the
misfortune of the publisher, and the grand object of the trade would
be to supply Mr. Mudie with a placid flow of mediocrity, by which
they could count on a certain moderate profit without risk; but they
would shun rising geniuses like the plague. We protest against all
the unworthy, unbusinesslike, and untrue jargon in which this story,
and the others like it are set forth, not only because it gives an
impression of the character of Mr. Dickens extremely disappointing
to the admirers of his genius—of whom the present writer is one of the
most fervent—but also for a much more serious and far-reaching reason.
Everything of the kind which is believed and adopted by the public
as true of literary men, is degrading to their status and demoralising
to their class. Why should a business transaction to which a man of
letters is a party, be in any moral or actual sense different from any
other business transaction whatsoever ? The right divine of genius
is to be better, honester, higher minded, than mediocrity, because it
has truer insight, a nobler, loftier outlook and ideal, and greater aims.
At least this is the common notion of the great privileges of genius,
and to controvert or degrade it is to inflict on the public a misfortune
entailing a loss. No man can claim of himself or be held by his friends
to be outside, above, or released from any common moral law, without
a failure of true dignity, a violation of common sense, and an offence
to the great majority of respectable and reasoning people who make
up that public whose word is reputation. Seldom has a more un
fortunate phrase than “ the eccentricities of genius ” been invented.
It has to answer for many a moral declension, which, if the phrase
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
183
had not existed, would have been avoided, because toleration would not
have been expected—for many a social impertinence, which would have
been too promptly punished for repetition. The “eccentricities of
genius ” are always its blemishes, frequently its vices, and the suffer
ance of them by society is a mistake, the condonation of them is a
fault, the laudation of them is a treacherous sin.
Next to Mr. Dickens’s indignation that his publishers should
presume to make money by his work, Mr. Forster exposes most
mercilessly his disgust at the possibility of his illustrators getting any
credit in connection with his books. It would be unprofitable to reca
pitulate the controversy between Mr. Cruikshank and Mr. Forster
about the artist’s share in the production of ‘ Oliver Twist,’ but in
connection with the subject it may be observed, that if Mr. Cruikshank’s Bill Sykes and Nance did not realise Mr. Dickens’ wish, every
reader of ‘ Oliver Twist ’ thinks of the housebreaker and his victim as
Mr. Cruikshank drew them, and knows that, in the case of Nance, the
author’s was an impossible picture (a fact which no one, as Mr.
Thackeray ably pointed out, knew better than NIr. Dickens), while the
artist’s was the coarse, terrible truth. On which side the balance of
suggestion was most heavily weighted it is not easy or necessary to
determine, but nothing can be clearer than that Mr. Cruiksliank
followed no lead of Mr. Dickens, in his wonderful pictures, but
saw the villainous components of that partly powerful yet partly
feeble romance of crime with a vision entirely his own. Mr. Halbot
Browne is allowed a little credit; but, though Mr. Forster presides
over the production of each book in succession, and all he suggests
and says is received with effusive respect and gushing gratitude,
though he reads and amends sheets hardly dry, and makes alterations
which require separate foot notes to display their importance, and
italics to describe their acceptation, every hint of counsel from any one
else is treated with offensive disdain. To Mr. Forster the world is
indebted for the Marchioness’s saying about the orange-peel and water,
that it would “ bear more seasoning.” Mr. Dickens had made it
“ flavour,” but the censor considered that word out of place in the
“ little creature’s mouth,” though the little creature was a cook, and
so it was changed. What a pity he did not suggest that Dick
Swiveller might have been quite as delightful, and yet considerably
less drunken I To him the world owes Little Nell’s death, but Mr.
Dickens would probably have acknowledged the obligation on his own
part less warmly if he had foreseen the publication of the absurd
rhapsody in which he announced the event as imminent; declaring
that he trembles “ to approach the place more than Kit; a great deal
more than Mr. Garland; a great deal more than the Single Gentle
man.” Then with ingenuous vanity, and forgetting grammar in
gush, he protests: “ Nobody will miss her like I shall. What the
�184
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
actual doing it will be, God knows. I can’t preach to myself the
schoolmaster’s consolation, though I try.” Only the pachydermatous
insensibility which comes of mutual admiration could have prevented
a biographer’s perception of the inappropriateness of such reve
lations, and of scores of similar ones; only such insensibility can
account for his complacent sacrifice of every one else to the glorifica
tion of that leviathan in whose jaws he could always put a hook.
That Mr. Dickens may be made to praise Mr. Mark Lemon patronisingly, Mr. Forster prints a statement concerning Mrs. Lemon, which
that lady has contradicted in the press; and that Mr. Dickens’s gene
rosity and delicacy may be duly appreciated, Mr. Forster tells how he
deputed Mr. Wills to make Mr. Sala a present of £20. It is neces
sary to keep constantly before one’s mind that it is Mr. Forster who
is speaking for Mr. Dickens, if one would escape from an overwhelm
ing conviction that the great novelist was a very poor creature, and
that it would have been far better for his fame had he been made
known to the public only by his novels. It is especially necessary to
remember this when we find a school of morals imputed to him, when
he is represented as a great teacher who adopted the method of
apologue, and we are gravely assured that “ many an over-suspicious
person will find advantage in remembering what a too liberal applica
tion of Foxey’s principle of suspecting everybody brought Mr. Sampson
Brass to; and many an over-hasty judgment of poor human nature
will unconsciously be checked, when it is remembered that Mr. Chris
topher Nubbles did come back to work out that shilling.”
When we read scores of similar passages, we ask ourselves, Can this
be in earnest ? Can it be possible that this is intended to be serious ?
Or is Mr. Forster, getting occasionally tired of the perpetual swing of
the censor of praise before the image of the friend who, in his lifetime,
never wearied of sniffing the enervating perfume, and swung lustily
for himself, poking ponderous fun at the public ? Even the humour of
the great humourist suffers by the handling of his ardent but undis
criminating worshipper. The rubbish by which the tradition of Mrs.
Gamp is continued, the silly letters in dubious French, which exhibit
Mr. Dickens’s absolute incapacity to comprehend any foreign country,
and the unpardonable nonsense, in which he was encouraged by wiser
men, of his pretended admiration for the Queen, are flagrant examples
of injudiciousness, which heavily punishes the folly it parades. Mr.
Dickens’s letter about her Majesty, written thirty years’ ago, was a
sorry jest. Mr. Forster’s publication of it now is supreme bad taste.
Mr. Dickens’s sentimentalism, always exaggerated and frequently
false, suffers at the hands of his biographer even more severely than
his humour. Mr. Forster as confidant, and Mr. Dickens as Tilburina, in intercommunicated hysterics over the ‘ Christmas Stories,’
‘ Dombey and Son,’ and ‘ David Copperfield,’ become so very weari
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
185
some, especially when Mr. Forster solemnly declares his belief that the
* Christmas Carol ’ “ for some may have realised the philosopher’s
famous experience, and by a single fortunate thought revised the whole
manner of a life,” that it is a positive relief when they are parted.
Mr. Dickens’s ‘ Letters from America ’ form the least disappointing
portion of this work ; in them his egotism is less persistently offensive
and his humour is displayed to great advantage. The reverse of this
is the case in his ‘ Letters from Italy.’ In them he is in a perpetual
state of ebullition, fussiness, impatience, effervescent vanity, and self
engrossment. It is amusing to observe that the great humourist was
so little accustomed to recognise humour in others, that it never oc
curred to him he could be quizzed. When a witty consul warned him
not to let his children out of doors, because the Jesuits would be on
the watch to lead their innocent feet into popish places, he swallowed
the warning with the docile credulity of a Vansittart.
It must be acknowledged that Mr. Forster’s advice was very sound
and valuable in many instances. Perhaps his consciousness of that
fact has blinded him to the extent to which his exposure of his friend’s
weaknesses has gone. Was it, for instance, worth while, in order to
record that he rejected the proposition, to let the public know that
Mr. Dickens ever proposed as a title for his projected weekly mis
cellany, “ Charles Dickens : A Weekly Journal, designed for the
instruction and amusement of all classes of readers. Conducted by
Himself ” ?
In one more volume this warmly-welcomed, eagerly-read biography
is to be completed. That volume must necessarily be a more difficult
and responsible task than its predecessors. It is to be hoped that it
will fulfil the expectations of the public more satisfactorily, and that
it will do more justice to Mr. Dickens by doing less injustice to all
with whom he was concerned. It is to be hoped that it will put before
the world a more substantial representation of the great novelist who
was so variously gifted; that it will leave its readers able in some
measure to respect and esteem its subject as a man, for real qualities,
while ceasing to urge an imaginary claim to misplaced consideration,
and especially that it will be free from the faint suggestion which
pervades the present volumes, that, essentially, “ Codlin was the friend,
not Short.”
�[
186
]
£ lluire from tlje pusl),
O ! milii prseteritos ....
High noon, and not a cloud in the sky to break this blinding sun!
Well, I’ve half the day before me still, and most of my journey
done.
There’s little enough of shade to be got, but I’ll take what I can get,
For I’m not as hearty as once I was, although I’m a young man yet.
Young ? Well, yes, I suppose so, as far as the seasons go,
Though there’s many a man far older than I down there in the town
below,—
Older, but men to whom, in the pride of their manhood strong,
The hardest work is never too hard, nor the longest day too long.
But I’ve cut my cake, so I can’t complain; and I’ve only myself to
blame.
Ah ! that was always their tale at home, and here it’s just the same.
Of the seed I’ve sown in pleasure, the harvest I’m reaping in pain.
Could I put my life a few years back would I live that life again ?
Would I? Of course I would ! What glorious days they were !
It sometimes seems but the dream of a dream that life could have been
so fair,
So sweet, but a short time back, while now, if one can call
This life, I almost doubt at times if it’s worth the living at all.
One of these poets—which is it ?—somewhere or another sings
That the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow is the remembering happier
things ;
What the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow may be I know not, but this I
know,
It lightens the years that are now, sometimes to think of the years
ago.
Where are they now, I wonder, with whom those years were passed ?
The pace was a little too good, I fear, for many of them to last;
And there’s always plenty to take their place when the leaders begin
to decline.
Still I wish them well, wherever they are, for the sake of ’auld lang
syne!
�A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
187
L I Jack Villiers—Galloping Jack—what a beggar he was to ride!—
f I Was shot in a gambling row last year on the Californian side;
LI And Byng, the best of the lot, who was broke in the Derby of fifty
eight,
I ’ Is keeping sheep with Harry Lepell, somewhere on the Biver Plate.
Do they ever think of me at all, and the fun we used to share ?
It gives me a pleasant hour or so—and I’ve none too many to spare.
This dull blood runs as it used to run, and the spent flame flickers up,
As I think on the cheers that rung in my ears when I won the
Garrison Cup!
!
■
'
I. And how the regiment roared to a man, while the voice of the fielders
shook,
! As I swung in my stride, six lengths to the good, hard held over
Brixworth Brook;
Instead of the parrots’ screech, I seem to hear the twang of the horn,
As once again from Barkby Holt I set the pick of the Quorn.
Well, those were harmless pleasures enough; for I hold him worse than
an ass
Who shakes his head at a ‘ neck on the post,’ or a quick thing over
the grass.
Go for yourself, and go to win, and you can’t very well go wrong;—
Gad, if I’d only stuck to that I’d be singing a different song!
7
,
As to the one I’m singing, it’s pretty well known to all;
We knew too much, but not quite enough, and so we went to the wall;
While those who cared not, if their work was done, how dirty their
hands might be,
Went up on our shoulders, and kicked us down, when they got to the
top of the tree.
«
But though it relieves one’s mind at times, there’s little good in a
curse.
) I One comfort is, though it’s not very well, it might be a great deal worse.
A id A roof to my head, and a bite to my mouth, and no one likely
to know
In ‘ Bill the Bushman ’ the dandy who went to the dogs long years
ago-
I
Out there on the station, among the lads, I get along pretty well;
It’s only when I get down into town that I feel this life such a hell.
Booted, and bearded, and burned to a brick, I loaf along the street;
, I watch the ladies tripping by and I bless their dainty feet;
�188
A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
I watch them here and there, with a bitter feeling of pain.
Ah! what wouldn’t I give to feel a lady’s hand again!
They used to be glad to see me once, they might have been so to-day;
But we never know the worth of a thing until we have thrown it away.
I watch them, but from afar, and I pull my old cap over my eyes,
Partly to hide the tears, that, rude and rough as I am, will rise,
And partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see
The man that I am, when I know, though they don’t, the man that I
ought to be.
Puff! With the last whiff of my pipe I blow these fancies away,
For I must be jogging along if I want to get down into town to-day.
As I know I shall reach my journey’s end though I travel not over
fast,
So the end to my longer journey will come in its own good time at
last.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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The life of Charles Dickens
Creator
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Hoey, Frances Sarah Johnston
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 169-188 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article from Temple Bar magazine, May 1873; attribution from Virginia Clark catalogue. A review of vol. 1-2 of John Forster's biography of Dickens.
Publisher
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[Bentley]
Date
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[1873]
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G5571
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Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The life of Charles Dickens), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Book Reviews
Charles Dickens
Conway Tracts
English Literature
Fiction in English
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�blese the men this night at sea.”
“SHIP AHOY!
A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths.
BEING THE
NNUÄL
HRISTMÄS
OF
Once
a
Wee k.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE,
19, TAVISTOCK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1873[All rights reserved.}
�liimM
LONDON:
SWEETING AND CO., PRINTERS,
80, gray's inn road.
�FIRST CABLE
LENGTH.
HOW THE “MERRY MAY
CAME IN.
“ Now, my sons, all toge
ther!”
“ Yo-ho!—hoy-y!”
“ Now another!”
“ Yo-ho!—a-hoy-y!”
“Now all together, my
lads!”
“Ahoy!—hoy! hoy! —
yer-hup! ”
“Now a good one!”
“ Y oy-hoy!—yer-hup!—
hoop!”
“ Another pull, my sons! ”
“ Hoy!—yoho!—yo-ho!
—hup!”
“Well pulled. Now your
song.”
“Ho! haulyyo! hoy-y!
Cheerly, men, ho !—yo-hoy-y!”
Pull, stamp, and haul together, and
the good ship, the Merry May, work
ing into dock, with her foretopmast
gone at the cross-trees, her maintop
�4
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
gallant badly sprung, a splice in her
spanker-boom, and her sides battered
' and denuded of paint. Two boats swept
away, and a big piece of her bulwarks
patched up in a sorry fashion after that
great wave pooped her, and cut its way
out of the port side as though the bul
warks had been made of bandbox.
Worse than all, too, there is about as
strange a makeshift of a rudder as was
ever seen; for, after a fair voyage from
Colombo, in rounding the Cape the sea
rose, and the wind blew what old Basalt
called a “snorer,” and he swore a dozen
times—pooh! a thousand times in oaths,
but a dozen times in his assertion-—that
the May would go to the bottom.
But she did not; for Captain John
Anderson knew his duty as well as any
sailor in the merchant service, and fought
the storm like a good man and true—■
beat it like a Briton, when a score of
other men would have given up, and
gone down on their knees in despair,
and prayed to God to save them.
“Like a set of lubbers!” said old
Basalt when telling the story at the
Jolly Sailors afterwards, over a glass of
Mrs. Gurnett’s best rum and water.
“ But there, Lord bless you! I taught
the boy to make his first knot—I made
a sailor of him; and a sailor he is, every
inch, God bless him!”
Here old Jeremiah Basalt wiped either
a tear or a drop of rum and water out
of his eye.
“Sink? Not she. We was knocking
about for a fortnight, and he never once
left the deck. Sails were blown outer
the bolt ropes, bulwarks swept away,
boats went, and the fellows was ready
to give up; but d’ye think he would ?
Not he. Why, bless yer, he’s that much
of a true Briton, that if Davy Jones his
self was to come and say to him, ‘ You’re
dead, now, as a copper fastener,’ he
wouldn’t believe him. Not he. He
says to me, just about the worst of it,
when it was blowing the greatest guns
as ever did blow, ‘Jerry,’ he says, ‘I
undertook to sail this here ship for Mr.
Halley,’ he says ; ‘and she’s got a cargo
in her of tea and silks as is worth a hun
[Christmas, 1873.
dred thousand pound,’ he says ; ‘ and I
mean to run her safe into London Dock
afore I’ve done.’
“He roared them there words—a bit
shorter, you know—into my ear as we
was holding on to the spokes of the
wheel, just in the werry worst on it;
for, bless you, he wouldn’t trust no one
else then. Drenched we was to the
skin, and puffing to get a breath now
and then—with the wind shrieking in
your ears, and the sea spitting in your
face, and cutting your very eyes out.
‘No, Jerry,’ he says, ‘while I’ve breath
in my body,’ he says, ‘I’ll never give
up.’ And then—bang!”
“What?” said Mrs. Gurnett, breath
lessly, as, in his excitement, old Basalt
swept his half drunk glass of grog on to
the floor.
“What? Why — bang!” cried old
Basalt, again bringing his fist down
upon the table with a blow that made
every glass in the snug bar parlour ring
again. “Bang! Mrs. Gurnett, bang!
The wheel spun round, and sent the
cap’n to leeward and me to windward,
half stunned, under the bulwarks; and
when we come to again, we found the
rudder swep’ away, and the poor old
ship wallering in the trough o’ the sea,
like a blown porpus in a tideway.
“ Ship seas ? Ah, we did ship seas ;
and anybody else ’ud a gone quietly to
the bottom ’cep John Anderson my Jo ;
and if he didn’t rig up a rudder out of
a boom, and work it with ropes and
blocks, and get her afore the wind again,
why I ain’t here without a drop o’ rum
and water to wet my throat, dry with all
this talking.”
But to go back to .the dock. There
was the good ship Merry May in sore
plight as to her outward appearance ;
but tight, and free from water. Her
whole cargo was safe, and in port; her
captain proud, and talking to his owner,
as the men, under old Basalt’s orders,
cheered, and hauled, and helped the
dock men till the vessel was through the
great flood-gates, and being warped in
amongst the tier of shipping in the inner
basin.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873 ]
An hour after, the riggers were Oil
board, and up aloft, unbending sails;
while John Anderson was shaking hands
with Mr. Halley, a florid old gentle
man, at the gangway.
“ At one o’clock, then, to-morrow,
Anderson, at Canonbury. Lunch and
a glass of wine. And God bless you,
my boy, and thank you!”
"Don't say any more, sir, pray.”
“ But I must say more, Anderson,”
said the owner. “I don’t believe there’s
another captain who would have brought
her into port; and no insurance would
JSecond
have ever recompensed me for her loss.
Good-bye—God bless you!”
“ And you too, sir. Good-bye.”
“ At one to-morrow,” from the wharf.
“ At one to-morrow, sir,” from the
gangway.
Mr. Halley passed out of the dock
gates, and took a cab to his offices in
Shipping-street; and Captain John An
derson, aged twenty-nine, fair, sunburnt,
grey-eyed, and frankly handsome, went
home like a good son, as she said he
was, to think of some one else, and to
kiss his mother.
J3able
J^ENGTH.
HOW MRS. ANDERSON TALKED TO HER
you can
imagi ne
Mary, Queen
of Scots, at
the age of
seventy-two,
and wearing
a black silk
dress, you
have before
you Mrs.
A n d e r son,
standing
with her
c r o ss-handled stick in
one hand,
while with
the other she
caresses the crisp, brown, Saxon curls of
her son’s hair. Her fair old face stands
out from her stiffly starched ruff-like
collar and crimped cap. Her grey hair
is suitably arranged over her temples,
and every feature seems to speak and
say—“ This is my son! ”
It is a quaint old room where they
are; well furnished, but there is a nau
tical smack about it. You can even
smell the sea—the odour being fur
nished by some bunches of bladder
l’
5
SON.
wrack hanging from the nail that sup
ports the painting of “The Flying
Betsy barque passing the Nab Light”—
a finely executed work of art, wherein
you have every sail set, a series of
dots along the deck to represent cap
tain and crew, and the foaming billows
rising foam-capped with a regularity that suggests their all having been
formed in the same mould. Over the
chimney-piece hangs the portrait of the
late Captain Anderson père, who ap
pears to have run a good deal to fat.
Beneath it is suspended his spy-glass,
bearing upon its long tube the flags of
all nations. There are cabinets of
walnut, too, with curiosities from all
parts. A chest from China, a screen
from Japan, some New Zealand wad
dies, and bird skins and feathers from
the Cape—collections commenced by
the father and continued by the son.
“So, you’re going up to Mr. Halley’s,
John, are you?”
“Yes, to lunch, mother.”
“ I don’t think you ought to go, John
—the first day you’re home with your
poor old mother.”
“ But it’s business, dear—I could not
refuse,” said Anderson, gently, as he
passed his arm round the slight old
figure, and kissed the handsome old face.
�6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“May be,’* said the old lady, enjoy
ing the embrace, but evidently only
half satisfied.
“ I’ll soon be back to you,” said the
son, smiling; “ they won’t want me
there long.”
“I don’t know, John, I don’t know.
I should not so much mind you going,
but Mr. Halley has a daughter.”
“Yes, of course he has,” said John
Anderson, starting, and with the blood
mounting to his forehead.
“ And I do not want her to be lay
ing traps for my boy.”
“Why, you dear old goose,” cried
John, laughing outright, “what a fine
fellow this son of yours is, isn’t he?”
The old lady bridled up, and knitted
her brows.
“Do you think it would be safe
for either of the Queen’s unmarried
daughters to see me?” laughed John.
“ They might have marriageable ideas.”
“They might do worse, John,” said
the old lady, stiffly, but stroking his hair
the while.
“Why, my dear old darling,” said
John, huskily, as he drew her down
upon his sturdy knee, and laid his fore
head against her shoulder, “ do you for
a moment think it possible that a rich
shipowner’s daughter could ever lower
herself to look with the eyes of favour
upon a poor ignorant merchant sailor,
who has only one idea in his head, and
that is the working of a ship?”
“ If you don’t wish to break your poor
old mother’s heart, John, say no more,”
said the old lady, sobbing angrily. “As
if there was a nobler, a finer, a hand
somer, a cleverer man anywhere in the
whole world than—”
“Phew—w—w—w! ” whistled Captain
Anderson, softly, as he drew the frail
old figure closer to him, and kissed the
wrinkled forehead reverently, saying to
himself—
“Thank God for making mothers!”
And then aloud—“ There, there, dear,
when I am about to sail a fresh ship and
want a character, I’ll send the owners
to you.”
“ Such nonsense,. John ! As if it were
[Christmas, 1873.
ever likely you would want a better
ship than the Merry May'' „
“Well spoke, Mrs. Anderson—-well
spoke,” said Jeremiah Basalt, entering
the room with two sways and a lurch;
“as if it was likely that the captain
would ever want to sail any other ship.
No, indeed. By the mark seven, as we
say, Master Halley knows good biscuit
when he sees it, and it’ll be a long
time afore he parts company with our
cap’.”
“ Mr. Basalt, will you take a glass of
strong waters?” said Mrs. Anderson,
primly, but all the same looking graj
ciously at the rough old salt.
“Thanky, Mrs. Anderson, I will,!
said Basalt. “Alius water when you
has a chance, and then your casks won’t
run dry.”
The old lady trudged softly across
the room to a corner cupboard; then
after searching amongst the folds of her
stiff silk dress she found a pocket-hole,
into which she plunged her arm almost
to the elbow and brought out a great
pincushion, then a housewife, next a
bodkin case, a piece of orris root, a pen
knife, and lastly, though not by any
means the bottom of her cargo, a shin
ing bunch of keys—one and all rubbed
bright and worn with many years of
friction. Selecting one key, she opened
the quaint cupboard and lifted out a
curious old leather-covered case, which
her son hastened to take from her hands
and place upon the table, while she
smiled her thanks, and then brought out
two old-fashioned glasses, in the stems
of which were quaint opal-lined spirals.
Then another key had to be brought
into requisition to open the case, from
which three square bottles were drawn.
“Your poor father’s own case, John,”
said the old lady, as she took out a
stopper and filled one of the glasses for
old Basalt. “ Hollands, Mr. Basalt,
that he brought himself from Flushing,
twenty years ago.”
“Is it really?” said the old mate,
holding up the greeny fluid to the light,
and squinting through the glass before
smelling it. “Took a good fire to ’stil
�Christmas, 1873.]
»SHIP AHOY!”
it, anyhow. Why, you can sniff the
smoke now.”
» Taste it, Mr. Basalt—taste it, and
drink my John’s health.”
• “ God bless him! that I will,” cried
the old fellow, rising glass in one hand
to slap his other into his captain’s open
palm, and shake it heartily. “John
Anderson, God bless you!”
The grasp was as heartily returned;
and then, shutting one eye, Jeremiah
Basalt poured the glass of Hollands
down his throat; and, grog-hardened
even as he was, gave a slight gasp
as he put down the glass, and turning
to Mrs. Anderson, said solemnly—
“Lor! I wish I’d been a Dutchman.”
Mrs. Anderson smiled graciously, and
held out her hand to take the emptied
glass and refill it, a movement half
resented in a sham bashful manner by
the old man, who pretended to draw
back the glass; but all the same drew it
softly to him as soon as it was refilled,
to take a sniff at its contents, and then
exhale a long breath, after the fashion
of a connoisseur learned in the bouquet
of wines.
John Anderson drained his glass,
filled for him by the old lady, who
even then could not resist the tempta
tion to have another stroke at her son’s
hair. The next minute he rose, saying—
“ I am going up to Mr. Halley’s now,
Basalt, and will come down to the docks
afterwards.”
“ Not much good your coming there,”
grumbled the old man. “The ship’s
mucked up with lubbers, and will be till
we get her loaded again; and the sooner
the better, say I. Mrs. Anderson, my
service to you, I drink your very good
health this time.”
And he poured the second glass of
Hollands down his throat, such is the
force of education, without so much as
a wink.
The next minute, he and his captain
were standing side by side in the
street.
».No news about the ship, I suppose ?”
said Anderson, more for the sake of con
versation than anything else.
7
»No,”said the mate, »only, as I said,
she’s full of lubbers—lubbers up aloft,
lubbers down below, lubbers hanging
over her sides, and lubbers on the wharf
taking her cargo.”
»Wait a bit—wait a bit,” said Ander
son, smiling, » and we’ll be off again to
sea.”
» Sooner the better,” said Basalt ; » for
if I stay ashore long, I shall never get
away at all. I shall be married and
done for, as sure as a gun.”
» Stuff!” said Anderson, laughing, and
holding out his hand to shake the mate’s
and part.
“ Stop a bit,” said Basalt ; » there’s
news of one of Rutherby’s ships.”
, »Good?”
» Damn bad !”
“ Not lost ?”
» Gone to the bottom of the sea—‘ the
sea, the sea, and she’s gone to the
bottom of the sea,’ as the old song
says.”
»Bad job that, Basalt.”
» Not it,” growled the old fellow.
» Heav’ly insured—rotten old hulk—
sent out apurpose. Halfthemen drowned,
and the owner turns his eyes up like
a gull in thunder, wipes the corners,
and then rubs his hands and goes to
church. There’s lots o’ them games
carried on, and owners makes fortunes
out of it. They say Rutherby’s does,
Langford and Co.’s does, and some more
of’em.”
» Basalt,” said Anderson, flushing up,
and speaking hotly, »you’re a prejudiced
old humbug. Do you mean to say that
in your heart you believe a shipowner
would be such a cold-blooded, hellish
scoundrel as to send a crew to sea in a
vessel that he knew to be unsafe, and
that he had heavily insured ?”
»Yes I do—swear to it!” said the
old fellow, stoutly.
“ It’s all confounded rubbish ! ” was the
reply. » Why, a demon would think
twice before he did such a thing. Why,
it’s rank murder.”
“To be sure it is,” said the old fellow.
» Why, I’ve known it done over and over
again. I could show you the men who
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
[Christmas, 1873.
have done it, and made money by it. I demons. So put that in your next quid,
don’t say as their crews was always my boy.’i
Here the old fellow went growling
drowned; but they were sometimes. As
to demons, and them sort of chaps, I off, and Captain Anderson made his
never know’d one as was in the shipping way to the corner by the Bank, to get a
trade, and don’t know whether they Canonbury ’bus, muttering to himself
make good shippers; but I’ll tell you as he went—
“ As good an old fellow as ever
this, and swear to it too, my lad, I’ve
known shippers, and have sailed for ’em, stepped, but as prejudiced and obstinate
as would have made out-an’-out good as a wooden mule.”
J" HIRD
IIOW JOHN
ANDERSON
ANONBURY
is not fashion
able, but it is
comfo rtable.
The old red
brick houses
look snug
and prosper
ous. There is
an air of
wealth about the dis
trict, and oldf a s h i o n ed
ease. The
red walls
indicate
warmth; and
once beyond
them and
their coating
of ivy and
over-shadowing trees, you expect to
find solid furniture, good plate, and fine
linen.
You are quite right in your expecta
tions—they are all there; and as to ve
neering, it is not known in the older
parts. There are cellars to the houses
in Canonbury: none of your West-end
cellars, under the pavement, with an
iron disc in the centre for the admission
of coals, but rare old cellars of a hun
dred years and more, with fine fungous
MADE
LOVE.
growths amongst the brickwork, and a
glorious smell of damp sawdust. Tlat!
you know in a moment that there are
bins there with rare dry natural sherry
that has been lying for years, and rich,
tawny old port next door, whose bees
wing breeds glorious fancies in the mind
of him who sips it over the dark, glossy
mahogany of its owner. And that is
not all, for here and there, too, in Ca
nonbury are bins of that rare, priceless
old wine, of glistening topaz hue, rich
Madeira, treasured up as a store that
can never be replenished.
Your citizens have long favoured Ca
nonbury as a convenient abode; and
those who have never cared to migrate
westward cling to the old place still, to
look down with solid respectability upon
the new, semi-detached villa people, who
have hemmed them in on every side,
but have still left Canonbury in statu
quo.
It was at a quarter to one'that Cap
tain John Anderson, with his cheek
flushed and heart palpitating, pulled at
the bell by the old iron gateway of
Brunswick House—that great, red-brick,
ivy-covered mansion that faces you as
you go down from Upper-street towards
the Tower.
He had meant to ring gently; but
the bell sent forth a clamorous peal
which brought a formal-looking foot
man in drab to the door, where he stood
�Chris®®®, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY ! ”
for a moment, and then condescended
to come down to the iron gate.
“ Why didn’t you come in—the gate
was open ?*’ said the footman, looking
his visitor over superciliously—for Sa
muel had a most profound contempt
for Shipping-street, and the bluff, hand
some captain savoured to him of the
shop.
But Captain Anderson was distrait;
and merely saying, “Tell your master
I’m here,” passed on into the hall, from
whence he was shown into the drawing
room, where, as the door closed behind
him, he stood with palpitating heart—
trembling and nerveless, and with a
stifling sensation at his throat in the
presence of his fate.
You don’t believe it, perhaps, you !
Maybe you are not strong, and big, and
sturdy, and desperately in love with a
sweet-faced, loveable girl, in the first
flush of her beauty. You do not be
lieve, perhaps, in a huge Hercules be
coming slave to a beautiful Omphale ?
I am sorry for you: I do; and, what is
more, I have history on my side, with
hundreds of cases where the strong are
really the weak. It is a pity, but all
the same it is so; and the bigger, and
stronger, and more muscular you are,
the greater shall be your thraldom when
you are led captive by some such a fair
maiden as was May Halley.
Shall I try to paint her ? I will,
though I have but white paper and
black ink. No; upon second thoughts,
I will not, lest I fail; and therefore let
me say that, without the aid of classic
features, she was all that could be de
sired in a sweet English maiden, whose
eyes were grey, cheeks peachy, forehead
white, and who upon occasion could
flash up into a very Juno.
As Captain Anderson was announced,
he became aware of the fact that a tall,
fair young man was in the act of bid
ding a lady good-bye, and bending with
great empressement over her hand.
Then it seemed that the door was closed,
and that the room was all clouds; and
he, John Anderson, below them on earth,
and May Halley above them in heaven.
9
Then she spoke—words simple and
commonplace, but sufficient to thrill
him through and through.
“ I am glad to see you safely back,
Captain Anderson., Take a seat. Papa
will be disengaged very soon.”
John Anderson did not make any re
sponse, but stood, hat in hand, gazing
at the fair girl before him till she flushed
scarlet, and half turned away with re
sentment in her bright eyes.
He could not have spoken then to
have saved his life, for a great struggle
was going on within him. For a few
moments the room seemed to spin
round, and he saw Mary Halley through
a fiery mist; then two red anger spots
began to burn on his cheeks; a dull,
dead, aching sense of pain fell upon his
heart; and he stood with his hands
clenching till the great veins stood out,
swollen and knotted, while the dew
stood upon his forehead in big drops.
For John Anderson had awakened to
the fact that the idol he had worshipped
now for years, without ever thinking of
speaking of his love, was also the idol
of another. He had seen that tall, fair
young man—smooth, gentlemanly, with
the world’s own polish, fashionable of
exterior—bending over May’s hand,
and saying words that must have been
of a complimentary nature; for she
had smiled pleasantly as she bade him
adieu.
Yes, and he had taken that hand in his
—his, such a soft, white, well-cared-for
hand; while the hand J ohn Anderson
clenched, till the nails pressed savagely
into his flesh, was brown, hardened, and
rugged with toil. There was a great
tar mark, too, that had refused to be
washed off; and as for a moment the
young man’s eyes fell, it was to see that
black stain there.
That black mark! It was a brand
of his toil-spent life; and he shivered
as he thought of the house of cards he
had been rearing—dreaming, as he had
been, of May in the long watches of
many a night in the far-off seas, when
he had leaned over the bulwarks think
ing of home, and the fair girl whom he
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
*
had seen at each turn, growing more
and more in a beautiful woman.
Yes, he knew it all now: that he had
been dreaming; that he was but a
rough, coarse sailor, fit only to battle
with the sea; while this fair pearl was
to be worn upon the heart of a polished
gallant, and——John Anderson started, for May Hal
ley was standing before him with out
stretched hand.
“ I am very glad to see you back,”
she said.
In a moment John Anderson had the
soft little hand between both his, and in
another he would have raised it to his
lips, but the thought of what he had
witnessed came at that instant like a
chill; and, dropping her hand, he half
staggered back, and sank into a chair.
“CaptainAnderson!—is anything the
matter ? Are you unwell ? Shall I ring
for a glass of wine?” exclaimed May,
in tones full of concern, every word
thrilling the strong man’s heart, and
making every fibre vibrate.
“Yes—yes!” he exclaimed, half be
side himself, as he caught her hand in
his—■“ there is much the matter. I—I
—there—I must speak—I am half mad,
May—darling, I know I am but a rough
sailor—but—since a child—loved you
—Oh! for God’s sake, don’t turn away
from me! Tell me—tell me that I am
not right—that you do not love that—
that man I saw here ! I—”
He stopped, for May stood before
him with reddened cheek and flashing
eye. He heard but three words, but
they burned into his brain as she turned
away—
“ How dare you! ”
The next moment she was sobbing
in her father’s arms, for Mr. Halley had
entered unperceived with the visitor of
a short time before.
“What does all this mean ?”
“ Oh, papa,” sobbed the girl, “ Cap
tain Anderson has insulted me!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“A confounded cad!” exclaimed the
young man, facing Anderson, and laying
his hand upon his collar, as if to turn
him out of the room; but the next in
stant-—it was like a flash more than
anything else—he was lying on the
carpet, having crushed in his fall a frail,
spider-legged table, and carried with
him a vase of flowers, which pleasantly
ornamented his white visage as he lay.
The next minute John Anderson was
hurrying down the street on his way
back to town, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing, only feeling that he was mad—that he had acted like a madman—that
he had, in one wild moment, demolished
the idol that had been his sole thought
for years, and that now life was one
great burden, and the sooner he was
away again at sea the better.
“At sea!”
He said those two words aloud, and
stopped short so suddenly that he was
rudely jostled by a passer-by.
At sea! Why, after what had passed
this morning, he would lose the com
mand of the Merry May. Mr. Halley
would never allow the presumptuous
man who had insulted his daughter with
his impertinent pretensions to sail his
ship; and he would be without a com
mand !
It was horrible to think of; but the
thought would come, and John Ander
son gave a groan as he called himself a
maniac, and staggered along, feeling
that he had lost his love, his ship, selfesteem, and the confidence of his em
ployer. And all for what?
All for love: the love of as sweet a
woman as ever was made to give hap
piness to sinful, erring man.
“Yes,” said John Anderson, “I have
lost all. And all for what? All for
love! What shall I do now?”
He stood again for a moment or two
thinking; and then, with a half-mocking, half-tearful smile, he said, simply—
“ I’ll go home.”
»1«
Bg------- ----------------------------------------------------
�Christmas, 1873.]
«SHIP AHOY!
11
HOW JEREMIAH BASALT WENT TO SEE THE WIDOW.
NEVER
drinks but
one glass
of grog a
day at
sea,” said
old Basalt
—“ n eve r
but one,
Mrs. Gurnett. For
w h y ?
’Cause
there’s
dooty to
be done,
and may
be a watch
to keep;
and if your sooperior officers takes more
than’s good for them, what’s to be ex
pected of your men ? But now I’m
ashore, with nothing to do but amuse
myself, I don’t care if I do take
another.”
“And it’s welcome you are here to as
many as you like, and when you like, Mr.
Basalt,” said Mrs. Gurnett, rising with
alacrity from her side of the fire in her
snug bar to mix a fresh glass of steam
ing compound for her visitor, who took
it with a grunt of satisfaction and silently
drank the donor’s health before setting
the glass down, smoking slowly and
thoughtfully at his pipe as he stared at
the glowing fire and the bright black
bars.
A quarter of an hour passed, during
which Mrs. Gurnett, who was pleasant
and comely in spite of her fifty years,
knitted away at a pair of thick grey
worsted stockings; and then Jeremiah
Basalt spoke, saying, in a surly voice—
“I know I am!”
Mrs. Gurnett, landlady of the com
fortable old hostelry known as the Jolly
Sailors, gave a start.
“Know you are what, Mr. Basalt?”
“Know as I’m welcome, and have
been this ten year, or else I shouldn’t
come.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, drew at the grey
worsted ball far down in her pocket,
changed one of her knitting pins, and
began a fresh row.
“Who’s them for?” said Basalt, point
ing at the stocking with the stem of his
pipe.
“ I was thinking of asking you to
accept them before you go on your next
voyage, Mr. Basalt—that is, if you are
going to sea again.”
There was another pause, of quite ten
minutes’ duration, before Basalt again
spoke.
“What should I do ashore?”
“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mrs.
Gurnett; “only it seems to me very
dangerous going to sea, and you are not
so young as you used to be, Mr. Basalt.
We none of us are.”
“Pooh!” said Basalt. “Fifty-seven
—nobbut a boy yet. And as to danger,
why, it’s a deal safer at sea than it is
here, I do know that. Why, if I was
to give up the sea, what ’ud become of
me? I should always be hanging about
here, and then you’d get tired of me.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and continued
her knitting.
“You’re a good soul, though, and I
like you, Mrs. Gurnett, better than any
other woman I ever see in my life; and
if I was a marrying man, instead of
a chock of old salt junk, soaked and
hardened, and good for nowt but to
knock about aboard ship, I’m blessed if
I don’t think I should say to you some
fine day, ‘ Mrs. Gurnett, will you have
me?”’
Mrs. Gurnett sighed again, and looked
more attentively at her knitting, whilf
�12
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Basalt smoked himself into the centre
of a cloud.
“ I think I’d make ’em a little more
slack in the leg this time,” he said at
last. “ Them others was so tight that
they opened in the back seams, and you
can’t werry well caulk when you’re out
at sea.”
“ You have very fine legs, Mr. Basalt,”
remarked Mrs. Gurnett, glancing at
her visitor’s lower extremities approv
ingly, as she gave another tug at her
worsted.
“ They do right enough,” said the old
fellow, disparagingly; “ and as long as
they keep me going I’m satisfied. But
what do you think of our cap’s choice
—speaking as a woman, now?”
“I did not know that he had made a
choice,” said Mrs. Gurnett, indifferently;
for the conversation was taking a turn
in which she felt no interest.
“He has, though,” said Basalt; “and
as nice a little craft as a man would wish
to own—clean run, pretty counter, all
taut alow and aloft, and I should say
as good a lass as the ship we sail in, and
as bears her name.”
Mrs. Gurnett dropped her knitting,
and gazed in her visitor’s face.
“You don’t mean to say—
“Don’t I? but I just do; and what is
there surprising in that? Here’s Cap.
John Anderson, as smart a sailor and
as handsome a young fellow as ever
stepped, and here’s Miss May Halley, as
pretty a gal; and if they wouldn’t make
a nice pair to consort together, and sail
these here stormy seas o’ life in com
pany, why tell me.”
Here old Basalt took a hasty sip of
his grog, and stooped to pick up the
knitting, which had glided to the floor,
as Mrs. Gurnett sat dreamily smoothing
one of her pleasant old cheeks with her
knitting needle.
“That’s dropping stitches wholesale
and for export,” said Basalt, with a grim
smile, as he laid the work upon its
owner’s lap; but the remark drew forth
no response, only Mrs. Gurnett said, in
a low, sad tone—
“ Dear—dear—dear—dear—dear!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“What’s dear, dear?” said Basalt,
gruffly.
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I’m very, very, very
sorry to hear all this.”
“What, about the cap?”
“Yes, very grieved indeed.”
“Gammon!” said the old sailor.
“Why, he loves the very ground she
walks on; thinks about her all day and
all night too. Many’s the time he’s
walked the deck with me in a dark
watch and talked about that gal—wdien
she was a gal, you know, of ten and
twelve and fourteen; but since she’s
been growed a woman, ‘No,’ says he to
hisself—I know just as plain as if he’d
told me—‘she’s too good and beautiful
to be talked about to a rough old sailor.’
For true love’s a thing to be kep’ snug
in the locker of yer heart like a precious
jewel. Look here, Betsy—”
Mrs. Gurney started; for Jeremiah
Basalt, in all the years she had known
him, had never before addressed her by
her Christian name.
“ Look here, Betsy,” he said, drawing
his chair closer, so that he could lay
one great horny paw upon the hostess’s
plump white hand.
“ Don’t, Mr. Basalt,” she said, with a
sob, “the customers might see you.”
“Blame the customers!” said Basalt,
sturdily; “what is it to them if I like to
speak out my mind like a man? Look
here, my lass, I’m rough but I’m ready;
and I aint known you fifteen year come
this Christmas without knowing as I’d
got a heart in my buzzum. ‘That’s a
good woman, Jerry,’ I’ve said to myself
hundreds o’ times, ‘and if ever you
marries, marry she, if she’ll have you.’
‘ I will,’ I says, ‘ I’ll ask her some day.’
But I aint going to be such a brute to
a woman as to ask her to have me, and
then keep going away to sea.’ There,
swab up those tears, my lass,” he con
tinued, for the great drops were chasing
one another down Mrs. Gurnett’s cheeks.
“‘No,’ I says, ‘I aint a-going to be
such a brute to a woman as I loves, as
to be always a-leaving her; and I aint
a-going to be such a brute to myself—as
is a man for whom I has a great respect
��14
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
—as to have to be leaving her. No. My
’pinion is that when you tie yourself
tight to a woman, you oughtn’t to be
parting the strands. ‘No,’ I says, ‘’taint
time yet, but there’s the port you hope
to reach, Jerry;’ and to reach that port
I’ve got eight ’undred and twenty
seven pun’ sixteen and sixpence saved
up, and it’s all safe in a pair o’ them
stockings as you knitted for me, my lass,
one put inside the other so as to be
strong. And I says to myself, I says,
‘There, Jerry Basalt, there’s your cap’n
as loves true, and there’s you as loves
true; and when he asks she to have he,
and she marries he, why you shall go
and empty that there pair o’ stockings
in Betsy Gurnett’s lap, and you says to
her, says you, My lass, you says, I brings
this here, not as you cares a ball o’ spun
yarn about money, but just so as no
spiteful ’longshore-going warmint should
say as Jerry Basalt wanted to marry
you for the sake of the snug business
and the few pounds as your master—
God rest him!—left you when he give in
the number of his mess; and then you
says, says you—-’ ”
“Oh, Mr. Basalt, Mr. Basalt!” cried
the hostess, clapping her apron to her
eyes, and sobbing loudly, as she rocked
herself to and fro, “then it won’t never
—never be ; for Miss May’s promised
to be married to somebody else.”
. “ Stow that! ” cried the old fellow,
excitedly, as he started from his chair,
and then stood looking down at the
weeping woman.
“ Don’t come no
woman’s games with a poor fellow as is
as innocent as a babby of all ’longshore
things, and has spoke out his mind free
and handsome.”
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I wouldn’t deceive
you for the world,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
turning up her wet eyes to look full in
his.
“That you wouldn’t,” he cried, taking
her hand in both his, and sawing it up
and down. “You’re deep water right
away, and there aint a rock or a shoal
in you from top to bottom, I’ll swear;
but I’m took aback, my lass, as much for
John Anderson’s sake as I am for my
[Christmas, 1B73.
own. Avast there a minute, and let me
give a look out ahead.”
He walked to the red-curtained win
dow, and stood looking out for a few
moments, as if into the stormy night;
but really into the dark, empty parlour
of the Jolly Sailors. Then he came
back to speak seriously, as he stood with
one hand resting on the table.
“It looks squally,” he said—“very
squally, my lass. And,” he continued,
giving a tug at his collar, “ it seems to
me weather as may be the wrecking of
a fine handsome teak-built, ship, A I at
Lloyd’s, and called the John Anderson
my Jo; and likewise of a weather-beaten
old craft that meant to come well into
port, and her name—his name I mean”
he added, correcting himself—“his
name I won’t say nothing about. But,
anyhow, you know the bearings of the
coast better than I do, so heave ahead.
I’ll have another glass the whiles, for
I’m for all the world as if I’d shipped a
heavy sea.”
“ I’ve known Miss May from a baby,
and nursed her when I was in Mr. HaL
ley’s service,” said Mrs. Gurnett. “ It
was from the old house in Canonbury
there that James Gurnett married me—
being coachman, and having saved a
little money.”
“ I think I remember,” said Basalt,
huskily.
“ And it’s been going on now some
time,”continued Mrs. Gurnett. “There’s
a gentleman there constant now, and he
wants Miss May, and they tell me at
the house that she has him there to see
her; and they do say that he has some
hold on poor old master, which I won’t
believe, for he’s too rich and too highspirited to be trampled on by any one.
Anyhow, he’s in the shipping trade, and
partner in a big house; and I do think
that they are to be married soon.”
Jeremiah Basalt filled his pipe slowly,
evidently thinking hard the while; then,
although there were splints in a holder
upon the chimney-piece, he stooped
down, picked a glowing cinder from be
tween the bottom' bars with his casehardened finger and thumb, and laid it
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, if? 73.]
upon the pipe bowl, and then sat suck
ing at it for a few minutes before
he spoke—Mrs. Gurnett now sitting
drying her eyes and smoothing her
hair.
“ It ’ll about break that poor chap’s
’art,” said Basalt, at last.
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and then there
was another pause. Then Basalt
said—
“What’s the gent’s name?”
“ Merritt—Mr. Philip Merritt.”
“ Never heard it afore,” said Basalt,
gruffly; “and I wish as I hadn’t heard
it now. He’s got a Co., I s’pose—
HOW THE
WIDOW
RS. GUR
NETT was
sitting quite
alone, with
her eyes still
red, and at
times swimming with
moisture,
though no
tears now es
caped to roll
down her
cheeks. She
had resumed
her knitting
— that is to
say, she had
taken it up
—and had
drawn more
and more
grey worsted from the great ball which
revolved in her pocket; but the work
did not progress. She had drawn the
leg out to see how wide it was, and sighed
heavily; she had counted the stitches,
and made up her mind to increase them
in the coming rows; she had stabbed
the stocking through and through with
i5
all shippers has—Merritt and Co., I
s’pose—blame ’em!”
“ No,” said Mrs. Gurnett, “he belongs
to a big house, and his name don’t ap
pear. I think he’s a Co. himself, instead
of having one; for the name up is Rutherby and Co.”
“The devil!”
Jeremiah Basalt let fall the glass he
was about to raise to his lips, and it was
smashed to atoms upon the white hearth
stone. Then he started to his feet, for
the outer door opened quickly, and a
well-known voice said at the bar—“ Is Mr. Basalt here?”
WAS
IN
TROUBLE.
her knitting needle, as if it were an old
charm to win its future wearer’s love;—
but still the work did not progress. She
had to lay it down too frequently to
wait on customers, who spoke- about
the weather, and to give change to Tom
the potboy, who was busily attending
upon a part of the crew of the Merry
May, sitting in the tap-room enjoy
ing themselves; and again she sighed
heavily, for as the tap-room door opened
there came the sound of a jovial voice
trolling out the words of 011S of the
finest of our old sea songs, and the tears
gathered again as she heard—
“And three times round went our gallant ship,
And three times round” went she.”
%
Then the door closed, and Mrs Gur
nett sighed again. The next minute
she gave quite a sob; for the door was
once more opened, and the same voice
trolled out, in the peculiar, half-mourn
ful tones of the old song—
“And she sank to the bottom of the sea, the
sea, the sea,
And she sank to the bottom of the sea.”
Then she held her breath as the cho
rus came rolling through the house,
lustily sung by a dozen voices—
�i6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ While the raging seas did roar, and the
stormy winds did blow,
And we jolly sailor boys were up, up, up
aloft;
And the land lubbers lying down below, below,
below,
And the land lubbers lying down below.”
Poor Mrs. Gurnett heard not the rat
tling of pots and glasses upon the table,
nor the stamping of feet upon the floor;
for she had crossed softly to a corner
cupboard of old oak, upon whose top
were three goodly china punchbowls,
and within various glasses, ladles,
spoons, and sugar stirrers. But resting
upon the feet of the reversed glasses
were two books.
She took out one, the thicker of the
two, and it opened naturally at one
well-thumbed place; and then, taking
out a pair of spectacles, Mrs. Gurnett
did not put them on, but held them up
reversed to her eyes, and read softly,
but inan audible tone—
"And there came down a storm of
wind on the lake; and they were filled
with water, and were in jeopardy;
“And they came to him, and awoke
him, saying Master, Master, we perish.
Then he arose, and rebuked the wind
and the raging of the water; and they
ceased, and there was a calm.
"And he said unto them, Where is
your faith?”
Here Mrs. Gurnett closed the Book,
and, reverently replacing it, took up the
other; and it too fell open at another
well-thumbed place, where, if you had
been looking over her shoulder, you
might have read the words— .
“ Form of prayer to be used at sea.”
From this, too, she stood reading for
a time, and then replaced it, closing
the door softly, just as a hasty step
sounded on the passage floor, and a
voice said—
“ Mrs. Gurnett.”
It was only the postman; but Mrs.
Gurnett had so few correspondents that
a letter was a novelty; and she held it
for a few minutes, wondering who might
be the sender.
Then she sat down with it still un
opened, but lying upon the table before
[Christmas, 1873.
her; as she this time'took out her spec
tacles, carefully wiped them, and put
them on, wondering now what business
had brought Captain Anderson to her
house for Jeremiah Basalt, and whether
the latter had told him about May
Halley.
“ I suppose I am very foolish-—at my
time of life, too; but I suppose it comes
natural to a woman to want to have
something—somebody, I mean—to cling
to; and I’ve been all alone for a many,
many years now.
“Heigho!” she sighed again as she
looked dreamily before her over the
table. “ He’s a very good man, though;
and if I wasn’t so old I’d say I loved
him very dearly.
“Poor Captain Anderson!” she sighed
soon after. “ Such a proper man, too,
and so brave! It must be the salt in
the water that makes them so, for there’s
no men anywhere like sailors. But even
they aint perfect; but, poor fellows,
who would grudge them a glass when
they get ashore ?
“ Heigho! I wish people wouldn’t
write letters to me,” she said at last, tak
ing up her missive. “ Why, it must be
from Miss May.”
She turned it over again, and held
the neat, ladylike direction up to the
light.
Then a customer came in, and she
started, hoping it might be old Basalt
come back; but no, he was with John
Anderson; so she returned to the
light, opened the envelope, and ex
claimed—
“ Why, God bless the child, it is from
Miss May!”
Then she read the few lines slowly:
“My dear Nurse—-I’m in great
trouble. Come and see your poor little
girl to-morrow afternoon, when I shall
be alone. I have plenty of friends, but
no mother, and no one to whom I care
to turn more than to the kind old nurse
who so often kissed me as a child.—
Yours very affectionately,
“ May Halley.”
Mrs. Gurnett was very easily moved
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
to tears that night, and her handker
chief grew rather moist with frequent
usage.
“ I knew she wouldn’t forget me,
17
though it’s little indeed I’ve seen of her
of late. And she grown such a bright,
handsome young lady. I wish it was
to-morrow.
pXTH
HOW JOHN
ANDERSON
WANT to have
a few words
with you, Ba
salt,” said John
Anderson, as
he entered Mrs.
Gurnett’s bar;
and evidently,
to use his own
words, “ taken
aback,” the old
mate left his
seat, broke his
pipe as he tried
to set it up on
end in the cor
ner, took his
old tarpaulin
hat and set it
on wrong way,
had quite a struggle to get into his pea
jacket, and lurched about as if his pota
tions had been too strong for him. But
this was not the case, for Jeremiah Ba
salt was as sober as a judge; and at last
he turned, gave a solemn nod to Mrs.
Gurnett, and walked out with his cap
tain.
The streets were wet and muddy, and
glistened in the light which streamed
from window and gas-lamp. It was
getting late now, and wayfarers were
few, so that the streets they passed
through they had pretty well to them
selves. It did not seem as if they were
going to any particular place, for in utter
silence John Anderson led, or rather
indicated, the way, as they passed from
street to street, sometimes crossing, some
times almost returning on their track.
SOLD
HIMSELF.
It was nothing, though, to Basalt.
The captain wanted him, and here he
was. He might have wanted his help
in keeping a watch ashore—in fact
it seemed so, when at last the aimless
tramping over the pavement had ended
in a short walk up and down beneath a
lamp-post, in a very quiet street.
They must have paced up and down
for quite half an hour in silence; for,
knowing what he did, Basalt would
hardly have spoken first to save his
life. It was very evident that his young
captain was in trouble, and he respected
it.
“ When he wants my advice he’ll ask
for it,” said Basalt to himself. “ Poor
chap, he’s found it out, safe! And now
what’s it all coming to?”
At last John Anderson stopped short
beneath the lamp-post, and said, hoarsely,
“ Basalt, J’ve given up my ship.
There, no—stop: I won’t be a humbug.
Jerry, I’ve tost my ship.”
“Lost be blessed,” said Basalt; “why
she’s safe in dock! But you said you’d
give her up. Don’t do that, my lad—
don’t do that. If it’s a bit of a tiff with
Master Halley, wink at it; don’t give
up a fine craft like the May for the
sake of a few hard words. Just think
of what we’ve done in her!—off the
Cape, you know; and when we ran
side by side with that man-o’-war that
thought she could overhaul us. Oh,
Master John, don’t give up the May'.'
“She’s given me up, Jerry,” said
Captain Anderson, bitterly. “ Look
here, if you care to read it. Here is
Mr. Halley’s dismissal.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Basalt,
�>
•
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
leaning against the lamp-post, and
staring at the paper his captain held in
his hand, but without attempting to read
it.
“I thought I’d see you, and tell you;
for I may not see much more of you, old
fellow, before I start.”
“Now, just look here, my lad. You’re
nobbut a boy to me, so I say ‘my lad,’
though you are my captain. I’m as
thick to-night as a Deal haze; so if you
want to make me understand, just
speak out, and then perhaps we can
get on.”
“Well, Basalt,” said John Anderson,
smiling, “ I’ve got in disgrace with Mr.
Halley, and am no longer in his ser
vice.”
The old man uttered a low, soft
whistle.
“ It’s a bad job, and I’m sorry to give
up so fine a ship; but there she is, and
some one else will command her. As
for me, I wanted to be off again some
where at once, and----- ■”
“Why, we’ve only just got back.”
“True,” said Anderson; “but all the
same I can’t stop; so I’ve lost no time,
but made an engagement with another
firm, and am off next week.”
“ Where ? ”
“China.”
“All right! It’s all the same to me.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ Why, what I say—it’s all the same
to me.”
“ But you have received no dismissal,
Basalt.”
“ Oh, yes. Took it myself.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ BGW do I mean? Why, after sail
ing together all these years, do you
think that I’m going to let you go afloat
like a helpless babby, without me to
take care of you ? No, my lad. I taught
you first to make a running bowline,
and to coil down a rope, and made you
box the compass afore you was fourteen
years old; and if you think I’m going to
leave you now, why, you’re mistaken,
that’s all.”
“ But, really, Basalt, I can’t think of
letting you give up for such reasons.”
--------------- i------------------------------------------------- .------- -
[Christmas, 1S73.
“ I’m ashore now, and won’t take no
notice of what you say; so I tell you this,
that as long as I sail the sea it shall be
in your wake, and if you won’t have me
as mate, I’ll go afore the mast along
with the lads, who’ll ship with you, every
man Jack of ’em.”
John Anderson, bitter and reckless an
hour before, was now too much moved to
speak; and after a few final attempts
to dismiss his old friend, he wrung his
hand tightly, and they walked on again
in silence.
“Good craft?” said Basalt at last, to
break the silence.
“ I’ve not seen her,” was the reply.
“What size?”
“ Thousand tons.”
“ And you want men ? ”
“ Badly.”
“ They shall come—every man Jack
of’em. But when’s she down to sail?”
“ Wednesday next.”
“We’ll be aboard, never fear,” said
Basalt, with a chuckle, which he instantly
suppressed, lest he should seem gay
while his captain was steeped in trouble.
“ But look here. What’s the name of
the ship?”
“ Victrix—lying in the south basin,
East India Dock.”
“Good!” said Basalt. “Owners?”
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“Who?” cried Basalt, hoarsely.
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“My God!”
John Anderson stood and gazed at
his companion’s chapfallen aspect for a
few moments; then, thinking he had
divined the reason for Basalt’s looks, he
said—“ There, you can draw back from your
promise. You are thinking of the bad
character they have had for coffin ships;
but, believe me, Basalt, I honestly think
these tales are a cruel libel on a firm of
gentlemen. No man would be such a
cowardly, cruel scoundrel as to risk the
lives of his sailors by sending them to
sea in an ill-found ship. Here’s proof
that I don’t believe it.”
“’Taint that,” said Basalt, hoarsely.
“What is it, then? I’ve told you
�«SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
that you are free to stay, glad as I
Should have been to have you. Stick
to the dear old—stick to the May, and
keep the men. They won’t want to go
to sea again till they’ve spent all their
coin. Good night, Basalt—come and
see me off.”
“ ’Taint that,” said Basalt, more
'huskily still.
“What is it, then?” said Anderson,
bitterly.
“ God help me,” groaned the old man
to himself. “ Shall I tell him, or sha’n’t
I tell him? It’s cruel to tell him, and
it’s cruel to let him go wi’out. Here,
don’t go yet-—stop a moment.”
“Good night, old fellow,” said John
Anderson, moving off.
“ I will tell him—it’s like murder not
to, and him half broken-hearted. Here,
just a moment. You must give up that
ship.”
19
“ Jerry Basalt,” said Anderson, “you
must give up going to the Jolly Sailors.
There, shake hands; good night."
“ I’m drunk, am I? P’raps I am; but
it’s with hard words and dizzy thoughts
—not with strong waters. There, I •
must tell you. John, my boy, I’ve
looked upon you as a son all these
years, and this news, put to what I know,
’most swamps me. You must give up
this ship, come what may.”
“ When I’ve signed and promised to
sail?” said Anderson, mockingly.
“ Yes, my lad, even if you was aboard
with your pilot, and the tow-boat casting
off to leave you free.”
“And why?” asked Anderson, half
startled at the other’s solemn earnest
ness.
“ Because, my boy,” cried Basalt,
gripping him tightly by the arm, “you’ve
been and sold yourself to the Devil!”
EYENTH
HOW MR. LONGDALE GAVE PHILIP MERRITT A HINT.
T was about ten
o’clock the next
morning that John
Anderson, closely
followed by Jere
miah Basalt,
walked slowly
down Shipping
street, and turning
up one of the nar
row courts, entered
the offices of Rutherby and Co.
They stood first
waiting in the outer
office, whose walls
were decorated
with coloured en
gravings of various
clipper ships in full
sail, and with cards
bearing the names
of vessels about to
journey half round the world. There,
too, were Shipping Gazettes, telegrams
of inward and outward bound craft, at
one and all of which Jeremiah Basalt
looked with a sidewise, supercilious
scrutiny.
At last the pair were shown in to Mr.
Longdale, one of the partners, who re
ceived them with a most bland smile,
and then discoursed with Anderson
upon business matters connected with
the ship, upon the wish of Basalt to join
■as second mate, and the necessity for an
early start.
“And so you think you can bring
ten or a dozen men, do you?” said Mr.
Longdale, looking at Basalt “with a
smile like a shark”—so the old man
expressed it afterwards.
“ Can’t say yet, sir,” replied Basalt.
“ I aint seen the ship. I’m going my
self—’cause why? my old captain’s
going. That’s quite enough for me;
but it won’t be enough for the men.”
�20
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Pooh—pooh! my dear sir, the men
are too dense — too animal to care
much about what ship they go in. It’s
all a matter of sentiment with the poor
fellows. Tell them a ship’s a bad one
—ill-found, and not a man will go in
her; tell them the ship’s a lucky one,
and all that could be wished for, or alter
her name, and they go in her like a
flock of sheep through a gap. Eh?
You made some remark?”
“ I said the more fools they,” said
Basalt, gruffly.
“Just so—exactly,” said Mr. Long
dale, smiling again. “ So, of course, you
must treat them accordingly. Get a
dozen men if you can; and you can
speak from authority when I tell you
our ships are famous for their qualities.
We never spare for anything in expense.
You’ll find the Victrix a perfect clipper
in every respect, A i, and a ship that
you may be proud of; well-found,
gentlemen, in everything.”
“ Glad to hear it,” said Basalt, gruffly
as ever.
“ Exactly. I knew you would be. So
now, gentlemen, you will take a run
down to the basin, and have a look at
her—see how matters are going on, you
know, and hurry everything possible, so
as to be off. Good morning, Captain
Anderson. Good morning, Mr. Basalt.”
Anderson had said but little, wearing
a dull, stunned aspect, save when he was
spoken to, when his face lit up for a few
moments, but only to subside again into
its heavy, listless expression. But as he
passed into the outer office his whole ap
pearance changed—his eyes flashed, his
nostrils dilated, and he seemed to grow
taller, as he stopped short, one foot ad
vanced and hands clenching; for at that
moment a fashionably dressed young
man alighted from a cab, and stepped
daintily into the office, holding an aro
matic cigar between two of the fingers
of his light kid-gloved hand.
In his turn, he started and turned pale
as he confronted Anderson, his eyelids
lowered till they were half closed, and
slightly turning his head away, he looked
swiftly at the young sailor, while a
[Christmas, 1873-
bitter, mocking smile played round his
thin lips, and half hid itself in the fair
moustache.
Snuffing mischief, though, Basalt
caught John Anderson’s arm in his grip,
and led him through the glass door out
into the fresh air; while—after glancing
spitefully after the retreating pair—
Philip Merritt’s whole aspect changed
to one of cruel animosity, and hurrying
into Mr. Longdale’s room, he exclaimed,
in excited tones—
“ There’s a man named Anderson just
gone out from here; do you know who
he is ? ”
“ Last captain of your future papa’s
clipper, the Merry Muy',' said Mr. Long
dale, laying down the paper.
“Yes, yes, I know that; but what
does he do here ? ”
“ He is one of the best captains in
the mercantile navy,” replied Longdale.
“ Well ? ”
“And his name is sufficient to give
confidence to half the consignors in the
port of London. We want cargo, my
dear boy. Now do you see ? ”
“But surely,”exclaimed Merritt,dash
ing down his cigar, “ you don’t mean to
say—”
“ Now, listen, my dear Merritt, and
don’t be excitable. You are young
yet with us, and you might have a little
confidence in your senior partners.
Rutherby gives way to my opinion in
such matters, for he has tried me for
many years—you may do the same.”
“ Look here, Longdale,” said Merritt,
savagely; “ I’ve brought money into
this firm, which you wanted badly; and
though I’m young, I don’t mean to be
treated as a nonentity. Just please
leave off beating about the bush, and
tell me why that scoundrel was here.”
Mr. Longdale slightly knit his brows,
and then said, calmly—
“ My dear boy, no one wants to make
you a nonentity, and I can assure you
that we shall always make a point of
consulting you on all important matters.
But this piece of business was done
while you were away—at Canonbury, I
think.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Philip Merritt’s hand went uncon
sciously to his mouth, where he began
to move a loose front tooth backwards
and forwards, to see if there was any
risk of its coming out. The twinge of
pain that accompanied the operation
brought strongly back John Anderson’s
blow, and he said—
“ Well, go on; why is that fellow
here?”
“ Because he wanted a ship, and we
wanted a captain and a cargo. He
could offer us the captain with a good
name for trustworthiness, and we could
offer him the ship. The bargain was
struck, and the cargo comes as a matter
of course. In fact, it bpgan to pour in
directly I had the announcements made.
We shall get men, too, with ease. A
good name, my dear boy, is a most
valuable commodity in this wicked
world. Look here, have a glass of
sherry and a biscuit. I have a glass of
very fine dry wine here.”
He went to a cupboard, and brought
out a decanter and glass; while Merritt,
who was white with rage, strode up and
down the room till a clerk opened the
door, and upon him Merritt turned to
vent his spleen.
“If you please, sir—” began the clerk.
“Curse you! Don’t you see we are
engaged? How dare you intrude like
this?”
The clerk glanced at the sherry
decanter, and was gone in an instant.
“Now, my dear boy,” said Longdale,
suavely.
“Don’t ‘dear boy’ me, Longdale,”
cried Merritt, dashing his hand upon
the table.
Then, dragging up a chair, he seated
himself in front of his partner, who
was calmly pouring out a glass of
the amber fluid.
“Look here, I came into your firm
when your name stank so that you
could get neither cargo nor men. I
came in, and brought money.”
“Very true, my dear boy—your
sherry—but you need not raise your
voice so that the clerks can hear.”
“I came into-the firm with money,
21
and it was a stipulation that, though
junior, I should have full voice in all
matters.”
“Quite true, my dear boy; and so you
have. You are deferred to in every
thing—really senior partner.”
“What do youcall that,then,engaging
that fellow?”
“My dear boy, taste your wine; it
really is excellent.”
“D—■—11 the wine!” roared Merritt,
and he swept the glass off the table in
his rage. “I tell you I won’t have it. I
won’t put up with it. The scoundrel’s
papers shall be cancelled if it costs a
thousand pounds.”
“Now, my dear Merritt, how was it
possible that I could know you had any
animus against this man? For aught
I knew, you had never even seen him.”
“Animus?” shrieked Merritt, white
with rage, and tearing off his gloves—
literally tearing them off in shreds, and
casting them about the room—“ I tell
you I hate him—curse him! I hate him,
I tell you. If I saw him starving—
dying—drowning — burning, and by
raising a finger I could save his life, I
wouldn’t do it. I’d snatch away the
morsel that his soul craved; drag from
him the consolation of religion; take
from him the lifebuoy his fingers tried
to hold; force him back into the flames.
Curse him! curse him!” he hissed, be
tween his teeth. “ If I only had him
here!”
He stamped the heel of his patent
leather boot down upon the floor as he
spoke, and made as if he were grinding
his enemy’s face beneath it.
“Has he dared, then—?” said Long
dale, coolly sipping his sherry, and
crumbling a biscuit between his fingers,
as he curiously watched the working of
his partner’s face.
“ Never mind what he has dared, and
what he has not. The scoundrel struck
me—curse him!—and I could not strike
him again. I don’t care, I’ll own it,”
he cried, stammering in his speech, in his
rage and excitement. “ I was afraid of
him; but I’ll be even with him yet.”
Longdale did not speak, but rose from
�■MKi
a»»
22
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
his chair, obtained a fresh glass, filled
it, pushed it to his partner, and then re
seated himself, just as Merritt snatched
up the glass, poured its contents down
his throat, and thrust it forward to be
refilled.
“That’s better,” said Longdale, pour
ing out a fresh glassful.
“ I’ll have this stopped at once,” said
Merritt, suddenly changing from his
furious excitement to a hard, bitter,
business tone of voice. “ Ring for one
of the clerks.”
As he spoke he reached out his hand
for the table gong, but Longdale coolly
drew it back.
“ Stop a minute, Merritt,” he said,
quietly—“ don’t be rash.”
“ Rash? I tell you, I’ll have the whole
affair cancelled.”
“Listen to me. You are a business
man—a shrewd man. Have you thought
this over?”
“No; it wants no thinking over,”
“ Yes, it does—quietly. You are with
us now, Merritt, and I can speak plainly
as to Rutherby. Though I did not know
it, it seems that I have been working
in your interest.”
“ Now, look here,” cried Merritt,
fiercely, “ I’m not to be cajoled. Pass
me that bell.”
“ But you are to be spoken to, and
shown where you are wrong, when you
are wrong. Stop a moment,” he said,
for Merritt was about to interrupt.
“You will own it yourself. You hate
this Anderson ?”
Merritt sat silent and glaring; his
face of a leaden pallor, and his forehead
contracted.
“ Well, he was engaged to go for us
to China.”
Merritt did not speak; he was con
taining himself by a tremendous effort
of will.
“ It is sometimes a very dangerous
voyage, Merritt.”
Longdale spoke very slowly, and in
a cold, subdued voice: such an utter
ance as must have come from the ser
pent when he spoke to our first mother
in Paradise. He leaned forward, too,
-----------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
as he spoke, with his elbows on the
table, and his fingers touching his tem
ples, and framing, as it were, his face,
which was now in shadow.
Merritt gave a sort of gasp, and sat
bolt upright in his chair, staring at his
partner.
“You are with me, Merritt?”
The younger man nodded; and a
faint smile flickered for a moment round
Longdale’s lips, as he saw the change
from passion to earnest attention come
over his partner’s face.
“ Yes,” he said again, more slowly and
calmly, “it is sometimes a dangerous
voyage to the eastern seas.”
_ Then Philip Merritt sat stiffly up
right in his chair, holding on by the
arms on either side, the jewelled rings
upon his white fingers twinkling and
scintillating, showing the nervous tre
mor that was agitating the man. For
fully a minute neither spoke, each try
ing to read the other’s thoughts; but
at last Merritt essayed to say some
thing. It was but an essay, though,
for only a husky sound came from his
throat.
He coughed, though, and cleared his
voice; and then said, in a strange tone,
that could not be recognized as his
own—
“What—what ship does he sail in ?”
“ The Victrix"
“The Victrix?”
“ Yes. The vessel that has been done
up.”
There was another pause, for what
might have been five minutes, during
which the ticking of the clock was
plainly audible. But though no word
was spoken, the two men sat still, read
ing each other’s thoughts, the pallor of
Merritt’s face being now painful to wit
ness.
At last he seized the decanter, and
filled and emptied his glass three times
running, before saying, in husky, sub
dued tones—“ You changed her name ?”
Longdale nodded, without removing
his hands.
“What was she before ?”
�“SHIP AHOY!
Christmas, 1873.]
“The Maid of Greece!” said Long
dale, almost inaudibly.
* Philip Merritt sank back in his chair
aS If nerve, strength, all had passed from
him. His lips parted, and his breath
Came painfully. Then he rose, and felt
23
about the table for his hat, never re
moving his eyes from Longdale’s till he
had half staggered to the door, through
which he passed hastily, and out into
the street like one walking in his
sleep.
jïlGHTH
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WENT TO SEE A COFFIN SHIP.
T was for
all the
world like
a dog agoing to
shake a
cat,” said
old Basalt
as he still
held by
John An
ders on’s
arm, and
walked
him down
the street.
“I don’t
know
which that
c h ap’s
most like,
a cat or a
shark; but he’d do for either. But
look here, my lad—you must give it
up. Now, promise me you will. You
can’t go on, you know.”
John Anderson turned round, and
gazed in the old fellow’s face before
speaking.
“ You must give it up, Jerry,” he said,
quietly. “I have undertaken the job,
and I will not turn back.”
Jeremiah Basalt let go of his compa
nion’s arm; spat savagely at a passing
dog, which snarled at him in reply; and
then, thrusting his hands into the bot
tom of his pockets, he drew from one a
knife, and from the other a cake of tobacco, off which he hacked a small
square of about an inch across, thrust it
into his cheek, and then walked forward
towards the station by his captain’s
side, as stubborn an old sea dog as
ever stepped a plank.
The railway soon took them within
easy reach of the dock, through whose
gates they passed in silence; for John
Anderson’s mood was anything but a
conversational one, He glanced to left
and right, at the tiers of shipping lading
and discharging cargo, as if in search of
the vessel he was to command ; but his
thoughts were far away. He seemed
to avoid by instinct the various obstacles
in his path, till he was roused to him
self by Basalt exclaiming—
“ Wictrix—there she lies.”
Anderson stood and looked across
the basin to where the long three-masted
vessel lay close to the wharf, glistening
with paint, and looking new, smart, and
perfectly seaworthy. A white, statu
esque figure of Fame stood out from
beneath her bowsprit, holding to its lips
a gilded trumpet; and at the stern, de
corated with scroll-work and conven
tional carving, was the name in gold
letters.
Men were very busy aloft unbending
sails ; and wheels and pulleys were
creaking as the stevedores busily hoisted
in bale, box, and cask, to lower them
into the gaping hold.
“Well, what do you think of her?”
said Anderson, after a nearer scrutiny.
Basalt stood gazing hard at the ship,
and did not answer.
“ What do you think of her ? ” said
Anderson again.
�24
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Don’t know,” was the rough re
sponse. “ Let’s go aboard.”
They walked round the end of the
basin, and crossed the gangway on to
the littered decks, where, in a quiet,
methodical manner, the two experienced
men looked over the vessel, inspecting
her from stem to stern, went up aloft to
see the standing and running rigging,
climbed over into the chains, went down
below, and ended by going ashore and
returning to Mrs. Gurnett’s without say
ing a word.
They found the old lady with her
bonnet on, apparently about to go out;
but she hurried away, and returned to
wait upon them in the little parlour,
where Basalt was soon busy with a pipe
and glass, Anderson refusing all refresh
ment.
They sat for quite ten minutes alone,
each watching the other. The silence
was broken by Anderson, who said—
“ Well?”
“ Ill, you mean,” was the reply.
“I’m afraid so, Jerry.”
“ ’Fraid so ? Why, the poor old
thing seems to me to groan through her
paint and patchery. They’ve stuffed
up the wrinkles ; but if ever rottenness
grinned out of an old vessel, there it is.
Why, it’s a dressed-up skeleton. You’ve
done wrong, cap’n, you’ve done wrong.
Give it up.”
Anderson half turned away his head,
and remained silent for a few minutes
before he spoke.
“No, Basalt,” he said; “I’ve under
taken to sail her to China and back,
and, please God, I’ll do it, though it will
be a hard task. You shall not go,
though.”
“ Sha’n’t I ?” said Basalt, gruffly.
“ No. It would not be fair to you.
You shall give it up.”
“What’s fair for you’s fair for me;
and if you go, I go. She’s a rotten old
hulk, patched up and painted to the
nines. But though I say it as shouldn’t
say it, I will say one thing, and that is,
that if a cap’n and a mate as knows
their business can sail that there wessel
to the Chinee seas, and back, that there
[Christmas, 1873.
cap’n and mate’s a-sitting now in the
parlour of the Jolly Sailors, the one
drinking his grog and smoking his pipe
like a Christian, and the tother a-looking at him. Give it up, and I sails with
you in another ship. Stick to your
lines, and I goes with you in the Wictrix ; but before I’ll ask one of my poor
lads as I’ve had afloat with me to go in
her, may I be----- well, I won’t say what
in this here house, with a plaster ceiling
over my head ; but if I was afloat, with
plenty of room aloft, I’d say something
stiff, and no mistake.”
Further conversation was stayed by
the entrance of Mrs. Gurnett with a
very troubled face.
“ If you please, Captain Anderson,
here’s some of the men want to see
you.”
John Anderson, from being heavy
and dejected, was in a moment all ani
mation now; and, turning to Basalt, he
said—“ Mind, not a man of them ships with
us.”
“ No, not with my consent,” said the
old fellow. “ I did think of getting the
lot, but not now. They may find their
own crew, and good luck to ’em, and
bad luck to us.”
“ Is it really true, then, Captain An
derson,” said the old lady, “ that you
are going directly in one of Rutherby’s
ships ?”
“Yes, it’s true enough,” said Basalt,
speaking for his superior; “ and I’m
a-going with him.”
“ Oh, Captain Anderson, don’t go—
don’t go—and don’t take him ! There
are such tales afloat about those ships,
and only just now one was lost. Pray,
pray don’t take him with you.”
“ Softly, my lass—softly,” cried Ba
salt, crossing to her side, and leading
her to the other end of the room.
“ Don’t you know,” he whispered, “ what
the song says—‘ There’s a sweet little cherub as sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack’?”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, quietly, “ I’ll
go into the tap-room and speak to the
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
25
boys. I’ll come back here before I ferent altogether to your long-shore lub
bers. A sailor’s got his dooty to do,
go”
He went softly out of the room, leav while your long-shore lubber aint got
ing Mrs. Gurnett with Basalt, whose no dooty at all. Here we are, then.
arm, for the very first time, now stole My dooty says, ‘ Stand by your cap
round the widow’s waist—a movement tain like a man!’ and I must stand by
so far from resented that Mrs. Gurnett’s him. Why, don’t it say in the Book
head sank upon his shoulder as she as a sparrer sha’n’t fall to the ground,
clung to him sobbing.
and aint I something more than a
“ Betsy, my dear lass,” he whispered, sparrer ?”
“ they say as sailors aint religious, and
“ Oh, yes—yes ; but—”
I suppose they aint; for, as far as I’m
“There you are again with your
consarned, I never goes to church ashore, ‘ buts.’ Now, be my own true blue wo
and I always growls about going afloat man, and say, ‘ Go, Jerry, and God bless
when the cap’n has sarvice on the main you ; and when you come back—’ ”
deck. I don’t think as I’ve read my
“ Oh, but I can’t say all that,” sobbed
Bible, either, these forty year ; but I do Mrs. Gurnett—“ only God bless you ! ”
believe this, as God looks after them
“Then think the rest,” said Basalt;
poor chaps as puts their trust in Him ; “ and when I come back— There,
and I think I do this, after a fashion, there’s the cap’n coming.”
along with my dooty.”
He kissed the sobbing woman softly
“ Oh, but you musn’t, musn’t think of and reverently; then he gently un
going in that ship.”
clasped her clinging hands from round
“But, my lass, I must. Now, belay his neck, and seated her in a chair, just
there a minute, and I’ll put it to you. as John Anderson entered' the room.
Would it be right—would you like me
“ I’ve said good-bye to them, Basalt,
to let that poor chap, as has got his and promised that they shall sail with
heart half broke, go afloat by himself; me in my next ship, if ever I com
or would you have me stand by him mand another ; for I could not let them
faithful—true blue right through ?”
go in this.”
Mrs. Gurnett could not answer—she
“ They volunteered, then?” said Ba
only sobbed bitterly.
salt.
“Avast heaving, there!” cried the
“To a man,” said Anderson, huskily.
old man, softly smoothing her grey
“Oh, and don’t let him go neither,
sprinkled hair, and holding her more Captain Anderson,” sobbed Mrs. Gur
tightly to him. “ If you’re the woman nett, running forward to catch John
I take you to be, you’ll say ‘Go with Anderson’s hand in hers.
him, and God bless you !’ For it stands
“My lass!” said Basalt, reproach
to reason that you couldn’t care to con fully.
sort with a thundering sneak.”
“ Oh, I didn’t know what I was say
“ Oh, I can’t say it—I can’t say it— ing,” sobbed the poor woman; “ only
indeed I can’t!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett. bring him back to me safe—oh, please,
“ I should know no rest, night or day, please do, or it will break my heart! ”
if you went.”
“ Hooray!” cried Basalt, excitedly—
“ Oh, I say, now, cheer up and be “hooray! There’s for you, cap’n_
hearty. Away with melancholy, and that’s all for love of this here old bat
be spry! Why should you go on like tered salt! Bring me back, my lass ?_
that ? Now look here—wouldn’t you why, of course he will; for, as I said
like me to be true and hearty to John afore, if there s any two men as knows
Anderson ?”
how to sail a ship—a boat—there, a
“Ah, yes ; but—” .
plank, if you like—the name o’ them two
“There aint no ‘buts’ in it, my lass. men’s Jerry—I mean Cap’n John Ander
A sailor’s a picked-out sorter, man, dif son and Jeremiah Basalt. Cap’n, I’m
B
�KBhMhBÍHM
26
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in your wake—helm hard up—haul on
your main sheet, and away we go! ”
“Yes, Jerry, go, and God bless you ;
and I’ll pray for you night and day,”
sobbed Mrs. Gurnett.
“Go it is!” cried Basalt, excitedly;
“and come back safe and sound it is,
my lass; and then—”
HMMi
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett; “and
then—”
“Then it is,” cried Basalt; “and
blame me if ever I go afloat again!”
The next minute John Anderson and
his mate were in the street, and Mrs.
Gurnett was upon her knees.
¡ABLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY KNEW SHE HAD A HEART.
twenty years before. She rose from
her knees at the end of five minutes,
went upstairs and bathed her face,
put on her bonnet and shawl, and
set off for Canonbury, where she was
received with great dignity by the
drab footman, who condescended to
let the plump old lady wait in the hall
while he finished arranging some part
of his work in the dining-room, after
which he sent word up by the lady’smaid, that “a person” wanted to see
Miss May; and was horribly scanda
lised at the maid fetching the stout,
common woman up to Miss May’s bed
room.
Such a nest! It was more like a
boudoir than a bed-room, with its light
paper of white and gold, floral chintz
hangings, and water-colour paintings,
the work of her own hand. There was
a bird too in the window, that rippled
forth the sweetest trills of song, as it
held its head from side to side, ruffled
the feathers, of its throat, and sang at
its mistress. It was into this room that
Mrs. Gurnett was shown, to. stand just
inside the door, and drop a formal
curtsey to the tall, handsome girl who
advanced to meet her.
“Oh, nurse, dear, I’m so glad you’re
come!” said May, taking her hands, and
kissing her on both cheeks. “ What a
time it is since I’ve seen you! Why
have you not been to me ?”
“Because, my dear,” said Mrs. Gur
nett, rather stiffly, “it was a little, tiny
girl I used to know, and not a young
lady.”
“But,” said May, softly, as she drew
the old lady, very prim and demure
now, to a sofa, where she sat down by
her side, and held one hand—“but,
nurse, do you know that sometimes,
though I know that I am grown into a
woman, and that people ”—here she
glanced at the tall cheval glass opposite
to her—“that people say all sorts of
nonsense about me—”
“They say, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Gurnett, who had seen the glance, “that
you are very handsome?”
“Oh! all sorts of nonsense,” said
May, blushing ; “but I don’t take any
�J
j
Christmas, 1873,]
((SHIP AHOY!”
I notice of it; for what does it matter ?
I After all, I sometimes feel just as I
j did years and years ago, nurse, when
you used to lay my head upon my little
pillow, and kiss me, and say ‘ Good
night—’ ”
“‘God bless you!”’ interpolated Mrs.
Gurnett, softly.
“Yes, to be sure,” said May, smiling.
“And oh, nurse, it seems such a little
while ago; and sometimes, as I lie down
to sleep, I get thinking of all the old
times, and almost wish that—that I was
as young as I was when you were with
me.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
“it’s growing old enough you are to
find out that there are greater troubles
in life than a broken doll or a dirty
pinafore.”
And then, in spite of all her efforts,
the poor old lady broke down, took out
her handkerchief, and began to sob bit
terly.
“Why, nurse, nurse, what is it?” said
May, anxiously, as she drew nearer to
the weeping woman. “Are you in
trouble?”
“Oh, yes, yes, my dear,” she said, at
last, after choking again and again in
the effort to speak.
“ But I sent for you to get you to try
and comfort me,” said May, softly.
“ What is the matter?”
Oh, my dear!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett,
“ I’m finding out that after fighting for
life years and years, and thinking I was
strong, and steady, and sensible, I’m
only a silly, weak old woman, with a
heart as soft as that of a girl of eighteen.”
May blushed, looked at her wonderingly, and more wonderingly as,
thoroughly wound up to give vent to her
feelings, and, womanlike, glad to have
a sympathetic woman’s breast into which
she could empty the urn of her affliction,
Mrs. Gurnett told all her trouble from
beginning to end, stopping now and then
to upbraid herself as “a silly old woman
who ought to know better;” but, made
selfish in the extreme by her distress
forgetting all but her own affairs as she
proceeded with her tale.
£__ _ _____ _ _
__ ______
27
May flushed . scarlet .as Anderson’s
name was mentioned. Then she turned
deadly pale as the narrative went on.
Then she flushed again; but only for the '
blush to give place to a greater pallor,
as step by step Mrs. Gurnett told of her
dread—of the bad name owned by the
firm of Rutherby, and her horror that
Basalt should sail in one of their vessels.
And I ve told him he might go,”
sobbed the poor woman; “and I’ve sent
him to his death; for sail he will in the
floating coffin, and I shall never see him
more.”
She sat sobbing for a time, and then
went on, heedless of May Halley’s
plainly displayed emotion—
And him so faithful and true to
Captain Anderson—as brave, and true,
and handsome a man as ever stepped ■
and, oh, Miss May—”
Mrs. Gurnett stopped short, for it had
just flashed across her mind that in her
utter selfishness she had absolutely for
gotten that which she knew concerning
the young captain and his employer’s
daughter.
She sat up, handkerchief in hand,
gazing at May, who was as white as
marble, but who did not flinch from the
old lady’s look, only returned her gaze
with one that was stony and dull, ft
“ They are going to sail in the Victrix” said Mrs. Gurnett.
There was no reply.
“ They are going to sail directly, and
I can’t believe that they will ever
return.”
Still May made no response; and
Mrs. Gurnett, wiping her eyes, said,
apologetically—
My dear, you sent for me because .
you were in trouble, and I’ve been
telling you all of mine. It was very
thoughtless of me; but I seldom see any
one to whom I care to talk, and when
you seemed so gentle with me I was
obliged to speak.”
I am very, very glad to see you,
nurse, and to talk with you,” said Mffy,
in a strange, cold voice.
“ But, my dear, you wanted to tell me
all your troubles.”
------ --------------- —----- ■—
--------- «s?
�28
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Did I, nurse ? Oh, it was nothing!
I was a little upset. I had nothing
much to say. It was a mere trifle,
and I did not know you were so worried,
or I would not have sent.”
“ But, my dear, it was very silly and
childish of me, and I’m sure that you
will laugh at me when I am gone.”
“ Oh, no, no, nurse ; don’t think that,”
said May, lapsing for an instant from
her cold, stern demeanour. No woman
could despise another for displaying that
which is waiting to bud in her own
breast.
(Christmas, 1873.
“ But what was the matter, my dear?
Was it anything I could talk to you
about ? I should have been here sooner,
but for my own trouble.”
“ It was nothing, nurse—nothing at
all—only I—”
She made a brave effort to curb down
the feelings that were struggling for
exit, but they proved too strong for
her. They burst forth like a flood, as
she exclaimed—“Oh, nurse, nurse! I’ve sent him
away like that, and—and — indeed—
indeed, I did not know!”
JT ENTH
HOW MR. HALLEY TALKED TO HIS DAUGHTER.
EOPLE as a
rule used to
respect Mr.
Halley, the
shipowner, of
Quarterdeck
court— Hal
ley, Edwards,
and Company
was the name
of the firm;
but Edwards
had been dead
twenty years,
and the Comp a n y had
been bought
out one by
one by Mr.
Halley, till he
was the sole
owner of the line of ships trading to the
East, and managed his business per
Mr. Tudge, of whom anon. People
used to say that Mr. Halley would cut
up well when he died; and City men
would make calculations as to his
warmth, of course alluding to the ruddy
glow of his gold.
He was a quaint, old-fashioned looking
man, who always persisted in ignoring
customs of the present day.
“Fashion !” he would say; “what has
fashion to do with me ? Fashion ought
to be what I choose-to wear.”
The consequence was that he wore
the garments that had been in vogue
forty years before—to wit, a blue coat,
with a stiff velvet collar and treble gilt
buttons, nankeen trousers, and a buff
waistcoat. He did not powder his hair,
for he could not have made it more white
if he had ; but he did wear it gathered
together, and tied behind with a piece
of black ribbon; which used to bob
about the collar of his coat, to the
great amusement of the street boys
who saw him pass.
Of course, he had a right to dress as
he pleased; but it was a source of great
unpleasantry to his footman, who looked
upon the left-off garments with ineffable
.contempt.
Mr. Halley had just finished his
breakfast, laid down his paper, and was
playing with his gold eyeglasses, while
May, who sat behind the urn, looked
pale and distraite.
Mr. Halley coughed—a short, forced
cough—and looked disturbed.
May started.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
This was the opening for which Mr.
Halley had been waiting. He was fond
of authority and ruling, but he was
fonder of his child; and of late a feeling
had been creeping over him that he
was not satisfied with the course that
domestic matters had taken.
" “What’s the matter, my dear?” he
said.
“ Nothing, papa.”
“Yes — ahem — yes, there is, my
dear. I have noticed—er—er—noticed
lately—”
Here Mr. Halley’s voice grew husky,
and he had to cough two or three times
to clear it, while May’s face became
scarlet.
“ There—er—er—is something the
matter, and I have noticed lately that
you have been very strange and—er—er
—not what you should be. Merritt
came to me yesterday.”
He paused, as if expecting May to
speak; but she sat perfectly silent.
“I said Merritt came to me yesterday,
my dear; and he wanted to know if he
had given any offence.”
May still silent.
“ I told him no—nothing of the kind.
He said he was afraid somebody had
been trying to poison your ears against
him, and he hoped that you did not take
any notice of the absurd reports spread
about the shipping house to which he
belongs.”
“ Do you think, papa, that those re
ports are absurd ?” said May, so sud
denly that the old man started.
“Absurd ? Of course, my dear; un
less you think that the gentleman to
whom you are.engaged is about as black
a scoundrel and murderer as ever stepped.
May, I’m angry with you ; I am, indeed.
I can’t think what has come over you
of late. It is really too bad—it is,
indeed. I’ve been wanting to talk to
you about it; and really, you know, the
way in which you treated his partner,
Mr. Longdale, last night, was quite in
sulting.”
“Papa!” cried May, passionately, “I
can’t make friends with a slimy snake.”
“Now, my dear child,” cried the old
29.
man, petulantly, “this—this is absurd;
it’s—it’s—it’s cruel; it’s—it’s so like
your poor mother—bursting out in the
most unreasonable way against a man
whom you do not fancy.”
“ Fancy ? Oh, papa ! ” cried May,
“did you ever shake hands with him?”
“Why, of course, my dear. Shake
hands, indeed! ”
“ It was dreadful; so cold and dank,
and—and—and fishy,” said May.
“ Now, my darling child, I must beg of
you not to be absurd. Longdale is a man
of position, and Merritt’s partner. Long
dale and Merritt are really the men, for
pcfor old Rutherby is quite a nonentity.
And here, last night, you treated Long
dale as if he were—were—were—”
“ A nasty, cold, twining, slimy snake,”
said May, impetuously. “Ugh!”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the old
man, peevishly ; “really, May!”
“Do you think, papa, there is any
truth in what has been said about
Rutherby’s ships ?”
“ Why—why—why—what do you
know about Rutherby’s ships, child?”
cried the old man, uneasily.
“ I’ve heard the reports, papa, about
their unseaworthy state,” said May, ex-'
citedly; “and it seems to me so dread
ful, so horrible, that it makes me
shudder.”
“ It’s all a cruel, atrocious lie. I’m
sure of it, my dear,” said the old man,
dabbing his forehead as he spoke. “ If
I—I—I for a moment thought that they
could be such—There, it’s nonsense—
absurd ! Men couldn’t do it.”
“ But people say they do, papa,” said
May.
“ People say any cruel thing of others
who are more prosperous than them
selves. Why they even say that—that
I—but there, I am not prosperous, my
dear, only comfortably off. But there,
don’t you take any notice of what people
say.”
“ But it sounds so horrible, papa.”
“ What, that they send men to sea in
rotten ships ? Yes, of course it sounds
horrible; but it isn’t true—it can’t be
true. Why, my dear, I should have
�30
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
been a very, very rich man now if it had
not been for the expense I’ve been put
to in keeping my ships in good con
dition ; and as to what they say of
Rutherby’s—pooh !”
The door opened, and the footman
appeared.
“ Lady wants to see you, sir, on busi
ness,” said the man.
“Who is it? What business? Why
doesn’t she go to the offices ?”
“ Said I wasn’t to say, sir,” said the
man, reluctantly. “She’s in the library.”
The old gentleman fixed him with
his eye, and the footman, with a shilling
in his mind, half whimpered—
“ If you please, sir, I couldn’t help it.
She says, sir, please, sir, ‘ Show me into
a private room, and tell your master a
lady wants to see him on business.’ ”
“Who is the lady?” said Mr. Halley.
“Mrs. Anderson, sir—Captain An
derson’s mother.”
May gave vent to a little cry, half
sob, half catch of the breath ; and'then
sat silent and intent upon what followed.
jlLEVENTH
“Tell her, I can’t see her,” cried the
old man, angrily; “tell her I won’t see
her; tell her—there, what the devil
does she want here ? She’s come to beg
that I will reinstate her son. It’s too
bad, May—it really is too bad ; and I
won’t be bothered like this. I won’t
see her. Here, stop, sir. How dare you
go away without orders?”
“ Please, sir, you said—”
“ Confound you, sir ! I didn’t said at
all,” cried the old man, angrily. “Here,
stop, I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll see her in the
library.”
“Yes, sir, she is there,” said the foot
man, hurrying to open the door obse
quiously for Mr. Halley, nervous and
evidently dreading the interview ; while
May sat with her face changing colour
each moment, and listening attentively
till she heard the library door closed,
when she hurried up to her own room,
to throw herself into a chair, and place
one hand upon her side, as if to stay
with it the heavy throbbings of her
heart.
JCaBLE
HOW MRS. ANDERSON CAME
T might
have been
thought
by any
one who
had been
a witness
of the
scene that
Mrs. An
derson, as
she sat in
the library
of the old
house at
Canonbury, was Queen paramount there,
and that Mr. Halley, the old shipowner,
approached her as a suppliant; for she
remained sitting—a stiff old figure, in
[Christmas, 1873.
J_vENGTH.
TO SPEAK ABOUT HER SON.
her rustling, great folded silk—while he
stood before her, evidently ill at ease.
“Mr. Halley,” she said, sternly, “I
have come to speak to you about my
son.”
“ I must beg, madam—” he ’ began,
nervously.
“Have the goodness to-listen to me
first, Mr. Halley.”
The old gentleman coughed/glanced
at the door, and then remained silent;
while his visitor drew off a black kid
glove, held up a thin white finger
threateningly at him, and said, slowly—
“Mr. Halley, you have murdered my
son! ”
The old gentleman started at the
tremendous charge, and was about to
speak; but Mrs. Anderson interrupted
him. ,
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Yes—murdered him; for you have
deprived him of the command of the
ship he loved, and sent him afloat in
one that bears an ill name.”
“ I—I—I did nothing of the sort,
Mrs. Anderson ; I—I—really, this is a
most scandalous charge.”
“But it is quite true, Mr. Halley, and
you know it. And why was this ? ”
“Why, ma’am, why?” cried the old
gentleman, angrily, glad to have an
opportunity to speak, “ because he was
presumptuous ; but, stop—mind this, I
am only speaking of my breaking con
nection with him. I have nothing to do
with his shipping with another firm.”
“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Anderson,
sternly.
“Nonsense! — absurd! 'I will not
have it,” cried the old man. “ Do you
know how this man, your son, behaved
here—here in my house, madam ? ”
“No, not quite,”said Mrs. Andersorf,
quietly; “but I am quite sure that my
son would behave like a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, he struck one of my visitors, and
insulted my daughter.”
“ If he struck one of your guests, Mr.
Halley,” said the old lady, speaking
haughtily as a tragedy queen, “he must
have been a villain and deserved it.
But my son would never insult your
daughter.”
“ But—but I tell you, ma’am, he did
—he did. Forgot his position altogether
as one of my servants, and—and—there,
it is too absurd! He actually had the
impertinence to propose—to—to make
love to her.”
“And pray, Mr. Halley, was that in
sulting her ?”
“ Of course.”
Mrs. Anderson rose from her chair, '
and stood menacingly before the old
gentleman.
“ Insult—proposed ! Mr. Halley, I
consider that my son conferred an
honour upon her.”
“ Honour ?”
“Yes, sir, an honour. I won’t say
anything about his birth, only that the
Andersons have been Scotch gentlemen
31
for many generations, while the Hal
leys— Do you remember coming to
borrow a sovereign of my husband, Mr.
Halley, when you were a struggling
man ?”
“I—I—I—there!—No; yes, yes, I
won’t deny it, Mrs. Anderson. I did
bor—but I paid it again!”
“Yes, you paid it again,” said the old
lady. “You always were an honest
man, James Halley; but because you
have made money in shipowning, I
can’t see that my son would be offering
any insult to your child.”
“ Mrs. Anderson, I am not going to—I can’t argue with you about that
matter. Your son is not connected with
me now, and I had nothing to do with
his engaging himself to other owners.”
“ But it was through you, Mr. Halley,
it was through you that the poor lad
went; and if evil come to him you are
to blame.”
“Mrs. Anderson, if you were not—
but I won’t be angry. I won’t say hard
things to you. You are an old lady,
and in troirble about your son, and
therefore speak more plainly than you
should.”
“No, Mr.' Halley, not more plainly
than I should. It is true that it is
about my poor boy; but I would speak
as plainly if it were about any other
woman’s son, for it is the duty of every
one to speak when evil is being done,
and no steps taken to avert it. James
Halley, you know the kind of ship my
son has gone in, and what they say
about it.”
“ I know what they say about it, Mrs.
Anderson,” said Mr. Halley, angrily;
“ but I don’t believe it—I won’t believe
it’s true.”
“No, that’s it—you won’t believe it’s
true.”
“ I can’t, I tell you,” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, I never sent a ship to sea until it
had been thoroughly overhauled and
made trim.”
“That makes me believe you, James
Halley,” said the old lady, eagerly; and
she caught his hand and pressed it
between her own. “ I know you never
�g
32
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
did—my John has told me so a dozen
times; and I see now that you can’t
believe it in others. I did think though,
when I came here, that you knew of it
all, and winked at it that you might get
well rid of my son.”
“ If .1 thought—no, if I found out,
and could believe that Rutherbys could
be such scoundrels, they should never
darken my doors again; and as for—”
He stopped short, and looked
curiously at the old lady, who leaned
forward, and peered searchingly in his
eyes.
“Say what you were going to say to
me, James Halley. Don’t triumph over
me because I come as a suitor now.
You came as a suitor to me once—forty
years ago now, James Halley—and I
would not listen to you; but you are
too much of a man to bear me malice
for that.”
“Bear malice!” said the old gentleman, warmly ; “ not I. Well, I’ll say
it. No, I won’t.”
“ Then I’ll say it for you,” said Mrs.
Anderson. “You were gcing to say
that if you found out that Philip
Merritt knew of the state of the ship in
which my son sailed, he should never
wed daughter of yours. Say it, James
Halley, and I shall go away hap
pier.”
“No,” said the old gentleman, shak
[Christmas, 1873.
ing his head, angrily, and striding up
and down the room—“ no, I won’t say
it. There’s no need. It isn’t true. And
you’ve come here, on your son’s behalf,
to try and set me against that young
man, and I’ll hear no more of it. As
for the young man, I like him, and May
likes him, and—but there, I won’t—I
won’t enter any more into the matter.
Mrs. Anderson, good morning.”
“ Stop one moment, Mr. Halley,”
cried the old lady. “ We are very old •
acquaintances. You love your girl,
perhaps, as well as I love my boy.
That he hoped to have won May
Halley was his misfortune and mine.
But I don’t come on his behalf; for, poor
lad, he will never return—I know it
well. I should like, though, to know
that this engagement was broken off;
for I tell you it will bring with
it misery. The money Philip Merritt
brings to his home will be fouled with
the despairing curses of the dying
sailors he has sent to their grave ; and
every jewel he gives his wife will be
glistening with the tears of the wives
and mothers whose loved ones have
sailed in his rotten ships. I tell you,
James Halley, that you will go to your
grave a wretched and despairing man if
you marry your child to—”
“ Mr. Philip Merritt,” said the foot
man, suddenly opening the door.
�Ctóstmas, 187-3.]
“SHIP AHOY!
33
J^WELFTH
HOW PHILIP MERRITT ASKED IF HE LOOKED LIKE A SCOUNDREL.
OR a few mo
ments no one
spoke, during
which short
space the clos
ing of the door
* by the foot
man and his
retreating
steps across
the hall were
plainly heard.
Then Merritt
somewhat re
covered from
his surprise;
for he had ex
pected May to
be with her
father, and in
stead he found
himself confronted by the threatening,
angry countenance of Mrs. Anderson.
“ I—I beg pardon,” he stammered,
changing colour in spite of himself.
“ I’ll go into the next room.”
“No!” cried the old lady, fiercely, as
she took a step forward ; then, pointing
at him with her stick, she turned to Mr.
Halley. “ Look at him, James Halley
—look at him, and think of what I said.
It will bring a curse, I tell you—a curse! ”
She went slowly towards the door,
and turned once more as she took the
handle, to gaze sternly upon Merritt.
“The tears of mothers and sweet
hearts, the bitter wails of wives and
children, and the stifled curses and cries
to Heaven for vengeance of drowning
sailors, will be the dowry you bring to
your wife, Philip Merritt. I, as the
mother of one whom you have sent to
his death, will not add my curse. I will
not spit upon the ground where you
stand, and call down maledictions from
the Almighty to crush you ere your
misdoings become more. I only say,
for John Anderson and myself, may
God forgive you!”
Before Philip Merritt could recover
himself from the shock her words had
occasioned, the door had closed, and he
was alone with Mr. Halley, his face
blanched, and the perspiration standing
in beads upon his temples.
“ Why, what a dreadful old woman ! ”
he exclaimed at last, using his scented
handkerchief freely upon his forehead
and damp hands. “ I declare she has
made me feel quite uncomfortable.
And who is the strange old being ?”
“John Anderson’s mother,” said Mr.
Halley, sinking back into a seat, with
clouded brow.
“ Well, do you know, I half guessed it.
But is she—a little—touched ?”
He tapped his forehead significantly.
“Sane as you or I,” said Mr. Halley,
shortly.
“Oh!” said Merritt.
And there was an uncomfortable
silence for a few moments.
“Look here, Merritt,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, suddenly; “ I’m a plain-spoken
old man, and very frank. I take to
myself the credit of being honest and
straightforward, so I will speak what is
on my mind at once. There are strange
reports afloat.”
“ Indeed,” said Merritt, calmly; “what
about ?”
“ About you, Merritt—about you.”
“About me?” said Merritt, with an
amused smile. “Why, what have I
been doing? Has a little bird whispered
that I was seen at the Casino last night;
or tipsy in the Haymarket, knocking off
policemen’s hats; and is my future papa
angry about it, and going to give me a
lecture?”
“Just listen to me seriously, Philip,”
�34
.ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
said Mr. Halley, leaning forward, and
speaking very earnestly. “ I keep hear
ing on all sides evil whisperings about
Rutherby’s vessels.”
“ Of course, yes—evil whisperings,”
said Merritt, with a contemptuous
“Pish!”
“ They say your ships go out unsea
worthy and heavily insured.”
“ Our ships ? Well, yes, they are ours
now; but I am a very young partner,
you know.”
“And if this is the case, Philip Mer
ritt, it is wholesale murder.”
Merritt grew a trifle paler, but the
amused smile never left his lips.
“A firm—a man who would counte
nance such things ought to be hung as
high as Haman,” said the old man,
excitedly. “ He ought to be—there,
there, I don’t know a punishment hard
enough for such a demon. It makes
my blood boil to think of it.”
“ Then why think of it ? ” said Mer
ritt, who was, however, blessed with
a face that was as tell-tale as a girl’s,
and now showed of a deathly pallor—
“why think of it?” he said coolly. “You
must know that it is all pure invention.”
“ But I don’t know,” cried the old
man. “ I want to know—want you to
tell me.”
“Want me to tell you!” said Merritt.
“Well, really, my dear sir, if it were any
one else I should rise and leave the
room. You ask me, so to speak, if it is
true that I am, according to your own
showing, as great a ruffian, scoundrel,
and murderer as ever stepped—that I,
the accepted suitor of your daughter,
am a wholesale destroyer of life, and
make money by swindling the marine
insurance companies. Mr, Halley, it is
monstrous!”
“ It is—it is, Merritt,” exclaimed the
old man.
“ I ask you a question,” continued
Merritt, rising with an aspect of injured
innocence; “do I look like the scoun
drel you have painted?”
“No, my boy—no,” cried the old man,
catching Merritt’s hands in his, and
shaking them heartily. “ It is mon
.-------------- -------------------------------- ------- ------- -------------------------
[Christmas, 36873.
strous. Indeed, I don’t believe a word
of it—not a word.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you,” said
Merritt, warmly returning the shake.
“ It is one of the evils of prosperity
that it must be backbitten by every
slandering scoundrel who has not been
fortunate.”
,
“Quite true, Merritt—quite true.”
“And because we have lost a ship or
two, they set it down to our own fault;
when I can assure you, Mr. Halley,
that no expense is spared to make our
vessels all that, could be wished.”
“ I am sure of it, Merritt—quite sure.
Depend upon it, some jealous scoundrel
is at the bottom of all this, for his own
ends.”
“ I fancy it comes from the under
writing fraternity,” said Merritt; “and
I’m glad you take my view, that it is
set afloat by some interested party;
for that is really what I feel about it.
An underwriter’s dodge to set a certain
number against our ships, so that they
may arrange per centage just as they
please.”
“Very likely—very likely,” said Mr.
Halley. “ There’s a deal of wickedness
in this world, my boy.”
“ Depend upon it, sir,” said Jderritt,
“that any roguery or false dealing in
commerce is sure to come upon the head
of its inventor.”
“ I am sure of it, my boy—quite sure
of it.”
“Why, even you know, Mr. Halley,
how hard it is to go on, even carrying
things along in the even, straightforward
way in which you have done business.”
“ True, my boy—quite true. I have
had very heavy losses in my time, though
none so bad that I have not been able
to stand against them.”
“ Then, I think we may change the
conversation, sir,” said Merritt.
“Ye-e-es,” said the old man, “we
will directly; but I will say this—I don’t
suspect you now, my boy, not at all—
but I’ll say this all the same. If I felt
that any one who wanted -to be related
to me—wanted to have that little pearl
of mine to wear for his own through
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!'-’
life—if I had the slightest suspicion
that he was in any way connected with
such goings on, I’d turn my back upon
him at once.”
“But, my dear sir,” exclaimed Mer
ritt, “ that looks as if you were not quite
satisfied even yet.”
“Not at all, my boy, not at all—so
there, shake hands upon it. Are you
coming into the City with me, or are you
going to see May? Oh, of course—well,
you must excuse me. Give me a look
in as you go by the office.”
The old gentleman left the room, after
a very warm shake of the hand; and
Philip Merritt, after waiting for a few
minutes, made his way into the drawing
room, where he expected to find May.
The room, however, was empty; and
after looking at a few books, he rang
the bell.
“Tell Miss May I am here,” he said
to the man.
“ I’ll send word up, sir,” said the man;
“ she’s in her own room.”
Merritt waited a few minutes, full of
impatience; and then he heard the
closing of a door, and May’s voice on
the stairs. A minute later, and listen
ing attentively, he heard a step in the
hall, when, throwing open the door, he
stepped hastily out, open-handed, but
35
found himself confronting the stiff, stern
old figure of Mrs. Anderson.
For a few moments he stood as if
paralyzed, with the old lady’s flashing
eyes gazing straight into his, till he
cowered and blenched, and fell back a
step. Then relief came; for the footman
approached, and the old lady pointed
with her stick to the door.
So fixed was her stern look, that Philip
Merritt shivered as he obeyed her sign
and slowly opened the door, through
which she passed, gazing at him to the
last.
“What an idiot I am!” he said to
himself, as the door was closed ; “ and
before that fellow, too! Here,” he cried,
wiping his damp hands, “ did you send
word to Miss May that I was here ?”
“Yes, sir,” said the footman.
“And what did she say?”
“ I—oh, here’s her maid, sir,” was the
reply.
At this moment a smart little domes
tic came tripping down the stairs.
“If you please, sir, Miss May’s com
pliments, and she’s too poorly to leave
her room.”
“ D----- n,” muttered Merritt, catching
up his hat and stick. Then as soon as he
was outside, “This is all the doing of
that cursed woman.”
�36
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
■J" HIRTEENTH
pABEE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_ÆNGTH..
HOW MRS. ANDERSON WENT TO CURSE MAY HALLEY.
HALLEY had
no idea that he
left Mrs. An
derson closelycloseted with
his daughter
when he
started for the
City; for, in
place of going
1 iKg
away, she had
desired the ser
vant to tell
Ism®
Miss May that
she wished to
see her.
May, think
To
ing it was Mrs.
Gurnett, eager
ly sent word
down for her to be shown up, running
forward to meet her as the door was
opened, and then stopping short, sur
prised and confused, as she found her
self confronted by the prim old dame,
who was frowning at her from beneath
her grey eyebrows.
“You don’t know me,” the old lady
said, after a pause, during which May
stood blushing beneath the stern gaze.
“ No,”saidMay; and then the thought
flashed across her mind that this might
be Mrs. Anderson, of whom she had
heard, but whom she had never before
seen.
“Yes,” said the old lady, taking her
hand, and leading her to the window to
scrutinize her more narrowly. “ I am
not surprised—you are very pretty.”
She said this half to herself; but May
heard every word, and looked more than
ever conscious, with the ruddy hue suf
fusing neck and temples.
“Yes,” continued the old lady, “you
are very pretty, and I am not sur
prised.”
“ If you please,” said May, quaintly,
and with a half-amused smile upon her
face. “ I can’t help it.”
“ No,” said the old lady, more to her
self than May, “ you can’t help it; and
yet what misery and wretchedness a
pretty face can cause! Why should
your pretty doll’s face come between
me and my son, to wean his heart—
no, I won’t say that—but to make his
life a burden to him : so great a one
that he has thrown it away ?”
“No, no—not so bad as that,” cried
May.
“ Not so bad !” retorted the old lady.
“ It is worse. Did you know he loved
you ?”
May’s colour rose once more at this
sharp questioning, and she drew herself
up.
“Pride!” exclaimed the old lady.
“ Pride and coquetry ! Shame on you,
girl. I can see it all, as plainly as if I
had watched it throughout. To gratify
your girlish love of admiration, you have
led on and wrecked the heart of as true
a man as ever stepped. You ! Are you
listening ? Do you know how unworthy
of him you are—how brave and good
he is ? Why, a queen might have been
proud to own his love; while you—
what do you do, girl ? You spurn him
—send him away maddened; to throw
away his life—to let himself be trapped
into taking charge of a wretched, rotten
ship, that will hold together till the first
rough sea, and then sink, to help pave
the bottom of the sea with good men’s
bones.”
“ Oh, but tell me,” cried May—“ you
are exaggerating. It is not so bad as
this?”
“ So bad, girl!” cried the old lady, ex
citedly—“ it is worse ; for do you know
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in whose ship he has gone ? No. I’ll
tell you. In his rival’s.”
“You are speaking without reason,
Mrs. Anderson. Your son had no rival,
for he was not acknowledged.”
“No,” said the old lady—“he was
not acknowledged, my son was not. He
'was but a poor merchant captain, and
no meet mate for his owner’s daughter.
Oh, that a few pounds of gold should
make so wide a gap between people.
But there—he could not see it, poor
boy! You are to marry, I suppose, that
man below—the man who has murdered
my son?”
“ Mrs. Anderson!”
“ Well, girl, what do you call it, if not
murder ? He owns a ship, and engages
men to sail it to some far distant land.
What ought he to do ? Ought he not'
to make that vessel safe ? ”
“ Oh, yes,” exclaimed May. “ Papa—”
“Your father is an obstinate, proud
man, May Halley; but he is honest and
true, and always did his duty by his
men.”
“ I am sure he did,” said May, with
animation.
“Yes, my son has told me so a score
of times. But this firm—these Rutherbys—what - do they do ? I’ll tell
you, girl—but come and sit down here
by this window, for I am an old. woman,
and weak.”
May hesitated for a 'moment, then
suffered herself to be led to a chair, as
if she were the visitor, and the old lady
mistress of the place.
“There,” said the latter, on seeing
the hesitation, “ you need not be afraid,
child—hard words break no bones; and
I have a right to speak to you—the
right of age—the right of an old woman
to a motherless girl.”
May glanced up at her quickly, for
the old lady’s face had wonderfully sof
tened, and she leaned forward to softly
stroke the girl’s peachy cheek.
“Yes, May Halley, I ought to be
very bitter and angry with you ; but I
cannot, for when I think, it seems to me
that I might perhaps have been your
mother.”
[Christmas, 1873.
“ My mother!”
“Yes, your »mother, child ; for in the
days gone by your father would have
made me his wife. But that matters
nothing now. I came to tell you of
your cruelty to my poor boy, who has
gone to his death.”
“ But, Mrs. Anderson,” exclaimed
May, “ it cannot be as bad as you say.”
“ Child, it is worse, I tell you. These
men buy wretched old ships, patch and
paint them up, engage good sailors to
man them, and send them to sea—to
their death.”
“ Oh, impossible I ” cried May.
“Impossible? It is done, I tell you,
and known to many, but no one inter
feres; and when one more bold than
the cowardly people who look on at the
wholesale murder interferes, and cries
boldly to the country, ‘ This should
not be,’ he is told that it is im
possible ; he is cried down as an
enthusiast, charged with interference
with that which he does not under
stand, and kept back when he calls for
proper inquiry.”
“But are you sure that this is true?”
cried. May, earnestly.
“ My son has told me, and he never
lied,” said the old lady, in a stately
way.
“It is too dreadful!”
“Too dreadful, child, perhaps; but,
none the less, true. I give you my son’s
words—the words of the dead, for he
will never return. I read his thoughts
when he said good-bye. He knew only
too well the character of the ship in
which he had madly engaged to sail.”
“ But why did he go?” cried May.
“ Because you drove him to it,” cried
the old lady; “because you made him
mad by your coldness. But he did not
know when he engaged himself that it
was in one of Mr. Philip Merritt’s ships
that he was to sail unto his death.”
“But, stop a moment,” said May;
“are you sure of this?”
“Did I not tell you that my son told
me?” retorted the old lady. “Sure?
What became of three of Rutherby’s
.ships last year? You never heard?
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
No, nor any one else : they sailed from
port, and were never heard of more.
And do you know what that means, child?
No, you could never have painted it
in its right colours, or you would not
have engaged yourself to a man who
could join in such atrocities. Yes, you
may we lk cry,” she continued, as May
half-turned away her streaming eyes—
“ you weep at the thought of it; but
what must have been the agony of
those watching mothers and wives who
saw those they loved set sail? Poor
common people, my child; but they
have the same feelings as you have, and
perhaps suffer more sharply, for they
have not the wealth that plasters so
many sores. They watch and wait,
and watch and wait, till every hope is
crushed out; and then at last their
poor few shillings go in what might
have been bought at first—a piece of
crape.”
There was silence for a few minutes,
broken only by a sob from May.
“See here, my child,” continued the
old lady, more gently, as she held
one of May’s hands in hers, and
softly stroked it, after pointing to her
weeds—“see here, I have no need to
go buy mourning, for I wear it now.
This was for my poor husband, who
sailed away, happy and light-hearted,
to battle with the treacherous sea. He
had all that good owners could supply—
a stout, new vessel, and good crew; but
he never came back. What then can I
expect for my son, who has gone with
all as bad as bad can be? Oh, my
child, my child, you’ve broken his
mother’s heart!”
In a moment, the cold, almost harsh,
- dignity of the old lady had passed
away, and she was on her knees by
May, sobbing over the hand she tightly
clasped.
The tears fell fast, too, now from
May’s eyes, as she rested her other hand
upon the thin, bent shoulders of her
visitor, whom she raised at last and led
to a couch, seating herself beside her,
and trying to whisper comfort; as with
hot, wet cheek bearing witness to her
:-----------------_-------------------------------
39
emotion, she whispered, in broken
words—
“ Indeed, you wrong me. I never
treated Captain Anderson as you seem
to think. I always met him as a friend
and visitor. He took me by surprise—I
did not know—”
Mrs. Anderson sat up, and pushed
back the loose white hair that had
escaped from beneath her cap.
“ My child,” she said, “ I came here
ready to curse you for your cruelty to
my poor boy, and you make me feel as
if I could do nought but bless. I was
angry and very bitter against you ; but
think how a mother must have felt. I
do not wonder now at his despair. But,
tell me, child,” she half whispered, as
she drew May towards her, and kissed
her cheek — “ do you think, if it were
possible that my boy could come back,
you could—”
May started from her, the colour once
more flashing to her forehead.
“ Mrs. Anderson, you must not ask
me that. Only believe this of me, that
I never intentionally hurt the feelings
of—of your son. Please leave me now,
for I am—I am not well. You have
told me much that I did not know.
Papa could not know-it either.”
“ He knows it, child; but he will not
believe it. But I’ll go now—back to
my lonely home, to pray for his safe
return ; or if he come not back, that
He may take me where I may see him
once again, for I shall have nought to
live for then.”
She rose to go, then stooped to pick
up a bow of crape which had become
detached from her breast. May stooped
first, and held it in her hand, while the
old lady gazed searchingly in her face.
“ Good-bye, child,” she said at last, as
she laid her hands upon May’s shoulders.
“ Had he lived, I do not think, after all,
you would have been half good enough
for John ; but I’ll kiss you, and say God
bless you!”
The' tears sprang to May Halley’s
eyes; and, putting her arms round the
old lady’s neck, she warmly returned
the kiss.
�dfiQ3SaS¿BÉKB)
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
40
Mrs. Anderson trembled as she turned
to go, saying once more—
“ I’ll go and pray for his return; and
if, child—if you could—”
“Yes,” said May, simply, as she di
vined the wish but half expressed—
“ yes, I’ll join my prayers to yours.”
“ For him ?” said the old lady.
“ For him and all his crew—for all
poor sailors on the sea; and pray that
God may bring them safely home. No,”
she added, sadly, as Mrs. Anderson held
out her hand for the bow of crape—
“no, not now. I’ll keep this, and
send it to you when your son comes
back.”
“And if he should not?”
“If he should not!” repeated May.
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes, child; and if he come not
back?”
The colour once more suffused May
Halley’s cheeks, as her eyelids drooped,
and she whispered, softly—
“ I’ll wear it for his sake!”
The next minute Mrs. Anderson was
descending the stairs, muttering to her
self—
“And I came to curse her with a
mother’s curse!”
Her worn old face looked very soft
and sweet, years seemed to have rolled
away as the soft light of love suffused it;
but the next minute it was bitter, hard,
and stern, and her eyes, yet wet with
emotion, flashed fiercely as she slowly
swept by Philip Merritt in the hall.
j^OURTEENTH
HOW JEREMIAH
BASALT
TALKED
ASN’T it Shakspeare as said
‘ Ignorance is
bliss,’ Master
John? But,
there, it don’t
matter who
said it, igno
rance A bliss.
Just look at
our chaps, as
rough a scratch
crew as was
ever got toge
ther, sailing in
this old tub
without so
much as a
grumble!”
“ D o n’t
speak ill of the bridge that carries you
well over, Jerry,” said John Anderson,
smiling. “We’ve walked over it safely
into Hong Kong here, and landed our
cargo dry and sound—what more would
you have?”
OF
WALKING
HOME.
“What’ more’d I have? A good
deal. I’d like to go to my hammock
feeling safe. If |you was ashore now,
would you take lodgings over a powder
magazine? Not you! And by the same
token, I don’t like sailing in a ship that
may go down at any moment.”
“There, don’t croak, Jerry,” said An
derson, trying to assume a cheerful
aspect; but it was a failure, for disap
pointment and the anxiety of his voy
age had made him age so, that thin
threads of white were beginning to ap
pear at his temples. “ Don’t croak, old
fellow—we’ve got here safely.”
“ Got here safely! Why, we couldn’t
help getting here safely. Look at the
weather we’ve had. Why, I could ha’
sailed one o’ them old Thames barges
here, with a boy for crew. Yes, we’ve
got here safe, and no thanks to nobody
but the clerk of the weather.”
“ And we shall get back safely, Jerry,”
said John Anderson, leaning over the
taffrail, and looking down into the water
of the harbour.
“ I don’t know so much about that,”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
growled the old man. “ If it wafn’t for
you, burn me if I wouldn’t buy a good,
stout bamboo stick, tuck up my trousers
and walk home.”
“ Do what?”
“Walk home! There, you needn’t
laugh; ’taint such a very long way, if
you make up your mind to do it; and
what’s more, the country chaps—the
Chinees and Tartarees, and others, would
give you a lift now and then. I’d find
my way, if I made up my mind.”
John Anderson, for the first time for
months, laughed aloud, to his male’s
great annoyance.
“ I don’t care,” he growled; “all you’ve
got to do is to steer doo west, and you
must come right sooner or later.”
“ There, never mind thinking about
that,” said Anderson. “ All being well,
we’ll sail the Victrix up the Thames a
few months hence.”
He turned round, and went down be
low; while Basalt, to show his disgust,
spat about the deck in all directions.
“ An old beast!” he growled. “ She’s
too bad for a breaker’s yard. Look at
that,” he grunted, “ and that, and that.”
As he spoke, he gave a kick here and
a kick there, at cordage, anchor, chains,
bulwarks—anything that came within
his reach.
“As for them Rutherbys, hanging’s
too good for ’em. I know what I’d do
with the beggars, I’d set ’em afloat in
their own ships, and if they came back
safe I’d forgive ’em.”
It was as Basalt had said, the weather
had been glorious; and from the time
that the Victrix had left the Downs till
she entered Hong Kong harbour they
had had nothing but favourable breezes
to waft them to their destination. Cer
tainly the vessel did not look so spick
and span as when they left the Thames;
for the sun and wind had played havoc
with the bright paint, which had peeled
off, leaving the old ship in a state which
exposed the patching and plastering
she had received.
A week passed, during which much
had been done, and John Anderson was
looking anxiously forward to the time
41
when he could start again, and get well
on his return voyage; for somehow of
late the old despairing feeling had grown
weaker, and hope had done something
towards restoring the tone of his mind.
“ It was my own fault,” he told him
self, again and again. “Here am I
admitted into the presence of a gently
born and nurtured girl, and I behave—
how ? Like a savage,” he said, bitterly.
“Well, and how are things your
way ?” said Anderson, one day, after a
general overhaul of rigging, standing
and running, previous to the start for
the voyage home.
Jeremiah Basalt thrust his hands
deeply into his pockets, walked to the
side of the vessel, and began to sprinkle
the water with tobacco juice. After,
which he walked, or rather rolled, slowly
back to his commander, stared him in
the face, and began to whistle.
Anderson waited for him to speak;
but as no answer came, he repeated his
question.
Basalt stared all the harder, if it were
possible, and whistled a little louder.
At last he spoke—
“ How’s things your way ?”
John Anderson looked at the dry,
screwed-up visage before him for a few
moments; and then he, too, began to
whistle softly, turned on his heel, and
walked away.
He glanced round once, though, to
see what caused a sudden fioise; but it
was only Basalt, heavily slapping his
thigh, as he muttered to himself—
“ Had him there ! Hadn’t a word to
say for himself. How’s things, indeed!
Why, they couldn’t be worse. There
aint a bit of new rope that aint spliced
on to a bit of old; and what’s the con
sequences? why—as the Scripter says
about the new wine in the old bottles—
it ’ll all go to smash. My stars, I wish
I was safe home alongside the missus.”
John Anderson had expected no good
news; but he had found everything he
had examined so bad that one word
of encouragement would have been a
blessing.
♦
�42
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^IFTEENTH
pABLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J^ENGTH.
HOW MR. HALLEY WAS BULLIED.
TUDGE sat
on the hol
lowed top of
his stool in
Halley’s office,
with his mouth
pursed up and
his face look
ing very fierce.
He was a little
round man was
Mr. T u d g e,
and as he sat
upon the top
3
of his high stool, it re
quired very little
stretch of the imagina
tion to fancy that na
ture had just been
playing atcup-and-ball
with his little round
body and had caught
him in the cup. He
was a very estimable
little fellow ; but his grizzly hair would
stick up like bristles on the top of his
head, and he would have himself shaved
so dreadfully clean all over the sides
of his face and under his chin, that,
every evening regularly, he looked as
if he had had the lights and shadows
of his countenance stippled in with
little dots by an engraver.
Mr. Tudge had been clerk at Halley’s
from the very commencement of that
business, and had grown clerkly in the
extreme. He was very wise in busi
ness matters, but most ignorant respect
ing himself. For instance, if unable—
being only five feet two inches high—to
reach a paper or book from a shelf, he
would salute a six-feet clerk with, “ Are
you any taller than I am ? If so,- try
and reach that down.” He hardly
seemed to conceive, either, that he was
any older than he had bSen forty years
before; and certainly never for a mo
ment doubted that when he grew old
he should retire from his duties and
take to gardening at Barnes. Being so
clerkly, the interest Mr. Tudge took in
other people was either compound or
shipping interest, and he always spoke
of matters from a shipping point of
view.
Mr. Tudge was sitting at his desk,
frowning and angry, awaiting the com
ing of his principal. He held a heavy
ruler in onehand, as if prepared to knock
some one down, and with the other he
stabbed the desk with a penknife. He
evidently felt that such a thing was
possible, for he had curbed himself by
sticking a pen across his mouth. But
he flushed very angrily as he glanced
from clerk to clerk, one and all of whom
scribbled away furiously.
He had not long to wait before Mr.
Halley came in,looking rather worn and
anxious; and his coming was greeted
with a stab of the penknife in the desk,
and an imaginary blow given with the
ruler at some person or persons un
known.
In a few minutes there was the sound
of a bell. A clerk answered it, and
then came to summon Mr. Tudge to his
principal’s room.
“Well,” said Mr. Halley, “whatnews
this morning?”
“ Bad.”
“How bad?”
“ You ought to have been here yester
day.”
“ Well, I know that,” said Mr. Halley,
peevishly; “ but I am poorly and wor
ried, Tudge, and I stayed at home.”
“ You heard about the Victrix, I suppose ?
“What, Rutherby’s ship? No; good
God!—what?”
“ Gone where she was expected to
go,” said Tudge, quietly.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Ah, to China,” said Mr. Halley, ap
parently relieved. “Arrival noted, or
spoken?”
“Gone to the bottom,” said Mr. Tudge,
bringing his ruler.down bang upon the
table.
Mr. Halley sat looking at his clerk
for a few moments in silence—a cold,
clammy dew making itself felt the while
upon his forehead.
“ It’s—it’s very dreadful, Tudge.”
“It’s—it’s damnable, sir!” said Tudge,
angrily. “ And do you know who’s
gone down in her? Why, of course you
do—Jack Anderson, the lad I loved like
a son, sir; and it’s all your doing, for
letting him go.”
Mr. Tudge made no scruple about
rubbing a tear out of each eye, as
he snatched a chair forward and sat
down.
“Don’t talk like that, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, huskily. “ It was a bad
job, certainly; but the young man was
presumptuous, and worked his own
ruin.”
“I’m not goingto quarrel about that,”
said Mr. Tudge, hotly; “but I know
what I know, poor lad! But hark here
—here it is per telegram: ‘ Queen steam
ship—picked up boat’s crew of Victrix
of London—men in the last stage of
starvation—left captain and mate on
board—ship couldn’t float an hour.”
“ Then, she may not have gone down,
Tudge,” cried Mr. Halley, anxiously.
“Not gone down!” echoed his clerk.
“ Hark here, sir. ‘ Loss of the ship Vic
trix. The White Swan, Bombay to
Alexandria, reports passing a quantity
of loose spars and timber, with portions
of the cargo floating, in long. — lat. —
many of the bales being marked Vic
trix. The next day a boat was picked
up stove in, with ‘ Victrix, London ’ on
her stern.’ There you are—there’s no
doubt about it. Three thousand pounds’
worth of teas consigned to you. You
would give the order.”
“Yes,Tudge,”said Mr. Halley, mildly,
“ I would give the order.”
“ But, I told you.”
“And I wouldn’t believe it.”
43
“ And you don’t now.”
“And I don’t now.”
“ But it’s true, I tell you, sir,” in
sisted Tudge; “it’s the common talk
everywhere.”
“ I won’t listen to common talk,
Tudge. Common talk is slander, and
I won’t hear people’s characters taken
away. The goods are lost; but they
were well insured, and it will be paid.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “it will be paid ;
but I tell you what, sir, if you don’t
drop all connection with those people
your name will smell as bad as theirs.
The underwriters are setting dead
against you.”
“ Let them,” said Mr. Halley.
“They won’t look at the Emperor
and the Laura?
“Nexy well,” said Mr. Halley; “they
can do as they please.”
“And you’ll have to underwrite them
yourself, same as you did the Merry
May?
“Very good,” said Mr. Halley, smiling,
in an awkward fashion; “then I’ll insure
my own ships.”
“And send ’em to sea with poor cap
tains, same as you did the Merry May?
“Mr. Simmons is a very good sea
man,” said Mr. Halley.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tudge; “he’llsink
her or run her ashore. She’ll never come
back. I dreamed she wouldn’t, last
night.”
“Hold your tongue, Tudge! I won’t
be bullied this morning. I’m not well.”
“If I hadn’t bullied you any time
these thirty years, James Halley, you’d
have ruined yourself, and so I tell
you.”
“Well, well, Tudge—we won’t argue
that. What else is there?”
“ Isn’t that enough for one morn
ing?” said the old clerk, plaintively.
“Three thousand pounds lost in those
people’s ship! ”
“But well insured.”
“Yes,” said Tudge; “and that fellow
Longdale advised me to insure for four
thousand. He knew she’d go down, I’ll
swear.”
“Don’t say any more about it. We
�44
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
insured for the proper value, did we
not ? ”
“Yes, of course,” said Tudge, stoutly,
“and always have. But poor Anderson
wasn’t insured, and you can’t replace
him. He wasn’t Manchester goods, nor
Brummagem neither, poor lad. If ever
there was a bit of true steel, it was he.”
Mr. Halley turned uneasily in his
chair.
“You never ought to have parted
from him, Mr. Halley—never. He’d
have sailed the Merry May to good
fortune; while now, now—I know it as
well as if it was all over—she’ll never
come back.
A hundred thousand
pounds, that means, of our hard-scrapedtogether money, and all, James Halley,
because you will be proud, and obsti
nate, and won’t listen to those who know
what things are.”
“Tudge, you’ll make me angry di
rectly,” exclaimed Mr. Halley,peevishly.
“ I can’t help it, Master James, I must
talk this morning; and who’s a better
right to talk to you, when he sees things
going wrong, than your old clerk, who
has helped you for forty years to build
up your house ? Mark my words, James
Halley, if the Merry May is lost—as
I’m sure she will be—we’re ruined, ab
solutely ruined; for your credit will be
gone, and how can we get on without a
good name?”
“Tudge, you’ll drive me mad,” ex
claimed his exasperated employer.
“No, I won’t; but I will give you the
spur,” said Tudge. “ I don’t want to
drive you mad—I want to bring you
to your senses. Only fancy our house
ruined, and all through connection with
the Rutherbys. Oh, Master James, do
—pray do be warned in time! They’ve
got a bad name; but they won’t stick
at trifles, and so make money.”
“ It’s all a lie, Tudge.”
“It’s all true, Master James; but
people daren’t speak for fear of being
called up for libel. You can’t get on
with a bad name—it’s ruin to you;
because we’re a good, upright house,
and wouldn’t do a shabby thing or
send out a ship short-handed. A good,
[Christmas, 1873.
honourable house like ours, with its
great expenses for good things, can only
live with its name brightly polished. If
there’s a speck of mud thrown at it, it’s
all loss.”
“ But there is no speck of mud on it,
Tudge.”
“ I tell you there is, sir,” said Tudge;
“ and not a speck, but a big dab of mud;
and the underwriters see it, and they
hold back—all but the speculative ones,
and they want great premiums. I tell
you, sir, the brokers are beginning to
whisper; and if you don’t mind, that
whisper will become a shout, a yell, a
howl, a chorus of shrieks that will kill
us.”
“ Don’t, don’t, don’t,Tudge!” cried the
old man. “ What is the good of running
half-way to meet troubles that may
never come?”
“Run half-way, indeed! why, they’re
all close here,” exclaimed Tudge, bring
ing down his ruler upon the table.
“ It’ll be ruin, James Halley—ruin; and
if it does come to it, there’s my five
thousand pounds I’ve got in houses at
Barnes—you can have that; but it will
only be like a drop of water in a pail,
compared to what you want.”
“My dear Tudge,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, reaching across the table to
shake his clerk’s hand warmly, “ I know
what a good old friend you are; but
you are imagining all sorts of unneces
sary troubles this morning.”
“Not I,” said Tudge, sadly. “All
my hopes have been in this house, and
I feel as strongly about it as if it were
my own. It aint the money I care for
—what’s money, after all ? It don’t
matter how much you have, you can’t
wear more clothes at once, nor eat more
mutton, nor drink more sherry than if
you have just enough to live on. Having
money don’t keep the doctor away.”
“ No, Tudge, nor yet trouble.”
“ No, nor yet trouble,” said the old
clerk, gloomily. “ Mr. Halley, sir, if
that ship, the Merry May, don’t come
back again, I shall—”
“What, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!
“I shall go home per cab,” said Mr.
Tudge, solemnly, “make out an invoice
of my effects, which will be disposed of
and the money given to the poor;
then I shall have a last glass of grog,
and smoke .a last pipe.”
“Last ones, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
“Yes, last ones,” said Tudge, wiping
his eyes; “for I shall have nothing to
live for. Jack Anderson’s dead, and the
business ruined; and there ’ll be nothing
more for me to do but say my prayers,
and hang myself with my braces.”
“ Don’t talk in that way, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley; “it is wrong, even in
jest.”
“But I’m not jesting,” said Tudge.
“What do you think May would say
to you, if she heard you?”
“Ah, what indeed!” said Tudge; “but
I should be obliged to do it. But I say,
sir, surely you never mean to marry
that dear girl to that young scoundrel,
Merritt ?”
“Tudge!” exclaimed Mr. Halley, an
grily, “ I will not have Mr. Merritt
spoken of like that. Why, confound it,
sir, may not I marry my daughter to
whom I like?”
“No,” said Tudge, stoutly, “you
mayn’t. You’ve no right to let her be
made miserable for life.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Mr. Halley.
“ ’Taint pish ! nor pshaw ! nor pooh !
nor tut! nor any of them,” exclaimed
Tudge.
“ Have you nearly done bullying,
Tudge ?”
“No, sir, I have not; though per
haps I shall never bully you again.
Look here, you know, sir. You’re such
a fine, honest, upright man that you
won’t believe any one you know to be
a scoundrel.”
“No, of course not,” said Mr. Halley,
good-humouredly. “Now, look here,
Tudge. Suppose some one was to come
forward and to say to me, ‘Look here,
Mr. Halley, there’s that fellow, Tudge,
feathering his nest at your expense.
He’s embezzling thousands.’ What
should you think of that?”
45
“Well—well—’’said Tudge, taken
aback, “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t like me to believe
it?”
“No, of course not.”
“ Then why should I believe ill of
somebody else ?”
“Ah, come now, look here,” cried
Tudge, recovering himself; “you’re an
eel, that’s what you are—a slimy, slippery
eel. You’re trying to wriggle yourself
out of a difficulty; but you see, I just
give you one crack over the tail, and
there you are done for.” And he brought
down the ruler again, bang. “Suppose
somebody did say I was swindling you.
What would you do, or what ought you
to do, eh ? Why, come and examine
my books thoroughly; and when you’d
done, you’d say, ‘ That man’s a liar and
a scoundrel. That man ought to be
transported who tries to take away an
other man’s character. Why, the books
are square to a farthing.’ ”
“ To be sure,” said Mr. Halley. “Then
how about Mr. Merritt’s character and
Rutherby’s ? You’re condemning your
self out of your own mouth.”
“Mr. Halley, you’re eeling again,”
said Tudge. “You’re coming the slip
pery, slimy eel, and you’ve got over
that crack on the tail I gave you; but
it won’t do. Here’s another for you.”
Bang went the ruler. “ There’s some
one—ah, a lot of some ones tell you
that Rutherbys are rotten, and that
Philip Merritt is a scoundrel.”
“Tudge, I won’t have it!” said Mr.
Halley, angrily.
“ They say—Rutherby’s—is—rotten,
and—Philip—Merritt—-a—scoundrel,”
said Tudge again, in measured tones,
and enforcing each word with a bang
from the ruler upon the table; “and
what do you do ?”
“ Say they’re a set of slanderous
rascals,” cried Mr. Halley, excitedly.
“To be sure you do,” acquiesced
Tudge; “instead of going and meta
phorically examining their books—see
ing into their characters ! James Hal
ley, you’re a blind mole, and a deaf
beetle, and an obstinate mule, as well as
�vjNCE a week annual.
46
an eel; and I won’t stand by and see
you ruin the finest old shipping trade
in the port of London—the trade we
made; and I won’t stand by and see
that dear girl thrown away, without
raising a voice against it. I don’t care,
I will speak—I’m up now; and I’d talk
now to anybody, because I’ve got right
on my side. I know I should have liked
to see John Anderson have her, and I’d
have left them my bit of money; but
that’s all over now. You’ll want that,
and you shall have it when you like;
but speak I will, and tell you to your
face that you’ve murdered a lad that I
looked upon almost as my own boy;
and now you’re'going to ruin the busi
ness, sell your own child into slavery,
and make me hang myself in my
braces!”
During the first part of this speech
Mr. Halley had been angry; next he
grew puzzled ; and lastly his face wore
^Sixteenth
HOW
THE
[Christmas, 1873.
a half-amused expression, as he rose,
with, a sigh and a weary look upon his
face to say—
“There, there, Tudge, let it rest now;
we’ve had enough for one day. I’m
not angry.”
“But I am,” said Tudge, sticking the
ruler under his arm, and making the
most of his height.
“Well, perhaps so; but we are too
old friends to quarrel. Hush, here’s
one of the clerks!”
“ Mr. Longdale and Mr. Merritt wish
to see you, sir,” said the man.
“ In a minute, Smith,” and the man
disappeared.
“Take care—pray take care, Mr.
Halley, sir. The wolf and the fox
come together—pray—”
“ Tudge, you’re going too far,” said
the old man, angrily, and he rang the
bell for the admission of the two mem
bers of Rutherby’s ship-owning firm.
J
“VICTRIX
C O MPLETE,
crew aboard,
the last coolie
out of the
ship, and the
sound ’o f
Pigeon - Eng
lish heard no
more.
“ Confound
their jabber!”
cried old Ba
salt, “I’m sick
of it. It’s for
all the world as if you took a bucketful
of English and a bucketful of Chinese,
and poured ’em into a cask, stirred
’em up with a capstan bar, and then
BEHAVED
IN
A
GALE.
swallowed it by spoonfuls. I gets that
savage when I hear them jabbering and
chattering, and smiling out of their
crooked eyes at you, that I could cut
their tails off, and stuff ’em down their
throats. And yet, I dunno, they’re
about the innocentest-looking chaps I
ever see. I don’t think I could hit one
on ’em werry hard.”
John Anderson’s spirits rose as the
soft winds wafted them homewards,
with studding sails set alow and aloft.
Hope was evidently very busy with
him, and Despair, with her lowering,
black wings, farther and farther away.
When he reasoned with himself, and
told himself that his aspirations were
mad, and that which he wished im
possible—that he had had his final
dismissal, he owned that it was so, that
there was not the most faint prospect
in life for the realization of his desires;
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
but he hoped all the same, and walked
his deck with a step daily growing more
elastic.
“There, Jerry,” he said, one evening,
after they had made a tremendous run
through the bright, creamy waves, that
softly foamed under the favouring gale
_ “ there, Jerry ! what do you think of
things now ? Will you come for another
voyage in the Victrix?"
Basalt screwed his face round, so as
to look at his captain, without moving
his body.
“,We aint finished this here yet.”
“No; but see how we are getting
on.”
“.Now, look here,” said Basalt, slowly.
“Do you for a moment think as this
here sort o’ weather’s going to con
tinue?”
“ Well, no,” said Anderson, smiling,
“ I can’t say I do.”
“ Nor I, my lad; and when the foul
comes, then look out.”
Another week passed, and still the
winds favoured their return; and the
Victrix, heavily laden though she was,
rose over the long swells, and forced her
way homeward, like some huge bird
eager to gain its nest.
“Home, home, sweet—sweet home,”
hummed Anderson, as he leaned over
the side, and thought of the parlour
where that pleasant old face would be
bending over some piece of work, to be
every now. and then raised in a far-off
look, as its owner wondered where “my
son” might be, and breathed a prayer
for his safety.
A smile played round John Ander
son’s lips, but there was a moisture in
his eye. Soon,-though, a troubled look
swept over his frank face, like a cloud ;
for the memory of the scene at Canonbury came back, and with it the re
collection of whose was the ship he
sailed, and its state.
“And if I do get back in safety,” he
muttered, “ if I don’t expose this scan
dalous state of affairs, I’m no true man.
I wouldn’t have believed it, that human
beings who call themselves men —
gentlemen, would send their fellow
47
creatures afloat in such a sieve as this,
just to make money. Good God ! it’s
frightful!”
He took a few steps up and down,
and then went on. So engrossed was
he with his feelings, that he did not
notice Basalt, who was peering anxiously
ahead.
“I can hardly believe it, at times,”
continued Anderson; “and if it were
not that we are having weather in
which the frailest craft might live—”
“Below there! Pipe up, boatswain,”
roared Basalt through his hands; and,
directly after, the shrill whistle was
heard.
“We’ll have a bit of this canvas off
her at once,” continued Basalt, coming
up to the captain. “Look there, and
there.”
John Anderson saw immediately the
necessity for executing the order; and,
all hands being called up, the stun
sails were had in, then the royals were
lowered, and by the time they were
taken in a complete change had come
over the sea, which, from being bright
and glorious, now looked leaden and
murky. Instead of the pleasant, full
breeze, the wind came in puffs—hot, as
if from a furnace door.
Orders were given quickly, and the
top-gallant sails were soon down; but
before the mainsail could be taken off
the ship, a squall struck her, and split it
to ribbons, while the vessel heeled over,
and her fate seemed sealed.
It was but for a minute, though; the
squall passed over, and an ominous calm
ensued. The ship righted; and now,
for the first time, Anderson felt how
short-handed he was. He knew that
at any minute now, another and a fiercer
squall might strike them; and, if so, what
would become of the ship? Sending
Basalt to the helm, though, he seized a
speaking-trumpet, and shouted his com
mands to such effect that, ere the next
squall came, topsails and stormjib only
were set, the former reefed; and the sails
left unfurled were let go,to flap and beat
about in the wind.
“Look out, there!” roared Basalt.
�48
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Send me another man here to the
wheel.”
Before Anderson—who ran himself
—could reach him, down came the storm
with a shriek and a roar, laying the Victrix on her beam-ends. The wheel flew
round, hurling Basalt to one side; but
he was up again in an instant, and cling
ing to the spokes. Anderson reached
him, too; and as the ship righted, she
answered her helm, and, paying off,
literally flew before the wind, with her
loose sails splitting into ribbons.
“ There’s too much on her by a
mile,” roared Basalt in Anderson’s
ear; but the words had hardly passed
his lips before the main-topsail split with
a crash, heard above the din of the
tempest, and two minutes after was
literally ripped from the yards, and
blown away.
It relieved the vessel, though, which
had been running, nose down, shipping
sea after sea, which swept the decks,
carrying all before them.
The noise was deafening; but, more
by signs than by voice, Anderson issued
one or two more orders, whose effect
was to throw reefs into the other sails,
beneath which the vessel forced her way
through the murky sea.
Half an hour before it was broad day
light—now they seemed sailing through
[Christmas, 1873.
a thick fog of spray, swept from the sum
mits of the boiling waves; while as far
as the eye could reach, all was one field
of lurid foam.
Crash! A wave leapt over the quarter,
swept along the deck, and cut its way
out through the rotten bulwarks, fol
lowed by another and another: casks,
hencoops, and the jolly boat went with
them, while on the vessel flew.
“Stick to her!” shouted Basalt to
Anderson, as they fought with the sea
for who should maintain the mastery of
the helm. “We shall soon know what
she’s made of now.”
It was a struggle for life—men cling
ing to belaying pins, or lashing them
selves under the shelter of the bulwarks,
that might at any moment be swept
away. As to the sail, any anxiety that
the young captain might have felt about
that, the storm relieved him of, ripping
one-half the canvas away as if it had
been tinder.
Shriek—roar—howl! how the tem
pest raged ! There was no time for fear
in the excitement, the men seeming for
the most part to be stunned.
But the storm was brief as it was
violent—sweeping, as it were, over the
vessel; and in an hour a dead calm
had fallen upon them, with the Victrix
almost a wreck.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
EVENTEENTH
49
JSable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON USED HIS REVOLVER.
where Anderson was anxiously waiting
him, and whispered hastily—“Ten foot
o’ water—gaining fast—-leaking, like a
sieve.”
The words were hardly out of his lips
before the man who had overheard
Anderson’s order, and had been be
low on his own account, came on deck
and shouted, in a panic-breeding yell—
“ Boats out, lads—she’s sinking fast!”
Then a half-smothered cry of terror
ran through the men, as from all parts
T was a change that was they made for the deck, running down,
almost startling—drama sliding down stay and sheet, and each
tic even; for it was as aiming for one or other of the boats.
though so much canvas, Some saw to the oars, some sought for
storm-painted, had been drawn aside to some, again, made for the
water; and
display a calm. But though the to get biscuit and spirits.
cabin, foam
had to a great extent disappeared, there
“Stop, there!” cried John Anderson,
was a heavy swell on the water; and in a voice of thunder. “ Every man
the state of the ship, as the men crept stand aside!”
from their shelter, was pitiable: sails
There was a low, ominous growl; but
in rags, cordage hanging broken from not a man ceased his busy work about
mast and yard, and bulwarks splintered. the boats.
“ Now, my lads, up aloft! ” cried
“Do you hear?” cried Anderson,
Anderson, cheerily. “ Knot and splice furiously. “ Leave those boats, and
there, while we get up the spare sails.” all hands to the pumps!”
About half the men, with their knives
Not a man stirred; and, in his rage,
ready, ran at once up the shrouds, where Anderson seized the nearest, and dashed
they began to cut adrift the ragged him against his fellows. But it had no
canvas; while the others set to knotting effect: a panic had seized the men, and
snapped cord age, and arranging the deck they still busied themselves about the
lumber that had broken loose.
boats.
“ Go below yourself, and sound the
“ Basalt, my revolver,” cried Ander
well,” whispered Anderson to Basalt.
son, fiercely. “ Am I captain of the
The words were meant for his ear ship, or not ?”
alone; but they were heard by one of
“ To be sure you are, so long as she is
the sailors, who followed him closely, a ship,” cried a man, tauntingly; “ but
with a strange, suspicious look.
there won’t be a plank soon.”
Basalt was not gone many minutes.
The next moment he was rolling on
He came back very slowly and quietly; the deck, struck down by one tremen
and before he was half-way to Ander dous blow. Anderson forced himself to
son he stopped short, and putting his the nearest davit, and seized the tackle.
hands to his mouth he shouted—“Back, men—to the pumps!” he
“Ahoy! there, you at the maintop-gal cried. “The ship shall not be forsaken.”
lant. We’ll have that spar down and
“ Go and pump yourself,” cried an
fish it. I can see it’s sprung from down other man. “Come on, lads. She’s sink
here.” Thea he continued his way to ing, and our only chance is the boats.”
B
c
�--------------------- -—g
S3
50
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
The men uttered a howl of rage, and
pressed on Anderson, so that in another
minute he would have been helpless,
when, with a blow from a marlinspike,
right and left, Jeremiah Basalt opened
a way for himself, and the next moment
John Anderson was facing the men, with
a revolver presented at the nearest
mutineer’s head.
The men involuntarily fell back, leav
ing captain and mate side by side by
the ragged bulwarks.
“ Look here, my lads,” said Ander
son ; “ I am captain here. I have charge
of this ship and her valuable cargo, and
she shall be stuck to as long as a couple
of planks hold together. So every man
to his post. There is a-lot of water in
the hold; but we’ll pump her dry, and
then go on again.”
“ She’ll sink in half an hour,” cried a
voice—that of the man who had sounded
the well on his own account.
“ Cowards!” cried Anderson. “ Can
you not trust your captain ?”
“ No,” cried the same voice. “ Down
with him, lads ; he trapped us into this
old sieve.”
“ Get out the boats,” cried another.
“ Stand aside,” cried others.
And the men pressed upon the pair;
but with a flourish of his marlinspike
Basalt drove them back.
“Look here, my lads,” cried Ander
son, “we’re wasting time. Get to the
pumps and work; and I tell you once
[ for all that as soon as there’s danger
we’ll take to the boats: but like men, not
like a set of cowardly, beaten hounds!”
“ The boats—the boats!” shouted the
men.
“Back, scoundrels!” roared Ander
son. “ I tell you there is no danger
yet. Do you think we don’t value our
lives as well as you do yours? This
ship, with a valuable cargo, is in my
charge, and I will not have her left
without an effort to save her.”
“The boats—the boats—rush him!”
shrieked the men, half insane with their
coward fears.
Basalt made an effort to beat them
back; but they knocked him down, and
g--------------------------- -----
------------
[Christmas, 1873.
'
were rushing at Anderson, when, by an
adroit leap, he reached the boat swing
ing from the iron davits, and presented
his revolver.
“Back, you scoundrels!” he roared.
“ Every man to his duty. By the God
who made me, I’ll send a bullet through
the first man who touches the falls!”
“ Come on, lads—he daren’t,” cried
the sailor. “He helped to decoy us
into the rotten old tub, and he don’t
stay us now.”
The man stepped forward.
“ Another'step, and I fire!” cried An
derson.
“ He daren’t. Come on, lads; it’s for
life!” cried the sailor.
He dashed at the ropes, and the others
gave a cheer, and followed his example.
Crash!
There was a flash of flame from John
Anderson’s pistol, as he stood there in
the boat; a wild shriek; the sailor who
had been ringleader in the mutiny
leaped up in the air, and fell with a
groan upon the deck, where he lay mo
tionless, with his comrades looking on
aghast.
“ One shot! ” said Anderson. “ I have
five more, and they shall all tell!”
The men shrank back shivering from
the deadly weapon without a word, and
Anderson leaped from the boat.
“Now to the pumps, every man!” he
cried.
And the fellows cheered, and ran to
the handles, which were the next minute
clanking furiously, and flooding the deck
with water, which streamed down the
scuppers.
“Is he much hurt?” said Anderson,
anxiously.
“ Thigh broke,” said Basalt, quietly.
Then he ran down to the cabin, and
brought up a pillow, which he laid under
the man’s head. After which, Anderson
and Basalt bound and bandaged the
poor wretch’s leg, before superintending
the pumping, now going on briskly.
Keeping watch on deck, Anderson
now sent Basalt below again, but he
returned with the ominous words—
“Eleven foot. Making water fast!”
Ms
�Christmas. 1873 )
“SHIP AHOYP
pGHTEENTH
Pable
5i
^Length.
HOW THE BOATS WERE PUT OUT.
AKING water
fast!”
J eremiah Ba
salt said the
words in a low
tone of voice,
but without
moving a mus
cle. As far as
fhis face was
concerned, the
news might
have been of
the simplest
nature.
John Ander
son did not
speak for a moment, he only stooped
and held a flask to the wounded man’s
lips, for the poor wretch was faint.
Then he rose, and said—
“ Go down again, and see if you can
make anything out—whether a plank
has started, or the seams opened.”
Basalt was busy hewing a piece of
tobacco from his cake; this he finished,
before nodding and going again below.
He was not down long, and returned
to the deck to find Anderson, with
sleeves rolled up, pumping with the
men, and cheering them on.
He crossed to where Basalt stood.
“ Well ? ”
“Plank started, and you can hear
the water pouring in.”
“Two men here!” cried Anderson.
“ Now, Basalt, look alive with that spare
mainsail.”
In less time than could have been
supposed, the four men had hauled on
deck the great spare canvas—not to
find it of new, clean material, but old,
patched, and rotten.
Anderson’s brow knit more closely
as, dragging at the sail, the rotten
canvas gave way, making a large rent
at the side; but there were no other
holes, and it bade fair to answer the
purpose for which it was intended.
“ Pump away there !” shouted Ander
son. “ We’ll soon ease you.”
The men cheered again, and the
water poured faster than ever from the
scuppers, as captain and mate fastened
on ropes to the four corners, and made
ready for what seemed their only hope.
At first the men had looked on wonderingly ; but now they saw the object
in view, they cheered more heartily than
ever, for John Anderson, climbing over
the side and making his way forward,
passed the ropes that held the lower
corners of the sail under the bobstay,
and then, partly aided by the ship’s pro
gress through the water, they hauled
and hauled till the great sheet of can
vas was drawn down below the water,
and applied like a great plaster to the
ship’s side where the plank was started
—the pressure of the water holding it
against the hull.
“ Now,” said Anderson, as he stood
making fast the last rope, “ down below,
and see how matters are.”
Basalt was gone longer this time, to
return and say, in a loud voice—
“ Can’t hear it pouring in now.” Then
he added, in a tone only meant to reach
the captain, “Making water fast as ever.”
“ Pump away, my lads,” cried Ander
son, cheerily, and he handed the revolver,
to Basalt—“ I ’ll bring you some grog.”
The men cheered again; and in a few
minutes Anderson returned with some
spirits, which he made one of the men
serve out while he took his place at the
pump. Then, while the men were pump
ing away with full energy, he went down
below himself, to find that, though the
sail had to some extent checked the in
rush of the water, yet it was still stea
dily rising, flowing in through the seams
�---52
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which had opened with the heavy work
ing of the vessel; and before he had
been below five minutes he knew that
it was impossible to save her.
“ Well,” said Basalt, drily, as he re
turned the revolver, “what do you think
now of Rutherby’s ?”
“Don’t speak to me now, please,”
said Anderson, in a choking voice. “I’ve
joined in as murderous and cruel a deed
as ever was perpetrated, and look at
that poor fellow there.”
“ Deserved it,” said Basalt, laconi
cally. “ Served him right. I only wish
it had been one of the partners.”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, in a low
voice, “ if it comes to the worst you
must forgive me for this.”
“ There, get out; don’t talk like that.
It aint come to the worst yet.”
The momentary gloom that had come
over Anderson now seemed to have
passed away, and he was all life again,
as he shouted to the men, so as to be
heard over the clanking of the pumps—
“ Look here, my lads; while there’s a
chance of saving the ship we ’ll stick to
her like men.”
“ Hear, hear!” roared some of the fel
lows who had been most forward in try
ing to get away.
“ While the weather holds good we
can keep the water down, and we are
right in the track of ships to get help.”
“ Hooray!” roared the men again.
“ But, look here,” continued Ander
son, “ I want you to act like men, and
do your duty by your owners ; but I
don’t want you to run any risks; so
while you stick to the pumps, we two
will get water, compass, and stores in
the boats, so that we can go at a mo
ment’s notice.”
“Hooray!” cheered the men again,
and the water bubbled and flashed from
the ship’s sides; though all the same it
rose darkly, silently, and surely in the
hold, as Basalt found when he once more
sounded the well.
Anderson was down on one knee, ar
ranging the pillow of the wounded man,
when Basalt whispered his bad news.
The moment before the sailor had
[Christmas, 1873.
lain still, with eyes closed and pallid face,
apparently insensible, while Anderson
wore an aspect of sad commiseration;
but the man heard Basalt’s announce
ment, and opening his eyes wide, with
horror in every feature, he uttered a
wild yell, and shrieked out—
“ Run for the boats, lads—she’s going
down!”
At the same moment, he turned on
one side, and struck at Anderson with
an open knife, which he had held ready
in his jersey sleeve.
Anderson’s quick action saved him ;
for leaping up to meet the effect that
he knew the words would produce upon
the men, the knife, instead of being
buried to the haft in his side, made a
long, ugly gash down his leg, from which
the blood spurted to stream down upon
the white deck at every step he took.
“Curse you! If you warn’t hurt—”
roared Basalt, as he wrested the knife
from the treacherous scoundrel’s hand,
hurling it overboard almost with the
same movement, and making as if to
dash his closed fist in the man’s face.
“Why, it oughter ha’ been eighteen
inches higher with you, that it ought.”
Then he turned to help Anderson,
who had started forward to confront the
men, pistol in hand, once more. For
at the cry of the wounded man they
had left the pumps, and rushed once
more for the boats, but only to back
slowly, as Anderson literally drove them
to their work with the pointed revolver.
“ I told you, when there was danger
of her going down we’d take to the
boats,” he said, sternly, through his
clenched teeth; and he pressed them
back, leaving a track in blood upon
the deck as he did so, till once more
“ clank — clank, clank — clank ! ” the
pumps were going again, and the water
foaming and flashing down into the sea.
“ Quick—tie my handkerchief tightly
round there,” said Anderson; and Basalt
bound up the'wound, but with his own
handkerchief, which he held ready.
“ Now for some biscuit, and a breaker
of water in each boat.”
Basalt worked with a will; but of the
�Christinas, 1873. ]
“SHIP AHOY!”
two boats left, one was so hopelessly
stove in that it was useless to think of
getting her afloat. He directed all his
efforts, then, to the other, and worked
alone; for John Anderson stood sentry
with his revolver, pale as ashes, and
evidently faint with his wound.
’ Water, biscuit, compass, some pork,
the sail, a coil of small rope, and, lastly,
some fishing lines—all were stowed in a
quiet, methodical way in the boat by Ba
salt, who stood thinking for a moment.
“More water,” he said, gruffly; and
proceeded to get another small breaker,
which he stowed forward before coming
back to think again.
INETEENTH
53
“Chart,” he said next, in the same
tone; and fetched one from the cabin, to
roll it tightly, and place it in a tin case.
Then he had another thoughtful sur
vey of his preparations.
“’Mother bag o’ biscuit,” he said; and
this he stowed away.
At last all seemed ready, and he stood
slowly counting the men pumping, and
then making calculations apparently
about the boat.
“What is it, Basalt?” said Anderson,
at last; for the old man stood growling
and grumbling at his side.
“ Why, I’ve reckoned up every way I
can, and two ’ll have to stop aboard!”
JCable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WAS LEFT BEHIND.
WA S no
m istaking
the effect
of the sail
hauled
down be
neath the
vessel’s
bows, but
that only
stayed one
place.
“Lor’
bless you!” said Ba
salt, “ she’s pitted all
over with a regular
small-pox of holes,
and the water’s coming in at every seam.
It’s no more’n I ’spected, my lad. She
only wanted a bit of a shaking, same as
our storm give us, to make her open all
over like a sieve, fill and sink; and
that’s just what the owners wanted.”
w No, no, Basalt,” said Anderson, sadly.
“Ah! you may say no, no, my lad ;
but you think yes, yes. Yah! it’s all
plain enough. If they’d wanted her to
be anything better than a coffin for the
poor helpless sailors as navigated her,
■s.
why didn’t they see that she had ropes
that weren’t rotten, sails that weren’t
tinder, seams that weren’t like doors, and
timbers that weren’t worm-eaten ? Why,
she’s as full of devils as them there pigs
that ran down the steep place into the
sea, and perished in the waters. Why,
my lad, half the bolts in her hull are
sham ones—devils, as the shipbuilders
call ’em—just running an inch or two
into the plank, instead of right through
to hold her together. Copper-fastened,
A 1 at Lloyd’s! Lord’s truth! I wouldn’t
mind a pin if it warn’t for one thing.”
“ What’s that ? ” said Anderson.
“Why, them there beautiful owners
aint aboard,” said Basalt, savagely.
“ There, my lad, I do think, if that
smooth-tongued vagabond who wanted
me to get our old Merry May lads
aboard the rotten old hulk, cuss him!
was only here, I could just take a fresh
bit of’bacco and go to the bottom like
a man. No, I couldn’t,” he added,
quickly—“ I could a time back; but now,
my lad, there’s a something that seems
to draw me towards where there’s the
best woman in all the world, down on
her knees in her own room a-praying of
God to bring some one safe back again,
and that some one’s me. Now, my
�> ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
lad, it’s a nice thing to feel—that some
body wants you back home again; it
curls round your heart and makes you
say, ‘No, blame me if I do, I won’t die
a bit.’ ”
And all this time the pumps went on
“ clank, clank, clank,” till it seemed that
they had obtained the mastery over the
water. The vessel was low down; but
the water did not rise now, and Ander
son let half the men lie down, and eat
and drink, while the others pumped on.
It was a weary time, though. They
had to watch, Anderson and Basalt, re
volver ready; for they could not trust
the men, and they knew that if they
could once get the upper hand, disci
pline was gone for ever.
One, two, three weary days passed,
with the sea a dead calm. Not a breath
of air ruffled the surface of the long, low
swell that softly heaved and lowered the
Victrix; and all that time John Ander
son knew that he had done his best,
and that the case of the ship was hope
less. But still he clung to her: she was
entrusted to him as captain, and he had
his duty to do. That the owners were
scoundrels, and held in no more account
the lives of her crew than that of the
rats that swarmed in the hold, was no
thing to him: he had engaged to navi
gate the ship, and do it he would to the
very end.
At last a breeze sprang up, and John
Anderson felt that the end had come.
The men were wearied out with pump
ing, and could do no more. There was
no more sail on the vessel than was ab
solutely necessary for making her obey
her helm; and yet as she heaved, and
began to roll, the water rose rapidly,
and the men dropped the pump handles
in despair.
“ It aint no good, sir,” they said, in
chorus; “we’ve done our best now, and
it’s time to take to the boat.”
“Yes, she’s going down now,” cried
one of the men. Then in an agony of
dread, he shrieked out, “No, no—don’t
shoot, sir, don’t shoot!”
“I’m not going to shoot, my lad,”
said Anderson, quietly. “I wanted you
[Christmas, 1873.
all to do your duty to the owners, and
I’ve made you do it. Now the game’s
up, and we must save ourselves.”
“Hooray! yes, the boat!” shouted
the men, with a cheer.
“Stop!” roared Anderson. “Don’t
spoil all now. She ’ll float for an hour
yet; so don’t rush in that mad fashion.”
The men had been running to secure
places, with poor fallen man’s selfishness
uppermost; but, though no pistol was
displayed, they listened to the voice
that had so often enforced discipline,
and quietly took their posts in the boat
as it was lowered, Basalt going first
on being told, and ordering each man
to his place till the boat was full, and
there was no one left on deck but John
Anderson and the wounded sailor.
It was just sunset as the last man
passed over the side, and the boat, kept
off by a hitcher, rose and fell with the
increasing sea.
As the last man slid down a rope
and dropped in, he was greeted with a
murmur, for the boat was already over
loaded to danger pitch.
“We can’t take no more,” growled
the men. “ Come on, captain.”
“ Stop, make room there,” shouted
Anderson; “here’s Morris.”
And he made ready to haul on the
rope which was to lower the wounded
man into the boat.
“No, no, no, no!” roared the crew.
“We can’t have him; he’s sure to die.
Come on, captain, and leave him.”
John Anderson’s answer was to haul
at the rope, and the next moment he
was lowering down, by means of a block
and fall, the man who had made an
attempt upon his life.
“ Well,” roared one of the men, “you
can see for yourself. If you lower him
down there won’t be room for you too.”
“ I know it,” said Anderson softly to
himself.
“ Look here, my lads,” said the same
voice; “ we can’t leave the cap. He’s a
tartar; but he didn’t do more than his
dooty.”
“ But we can’t take him and this chap
too,” cried the others.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
The sun set as if at one bound, and
night was already stealing fast over the
waters. Great soft puffs of wind came,
as if to announce, like stragglers that
they were, that a breeze was coming on
in force, and the sea began to leap and
foam beneath the ship’s counter.
“Lookhere, cap’n,”shouted the same
voice again—“ haul on again, and have
him out, and come down. We can’t
hold on much longer.”
John Anderson did not answer; but
it was a bitter struggle. Spite of all,
the love of life was strong within him,
and it required a tremendous effort to
Stay himself from leaping down into
the boat- barely seen in the fast gather
J" WENTIETH
HOW JEREMIAH
55
ing darkness ; for in spite of the diffi
culty one man still held on to the chains
with a boat-hook.
It was evident that there were two
parties in the boat—one for pulling
off as they were, and the other for
getting the captain aboard; and at last
the dispute rose high. Then darkness
fell; the breeze sprang up as if by
magic, and as the Victrix rolled heavily,
and then surged through the water,
the boat fell off, and John Anderson
felt that he was in the midst of the
wide sea, standing upon a floating coffin,
that before long—perhaps in a minute’s
time—would sink beneath his feet: and
then ?
ENGTH
BASALT TURNED UP A TRUMP.
ANIGHT
7 had fallen
y black as
\ pitch, and
the wind
sang through
the cordage,
as John An
derson stood
listening at
tentively, and
trying to
pierce the obscurity for
one more last
look at the
boat* but though he peered through
his hands, held telescope fashion, he
could see nothing, and he turned away
at last, to utter aloud the one word—
“Gone!”
“Well, and what could you expect?”
said a gruff voice at his elbow.
“Basalt!”
“My lad!”
Choking with emotion, John Ander
son caught the rugged old salt by both
hands, too much moved to speak.
“ I know what you thought,” growled
the old fellow, but very huskily; “you
thought I’d gone wi’ ’em. Just like you!
But I hadn’t.”
John Anderson could not speak, for
he was weak with loss of blood and
anxiety. He sank down on the deck,
and sat there in silence, holding Basalt’s
hand in his; while the wind sang above
them, the water hissed and gurgled, and
washed round the vessel’s bows, and at
last the stars peeped out one by one, as
if looking down upon the perils of those
two true-hearted men, brave as any of
the heroes of old, sitting upon the deck
and waiting for the hour when their last
hold on life should sink from beneath
their feet.
The breeze blew freshly as the night
advanced, and at times a wave leaped
over the sides, to deluge the deck; for
the ship was very low now, and as she
heeled over, the water could be heard
rushing from side to side, and threaten
ing each moment to burst up the deck.
Quite two hours must have passed,
and still the two occupants of the ship
sat as if stunned with their misfortune.
At last a fair-sized wave rose slowly
by the side of the rolling vessel, and,
�I
56
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
without effort, seemed to heave itself
aboard, sweeping coops, ropes, all before
it, till it rushed out of the opening in
the bulwarks left by the storm.
This was too much for Basalt, and
seemed to rouse him from his lethargy.
“ Look ye here,” he growled; “ if we
are to die, we may as well die ship
shape, with the wind well abeam, and
not go down yawing about, and rolling
in the hollow of the sea, without a man
at the wheel.”
Anderson did not speak; but rose
slowly and painfully, to lean with one
arm upon the bulwark.
“ Let’s have a look at that wownd,”
said Basalt. “ Ugly cut!” he muttered,
as, in the dim starlight, he stooped down
and rebound it—tenderly as might a
woman—before helping his companion
up by the wheel, where he spread a
tarpaulin for him to lie upon, before
taking hold of the spokes in a quiet,
matter-of-fact way, and bringing the
rudder to bear with such effect that in a
few moments, water-logged as she was,
the ship slowly answered her helm, the
rolling motion ceased, and heeling over
a little under the three sails set, she
moved gently through the water.
“ You see,” said Basalt, after a pause,
“ I thought we should have been at the
bottom before this, or else I should have
been here sooner. Anyhow, we’ll go
down now like sailors, and that will be
some relief.”
Another hour passed almost in silence,
with the vessel slowly making way.
Basalt managed the helm so that, low
as the Victrix was in the water, the
waves ceased to leap aboard, and only
seemed to lick the sides as if in antici
pation of the coming feast.
“Well, you know,” cried Basalt at
last, in a pettish, impatient voice, “ I
can’t stand much more of this, for it’s
neither one thing nor the other. If
we’re going down, let’s go down ; and if
not, let’s float.”
“Don’t murmur, Jerry,” said Ander»
son, quietly. “We ought to be thank
ful that we have been spared so long.”
“ But I hate being humbugged,” cried
[Christmas, 1873.
the old man. “ Here, I come aboard
thinking we were going to sink with all
colours flying—romantic-like, after the
fashion as you reads of in books. I
thought we were going down directly,
and that’s hours ago. Only that I
thought as it was all over, I should have
tried to dodge something to get us clear.
I waited patiently like a man; but now
I sha’n’t wait no longer, for it’s just
come to me like, that one aint no call
to die till one’s reg’lar obliged. So here
goes.”
These words seemed to rouse Ander
son.
“ Let me try to hold the wheel,” he
said, getting up and taking the spokes.
“ Good for you,” cried Basalt. “That’s
cheery. Keep her just steady like that,
and she may hold out till morning.”
Then, with the greatest of alacrity, the
old fellow set to work.
First he brought some biscuit and
rum to Anderson, and stood over him,
holding the wheel while he took some
refreshment.
“ That’s right,” he said, “ you’ll hold
out better. Keep her steady; for if an
other sea comes aboard, it ’ll be the last.”
The next minute he was gone; and
soon Anderson saw him moving about
with a lantern, which he set down now
here, now there, in different parts of the
deck. Then there was the rolling about
of casks, the dragging here and there of
hencoops and gratings. Then Basalt
would trot to the wheel, to have a few
words with Anderson, begging him every
time to “handle her softly;” for as each
hour glided slowly by, the desire for life
grew stronger in both men, stunned and
ready for death as they had been the
evening before.
At last there was a broad belt of
light in the east, then a flash of orange
shafts, and a few minutes after the sun
rolled up above the purple water, turn
ing the vessel into gold, and showing
Jeremiah Basalt, with the sweat pouring
off his face, lashing and binding spars
and coops to four empty casks, and im
provising a raft that bade fair to float
I for an unlimited time in any calm sea.
�Christmas, 1S73.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Handle her softly!” he cried to An
derson. “ If she’ll only keep up another
hour I’ll be ready for her.”
He spoke as he ran to and fro—his
last effort being to drag a couple of
gratings on to the top of his raft, and
secure them there with lashings.
There were oars and a spare boat
hook, mast and sail, coils of small sheets
already on the raft; and, by almost super
human efforts, he had built up in the
centre an edifice composed of a couple
of breakers, or small fresh-water casks,
a pork cask, and some bags of biscuit.
The next hour was spent in adding
security to the rough affair by means
of fresh lashings, which Basalt added
wherever he thought they would have
good effect.
“There!” he cried, at last. “That’s
as rough an attempt at a craft as ever
Robinson Crusoe made; and if I could
have three wishes now, the first would
be for his uninhabited island to heave
in sight.”
As he spoke he shaded his eyes with
his rough hand, and swept the offing.
Then, as if he had not ceased speaking,
he continued—
“But,.as it don’t seem disposed so to
do, why, here goes for a launch.”
Armed with a bit of rope, he ran to
Anderson, and then, with a few dex
terous twists, he lashed the helm fast,
and then handed the rum bottle.
“Take one swig, my lad—it’ll give
you strength. That’s right. Now a
taste for Number One. And now come
and haul a pound with me.”
A few strokes from an axe cleared
away the rough projecting fragments of
the bulwark, where the sea had beaten
them out, leaving a broad opening just
opposite the raft, and the water was not
above five feet below.
“Now then, with a will,” said Basalt,
handing a capstan bar to Anderson to
use for a lever.
And between them they prised and
prised, till they had the raft partly
hanging over the side.
“ Let’s make fast a painter,” said
Basalt.
57
This he did, and then stood thinking
a moment.
“’Bacco and grog!” he cried, and ran
down to the captain’s cabin, to return
in a minute with a case of spirits and a
couple of boxes of cigars.
These he had no sooner stowed in a
cask than he seized the capstan bar again.
“ Quick, my lad—quick—heave.”
It was time, for a loud hissing sound
of escaping air told them that the water
was rushing faster into the vessel.
“Heave—-heave!” cried Basalt again.
And they forced the raft a few inches
farther over the side, where it seemed
to catch against something and stick.
“My God,we shall go down with her! ”
Another heave, and another, and then
Anderson’s bar snapped in two, just as
the ship gave a lurch, and the confined
air below shrieked again. But Ander
son stooped down, thrust his hands be
low the raft, and lifted with what little
remaining strength he had.
That little lift did it; and the un
wieldy mass overbalanced, and fell into
the sea with a heavy splash; was half
submerged, but righted again; and at
one and the same moment the confined
air, forced into a smaller and smaller
compass below by the rushing water,
literally blew up the deck of the vessel
with a loud crash.
“Over with you!” roared Basalt.
“ Jump.”
And together the men leaped on
to the frail raft, which rocked and
threatened to capsize with the sudden
weight thrown upon it. But it righted
slowly, and floated bravely, although
those who freighted it thought not of
this, but of their peril; for, though
launched upon their raft, they were close
alongside of the sinking ship, and Basalt
had let fall his knife between the spars
beneath his feet.
A few seconds would have decided
their fate; but John Anderson saw the
danger. His knife was out in an in
stant, and the rope that held them to
the ship was divided. The cut had also
set free a couple of oars lashed to the
side for safety; and with these they
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
paddled and rowed with all their might
to get the raft beyond the vortex of the
sinking ship.
“ Pull—for God’s sake, pull!” shrieked
Basalt. “ We can’t die now—we can’t
die now!”
But all seemed vain; for the great
"J" WENTY-J^IRST
f Christmas, i?73-
vessel, close to which they lay, now
seemed to give a shudder as she rolled
over, first on one side and then on the
other, preparatory to making a plunge
which would cause such a whirlpool as
must suck down the raft beyond all
possibility of redemption.
JCable
ENGTH.
HOW SERPENTS CRAWL.
iilip
Merritt
came regularly
to sit and talk,
nominally with
Mr. Halley; but
necessarily his
encounters with
May were very
frequent, and he
probably, from
reasons of po
licy, forbore to
make any osten
tatious display
of his claims. It
was an understood thing that he was
engaged to her, otherwise he might have
been an ordinary visitor.
“Wait a bit, my scornful beauty,” he
muttered to himself more than once, as
he left the house—“ I’ll bring you to
your senses yet.”
For he found poor May very bad
company; in fact, she had hard work to
keep from broaching the subject that
lay next her heart. Young and gene
rous, she found it hard to believe the
tales she had heard of her betrothed’s
dealings, for they seemed more asso
ciated with the character of the ruffian
than with that of the polished gentle
man.
It was the evening of the long dis
cussion between Mr. Halley and his
clerk, and the former had returned to
Canonbury, looking pale and anxious.
He had had a long business interview
with Merritt and Mr. Longdale, and had
invited the two gentlemen to dine with
him, sending up word by a messenger.
May was dressed and waiting when
he came, ready to question him about
his troubled aspect; but he put aside
her queries, went up to dress, and on
descending gave a slight start as he
caught sight of his child’s attire. For
May was dressed in white, and in place
of flowers wore at her breast a black
crape bow, which stood out marked and
singular.
For a moment the eyes of father and
daughter met, and a slight shiver passed
through the former as he placed his own
interpretation upon the mark; but no
word was uttered, and a moment after
Philip Merritt was announced, to come
forward subdued and gentlemanly. He
saluted May in a quiet,unobtrusive way;
started visibly as he caught sight of the
crape; and then, after a few remarks on
current topics, turned to talk with Mr.
Halley, just as Mr. Longdale was an
nounced, to enter bland and smiling,
exhibiting so much smooth surface that
it seemed as if all the genuine man had
been polished away.
The dinner was announced, and Mr.
Longdale took down May. He, too,
glanced at the crape bow; and, urged
at length by curiosity beyond his custo
mary caution, he hazarded the question—
“ I trust, Miss Halley, that you have
sustained no family bereavement ? I
had not heard—”
Merritt and Mr. Halley, who were
deep in conversation, paused on the
instant, and there was utter silence for
�Christmas, if73-3
“SHIP AHOY!"
a few moments, till May said, in a low,
deep voice—
“ I wear it, Mr. Longdale, according
to promise, in memory of a brave man.”
Longdale bowed and was silent; while
Merritt, white almost as the cloth before
him, hurriedly resumed the conversation
with Mr. Halley, but in an inconsequent
manner that was so broken as to enable
him to jealously listen for each utterance
of the others.
Longdale, though, talked upon indif
ferent topics for- a while. Then he said
suddenly, with a deep sigh—“Yes, Miss Halley, there are awful
changes in this life. Did you read the
announcement of our sad loss?”
“ I did,” said May, coldly.
“Is it not awful?” said Longdale,
ignoring a kick which he received from
Merritt below the table. “‘ They who
go down to the sea in ships,’ you know
the rest.”
May bowed her head; but Longdale
could not read the disgust written in her
countenance, and went on—
“So sad! A fine ship—one of the
finest in the service; a valuable cargo
and some of her best men lost, swal
lowed up.”
May had not meant to reply, but the
words escaped in spite of her—
“ You seem to place the losses in
order according to their value,” she said,
satirically, but with a heavy sense of
pain at her heart; and as Merritt looked,
he saw, with jealous rage, her hand
pressed upon the crape bow—all uncon
sciously, though, for she was only seek
ing to control the heaving of her breast.
“ Exactly,” said Longdale, who was
too cunning of verbal fence to be hit
by such a barbed lunge—“exactly so,
Miss Halley. I place our poor ship
first and least; then the cargo of our
merchants; and last and best, the brave
men who have been snatched away from
us. It is one of the great drawbacks
to a shipowner’s profession, having these
awful losses: they cause many a sleep
less night.”
May was checked. In her guileless
heart, much as she disliked the speaker,
59
she could not believe that he could
assume so much. It would have been a
blasphemous hypocrisy, she reasoned;
and after vainly trying to fathom the
depths of his cold grey eyes, she said—
“And is it certain to be true, Mr.
Longdale ? Is there no hope of the
others being saved ?”
“I will not say that,” he said, sadly.
“ It is too much to hope for, I fear; but
who can despair when rescues that are
almost miraculous continually meet our
notice?”
May Halley was confounded, and sat
in silence during the remaining few
minutes that she stayed at the table.
What did it mean? What was she to
think ? Were people wild, bitter, and
extravagant in their charges against
these men ? It must be so; for it was
impossible, utterly impossible, that this
quiet, courtly gentleman could sit and
talk to her so sadly of a loss that he
had almost, if not quite, helped to com-'
pass for his own vile ends.
It was cruel work, and her breast was
torn by a dozen contending emotions.
To whom could she fly for advice in
such a strait? She knew not; though
she felt that she could not trust herself.
Thought after thought, how they flashed
through her mind!—till she rose at last
to leave the party to their wine.
Philip Merritt hurried to open the
door for her; and as she swept by, there
was such an appealing look in his eyes
as they met hers—such a look of honesty
and love—-that in spite of all she had
heard, her pulses quickened, and the
look she gave him in return was softer
and less full of doubt; while he returned
to his chair, smiling and triumphant,
knowing that Longdale had helped his
suit more than a month’s wooing of his
own.
As he returned to his seat, it was to
find that his partner had at once re
sumed the subject of the business upon
which they had been to Mr. Halley’s
offices in the morning.
“You see, Mr. Halley,” he was say
ing, “Merritt has placed all his avail
able capital in our hands; but it is not,
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
as I explained, sufficient for the exten
sion we propose. Certainly the insur
ance money for that wretched Victrix
will help; but we should have another
thirty thousand, which I hope you will
determine to advance.”
Mr. Halley sat tapping the table with
his fingers as Longdale filled his glass and
pushed the claret jug towards Merritt.
“And, by the way,” he continued,
“you must not give Philip here the
. credit of proposing you as our banker;
; for certainly it would, I must own, have
been in bad taste. It was my sugges
tion. Merritt, try this claret, it is ex
quisite.”
The two partners exchanged glances,
for Mr. Halley still sat thoughtful and
silent.
“ That was very sad news about the
Victrix, gentlemen,” he said at last.
“Frightful!” replied Merritt; while
Longdale merely bowed and raised
his eyebrows slightly.
“ They have been talking over it a
great deal in the City to-day.”
“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Longdale,
calmly; while Merritt shifted uneasily
in his chair. “ It hits the underwriters
a little; but then they calculate for these
contingencies, and make money all the
same. Where would be their use if they
did not meet with losses?”
“Where, indeed!” said Merritt, un
easily.
“ The loss is looked upon very
seriously,” continued Mr. Halley.
“Of course,” said Longdale, applying
himself once more to the claret jug.
“ It is a very, very serious loss. I am
afraid, though,that we made a great mis
take in entrusting her to that Anderson;
but there, poor fellow, he’s no more!
You cast him off for some incompe
tency, I believe?”
“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, impetuously, “ for a finer sailor
never trod a deck. Gentlemen, you
know the old proverb, ‘ De mortuis nil
nisi bonum’? I can use it here, and say
it with all sincerity; for a braver, truerhearted man was never trusted with the
care of property and the lives of men.”
$--------------------------------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
“ I am very glad to hear your advo
cacy,” said Longdale, who was ever ready
to catch each current as it set; “you
relieve me of one anxiety which preyed
upon my mind. You can hardly tell,
Mr. Halley, how these responsibilities
tell on me. I was really afraid that we
had made a false step in engaging with
poor Anderson, and had not done our
duty to the crew.”
“ If seamanship could have saved
your vessel, it would have been now
afloat,” said Mr. Halley. “I grieve
much for the loss of John Anderson;
and would gladly give half I possess to
shake him once more by the hand.”
“ But we arc bearing away from our
subject,” said Merritt, who was anxious
to go to the drawing-room and join May.
“Yes,” said Mr. Halley, “ I was talk
ing about the loss of the Victrixi'
Longdale’s face gave an angry twitch,
for this was not the subject he wished
to discuss.
“ They have been saying very ugly'
things about her loss,” said Mr. Halley,
slowly.
“ Ugly things ? About her loss ?
Good heavens, Mr. Halley, what do you
mean?” exclaimed Longdale, turning
in his chair.
“ They say that Rutherby’s sent out
the ship ill-found, and heavily insured,
and did not expect to see her back.”
Crash!
Longdale’s clenched hand came down
upon the table with a heavy blow that
made every glass dance.
“ Some cursed, contemptible rascal of
an underwriter, who has fifty or a hun
dred pounds in the insurance! But who
is it, Mr. Halley, who is it?”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Merritt, “who
is it? If we could find out the villain,
we’d ruin him. We would, wouldn’t wre,
Longdale?”
“We would, as sure as there’s a law
for libel. Some anonymous, skulking
scoundrel, who is never happy without
he is blacking some one’s character.
Who was it ? Give us his name, Mr.
Halley.”
“ That I canr.ot do, gentlemen,” said
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Mr. Halley, quietly. ft It would be dis
honourable in me. I should be betray
ing a trust. But these losses are very
awful, and, I must say, incomprehensible
to me. I never had them.”
“ Mr. Halley,” said Longdale, rising
stiffly, “your language is rather strange.
Surely, sir, you, as a shipowner, must
know enough of the risks of ocean
traffic to see that we have been rather
more unfortunate than is common. You
J'wENTY-JSeCOND
[Christmas, 1873.
do not, surely, for a moment, impute to
us, your guests, any—”
“ If you please, sir, here’s an old lady
—one of those who came to see Miss
May—-wants to see Mr. Longdale and
Mr. Merritt, and won’t take no for an
answer.”
“ It’s only me, gentlemen,” exclaimed
a pitiful voice; and before she could be
prevented, Mrs. Gurnett had forced her
way into the dining room.
J2aBLE
J_zENGTH.
HOW MR. LOiJGDALE WAS CALLED TO ACCOUNT.
YOUR
pardon,
gentlem e n,”
said Mrs.
Gurnett;
know it’s
I e and
ig of me,
b’s life and
h to me,
II e men,
I’ve been
to both
■ houses,
and found you were here ; and I knew
that my dear old master there wouldn’t
be so cruel as to stand in my way, and
keep me from seeing you, so I came—
Mrs. Gurnett, gentlemen, landlady of the
Jolly Sailors, gentlemen, and Mr. Basalt,
Jeremiah Basalt, sailed in your ship
mate in the Victrix—Captain John
Anderson—and I saw only an hour ago,
in the evening papers, that—Oh, oh,
it can’t be, it can’t be! Pray, pray tell
me it isn’t true !”
The poor woman had been speaking
with an effort, and now she staggered and
would have fallen, had not Mr. Halley
caught her and helped her to a chair.
“Wine here, Merritt,” he said; and
then angrily, to the gaping footman,
“ Go, and shut that door.”
“ No, no—no wine—water,” gasped
Mrs. Gurnett, pushing back the glass,
and looking appealingly at Mr. Halley
as she spoke to the two partners.
“We are old people, gentlemen; but
we loved each other in our poor simple
way, and we were to marry when he
came back. I felt he would be lost, and
begged him to stay.”
“ But, my good woman,” interposed
Longdale, in deprecatory tones.
“ It’s too bad, you know,” said
Merritt.
“ Let her speak,” said Mr. Halley,
sternly.
“ Thank you, dear master,” said the
poor woman, simply. “ I begged him to
stay; for I knew what Rutherby’s ships
were.”
“Confusion!” exclaimed Merritt. “I
cannot stand this.”
“ Be quiet, my dear boy,” said Long
dale, blandly; “you have nothing to
fear.”
“But—but,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett, “he
was that loyal and true to his captain,
that go he would; and he made me—for
he had such influence over me that I
could have died for him if he had told
me—he made me—say—‘Go, and God
bless you;’ and I said it, and sent him
to his death.”
“But we are not sure yet, Mrs.
Gurnett,” said Mr. Halley, soothingly.
“ Sure, dear master ? oh, yes, we are
sure ! Why did you send him away from
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
his own old ship, that he seemed to be
a part of, and while I knew he was with
it I felt almost that he was safe? But,
oh, gentlemen, it was you I came to see.
How could you—oh, how could you send
those poor brave men in that rotten
ship?’’
“ Confound it, woman, how dare you
makesuch a charge?’’exclaimed Merritt,
savagely; “you’re mad—a lunatic—you
ought to be put in an asy----- ”
He stopped short; for he suddenly
became aware that, with face white as
her dress, May Halley was standing in
the doorway. How long she had been
there he could not tell.
Longdale saw her at the same,
moment, and speaking blandly, he said,
in his soft, kid-gloved tones—
“ My dear Merritt, do not be hard
upon the poor woman, who is half beside
herself with grief. Think of what she
suffers, and make allowances.”
“What is it, nurse?” said May, ad
vancing into the room.
“ Oh, Miss May, my own darling, are
you there?” cried the weeping woman,
starting up to fling herself at the young
girl’s feet. “ Oh, my darling, they’ve
drowned him—they’ve murdered him !
Oh, no, no, no—what am I saying?
Please don’t notice me,” she cried, ap
pealingly. “ I say more than I mean ;
for it is so hard to bear. Mr. Halley,
sir—dear old master—you were always
kind to me; ask them for me—speak
to them for me; they’ll answer you.
But pray, pray don’t deceive me—don’t
say cruel falsehoods to comfort me and
get me away quietly, as if I was a
child. Only tell me, gentlemen, please,
is what I have read in the paper true,
that the ship, the Victrix went down, and
that my poor Basalt and the captain
went down with her ?”
“ It’s as true as that their murderers
stand there,” said a harsh voice from the
doorway; and all started to see the stern
old face of Mrs. Anderson at the door.
“Yes, you may shrink back and
cower, you gentlemen” she cried, bit
terly. “And you, James Halley, how
dare you consort with such villains ?”
63
“ My good woman,” exclaimed Long
dale — ”
“Good woman!” exclaimed the stern
old dame, pointing at him with her
stick. “ How dare you speak to me, you
cringing, smooth-tongued hypocrite?
Do you think I do not know you,
Reuben Longdale ? Yes. You have
crawled up and up the ladder of life
to be a shipowner, and every step has
been the dead body of a better man.
Yes, you will deny it, and quote Scrip
ture, and subscribe to missions, and give
to new churches; but when at the last
day the great God who made us all of
one blood shall say to you—1 What of
those men I trusted to your care?’
what then, coward-—murderer—unpro
fitable servant—what then ?”
“ This is too much,” exclaimed Mer
ritt; while May bent shivering over the
kneeling form of Mrs. Gurnett.
“Silence, boy!” exclaimed Mrs. An
derson. “You are young yet in such
villainy. Run from it while you have
time—run ere hell gapes for you more
widely. How dare you speak, when I
ask that man what he has to say that
I should not impeach him of the murder
of my son—of my son, a man so brave
and true that it seems horrible to me
that God could have let him be the
slave of that cringing reptile. Yes;
wipe your wet brow, and shiver, mur
derer ! Where is my son ? Where is
the crew of the Tiber? Drowned!
Where is the crew of the Great Planet?
Drowned! Where is the crew of the
Grey Dawn? Drowned! Where are
the crews of twenty other ships of which
you have been part owner—ships that
were rotten—ships that were bought
and patched—ships that were made by
cheap contractors with bad materials—
ships built to sink? James Halley, if.
you in your career had lost a tithe of
them, you would have been a beggar;
while this man—look at the well-fed,
smooth, sleek serpent, and see how he
has thriven !
“ But it will not last,” continued the
old woman, fiercely, in her denuncia
tion, and seeming, as she stood there,
�64
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
like some prophetess of old—“ it will not
last! The Lord shall hear the cries of
the widow, the fatherless, the bereft;
and a day of vengeance shall arrive for
such as you.”
•She stopped, and turned to May, and
laid a trembling hand upon her fair
head.
“ Be very pitiful to me, my child.
God bless you. You knew it, then ?”
she cried, as she saw the crape bow.
And now her voice was weak and feeble,
as she clung to the trembling girl.
“Yes,” she said, gently; “be very piti
ful to me, and think of me in your
prayers. Ah, my child, he loved you
with all a strong man’s love—my son,
my dear first-born, whom I worshipped
so, that God has taken him away as a
punishment for my vain idolatry. But
he loved you, my child; and if I see
you no more, think of me gently; for
though once I felt hard and cruel, and
jealous of you, I could have loved you
dearly, with all a mother’s love. And
now—now he is gone! He died for you
—for your sake, in his despair!
“ Come,” she added, after a few mo
ments, and she laid her hand upon the
younger woman—“ come, Mrs. Gurnett, let us go ; we have no place here.
Mr. Halley,” she said, with a sweet, calm
dignity, “forgive me this. I'f it had
been your ship that had been lost, with
my poor boy on board, I could have
come and wept pitifully at your feet,
and asked for comfort; but as for these
men—”
She said no more; but holding Mrs.
Gurnett’s hand, and looking fixedly at
Longdale, led her to the door, where
she was followed by May and Mr. Hal
ley to the cab that was in waiting.
Then, without comment, Mr. Halley
[Christmas, 1873.
led May, weeping bitterly and quite un
strung, to her room.
When he returned to the dining-room
it was empty.
“ Where is Mr. Merritt ? Has Mr.
Longdale gone ?”
“ They said, sir, as they thought they
would not stop, but would see you to
morrow,” said Samuel.
“Thank God!” muttered Mr. Halley,
throwing himself into a chair, while the
partners were walking slowly back to
wards town, heedless of the rain that
was falling heavily, and that they were
in evening dress.
“ I’ve had enough of this,” said Mer
ritt at last.
“Don’t be a fool!” was the abrupt
reply.
“ No, I won’t,” said Merritt, angrily;
“ I ’ll drop it at once. That old woman
made my blood run cold. It is worse
than D.T. Another such scene as that,
and I shall lose May Halley.”
“ Nonsense!” said Longdale, abruptly.
“ Nonsense! I tell you I couldn’t
stand it; but I’ll have’no more of
it.”
“No more of what?” said Longdale,
in a fierce tone that made his companion
start, and stand listening beneath the
wall of an old house.
“This ship-owning—I can’t stand
it.”
“What! now that all has gone as you
wished—now that success has attended
the plans at which you connived—now
that your rival is removed from your
path? Philip Merritt, you are in with
us, and must stay.”
“ Must ?” said Merritt, roused to in
dignation by his partner’s language.
“Yes, must; or leave with us every
penny you possess.”
�Christmas, 1873-)
6S
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" WENTY-J" HIRD
JCabee
J^ength
HOW THE “VICTRIX” SANK.
BREEZE
saved
them —
the brisk
breeze,
coming
down in a
brief cat’spaw for a
few m oments, did
it. For as
the poor
ship shud
dered and
rolled from side to side, as if struggling
hard to keep afloat, the well-filled sails
bore her on a few yards farther from
the raft.
John Anderson, too, had answered
Basalt’s appeal, and tugged at his oar
with all his might.
But it was cruel work; for the un
shapely raft hardly answered to their
efforts, and seemed to hang back, as if
drawn by some horrible magnetic at
traction to the ship. To the men strug
gling for dear life, it was like some fear
ful nightmare, as they tugged and gazed
with starting eyeballs at their fate. A
few hours before, they could have gone
down without a struggle; but the efforts
for safety had begotten new hopes, and
death would have been hardly met now.
Drag, drag, drag—till the ash blades
bent and threatened to snap, and still
they scarcely moved away; while the
ship seemed animated with life, which
burst forth from her tortured bowels in
strange shrieks and cries. Rats by the
hundred swarmed up on to the bulwarks
and climbed about on to the shrouds;
and again and again there were sharp,
crashing reports, as other parts of the
deck blew up.
Such a few yards distant, even now;
and there was a strange creeping sensa
tion in Basalt’s hair, as if a cold skeleton
hand were stirring it. His face was
ghastly; but he did not for an instant
cease his efforts, dragging furiously at
his oar, though a shiver passed through
him that almost seemed to rob him of
all nerve when the Victrix—Victrix no
longer—sank back for an instant, throw
ing up her bows, and then gave one
slow, solemn plunge head first, and dis
appeared in a vast eddy of hissing,
foaming water.
It was an awful sight; and in spite
of themselves, Anderson and Basalt
ceased rowing as the hull disappeared,
and the masts and rigging slowly fol
lowed—the sails seeming to hang for a
moment on the waves as they filled with
air, and then split with a loud report.
But before the maintop-gallant yard
had sunk below the surface, they were
rowing hard against the dreadful cur
rent that sucked them towards where
floated a quantity of deck lumber, whirl
ing round and round before disappear
ing after the ship.
“ For dear life!” cried Basalt, huskily,
—“pull, my lad, pull!”
Words were not needed; but in spite
of every effort the raft floated slowly
towards where the water foamed and
boiled, and their fate seemed sealed.
Another drag, though, and another;
and either the rate of progress was
checked by their efforts, or the whirl
pool had less 'force. They saw it, and
dragged again and again, throwing their
last remaining strength into the efforts.
And not without avail; for a minute
after John Anderson had fallen back
exhausted upon the raft, while Basalt
half lay half sat upon the cask, with
the raft slowly rising and falling amid
the waves of the great Indian Ocean,
�----66
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
alone and helpless, a thousand miles
from land!
It was a long time before either
spoke, and then it was Basalt, who said,
as if to himself—
“That’s about the nighest touch yet.
Talk of Davy Jones’s locker!—one al
most heard the lid snap down.”
Then turning his back to Anderson,
he went down softly on his knees, and
remained so for some time, to rise up,
though, at last, muttering the only words
which reached his companion’s ears,
and they were—
“World without end, amen!”
The next minute he was bright and
cheery. Thoughts of their possible fate
did not seem to trouble him, as, in a
rough, fatherly way, he leaned over An
derson, placing spirit and biscuit to his
lips, and then proceeded to rebandage
the wound upon his leg.
“Cheer up, my lad,” he said; “it’ll
all come right. We have got a craft
under us as won’t sink; but as for that
Wictrix—”
His sentence was more forcible in its
incompleteness than ever it could have
been had he said all he thought; but
he mentally uttered no blessing on the
heads of Rutherby and Co.
“ First thing to be done is for half
the watch to go below,” he said; “and
that’s your half, cap’n. There aint
much stowage room, but get a sleep if
you can.”
John Anderson was too much ex
hausted to do more than thank the old
man with a grateful look, as his head
fell back upon a tarpaulin; and in
another minute he was sleeping heavily.
“ And that’s what I could do,” mut
tered Basalt, “ only I can’t yet. I’ll do
the next best thing, though; for it’s
been short commons lately.”
Then, in a cool, matter-of-fact way,
just as if the narrow escape from a terri
[Christmas, 1873.
ble death had not been shared by him,he
filled a tin pannikin with water, gave it
a good dash of rum, and then fished
out a couple of biscuits and a lump of
pork, which he set to, knife in hand, to
devour, sitting the while cross-legged
upon one of the gratings which formed
the quarter-deck of the raft, and think
ing sadly of Mrs. Gurnett and the snug
bar parlour at the Jolly Sailors.
The sun had risen to the meridian,
and slowly sunk to within an hour of
his setting, before John Anderson
awoke, to find that a rough awning of
sail cloth had been stretched between
him and the ardent heat. A pleasant
breeze rippled the water, and filled out
the little lug sail that Basalt had ma
naged to hoist.
For a few minutes the young man
lay thinking—wondering whether this
were the end of a horrible dream that
he had had. He felt rested and re
freshed ; the breeze, too, played plea
santly in his, hair; a soft languor
seemed to pervade his every sense; and
it was only by an effort that he pre
vented himself from lying there silently
thinking—always of home, of the perils
he had passed through, and of May.
Fie roused himself with a sigh; and
looking up, a pleasant smile irradiated
the rugged face of old Basalt, as he
shouted—
“Ship ahoy! What cheer?”
“ Better, much better,” was the reply.
“ Now let me take the watch, and you
lie down.”
“ That will I, with a will,” said Basalt.
“You’ll find the stores there, ready to
hand. Eat well, my lad ; for it ’ll give
you strength to weather the next gale.”
A minute after, while Anderson was
making a frugal meal off biscuit and
water, Basalt, heedless of all perils and
dangers, was sleeping soundly upon the
raft.
�Christmas, 1873]
“SHIP AHOY!
J-'WENTY-J^OURTH
JSaBLE
67
J_^ENGTH.
HOW THEY FARED ON THE RAFT.
AN you imag i n e for
yourselve s
the position ?
Far away
from land,
upon a few
rough spars,
lashed with
ropes to a
cask or two;
with the
whole fabric rising slowly up the side
of each wave to plunge down the other
into the deep trough of the sea, groan
ing and creaking as the loose fragments
rub and grind against each other, fray
ing the ropes that hold them together,
and threatening to fall asunder at any
moment. John Anderson sat thinking,
with his head upon his hand; while his
rough old companion in misfortune
slept heavily. One by one the stars
came out, till the whole heavens were
one blaze of splendour, reflected a thou
sandfold from the glassy surface of the
long swell. The breeze had almost
died away as darkness set in, and the
little sail flapped idly against the mast.
If the weather kept calm, they might
exist for weeks, for they had food
and water enough; but he knew well
that, strive to strengthen it as they
might, the first rough sea must knock
the raft to pieces or wash them off.
Educated by his long sea-going to
wake at certain hours, Basalt rose up
about midnight; and there was some
thing almost comical in the manner in
which he treated their frail platform,
which was half submerged at every step
on the side, even as if it were a wellfound ship, with full crew.
“Anything to report, sir?” he said.
“ No, all is just as you left it, Jerry.”
“And a good state -of things, too,”
said the old man, beginning to whistle.
“ I suppose we must drift now till the
wind rises again.”
Drift was the word—drift, hour after
hour, in the same monotonous fashion.
Drift, the next day and the next, with
the sun growing each hour more power
ful, till it seemed to scorch the very
brains within their heads; and, in spite
of their thirst, every drop of water
having to be measured out to the exact
allowance upon which they had placed
themselves, so as to hold out as long as
possible. The afternoon sun at times
seemed unbearable, in spite of the awn
ing they contrived with a small sail;
and more than once the question oc
curred to each—was it worth while to
live and endure such tortures?
Four days, a week, a fortnight
passed slowly on, during which time
there had been nothing more than the
faintest breezes, and the raft had held
together still.
For the first few days Basalt fought
hard to keep up a cheerful aspect, and
succeeded well; but the awful lone
liness told at last upon him, so that
hours and hours would pass, during
which neither spoke, but sat wrapped
in thought apparently, though really
with their energies paralyzed — every
aspiration frozen into dull apathy.
It was on the fifteenth day that, early
in the morning, while serving out the
provisions, Basalt dropped his biscuit to
exclaim, with a hysterical sob—“ Ship
ahoy!”
And then turned/with outstretched
hands, gazing at a white speck glisten
ing in the sun upon the far-off horizon.
It was a sail, sure enough; and, with
straining eyes, Anderson stood by his
side, watching, and reading, as it were,
written upon that white speck—life,
hope, love, home.
�68
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Hoist a signal,” he cried, and at the
same moment went himself to the mast,
where he cast loose the sheet that held
the little sail, hauled it to the top, and
let it fly in the soft morning breeze.
“ They’ll see us, sir—they’ll see us,”
cried Basalt, cheerfully, the whole man
changing with the hope within him.
“ Cheerily, cheerily, my lad! That means
home, sweet home; and confound all
bad shipowners! How’s the wownd,
my lad—how’s the wownd ?”
The wound was fast on the way to
heal, and had ceased to trouble Ander
son, who did not reply, so interested
was he in the distant sail.
“Isn’t she lower down, Basalt?” he said.
“ Not she,” cried the old man, gazing
through his hands. “She’ll see us, safe!”
The old man stooped down and
slapped his knees, a broad smile coming
over his face, as he said to himself—“Hurray for the old stocking, and
success to the Jolly Sailors!”
John Anderson did not speak, but
stood intently gazing at the sail, till his
experience told him that there could be
no questionaboutit—they were not seen,
and the vessel was certainly more distant
than when they had first sighted her.
Another half-hour passed, and then
it became plain to Basalt, though he
"J"WENTY-j^IFTH
[Christmas, 1873.
would not own it as yet, but stood up
on the top of one of the water-casks,
cheering and waving his hat.
At last he stopped short, and re
mained gazing after the departing ship,
which sank lower and lower, till she was
the merest speck, when he descended
slowly, and proceeded to serve out the
biscuit and water — a process inter
rupted by the sight of the ship.
“ A bit and sup, my lad,” he said to
Anderson. “Never despair! Better
luck coming. It’s a bit of a disap
pointment; but I don’t mind it a bit,
for my part. In fact, it’s good; for it
shows us as we’re in the track of ships.”
Another day, and another, and an
other; and now the water began to run
short. They had drunk as sparingly as
they could; but the intense heat had at
last begotten a thirst that would not be
denied, and they had been compelled
to drink. There were symptoms, too,
of a change in the weather; the breeze
grew stronger, and the sail forced the
raft through the water. But though
they pressed on, it was so slowly that
it could do them no good. The nearest
land was the Cape; but at their rate of
progress, with favouringbreezes,it would
take them months to reach port, and they
knew that their only hope was a sail.
CABLE
HOW MR. TUDGE WAS TEMPTED.
TUDGE,
miss.”
“Show
him in,
Samuel,”
said May.
There was a
great deal of
shoe rubbing on
the mat out
side, and then
entered Mr.
T ud ge, very
spruce, his hair
curled—he had
spent an hour at a hairdresser’s on his
way; his tail-coat, of peculiar cut, but
toned very tightly across his chest; and
a general gala aspect about him, largely
increased by his carrying an immense
bouquet in his hand.
“How are you, Mr. Tudge?” said
May, advancing, with a sad smile, to
shake hands.
“ Like a man coming into sunshine,
my darling,” said Tudge, taking her
hand and kissing it. “Ah, my dear,
once upon a time, when you were little,
it usen’t to be your hand.”
“And it need not now, dear Mr.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Tudge,” said May, offering her cheek
to the old man, who kissed it fondly,
and then sat down on the couch beside
her, retaining her hand, and, after lay
ing down the bouquet carefully by his
side, patting and stroking it tenderly.
“ Bless you, my dear,” he said, with
tears in his eyes—“God bless you!
And you grown such a beautiful young
woman, too. But I always said you
would; didn’t I now, my dear—didn’t
I always say you would?”
“You always spoiled me, Mr. Tudge,”
said May, laughing.
“ Not I, ” said Tudge, stoutly. “ But
May, my dear, what feasts we used to
have! Don’t you remember the cheese
cakes, the almond-rock, and the plums ?”
“ Oh, yes,” said May, smiling sadly.
“ I remember it all, Mr. Tudge.”
“To be sure you do, my sweet; and
I always said you’d grow up a beauty.
But, you see, I’m a rum old fogey of a
fellow; but I know what’s what. See
here—there’s a posy for you!”
May took the flowers he held out
with such pride—for he had gone to get
a simple bunch of roses, and ended by
purchasing the choicest bouquet of
exotics he could find.
“ It was very kind of you, Mr. Tudge,
and they are very sweet.”
“Not so sweet as her they’re meant
for,” said Tudge, beaming all over his
plump face. “And look how I’ve ne
glected to send you anything lately, my
dear! All business, though,” he added,
gloomily—“all business!”
“ That’s what I asked you to come for,
dear Mr. Tudge. You’ve often told me
you looked upon me as a daughter.”
“To be sure — to be sure. Why,
didn’t you use to laugh and call me
old Uncle Tudge in the old days, eh?
To be sure you did; and ah! what fun
we used to have?” His face was all
smiles; and leaning over her, he softly
stroked down, on each side, her bright
glossy hair. “ But stop,” he said, se
riously—“business. Why did you send
for me?”
“To talk to you about papa and the
business, Mr. Tudge.”
69
The old man faced round, serious as
a judge, with his mouth pursed, and one
finger held up impressively.
“I never bring the business outside
the office.”
“ But it is for poor papa’s good I
want to know,” said May; “and you
are in his confidence?”
“Confidence, my darling,”said Tudge,
“ why, he’s offered me to be partner six
times—six times, think of that! Said
I’d made half the business, and deserved
to be.”
“And why were you not, Mr. Tudge?”
“ Why not, my dear? Why should I
have been? I was right where I was.
Who was to have taken my place if I
had been partner? No; so long as I
could save a few hundreds, and go on
my own way, I didn’t want to change.
But if I’d known what I know now, I
would have been.”
“Why?” said May, anxiously.
“Why? To skid the wheel going
downhill—to act as a check and stop
him. Where is he to-night?”
“ Gone to dine at Mr. Longdale’s.”
“Damn Mr. Longdale!” cried the
old man, starting up, and stamping
about the room—forgetting, too, in his
wrath, his reticence about the office.
“I beg your pardon, my child—I know
it’s very wicked; but as soon as I hear
his name or—his name,” he exclaimed,
checking himself, “I get mad about the
way the business is going to the dev—
old Harry.”
“Then, things are very wrong, Mr.
Tudge?” exclaimed May.
“ Wrong, my darling, they’re—”
Slap!
Mr. Tudge administered a smart tap
to his mouth to close it, and then took
a good sniff at May’s bouquet.
“ If you only knew how anxious I am
about poor papa,” said May, pleadingly,
“ I’m sure you’d tell me.”
“ Can’t,” said Tudge. “ No business
out of the office.”
“But I’m so anxious,” said May.
“So am I,” said Tudge.
“And I do so long to know.”
“ Can’t help it, my dear.”
\
�7°
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
______—
“ Do tell me,” said May, tearfully.
“Would if I could—if I can’t, how
can I?” said Tudge, sternly.
“Do tell—for dear papa’s sake!”
“Now, don’t tempt me, my dear,”
“Pray tell me, dear Uncle Tudge,”
said May, laying her cheek against his
shiny bald forehead.
“ I never believed about saints being
tempted before now,” said the old man,
addressing the coal-scuttle; “ but I do
believe it, and give in. What do you
want to know?”
“ About dear papa’s affairs, and why
he is so dispirited.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, tenderly,
as May nestled up to him—“I’ll tell you,
darling, for you’re his own flesh and
blood, and I don’t know that I’m doing
wrong, after all.”
“ Are things so bad, then?” said May,
alarmed at his serious aspect.
“Very, very, very bad, my darling,”
said the old man, sadly. “ But don’t you
be alarmed, my pretty. You sha’n’t
hurt. I’ve saved five thousand pounds
—nearly six—and it’s all for you now,
though I did mean it to help him.
You sha’n’t come to poverty, my darling,
while Tudge has a pound to the good.”
“ But why, why would you not let
papa have it if he wanted it ?” said May.
“ Why, my dear?—because he’s losing
himself. He’s forsaking my advice,
which never failed him, and going by
what that Longdale says.”
“ But Mr. Longdale advises him well.”
“To lose every penny he has, and to
make his name stink like carrion!” cried
Tudge, angrily. “Mr. Longdale ought
to ,be hung—I—I—I—there, I believe
I’d do it myself—I’d hang him.”
“ Oh, Mr. Tudge.”
“Well, don’t he deserve it? And as
for his partner—that Merritt—”
“Oh!”
“Just like me. I might have known
that I should do it. Serve me right,
for talking of business matters before
people, and out of office.”
“ It was nothing,” said May, recover
ing herself; “but please, Mr. Tudge,
don’t say anything about Mr. Merritt.
[Christmas, 1873.
You forget that I am engaged to be
married to him.”
“ Oh, no, no, my precious, don’t—don’t
say that. I did hope that was all off.”
“ Papa wishes it,” said May, sadly.
“ But you—you never fell in love with
him,” said Tudge, earnestly.
May shook her head sadly.
“ Then you sha’n’t marry him,” said
Tudge.
“ Papa wishes it,” said May; “ and he
tells me these reports are false about
Mr. Merritt.”
“Ah, my child,” said the old man,
“ I did hope things would have turned
out different to this. I did hope to have
lived to see you and John Anderson
man and wife, and to have kissed and
blessed your little ones before I cast
up my last accounts, and gave in my
balance-sheet to the God who made
me, and said, ‘ That’s the best I could
make of it, and I wish the returns were
better.’ But now all seems to be going
wrong; and if you marry that Merritt—
There, my pretty one, don’t,” he cried,
excitedly. “ I’ll go down on my knees
and beg you not to, if you like—don’t
marry him; be an old bachelor like me
—no, I don’t mean that, I mean an old,
old—dear, dear, the account’s muddled
—I mean be an old maid—anything
but Philip Merritt’s wife.”
“Dear Mr. Tudge,” said May, sadly,
“papa believes in Mr. Merritt. He has
promised him, and we have been long
engaged. I must marry him. And, be
sides, he assures me that there is no
truth in those reports.”
“And Mr. Longdale backs him up,”
said Tudge.
“ Yes,” said May, simply.
“God help you, my child! ” said Tudge,
fervently; and without any attempt at
concealment, he drew out a great ban
danna and wiped his eyes. “I don’t
know, though,” he added, “ that I need
much mind; for there was but one man
in the world, and he’s”—gulp—“dead.”
There was a pause of a few moments’
duration, and then May said, softly—
“Are papa’s affairs in a very bad state?”
“Horrible!” said Tudge, ruefully.
�Christmas, 1873.J
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ It’s heart-breaking, my dear. Loss
after loss. The poor May gone—your
namesake; and he so infatuated that
he’s making advances to these people,
Rutherbys. And he won’t see that the
money loss isn’t all, but his name is
being so mixed up with Rutherby’s that
he’s gone—blown on with Lloyd’s. Our
house was the finest name in the City
last year, and now—It’s very weak of me,
my child,” said the old man, wiping his
eyes; “ but it’s heart - breaking to see
one’s life’s labour spoiled by villains.”
J"wENTY-jSlXTH
7i
“And—if it is true—has Mr. Longdale
much influence with papa?”
“ My dear, it’s come to this : he’s
twined himself slowly round him like a
snake, and fascinated him; and your
poor father can’t shake him off. There,
I won’t say no more.”
May pressed him to- stay and have
some tea, but he refused; and though
she asked him other questions, the old
man would not break his word—he
would say no more, and soon after he
took his leave.
JCaBLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY PROMISED TO SAY “YES.”
DO you
really wish it,
papa?” said
May, laying
her hand on
his arm.
“Yes—yes,
my dear, I
do indeed.
Poor Philip
has been
begging very
hard, and I
promised
him that I
would do all
I could.”
“ Do you think it possible that the Victrix or the other men have been saved ?”
“ Now, my dear child, why rake that
up ? You know she was lost, and poor
Anderson with her. It’s too bad of
you,” he added, weakly—“ it is, indeed,
knowing as you do how I am mixed up
now with Rutherby’s, to go raking up
those wretched stories about the ships.”
“I was not raking up old stories,
papa,” said May. “I only wanted to feel
sure that—that the Victrix had sunk.”
“Sunk, yes,” said the old man, bit
terly; “and so did the Merry May.
It’s horrible how unlucky I’ve been of
late! But we are going to do wonders,
my dear—wonders. You shall have such
a fortune, my child. Mr. Longdale tells
me that we shall.”
“ Dear papa, do you think Mr. Long
dale is to be trusted ?”
“ Now, my dear child, how can you
be so wilful, so absurd ? What can be
more nonsensical than for you to meddle
with shipping matters—with City affairs!
It’s childish in the extreme.”
May Was silent.
“ But about this wedding. Merritt
wants it to come off at Christmas.
What do you say?”
May sat silent and dreamy.
“My dear, this wedding. What do
you say?”
Again there was a pause, and then
May laid her hands upon the old man’s
shoulders, and looked into his dim eyes,
his livid face; and shivered as she saw
the alteration made in a few months.
“ Papa, dear,” she said, “ suppose I
were to tell Mr. Merritt that I would
not marry him ?”
“What?”
“ Suppose,” repeated May, in a clear,
cold, cutting voice, “ I were to tell Mr.
Merritt that I would not marry him—
what then!”
x
“May—May!” gasped the old man,
trembling with anxiety and passion,
“you’ve been plotting with somebody.
That scoundrel Tudge has been here, I
�I2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
know he has. I heard so, and he has
urged you to this disobedience. I—”
“No one has had any influence on
me, papa, in this,” said May, calmly.
“ I only ask you, before I give my con
sent to marry Mr. Merritt, what effect it
would have upon you if I were to refuse.”
“ I should be bankrupt.”
“ Bankrupt ?”
“Yes, ruined. I can’t help it, my
child, but I’ve gone wrong somehow;
and this will set me right. In spite of
all that has been said, I believe Merritt
and Longdale to be honourable gentle
men, and I would not believe to the con
trary unless some one came back from
the dead to tell me they were not.”
“ Do you say, papa,” said May, in a
hard, cold voice, “ that my wedding
would save you from ruin ?”
“Yes, my child. It must be you or
the other May. But one is lost, and the
other remains. May, my darling, would
you see your old father dishonoured ?”
“ No,” said May, kissing him gently
on the forehead.
“And I may tell Philip that he may
come?
“Yes,” said May, sadly; and she laid
her hand upon a bow of crajft at her
bosom.
“And it shall be at Christmas ?”
“Yes, father,” said May, in a cold,
stony way.
“Bless you, my child—bless you!”
mumbled the old man, folding her in
his arms, and kissing her tenderly.
“Stop,” said May, suddenly. “No!
I will give you my answer to-morrow.”
“ But, my child—”
“I will give you my answer to-morrow,
papa. I ask only for twenty-four hours’
grace.”
[Christmas, 1873.
The old man muttered some objec
tion, and then left for the City; while
May, as soon as he was gone, had a cab
fetched, and went to Mrs. Gurnett’s.
She stayed with her an hour, and then
went on to Mrs. Anderson, to find the
old lady sitting, very calm and stern, in
a corner of her room; and here too she
stayed an hour.
Dinner was just over at Canonbury,
and May had risen to go to the drawing
room.
“ May, my child,” said Mr. Halley,
“you will not trifle with me? I have
told Mr. Merritt that he shall have your
answer to-morrow.”
“ Mr. Merritt could have had it to
night, papa,” she said, sadly, as she bent
down and kissed his forehead.
“ And—and—”
“ And the answer would be this—I
have no one to care for now.”
“My child-—May — what are you
thinking of?”
“ Of Captain John Anderson, father—
of the brave, true man whom I have
learned to love with my whole heart—
of the dead, father. And now Mr. Philip
Merritt shall have his wish. Father, you
tell me that it is necessary for your peace
of mind that I should marry this man?”
“Yes, my darling—yes, indeed it is.
I may tell him, then? He will make
you a good, loving husband.”
May recalled the denunciation of Mrs.
Anderson, and shuddered.
“Oh, papa, papa! is there no hope?”
“For me, none,” said the old man,
sadly. “ And Merritt is to be here to
morrow. What shall I say?”
“ Say?” said May, mournfully. “ Say?
—say yes.”
�Christmas, 1873 ]
J"
“SHIP AHOY!”
WENTY-JSeVENTH
JCaBLE
73
J^ENGTH
HOW MR. TUDGE JUMPED ON HIS MASTER.
D I D
you pro
mise,my
dear?”
said Tudge, who
had come up to
Canonbury with
a private ledger
in a black bag.
“Ye s,” said
May, sadly.
“Then you
shall have your
promise back, or
1’11 know the
reason why. But
tell me this, little
one—do you care for him at all?”
May shook her head.
“That’s enough,” said Tudge. “I
see my way clearly enough now.”
“ But about papa’s affairs,” said May
—“how are they now?”
“Bad as bad,” said Tudge, bitterly;
“going to rack and ruin. Loss after
loss. Two ships gone to the bad since
the May, and the insurance nowhere ;
for since he’s been mixed up with
Rutherbys,the underwriters have fought
shy of him; and he’s so proud, that he
won’t stir an inch to meet people.”
“Yes, poor papa is proud,” said May.
“Why, my dear, if he’d only do as
other men would, he’d set to and clear
himself of these people, and start fair
again with a clean bill of lading.”
“ But, papa would not do that.”
“ Not he; he says he’s promised these
people, and he never breaks his word.
But stop a bit—let me have my innings,
and something may turn up yet.”
Tudge kissed May affectionately,
looked at her as he held her at arm’s
length; and then, catching up his black
bag, he hurried up to Mr. Halley’s room,
that gentleman having been too unwell
to rise and go to the office, and having
sent for his confidential clerk.
Tudge was shocked to see the expres
sion of anxiety and care in his old em
ployer’s face. As soon as Tudge entered
the room, Mr. Halley pointed to a chair
and table by the bedside.
“Come and sit down, Tudge. You
have brought the private ledger?”
“Yes.”
“ And made up to the last entries ?”
“ Up to last night at closing.”
“Well, and how do we stand ?”
“ Bad as we can.”
Mr. Halley uttered a sigh that was
almost a groan, as he lay back helplessly,
and gazed at his clerk in dismay.
“ Here, let me look,” he said at last;
and sitting up in bed once more, he
eagerly scanned the open page of the
little ledger held out to him by Tudge,
tried to cast up the columns, to check
the amounts, and failed, closed his eyes
for a few minutes, and then gazed once
more at the array of figures. “ And all
this change within a few months,” he
murmured, sadly.
“Yes, all in a few months,” said
Tudge, sternly.
“ Don’t jump on me, Tudge, when I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, feebly. “Every
thing has gone wrong with me so far—
don’t you go wrong with me too.”
“Wrong sort,” said Tudge, stoutly.
“ I’m like poor Jack Anderson—I stick
to my ship to the last.”
“ Don’t talk about last, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, pettishly. “ We shall be all
right in a few weeks. Wait till the
Emperor has done her voyage.”
Tudge remained perfectly silent; but
with one hand in the tail pocket of his
coat, he gently rustled a piece of paper.
“Tudge—Tudge!” gasped the old
man, rising on one arm, and looking
aghast at his clerk. “ What do you
mean ? Why did you rustle that news
paper in your pocket ?”
�------------------ --------------- -
—--------------------------------------- - --------------------
74--------------------------------- ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.------------------- [Christmas,^.
Still Tudge remained silent.
“Don’t tell me that the Emperor has
gone, Tudge,” he. gasped, pitifully.
Tudge remained silent.
“ Give—give me the paper,” gasped
the old man. “Oh, it’s killing work!”
The old clerk handed him the readyfolded newspaper; and Mr. Halley,
whose hands quivered, took the sheet
and tried to read.
“Where—where is it?” he cried.
And Tudge pointed out the spot.
Then the old man had to get his glasses
from beneath the pillow, though he
had done without them over the ledger.
But no glasses would enable him to
see clearly in his present state of ex
citement; and after a minute he handed
the paper back to Tudge.
“ Read it—read it,” he said, hurriedly.
And the old clerk read, in a trem
bling voice, one of the too familiar para
graphs of loss at sea.
“1 Supposed to have foundered in the
late gales,’ ” said Mr. Halley, in quiver
ing tones, as he repeated the last words
that his clerk had read. “ The poor
Emperor! Ruin, ruin, ruin!”
“ Cheer up. Don’t be cast down,”
said Tudge, laying his hand tenderly on
his master’s.
“Oh, Tudge, I’m broken,” groaned
the old man, pitifully; “ and they’ll say
things of me—cursed things! But, so
help me God, Tudge, there wasn’t a
thing left undone in that ship. Every
thing that money could do was got for
her to make her perfect, and she was
nearly new from truck to keel.”
“ What the devil are you going on
like that for?” cried Tudge, indignantly.
“ Whoever said she wasn’t a well-found
ship?”
“ Oh, nobody, Tudge—but they will.”
“Yes, I s’pose they will,” said Tudge,
sternly. “They’ll say, safe enough, now
that you’re so linked in with Rutherby’s,
that you’re trying their games.”
“ Don’t hit me, Tudge, pray,” said
Mr. Halley, pitifully—“ don’t hit me
when I’m down.”
“ I must,” said Tudge,“ I can’t help it.
It’s all for your good, too; for you would
j
1
do it. Didn’t I advise you—beg of you
—pray of you not?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge—you did,” said Mr. ' j
Halley, humbly.
“ And you would do it,” cried Tudge.
■
“ Ah, I wish I had my ruler here.”
It was merely to bang down on the
bed, not to punish the old shipowner;
and Tudge rolled up the newspaper, and
gesticulated and struck the bed with that.
“Yes, Tudge,” sighed the old man,
with a last despairing glance for comfort
at the figures in the ledger, but finding
none—“yes, Tudge, I was very obstinate;
and now I am more cursed than Job.”
“No, you’re not,” said Tudge. “Job
had his children killed, while you are
trying to kill your one.”
“Silence, Tudge!” cried Mr. Halley,
angrily; and Tudge turned to the book.
“ I will not, though I am down, have
my domestic arrangements called into
question. Let people talk: all the
same Merritt is a fine young fellow, and
Longdale a gentleman. And now about
meeting those engagements for them.
When are they due?”
“ Eighteenth and twentieth,” said
Tudge, shortly.
“Let them be met,” said Mr. Halley.
“ But it will leave us without a hun
dred pounds to go on with.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Halley, “let
them be met. I promised, and I’ll
keep my word.”
Tudge grumbled as he made an entry
in a memorandum-book, and then sat
back in his chair.
“ Anything more ?•” he said.
“ There’s no hope, I suppose, about
the poor Emperor, Tudge ?”
Tudge shook his head sadly.
“Good heavens! how dreadful!”
groaned the old man. “ Tudge,” he
exclaimed, “ I can’t bear to see any one
belonging to the crew. I couldn’t bear
it, in my present state.”
“You used to face it out like.a man,
Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “Think what
people will say if you don’t.”
“ But four vessels in nine months,
Tudge—it’s fearful! It will make them
think horrible things.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ You never used to have such fancies
as that, Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “ See
what comes of mixing with Rutherby’s.”
“ But I don’t believe anything of
the kind of them,” cried Mr. Halley,
sharply. “You’re turning against me,
Tudge, in my trouble. I didn’t think
it of you. But, there—go, and let me
be ruined.”
“ There, I won’t be savage with you,”
said Tudge. “ You don’t mean what
you say.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” cried Mr. Halley,
passionately as a child.
“ No, you don’t,” said Tudge ; “ so I
won’t hit out at you. Just as if I should
leave you when you’re like this! ”
“ No, you won’t, Tudge, will you ?”
cried the old man, pitifully.
“ But I shall make stipulations,” said
Tudge, stoutly.
“Oh,” groaned Mr. Halley.
“You shall give me full powers to
pull you through.”
“Yes, yes; only I will have all en
gagements met.”
“Well, yes, that’s right. Rutherby’s
bills shall be met—we must do that.
HOW
MR. TUDGE
Halley’s always meets its engage
ments,” said Tudge, proudly.
Mr. Halley groaned.
“ Then I’ll be off,” said Tudge, “ and
do the best I can; but, old friend, you’ll
come out of this a very poor man.”
“ Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, clinging to
his old clerk’s hand, with the tears run
ning down his cheeks, “I’m ill and weak,
and this affair is killing me. Pay every
body, and if I have a pittance I shall
be satisfied. May is provided for. Mer
ritt will take care of her, and I believe
in him. But I’ve done wrong, Tudge, in
listening to Longdale; and the slanders
that attach to him have come on me
too. I didn’t see that before.”
“ Always told you,” said Tudge.
“You’re hitting me again, now I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, pitifully.
“ Well, I won’t say any more,” said
Tudge.
“ Don’t,” replied Mr. Halley, shaking
hands with him earnestly; “and come
up often.”
Tudge nodded shortly, gathered up
his papers, closed his bag with a snap,
and went off without a word.
SOLILOQUIZED, AND
N hour after,Mr. Tudge
was in his
private room
flourishing his
ruler as he
thought over
matters.
“Merritt
will take care
of May, will
he ? — of my
darling!” he
said to hims e 1 f. . “He
won’t—no, he
won’t! That
will work by
75
HAD TWO VISITORS.
itself, Pll swear, without a word from me.
But if it don’t, I think I can manage it.
Let me see: trumps led. Master Phil
Merritt, Jack; my darling, queen—my
partner, you know. Mr. Halley—Mer
ritt’s partner—plays the king. Last
player—name of Tudge, cunning old fox
in his way—holds the ace. Where are
we now?”
Bang went the ruler on the desk.
“ Now about money matters. Awful,
four fine vessels going like that. It
would cripple any house if the loss fell
on them as it does on us; but things
will cut up better than he expects, even
when those scoundrels have got their
bills met. Of course they’ll pay up
again! Don’t we wish we'may get it!”
Bang went the ruler again.
�---76
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“No; I won’t give him a true state of
the affairs—nor anybody else, not yet.
Not honest ? Yes, it is. He’s not fit to
attend to his affairs, and he’s deputed
them to me, and I’m working for him
and my darling. Shady? Perhaps it
is; but if you’ve got shady customers
to deal with, why you must fight ’em
with their own weapons.
“ Now, let me see; what comes next?
Well, it strikes me that Rutherby’s
comes next; and if they aint here soon,
I’ll hang myself in my braces.”
Mr. Tudge’s face became all over lines
now, as he plunged into a tangle of
accounts, and looked as if it had been
ruled in every possible direction; but he
had not been at work ten minutes be
fore a clerk announced Mr. Longdale.
“Ah, Mr. Tudge,” he said, smiling, as
he took a chair—“ hard at work as usual.
I wish we had you, Mr. Tudge, or some
one like you.”
“Ah!” said Tudge, nodding, “I wish
you had.”
“ Thought I’d drop in as I came by,
to ask about Mr. Halley. We heard a
rumour that he was poorly. Merritt
said he’d send up and ask at Canonbury;
but as I was passing I thought I’d call.”
“ Well, yes, he is out of sorts a bit,”
said Tudge; “nothing much, though.”
“ Weather?”
“Well, yes,” said Tudge, eating the
end of his quill—“ I suppose weather
has something to do with it.” *
“ Well, I won’t detain you, Mr.
Tudge,” said Mr. Longdale, smiling.
• “ Glad to hear it’s nothing serious.”
And he rose to go, shaking hands most
affectionately with the old clerk. “Oh,
by the way,” he said, “of course I
shouldn’t mention this to you if you were
not entirely in Mr. Halley’s confidence;
but there are two little matters of bills
that fall due directly. We drew on Mr.
Halley. The first batch come-to twenty
thou’, the second to ten thou’. I suppose
they will have been provided for?”
“ Halley’s always meets its payments,
Mr. Longdale, sir,” said Tudge, stiffly.
\
“ Oh, of course, of course,” said Long
dale. “And that rumour—I didn’t like
[Christmas, 1873.
to mention it before—about the Em
peror; false, of course?”
“True, Mr. Longdale, sir, as far as I
can hear, every word of it.”
“Bless my soul! How sad!” ex
claimed Longdale. “ How things do
vary, to be sure. Four vessels in nine
months! Why, Mr. Tudge, you’ll have
those cowardly slanderers attacking your
house next—same as they have ours—
about ill-found ships, and that sort of
thing.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, shortly. “No
doubt.”
“ Pray tell Mr. Halley how sorry I
am, if you see him before I do ; but I
shall call directly. By the way, Tudge,
come and dine with me some evening—
friendly, you know—-just ourselves. I’ve
a glass of a curious old wine I should
like you to taste. And, by the way,
don’t say I was little enough to say
anything about those bills. Good-bye,
Tudge, good-bye. We shall be having
you with us one of these days.”
Mr. Longdale had no sooner been
shown out than the clerks started, for
Mr. Tudge’s ruler came down upon his
table with the fiercest bang ever heard
by his subordinates.
“ My word, the old chap’s in a wax!”
said one.
“Yes,” said another, “and well he
may be.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Longdale walked
hurriedly into Cornhill, and made his
way into one of the chop-houses, where
Merritt was waiting his arrival.
“Well?” said Merritt.
_ “Game’s up there, I think,” said
Longdale. “ Baited for the old fellow
with a half-promise that we should be
glad to have his services, and he rose
at the fly.”
“ But about those bills ? ”
“ They’ll be met. The old fellow
will pay every one to the last shilling;
and when that is done, I should think—”
He stopped short, and sat tapping
the table, without a word.
“Well, why the deuce don’t you go
on? What are you thinking about?”
“ Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Long-
�53
.
Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
dale, with a fictitious start of surprise.
“ I was thinking.”
“Well, I know you were; but what
about?”
“ Miss May Halley.”
“ I’m much obliged, but perhaps you’ll
let me do all the thinking about her!”
“ I was wondering whether, under her
altered circumstances, her swain will
prove constant; and if he does not,
whether she would smile on an adorer
who does not want her money.”
Philip Merritt leaped up angrily,
scowled at his partner for a moment,
and then hurried into the street, and
made his way to where he was expected
—namely, to Mr. Tudge’s private room;
for he was this day ignoring his ordi
nary desk.
“ Mr. Merritt, sir,” said the clerk.
“ Show him in,” said Tudge; and the
next minute the old and the young
man were face to face.
“ How do, Tudge?” said Merritt,with
out offering to shake hands or remove
his hat, as he sat down upon some loose
papers at one corner of the table, where
he began to swing about one leg.
“S’pose I move those papers?” said
Tudge, gruffly.
“ Oh, not in my way in the least,”
said Merritt; “ I want—-”
“ Let me move those papers,” said
Tudge, and he dragged them from be
neath the sitter.
“Bother the papers!” exclaimed
Merritt. “ Look here, Tudge. About
this Emperor?"
Tudge made a poke with the ruler
indicative of the vessel having gone
into the waste-paper basket.
“That makes four, then, in nine
months. I say, Tudge, you’re going it!
How much shall you sack by all these
transactions ?”
“How much shall we sack?” said
Tudge, impassively, though there was
a hitching in one leg as if he wanted to
kick, and had hard work to keep down
the inclination. “ How much shall we
sack ? Well, Mr. Merritt, sir, I tell you,
you know, because you’re like Mr. Hal
ley’s son—though, of course, it’s in
77
complete confidence—we shall pay
twenty shillings in the pound, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” said Merritt, un
easily; “but after that?”
“Workus!”
“What!” said Merritt.
“Workus, sir, workus! General clear
up—eligible mansion, superior house
hold, furniture, plate, and wine—going,
going, gone!”
Bang went the ruler.
“Phew!” whistled Philip Merritt.
“ Why, I thought—
“ Thought the governor was rich ? Of
course you did, and so he was ; but
you come to have four pulls of eighty
or ninety thousand on you in nine
months, and see where you would be.”
Mr. Merritt whistled, and looked very
blank; while Tudge sat stern as a judge,
but with his eyes twinkling merrily.
“ It’s very odd, sir; but do you know
I was thinking of you just before you
came in,” said Tudge, after a pause,
during which Merritt sat scowling at the
pattern of the carpet. “ I was just think
ing that, oneway and another, things in
this world are regularly balanced.”
Here Mr. Tudge held out the office
penknife in one hand and balanced his
ruler upon its keen edge, adjusting it
till it was exact.
“Yes, sir, balanced,” said Tudge.
“Here’s Mr. Halley been laying up riches
all his life for the sake of Miss May.”
Merritt pricked up his ears and
became attentive; though Tudge did
not appear to notice it.
“Well, sir, everything’s swept away
by misfortune, except the thirty thou
sand as goes to meet your bills, and
which of course comes back again. Well,
all that loss is the evil on one side of
the balance; while on the other, just at
the time of misfortune, here’s poor Mr.
Halley has the pleasure of thinking that
his dear child’s provided for, with a rich,
dashing young spark for a husband,
who will take her and- provide for her,
and make her happy. As for what I
said about workus, that was metapho
rical, you know, for master will have that
thirty thousand; while Miss May-—”
�78
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Yes,” said Merritt, anxiously, “ Miss
May’s fortune?”
“ Miss May’s fortune, Mr. Merritt,
sir, was the Merry May-soad, the Emperor,
and they’ve gone—”
Here the ruler was taken from
the edge of the penknife and pointed
down once more at the waste-paper
basket.
“ But do you mean to tell me, Tudge,
that all—everything will be swept
away?” said Merritt, in a confidential
whisper.
“Every penny, sir,” said Tudge, in
the same tone; “but never you mind
that, sir—you’re well off. You marry
Miss May at once. She’s a treasure,
sir, that girl is, without a penny. You
take her, and provide for the old man,
too. Lord bless you, think what a fine
thing it will be in after-life to feel that
you did it! See how independent you
will be! Ah, Mr. Merritt, sir, you’ll be
a happy man.”
Philip Merritt sat in silence for an
other five minutes, tapping one of his pa
tent leather boots with his cane—brows
knit, hat pushed back over his ears.
Then he drew out his cigar case, lit a
vesuvian, puffed slowly at his cigar, and
rose to go.
“ Bye-bye, Tudge,” he said, nodding
to him condescendingly; and then he
lounged lazily through the outer offices,
smoking the while.
“Told you so,” said one of the clerks
to the other. “ The game’s up. Fancy
that fellow lighting a cigar in old Tudge’s
private room, and then smoking all
through our offices! Why, a month ago
it would have been high treason.”
“What’s he up to now?” said his
fellow-clerk. “Listen! Tudgeis going
mad!”
They did listen, and heard five or
six heavy blows, given evidently with
the ruler. For no sooner had Merritt
left Quarterdeck-court than Mr. Tudge
hopped from his seat, and began lunging
and cutting about furiously with his
ruler, every now and then striking some
piece of furniture as if it were an inimi
cal head.
[Christmas, 18-73.
“You cowardly—(lunge)—sneaking—
(bang) — hypocritical — (bang) — infa
mous — (bang) — scoundrel—(lunge) —
cold-blooded — (bang) —villain -— (bang)
mean — (lunge) — dirty — (bang) —
wretched—heartless—lump of dirt_
(bang).”
Mr. Tudge threw himself perspiring
into a chair, and panted and blew out
his cheeks, as he tucked his ruler under
his arm, and mopped his face with his
bandanna.
“ Marry my darling to you—you piece
of thin tissue paper—you plaster image
—you—you beast!” he puffed. And
then, evidently relieved, he sat back
and chuckled.
“Ha,ha!—ha,ha!—to see him! Wor
ships her, don’t he ? Worship the
golden calf, that’s what he’d have done
if he’d been born a Jew; and he’d have
boned it and melted it down first chance.
No, my pretty, you’re safe enough there.
The money’s gone, but it would take a
deal more than we’ve lost to balance
your happiness.”
Ruler on the penknife edge again,
where if refused to keep itself in equi
poise.
“You’re safe enough, my pretty.
He’ll back out of it all now, as sure as
my name’s T.udge; and I’m as hungry
as a hunter.”
Bang went the ruler on the table, and
“ting” the gong, when the clerk who
entered found Mr. Tudge, far from
being in low spirits, in high glee.
“ Here, Smith—quick. I sha’n’t go
out to-day. Run round the corner, and
tell ’em to send me a juicy steak, just
pink inside, and half a pint of the old
brown sherry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No; stop a minute, my lad. Not
half a pint to-day—I’ll have a pint.”
And he did, and smacked his old lips
over it half a dozen times as he said,
with a smile on those lips, but a dewy
look of love in his eye—
“ May, my darling, your health! ”
Then he drank, put down the glass,
drew a long breath, and added—
“And happiness!”
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
J"WENTY-
INTH
79
j^ABEE
HOW THE SHIPWRECKED MEN MADE A FIND.
MORE
did hope
seem to
come to the
despairing
men cling
ing to that
raft, and
twice over
did the sails
that bore in
sight fade
slowly away
from their
aching eyes.
Utter list
lessness had
come upon
them; and,
reduced now
to a b e ggarly pittance of water, they Jay upon
the raft with parched lips, waiting once
more for death.
It had been a scorching day, without
a breath of air stirring; and as evening
came on the two men lay prone, with
out attempting to stir, till, as if mecha
nically, Anderson moved slowly to the
cask, and soaked up the few remaining
drops of water with a piece of canvas.
This he squeezed into the pannikin,
and held it to Basalt, who seized it
greedily—staying, though, at half, and
handing the pannikin back to Ander
son, covering his eyes the while that he
might not see him drink, lest he should
be tempted to snatch the vessel back
and drain it to the last drop. The
very sound of it gurgling down an
other’s throat was maddening, and at last
the two men gazed in each other’s blood
shot eyes, as if to ask, “ What next ?”
“ It was the last,” said Anderson,
solemnly.
“ Then we should have saved it,” was
the hoarse reply.
“To be licked up by the sun ?” said
Anderson. “ There would not have been
a drop left by another day.”
Then he took the piece of wet can
vas with which he had soaked up the
drops in the cask, and divided it in two
with his knife, handing half to Basalt
and retaining the other.
These two wet fragments they sat
and chewed till they seemed to turn hot
and dry in their parched mouths.
Suddenly Basalt raised his eyes, and
gave the signal he had given thrice be
fore—
“ Ship ahoy! ”
The evening was nearing fast, and in
a very short time darkness would fall;
but there, plainly to be seen, about three
miles to windward, was a full-rigged
ship, evidently sailing directly for them.
The two men staggered to their feet,
and as long as the light lasted frantically
made signals by waving jackets and
handkerchiefs. This was not for long,
though. Very soon the ship seemed to
fade away, for the darkness set in like
a black pall, covering sea and sky; but
no blacker than was the cloud of despair
that again came upon the two sufferers.
“ She’ll pass us in the night,” groaned
Anderson.
“ And we without a light for a signal
—not even a barrel to make a flare,”
said Basalt.
And then, with starting eyeballs, they
stood there watching in the direction
where they had last seen the ship, and
discussing in husky tones the probabili
ties of the look-out on board the vessel
having seen them.
“ If so, they’ll lie-to, or make a
signal,” said Anderson, sadly; for he
hoped nothing now—expected nothing
but death. And soon they found that
they had not been seen ; for no signal
lamp was hung out by the vessel. In
fact, they felt that she never came near
enough for them to see her sailing lights
�So
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
during the night; and at last, worn out
with watching, they sank upop the raft,
nerveless now, and stunned into the
acceptance of their fate.
How that night passed neither could
have afterwards told, save that it was
like one long nightmare of hideous
dreams. Morning came, though, at last;
and, in a dull, despairing way, Aliderson rose to see if the ship were still
visible.
His cry of joy roused Basalt, who
was on his knees by his side directly
after, gazing at the ship, still in sight.
She had passed them, indeed, during the
night; but only to drift about a mile to
leeward, where she lay, with her sails
hanging motionless from the yards.
Not a soul was to be seen on deck to
whom they could signal. There was
no wind, fortunately, for it would have
wafted the ship away. So, weak as
they were, they put out two oars, and
rowed with all their might for the vessel.
Enfeebled by privation, though,
they could hardly move the cumber
some raft, and it was fully two hours
HIRTIETH
HOW
JEREMIAH
[Cliristmas, 1873.
before they were close alongside of the
great ship, and shouting for help—-to get,
however, no response; and they soon
awakened to the fact that the vessel was
deserted.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Basalt,’again
and again; but it brought no answer,
even when they forced the raft against
the vessel, and looked aloft, along her
side, and then at each other—for the
same thought had struck them both.
New life seemed to have come to
John Anderson; for he forced the raft,
now aft, right under her stern.
But they came not there to look at
rudder or cabin window, but to set aside
a doubt that their thoughts might not
be true.
They were true, though, inexplicable
as it seemed to them; and the next
minute they had both climbed to the
deck, and were looking round for the
boats—all missing but one. For the
name they had read from the raft,
painted upon the vessel’s stern, was one
known to them both so well, and that
name was the Merry May.
JCable
BASALT
DON’T care.
You may say
what you
like, my lad;
but I sha’n’t
believe you
none the
more for it.
I says this,
and what I
says I sticks
to, as the fel
low said : it
ainttrue. It’s
all a sorter
solid dream,
come of ly
ing out there
in the sun so
FOUND
HIS
FATE.
long, till your brain’s got turned. JYzzcan
see it, of course, just the same as I do.”
“See it?” cried Anderson, excitedly.
“ Yes.”
“Toe be sure you can. Same raft,
same food, same water, same sufferings,
same fright brings same dreams; and
here we are both a-dreaming as we’re
aboard our old ship, the May."
“And so we are,” said Anderson,
smiling.
“We aint, I tell you,” cried the old
man, testily; “it’s all a dream, and we
shall wake again directly, to find it’s all
a fog. Perhaps we sha’n’t wake at all
any more-—’cause why? Maybe, though
we don’t know it, we’re dead ; and this
here’s our fate, being seafaring men, to
find a phantom ship like our old one
that we was so fond on; and our to be
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
81
—to be, you know—is to go on for ever
“Yes, I think we should,” said Ander
and ever, amen, so be it, sailing over son, gazing thoughtfully round.
the wide seas of eternity, like Flying
“ I have it,” said the old man, bright
Dutchmen. That’s it, safe! I aint a ening up. “ Didn’t you never hear about
bit surprised ; and all I’ve got to say, the ancients being rowed across a river by
my lad, is—take your fate like a true an old chap in a boat when they died ?”
British sailor, and sail away. Might
“What, Charon and the Styx?”
have been a deal worse, you know.”
“ Styx ? that warn’t the name of the
“ Come and have a look below, Jerry,” craft; but, anyhow, let that be. Their
said Anderson, quietly; “perhaps we world was little, and they were land
may find some tea.”
lubbers; so it was a boat and a river
“ Tea!” said the old fellow, “what do for them. We’re sailors, and accus
we want with tea now, in this here t’other tomed to big things; so it’s a ship with
world? You see it’s all just as I’ve us, and the ocean.”
wondered about often when I was alive.
“Well,” said Anderson, “dead or
It didn’t seem nat’ral to me, that if ever, alive, let’s overhaul the craft.”
when I died, I should get up aloft, I
“ Overhaul it is,” said Basalt; “ and
should set to singing, you know, or make dead it is. Don’t be a-clinging so to
anything of an angel, not having the the world, my lad, now you’ve gone
stuff in me for that sort o’ thing. You out of it. What’s the good of holding
see, this looks a deal more like what I out ? There, if you will keep doubting
should expect. It’s all right, my lad ; as we’re dead, hit me a buster here.”
here we are passed into the t’other life
As he held forward his chest, Ander
quietly, and going to navigate the great son struck him a sharp, back-handed
ocean. There’s one thing as puzzles me.” blow which made him stagger.
“What’s that, Jerry?” said Anderson.
“Now, then, are you dead ?” he said,
“Why, it’s this here, my lad. Seeing laughing at the old man’s perplexed
as we’re dead and condemned—no, I face.
won’t say that, but set—set to sail this
“ Dead as dead lights,” was the reply.
here ship as aforesaid, I want to know
“ But, you felt that ?”
what good it’s going to do? Frighten
“Oh, yes,” growled the old fellow;
ing people, and so on?”
“I felt it; but, after all, that don’t
“ What good ? ” inquired Anderson, prove nothing. Sensations and all
smiling.
them sorto’ things is just the same here
“Don’t you be irrev’rent, my lad,” as they was there, and why not? Any
said Basalt, solemnly, helping himself how, we’ll overhaul the craft.”
to a bit more pig-tail. “ I aint a reli
Going first round the deck, they
gious man—I mean I warn't a religious found that the ship had evidently been
man when I was alive;—but this here in a gale; for she was a bit knocked
aint nothing to laugh at. I want to about, though there was no material
know what good it’s going to be. You damage.
see it can’t be a punishment, or else we
“And she’s as tight as tight, I’ll
should have been left to go about on swear,” said Basalt. “ See how high she
that raft, instead of being set on this floats.”
here fine ship; and by the same token,
The boats, as they had seen before,
it can’t be a pleasure—”
were all gone but one; and that, on
.“Why?” said Anderson, humouring examination, proved to have been stove
his conceit, for the old man had stopped. in. Then, after a glance aloft, they
“ Why, my lad ? ’Cause so. If we walked slowly to the captain’s cabin
go on sailing this ship short-handed for so familiar to Andeison.
ever and ever, amen, so be it, without
Here there were manifestations of
fetching port, it stands to reason that haste—papers, bottles, and tins tossed
we must get a bit tired of it some day.” about; but no sign of life. The cot
�82
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
was empty, and it was the same in all
the other cabins—traces of a hasty
desertion, nothing more.
“ Don’t look much like death,” said
Anderson, drily.
“ Don’t look much like life,” growled
Basalt, “ does it ? Why, there aint so
much as a tom-cat aboard.”
They walked forward, and descended
to the quarters of the crew, and found
matters there precisely the same. The
men had evidently snatched up a few
things, and hurried away to the boats,
urged by some panic.
“ It’s a mystery,” said Anderson,
when they stood once more on the deck.
“Yes, my lad—death is a solemn
mystery,” said Basalt.
“A deep mystery,” said Anderson
again, thoughtfully. “ Look here, Jerry;
what’s your opinion ?”
“What about?” said the old fellow.
“ Death ? ”
“ No, life. What made them desert
the ship ?”
“ It warn’t never deserted.”
“Jerry, your brain’s turned. Come,
old fellow, it’s plain enough—the ship
was forsaken, you can see that.”
The old man shook his head.
“ Look here, my lad,” he said, laying
his hand affectionately on Anderson’s
shoulder, “ why can’t you take it like a
man? This here looks and feels like a
derelick, and is to us like the old May;
but, bless you, it aint no ship at all, no
more than we’re living corpusses. If a
real craft was to come along, she’d go
right through us, and never do us no
harm.”
“Very well, old fellow,” said Ander
son, smiling; “then let’s go below, and
seem to eat, and have what I’ve longed
for—a good wash in soft water.”
When they came once more on
deck, refreshed and revived to a won
derful extent, Anderson was smoking
a cigar, and Basalt hewing a chump off
a fresh cake of tobacco.
“ I should like to fathom it if I
could,” Anderson said, looking round
in search of something to indicate the
cause for the ship’s desertion. “ I can’t
[Christinas, 1873.
make it out at all, why so good a ship,
in such capital trim, was forsaken.”
“She wasn’t forsaken,” growled Jerry;
but he did not speak in quite such tones
of conviction—perhaps the glass of grog
below had placed body as well as spirit
in him.
“ Well, what we have to do is to make
the nearest port if we can, and get men
and take her home. Jerry, old fellow,
if ever two poor wretches had cause to
thank God, we are those men.”
Jerry nodded shortly, and seemed ob
stinate enough to be alive.
“There’s a little wind coming,” said
Anderson, after another look round.
“We’re a small crew, Jerry, but we
must make the best of it,” he continued,
smiling. “ Let’s try and make the Cape;
what do you say ?”
The old man nodded shortly, and
felt his legs slowly all down; after which
he began to peel a bit of ragged skin,
the remains of a sun-blister, from his
nose, but in doing so he continued the
decorticating process with the sound
skin, and made his nose smart and
bleed to such an extent that he stamped
his foot upon the deck, and rapped out
a fine, full-bodied, salt-water oath.
Anderson burst out laughing.
“ I don’t care, ” growled the old fel
low, who divined the cause of the other’s
mirth. “ I said before, and I stick to it,
were both dead, and this here’s a phan
tom ship. Because I feel a bit o’ pain
when I bark my nose, does that prove
otherwise? Notit. Feeling is the same
in the world or out of it.”
“Never mind,” said Anderson. “Do
you think we can set the fore-topsail?”
“To be sure we can ; but lash the
wheel first.”
They went together to the wheel—
Anderson to the spokes, and Basalt
ready with a piece of rope.
At the first touch the spokes flew
round, and the mystery of the ship’s
desertion was explained—the rudder
had been swept away by the waves,
leaving the vessel helpless for the time.
“Punishment it is!” cried Basalt,
triumphantly.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“What?” exclaimed Anderson, star
tled at his companion’s earnestness.
“ Punishment!” roared the old fellow,
slapping his thigh. “ What we’ve got
to do is this—go on sailing a ship with
out a helm for ever and ever, amen, so
be it.”
“ Perhaps, ” said Anderson. “ But first
of all, we’ll set to and contrive a rudder
to help us into port.”
“Should we?” said Basalt, rather
discomfited.
“Yes,” said Anderson, smartly; for
rest, refreshment, and the knowledge
that he had a good ship beneath his
feet had wrought wonders in an incre
dibly short time.
“What, and go in for salvage?” said
Basalt, manifesting a disposition to come
back to life.
“ Yes, ” said Anderson, brightening up
as he thought what form he should like
his salvage to take.
“I wonder how Betsy is,” said Basalt
to himself.
“Jerry, my boy, bear-a hand,” said
Anderson, with flashing eyes ; “ we are
83
only two Zzw men; but we have the
spirit of fifty such curs as deserted the
dear old May. Let’s ask God’s help
on our undertaking, and sail the dear
old vessel safely home with her cargo,
which I’ll vow is a valuable one.
Let’s do it, my lad, and show these ras
cally shipowners that British sailors
are made of too good stuff to be
drowned like rats in their cursed rotten
hulks. Bear a hand there with the axe,
and cast loose those spare spars—-if
you’ve life enough left in you,”he added,
looking him through and through.
The old fellow’s face" assumed a
comical expression of hesitation ; and
then, hauling at his waistband, and
giving a kick out behind, he slapped
his thigh, sent a jet of tobacco juice
over the side, and shouted—
“Ship ahoy, there! Jolly Sailors,
ahoy! Bear a hand there, you lub
bers, and- we’ll make port before you
know where you are. The Flying
Dutchman s come back from his cruise,
and Jeremiah Basalt’s alive and kick
ing.
ENGTH.
“MERRY
T was not the
easiest task in
the world to
undertake
this naviga
ting of a rud
derless vessel,
deserted by
her full crew,
to a haven of
safety; and
more than
once John
Anderson felt
disposed to
give up in de
spair. But the
spirit in him
forbade that,
M A Y.”
and, well seconded by Basalt, he worked
on.
“ Lord love you ! There’s some plea
sure in working now,” said the old man,
who had thoroughly set aside his ideas
of the future time. “ Pl ere we have
stout timbers, and the rigging of a wellfound ship. Cape!—sail to the Cape?
Why, I’d undertake to navigate her
right round the world.”
“Without a rudder?” said Ander
son, quietly.
The old man’s answer was to hail a
shower of blows down upon the spar
with the hatchet he held, making the
chips fly in all directions.
For this was the first task to achieve,
if they hoped to reach port— the
scheming of something in the shape of
steering apparatus before the wind rose,
�84
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
otherwise they would be at its mercy,
rolling in the trough of the sea.
It was a strange machine they con
trived, by lashing short pieces of spar
together, and then bolting stays on to
the sides to keep them in their places;
and, as Basalt said, the waves would
have to handle it very gently if it was
to help them to port. And when it
was made, there was still another diffi
culty—that of getting it over the side.
But they accomplished this, and floated
it astern, while the sea was as calm as
a mill-pond.
Yet again another difficulty—to get it
shipped after a fashion, and rigged with
ropes that would enable them to steer.
“ It took a deal of trying,” Basalt
said; but they meant to do it, and do it
they did; so that, clumsy as the con
struction was, it roughly answered the
purpose.
“ Only think of the salvage,” said
Basalt, “ let alone the saving of one’s
precious life! I’ve been down below,
and had a look — tea, my lad, and
cochineal, and silk. Only get her home,
and we’re made men for good.”
“ It would be ruin to Mr. Halley to
lose such a ship,” said Anderson.
“ I don’t know about that,” was the
next remark. “ What with insuring and
underwriting, it strikes me as owners
don’t want their cargoes run.”
“ Don’t speak in that way of Mr.
Halley,” said Anderson, sternly. “He,
at least, is an honourable man.”
“ So you said of Rutherby and Co.,”
said Basalt, gruffly. “ It strikes me that
they’re all tarred with the same brush.”
Anderson did not answer, but went
aloft to hoist a staysail, with the effect
of making the fine ship yield softly to
the breeze, and begin to forge slowly
through the water.
For awhile all went well with them.
They had provisions in plenty, and fine
weather; so calm, indeed, that they were
able to rest in turn, and thoroughly re
coup their exhausted strength.
Anderson’s wound was pretty well
healed, and every day saw them a little
nearer to port.
[Christmas, 1873.
But neither Anderson nor Basalt felt
unmixed satisfaction; for their thoughts
kept recurring to the missing crew and
their probable fate.
“Can’t say much for their chance,”
said Basalt, shaking his head. “ I won’t
say serve them right; but I do say as
they ought to have stuck to their ship.”
“ When she was sinking ?” said An
derson, quietly.
“Well, no, I won’t say that,” said the
old man. “But we aint no time for
talking. Here’s a breeze springing
up, and no hands to shorten sail. I
thought things was too bright to last.”
Basalt was right; a stiff breeze was
coming up, and a glance in the wind’s
eye appeared to threaten something
worse. Lulled to something like a
sense of security by the soft gales that
had wafted them along, they had, by
degrees, shaken out sail after sail, till
they now had more upon the ship than
it seemed likely they could get in be
fore the wind was too much for them.
There was no time for consideration.
John Anderson’s orders were short and
sharp. The wheel was lashed, the
sheets of the topsails cast loose, and
the canvas left to flap and fly, while the
two men set to work to try and get in
the foresail.
The wind, though, increased rapidly ;
and before many minutes had elapsed,
Basalt aloft on one side of the yard
looked along at Anderson on the other.
“Yes,” said Anderson’s eyes, in an
swer to the interrogation; and Basalt
hurried along the stirrup to his side,
when, heaving with all their might, the
two men strove to gather in the stiff,
flapping folds of the great sail. Now
they mastered it a little, and made some
way; but the next minute, puff! the
canvas bellied out like a balloon, and
was dragged from their hands.
“Try again,” said Basalt; and they
tried again and again, but always with
the same result. Two men could not
perform the work of seven or eight; and
as they grew weaker with their exer
tions, so did the sail become more mas
terful; flapping, snapping, and beating
��■mmbméimmmi
86
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
about in the wind, till it threatened to
tear them from the yard.
“ Never say die! ” shouted Basalt,
cheerily; and then, “ heave, my lad.
Now then, with a will.”
The great sail flew up, curled over,
and enveloped Basalt; and, as breath
lessly, Anderson clung to the yard for
his life, his companion was snatched
from his side; then, as the vessel heeled
over, thrown into the sea to leeward,
with the ship dashing fast through the
water.
For a few horrified moments, Ander
son clung there, aghast and desponding;
but the sight of Basalt’s face turned ap
pealingly up, as it rapidly glided astern,
roused him to make an effort.
In an instant more he had seized one
of the sheets, swung himself clear, and
slid to the deck. In another instant, he
was running to the poop, opening his
clasp-knife as he did so, and with two
cuts he had set free the life-buoy, which
he held aloft in both hands for a moment
or two, that Basalt might see what he
was about, and then he hurled it astern
with all his might.
He groaned as he did so; for the vessel
was flying ahead with the sail she still
had on, and it seemed to him that he
was to be robbed of the companionship
of his faithful old friend.
It was no time, though, for groaning;
and running to the wheel, he cast loose
the lashings, put the helm hard up, and
then looked anxiously for the result.
Bad as were his appliances, though,
[Christmas, 18.73.
the ship slowly answered to the call
made upon her, rounding to and making
head in the opposite direction to that in
which she had been going.
It was a forlorn hope; and on this
tack, for want of proper sail trim
ming, the ship sailed horribly, labouring
against the seas that seemed to resent
her approach.
Lashing the helm once more, Ander
son now ran to the side to see if he
could make out Basalt; and for an in
stant he sighted him, as he rose far away
upon a wave, but only to disappear the
next moment.
Anderson ran back to the wheel, un
lashed it, and tried to send the ship’s
head in the direction of the drowning
man.
For a minute he was successful, and
the ship seemed to make a leap in the
required course—the waves foaming
by her as she leaped to meet them. It
was but a minute, though, and then
Anderson knew that he had been over
tasking his work; for suddenly, just as
he felt most hopeful, and knew that he
was nearing Basalt, the wheel suddenly
gave way, sending him heavily upon
the deck; the ship heeled over gra
dually, settled into the trough of the
sea, and, as Anderson slowly gathered
himself up, half stunned by his fall, a
great hill of water seemed to rise slowly,
to make a bound, and deluge the deck
fore and aft.
The temporary rudder had given
way.
�Christmas, 1873.
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" HIRTY-pECOND
pABLE
pENGTH.
HOW JOHN ANDERSON SWAM FOR TWO LIVES.
A N D E RSON knew
that a sailor
must never
despair;
even though
stood by
ling him, and
ag that his
had come,
life was one
struggle with
grim shade;
and had he been
of a cowardly, weak nature, he might,
again and again, have given way to
despair. But certainly, now, matters
seemed at their blackest. Basalt was
drowning; the ship was rudderless, and
lay helpless and rolling, with the waves
breaking over her.
What could he do ?
The answer came at once: he must
risk all, and lower down the boat, if he
could, trusting to Providence for the
chance of regaining the ship.
Fortunately they had patched up the
hole stove in her, and she now hung at
the davits ready for use.
Jumping into her, and holding the
falls in his hands, he lowered away till
she kissed the wave that rose to meet
her. Another instant, and as she lifted
he had cast off one fall, and almost by
a miracle the other unhooked itself.
To seize an oar was the work of
another moment; and, pushing off, he
had it directly over the stern, and was
sculling away in the direction in which
he hoped Basalt to be.
He knew that the old man was a
good swimmer, and there was just a
chance that he might have reached the
life-buoy. It was a thread-like chance
to cling to, though; and as he rose
upon each wave, and looked around, his
heart sank lower minute by minute;
for he was receding fast from the ship’
the sea was getting higher, and not a
glimpse of the swimmer could be seen.
He altered his course, sculling with
all his might-—his standing position
giving him a chance of seeing in all
directions, as the frail boat rose to the
crests of the waves.
Again he changed his course, sculling
almost at random; for the minutes sped
on, and not a sign of the drowning man
could be seen. Then, suddenly, Ander
son uttered a cry of joy, loosed his hold
of the oar, darted forward, and, as the
boat slid down the side of a hill of
green water, he leaned over and caught
the life-buoy.
He sank back, mute and despairing;
for he had drawn the light cork ring
into the boat, and it had no despairing,
dying clutch upon it.
But what was that?—faint almost as
a whisper.
A weak, gurgling, appealing cry,
borne on the wind to reach his ears—
“ My God!”
The dying, appealing cry of a drown
ing wretch to his Maker; and, as it
passed away, Anderson was again at
the stern of the boat, sculling away with
all his might in the direction from which
the sound had seemed to come.
Water—water!—great, green waves,
with silvery, foaming crests; but no
Basalt, no agonized face, no outstretched
hands. Good heavens! had he been so
near to him, and yet not been able to
save ?
In his agony, John Anderson so plied,
his oar that the stout ash blade bent
again, while with starting eyes he gazed
here, there; and then, uttering a cry
of joy, gave a leap that sent the boat
rocking back through the water as he
parted the waves, disappeared for a few
moments, and then reappeared, swim
ming boldly and bravely towards that
which had caught his eye for an instant
---------------------------------------------------
»
r
�■HHBSH99B
88
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
amid the foam of a breaking wave—
one crook-fingered hand making its last
despairing catch at life.
It was a bold dash, and one that
needed nerve and strength; for as he
swam on, with the salt spray at his lips,
it was with the waves seeking to buffet
him back, and bear him helplessly away
to his death. No help at hand—nothing
to depend on but his own stout arms,
and his trust in God.
And what had he set himself to do,
there in mid-ocean, with miles of water
below him ? To save the drowning
man, to bear him to the boat, to get
him on board, and then once more to
reach the ship!
For an instant, as the thought of all
this flashed through John Anderson’s
brain, a cold feeling of despair, like the
hand of Death clutching him, seemed
to pass through his veins, unnerving
him, and making him for the instant
helpless. His limbs felt numbed, and
a wave broke in his face so that the
briny water gurgled, strangling in his
nostrils. But with a cry that was al
most a shriek, he uttered the words—
“May, dear May!”
And on the instant his strength came
back as the strength of a lion. He rose
in the water, shaking the salt spray from
his eyes and hair, and struck out again
bravely; rose again on the summit of a
wave, and then bending over, he turned,
and, as he descended, plunged down
head first beneath the coming wave,
driving through it, to make the next
moment a superhuman effort, and clutch,
when it was almost too late, the rough
hair of Jeremiah Basalt.
There was no danger, no risk of being
grappled by the drowning man; for as
Anderson clutched the hair, he drew
towards him a stiff, apparently inani
mate body, which yielded to his motions
as he turned and struck out for the
boat.
Twice came the cold chill upon An
derson again as he swam on, like two
whispers from the unseen world. First,
it was as if to tell him that he had come
too late; and next, that he would never
[Christmas, 1873.
regain the boat. It was cruel work then,
for the thoughts seemed to paralyze him;
but, fighting against them, he swam on,
sighting the boat as he rose on the
waves, losing it as he descended into
the hollows.
Slow — slow — slow !—a heavy, long
drag, with the boat always, as he rose,
seeming to be the same distance off.
And now it seemed to the swimmer that
he was being encased in a suit of lead,
which was making his limbs cold and
heavy, so that he swam as he had never
swum before—with a slow, heavy, and
weary stroke, which did not raise his
chin above the water. That inert mass
too, that he had turned over, and was
dragging by one hand—how it kept him
back!
For one brief instant he felt that he
could not reach the boat, and drag Ba
salt there as well; and the temptation
came upon him strongly to leave him.
It was but to open that one left hand.
The body would sink; and it was but a
dead body, something seemed to whis
per him. But John Anderson’s life had
been one of struggles against tempta
tions; and this was but one more of a
long list to conquer. He set his teeth,
and drove the cowardly thought behind
him, as, giving another glance in the
direction of the boat, he threw himself
upon his back, and striking out fiercely
with his feet, he changed hands, and,
holding Basalt’s hair with his right, he
brought the half-numbed left into play,
and with it forced the water behind
him.
It was no simple floating in calm
water, but a dire struggle for life; and,
in spite of his brave efforts, Anderson
felt that he was nearly spent. The
water was bubbling about his nostrils,
singing in his ears, and foaming over his
eyes as he struck out; and that boat,
like a phantom, seemed to elude him,
for he could not reach its side.
“All over! May! Mother!” Was
he to die like this ? The boat!—where
was it? “Thank God!”
It was time, for he had not another
stroke in his enfeebled arms, when one
�Christmas, 1873.]
89
“SHIP AHOY!”
hand struck her side, and with a de
spairing effort he got one arm over—
hooking himself on to the gunwale, as
it were—and hung there panting, when,
to his intense delight, Basalt made a
feeble effort to clutch the side as An
derson held his head above water.
The feeble hand glided over the side;
but after waiting for a few moments,
Anderson made an effort to raise him,
and the old man also got an arm over
and hung there, with his head back and
eyes dull and filmy, insensible appa
rently, but clinging instinctively for life
to the tilted boat.
The rest and sense of security brought
strength back in great strides to John
Anderson ; and after a while he made
an effort, and hoisted himself over the
stern into the boat. Then, after another
five minutes’ rest, he placed his arms
under those of Basalt, and dragged him
in, to lie helpless at the bottom of the
J"HIRTY- J HIRD
boat, with his head upon one of the
thwarts.
Then, weak and panting still, with
his breath coming slowly and hoarsely
from his chest, he picked up the oar,
and put it over the stern, to turn the
boat’s head; and a cold chill fell upon
him as he saw how distant they were
from the ship.
“ We shall never reach her,” he
groaned aloud.
“ Three cheers for the Merry May!"
said a faint voice, and Anderson started
with joy.
“ Thank Heaven, Basalt, you are
saved!”
The old man’s eyes rolled slowly to
wards him, and seemed to fix his for a
1 moment, but in a dull, sleepy fashion,
which seemed to indicate that he did
not realize his position. Then he closed
' his eyes, heaved a heavy sigh, and said,
softly—“ Never say die!”
pABLE
JLeNGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TOLD AN UNPLEASANT TALE.
T was
a busy
time
for Mr.
Tudge.
He was
always
b a c kw ard s
and
for
wards
at Cano nbury;
for Mr.
H alley
kept seriously ill, and leaned on him
more and more for help, while May
nursed her father night and day.
The dates came, and Rutherby’s first
bills were met.
“ Thank goodness,” sighed Mr. Hal
ley that evening, when Tudge pointed
out the entry. “ Mr. Longdale has been
very kind in his inquiries about my
health.”
“And Mr. Merritt?” said Tudge.
“ Most attentive—here every day, ”
said Mr. Halley.
Tudge looked anxious; but only mut
tered to himself, “ Wait a bit,” and went
on with his statements of payments.
Time went on, and Rutherby’s other
bills came due, and were met.
“Thank goodness!” said Mr. Halley,
“that’s done, Tudge.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “that’s done.”
And he wanted to ask a question, but
he forbore.
The next day he was up again at
Canonbury, and May was in the room,
looking very pale, but perfectly calm.
“Ah, Tudge!” said Mr. Halley; “the
doctor says I’m better to-day, and I
feel that I am.”
“Thank God forthat!” said Tudge,
�---§O
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
fervently; and May’s soft, white hand
glided into his.
“ Hasn’t Longdale sent to-day either,
May?’’ said the invalid, pettishly.
“Not yet, papa,” said May, quietly;
and she glanced wonderingly at Tudge,
who, hidden behind the curtain, was
looking radiant. .
“ Ah ! he sent yesterday morning, but
he always sent in the evening too. What
had Philip to say last night ? ”
“ He did not come last night, papa,”
said May, quietly.
“Not come last night? Well, this
morning, then?”
“ Perhaps he is out of town, papa,”
said May, rising to leave the room.
“Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Plalley;
and then he lay back muttering to him
self. After this he sat up, and the ac
counts were gone into.
The next day Tudge had better news,
but he was very sparing of it. Mr.
Halley was to be a few hundreds to the
good, instead of to the bad; but Mr.
Halley was very much out of temper:
Longdale had not sent to ask after his
health, and Philip Merritt had not been
near the house for some days.
“ And I can get no explanation from
May, Tudge,” said Mr. Halley. “Pm
so anxious about it, for her sake.”
“Ah, let it rest now till you get
stronger,” said Tudge, quietly. “ Lovers’
tiff, perhaps.”
“ Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Halley;
“but she must be careful. I’ll tell
her so; for it’s important now that
she should not trifle with so good a
match.”
A month glided by, and Mr. Halley
was able to leave his bed, and had made
up his mind to seek out and have an
explanation with Merritt; for he could
learn nothing from May—only that she
had parted from him kindly upon the
last evening of his visit.
“ But she don’t seem to mind it a bit,
Tudge—not a bit,” said Mr. Halley ;
“ in fact, poor girl, I half think she would
like to give the matter up.”
“ Do you, really?” said Tudge, look
ing up innocently.
[Christmas, 1873-
“Yes, for she looks so well and happy
now.”
“So she does,” said Tudge, wiping
his glasses, and looking comically at his
employer.
“Well, Tudge, I think that will do
for to-day,” said Mr. Halley, at last.
Then, with a sigh—“ I think we must
now begin to think of a sale, and to
take a smaller house.”
“Time enough for that in a month,”
said Tudge. “ I wouldn’t hurry about
that till affairs are square at the office;
we must have time, and you need not
worry yourself till I tell you.”
“Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, as that
gentleman rose to go, and he spoke
with tears in his eyes—“ you’ve been
like a brother to me.”
“ Nonsense,” said Tudge, shaking
the proffered hand very, very warmly.
“ Nothing 1*0 what I mean to be, James
Halley. Men were meant to be
brothers, and to help one another—
God made us on purpose; only the
devil’s always coaxing us to fall out.
There, there, there—you often offered
to take me in as partner. Now I’ll
come, and we’ll start fair and clean
again in a small way; that we will,
and all shall go well.”
“ God bless you, Tudge—God bless
you!” said Mr. Halley, in a broken
voice; and he clung still to the other’s
hand. “ One doesn’t know one’s best
friends till tribulation comes.”
“Then hooray for tribulation!” said
Tudge, with the tears trickling down
his nose—leastwise, a little of it. And
now, my dear friend—partner, eh?”
“Ah, Tudge, Tudge, I should be
taking a mean advantage of you,” saidMr. Halley. “I am a beggar, and I
shall never be a business man again.”
“ Partners it is,” said Tudge. “ You
trust me for taking care of myself, and
driving a bargain. I’m all right—got
the best of you. But I bring in six
thousand, mind, all but ten pounds, and
that I’ll make up afterwards.”
Mr. Halley did not sp Lk, but sat
down, and covered his eyes with one
hand.
�Christmas, i<873-]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Now, my dear old friend and part
ner, I think you have every trust and
confidence in me and my words—
brains, if you like?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge; and if I had lis
tened to you sooner—”
“ There, there — never mind that.
But, look here; yo.u must be prepared
for what you will call a disappointment,
but which is for some one a blessing in
disguise.”
“What do you mean, Tudge ?” said
Mr. Halley, wearily.
J" HIRTY-p'oURTH
91
“You wanted to know why you
have heard nothing of certain people
lately.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Halley, anx
iously.
“ Shall I tell you why ?”
Mr. Halley knew what was coming,
and his eyes alone said “Yes.”
“You remember the last time they
sent or called ?”
“ Yes.”
“ It was the day that the last bill
was met.”
ABLE
J-/ENGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TALKED TO THE PARTNERS.
SEE
Philip
Mer
ritt,
my
d ear,”
said Mr. Hal
ley, as soon
as his doctor
had given him
leave to go out,
“and demand
an explanation.
I—I’m afraid
it’s as Tudge
says; but, after
all, it’s only the same old story that
we’ve had ever since the world began.
But for your sake, my dear, I’ll see
him, and try to bring him to his
senses.”
“ Papa dear,” said May, clinging to
his arm, and looking up in his face,
“ I could never marry a man who could
treat us like this.”
“ But, my darling, think of your posi
tion—see what you are giving up. You
know we shall have to leave this house
—soon, too, now. I shall be almost a
beggar, my darling.”
“ Well, papa, and do you think I wish
to be well off while you are poor ? I’m
afraid'you don’t love me so very much,
after all,” she said, archly.
“ And why?” he said, patting her soft
cheek.
“ Because you are in such a hurry to
get me away from you—married, and
belonging to somebody else.”
“ Now, my darling—”
“ Hear me first, papa dear,” whispered
May; and she coloured up, and her
eyes flashed as she spoke. “ Mr. Philip
Merritt persevered here till he gained
my consent; then he heard of our mis
fortunes, and left me as coolly as if
I had been a cast-off glove. Do you
think, papa, I could ever listen to him
again? No; treat him with the con
tempt he deserves, and let us be thank
ful that we have found out- his true
character before it was too late.”
“ It was for your sake, my darling,”
said the old man, querulously.
“ I know, dear,” she said, fondly and
sadly; “ but let matters be as they are.
I would rather stay by your side.”
“He deserves an action to be brought
against him,” said the old man; “and
I don’t like giving it up, my dear; but
he’ll repent it yet—he’ll repent it yet.
Why, here he is!—that’s his voice in the
hall. I knew he’d come again.”
“ Let me go, papa,” exclaimed May,
turning pallid.
But it was too late; the door was
�92
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
thrown open, and Philip Merritt, eager
and bright-eyed, hurried into the room.
“My dear Mr. Halley, so glad to see
you up again. Haven’t you wondered
where I was? Ah, May, my love, I’ve
been half mad at being detained. Why,
what’s this?”
He had possessed himself of Mr.
Halley’s hand, and shaken it most cor
dially, taking the old gentleman quite
by surprise; then, turning to May with
outstretched arms, he had made as
though to embrace her, but stopped
half-way, as she encountered him with
a look that would have chilled a braver
man than he.
“ Will you allow me to pass, sir, if
you please?” she said, coldly, all her
outraged womanhood flashing from her
eyes.
She was white almost to her lips ;
but her eyes never flinched for an instant
as she swept by him, and passed from
the room.
“Whatever does all this mean, Mr.
Halley?” exclaimed Merritt, pitifully.
“ Surely I am not to be punished for
what I cannot help? Where’s Long
dale? He promised to meet me here
this morning, and help me explain.
Been to Liverpool, and only came back
last night.”
“ Then it must have been your
ghost I saw in Quarterdeck-street yes
terday morning,” said Mr. Tudge, who
had entered unperceived. “ I thought
you wouldn’t be long before you turned
up now, Mr. Merritt.”
“ If you’ll allow me to tell you so,
Mr. Tudge” said Merritt, pronouncing
the word with an aspect of extreme
disgust, “ you are a most impertinent
fellow.”
“ Then, Mr. Philip Merritt, I won't
allow you to tell me so, nor any other
man, sir, without my pulling his nose,
sir,” and the little man swelled up, and
came ominously near the elaborately
got-up swell.
“ Do you allow such insolence as this
from a clerk, Mr. Halley ?” said Mer
ritt, scornfully.
“ No, sir, he don’t,” said Tudge; “but
[Christmas, 1873.
he allows his old friend and partner,
Mr. Samuel Tudge—Halley, Edwards,
Tudge, and Company—to speak up for
him, when he is-just recovering from his
illness, and an impertinent jackanapes
has forced his way into the house on
the strength of some news he has
heard.”
“ My dear Tudge, pray,” exclaimed
Mr. Halley—“pray be calm.”
“I won’t,” said Tudge—“I can’t
afford to be. This fellow raises my
bile. Do you know why he’s here to
day ? No, of course you don’t. Ah,
Mr. Longdale, you here too. Delighted
to see you again, I’m sure. Mr. Halley
is better, sir—much better, sir,” ex
claimed Tudge to the sleek partner of
the Rutherby firm who now came
smiling into the room.
“Glad of it, I’m sure,” said Mr.
Longdale, glancing from one to the
other, smiling but uneasy.
“ Where the deuce is my ruler ? ”
muttered Tudge, picking up a piece of
music from May’s stand, and rolling it
up. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, giving
the roll a flourish, and then bringing it
down bang upon the table.
“Is he mad?” said Merritt, in an
audible undertone to Longdale, who
raised his eyebrows and shrugged his
shoulders.
“ Not a bit of it,” said Tudge, with
another flourish of his make-shift ruler.
“ Sane as you are, wide awake as either
of you. So you’ve come to congratu
late Mr. Halley—-us, I ought to say—
about this morning’s news ?”
“ News, my good sir?—I don’t know
what you mean.”
“ He’s drunk,” said Merritt, savagely.
“Am I?” said Tudge. “Well, it
would be excusable if I was, when a
hundred thousand pounds turns up into
one’s firm unexpectedly.”
“Good heavens, Tudge!” exclaimed
Mr. Halley, trembling with agitation,
“what does it mean ?”
“What does it mean ?” cried Tudge,
exultingly. “ Of course they did not
know, either of ’em: been to Liver
pool- -in London; never read shipping
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
news, nc. ' saw the telegrams posted
this morning at Lloyd’s and through
the City. Come here innocent as two
doves. Bless you, Mr. Halley, they
didn’t know, bless you, that the Merry
May was telegraphed up as having
passed the Lizard this morning, and is
on her way up the Channel.”
“ Thank—”
The poor old man said no more. He
was weak yet with his long illness, and
he tottered into a chair, and fainted
away.
“Too much for him,” said Tudge, run
ning to his side. “ Here, you, ring that
bell,” he cried to Longdale.
“Mr. Tudge, I’m sure I congratulate
you,” said Longdale, smiling, with one
hand on the bell.
Samuel was in the room in a very
short space of time, just as Merritt was
about to offer assistance.
“Stand back, sir,” said Tudge, with
dignity, “ you are not wanted here;
your game’s up as far as this house is
concerned. Hold his head up, my dear,
and order some wine,” he added, aside
to May, who ran affrighted into the
room, alarmed by the loud ringing of
the bell. - “ That’s it; we’ll give him
some wine directly we’ve got rid of
these two scoundrels.”
“ Sir,” snarled Longdale, showing his
teeth like a cat.
“May, as your father is prostrate,”
exclaimed Merritt, furiously, “do you
allow this man to insult us like that?”
“ How dare you, sir,” cried Tudge,
bouncing at him—“how dare you insult
that lady by calling her by her Chris
tian name ? Samuel, show these fellows
out, and never admit them again, on
any pretence. And look here, you two,
93
recollect this: you don’t owe Mr. James
Halley thirty thousand pounds, but you
owe it to us—to me and Mr. Halley,
and by Jove we’ll have it paid!”
“This is insufferable—the fellow is
mad or drunk,” said Longdale.
“ Both—a beast! ” cried Merritt.
Mr. Tudge faced them, at the other
end of the room, in a moment.
“If it wasn’t for the lady, I’d— There,
I won’t quarrel with you. Samuel, show
these men out.”
Samuel evidently enjoyed it, and felt
a most profound respect for the man who
was his master’s confidant and manager;
and without doubt he would have as
sisted the visitors’ steps, had they not
made a dignified show of going. And
Canonbury knew them no more.
“ Is this true, Tudge ?” said Mr. Hal
ley, who was sitting up, with his head
supported on May’s breast.
“True as telegrams,” said Tudge;
“ but I don’t think there’s a doubt about
it. Mind you; it’s a case of salvage—
derelict picked up, and so on; but it will
set you upon your legs again, James
Halley, and we’ll dissolve partnership
to-morrow.”
“No,” exclaimed Mr. Halley, “never
as long as I live.”
“ Nonsense—absurd !” said Tudge ;
“ you’re all right again, and I’ll go back
to my old style, and good luck to us !
But I think I ought to stop in till those
fellows have paid up—confound ’em!
But you won’t believe in them again,
eh?”
Mr. Tudge read his answer in the eyes
of both; and promising more news as
soon as he could get it, he hurried back
to the City.
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
|
MES
SAGES that
evening and
all the next
day were
c onfirmatory
of the good
news; and
the bright
ness c a me
back to Mr.
Halley’s eyes
as he felt
how he could
hold up his
head once more in the City. On the
following morning, May was pouring
out the coffee, when there was the noise
of wheels, the shuffling of feet, then the
door flew open, and Mr. Tudge danced
in, waving his hat frantically. He ran
at May and hugged her, shook hands
with Mr. Halley, and then stood in the
middle of the room, and putting his
hands to his mouth, he shouted out, in
stentorian tones—“ Ship ahoy!”
“In dock?” exclaimed Mr. Halley,
almost as excited.
“ In dock, and her captain’s in the
hall—captain and mate that picked her
up, floating in mid ocean, and brought
her home.”
“Not Simmons?”
“Simmons!” cried Tudge, in a tone
of disgust. “There was only one
man who could have done it, and his
name’s—”
“Anderson!” cried May, half hysteri
cally, as she started forward.
Her voice did it; for as she uttered
his name, John Anderson — brown,
flushed and excited, rugged and worn,
with his long beard rusty with exposure
—half rushed into the room, and clasped
May’s hands in his; till, trembling, with
her face burning, she shrank away, to
[Christmas, 1873«
give place to her father, who took
Anderson’s hand eagerly, and spoke in
broken accents—
“ It’s coals of fire on my head, John
Anderson ; but I’m humbled now—the
old pride’s gone, and you’ve rewarded
me with good for my evil. To think,
though, that you should save my
ship; and we had mourned you for
dead!”
“ Mourned, sir ? ” said Anderson,
huskily, and his eyes rested upon the
crape bow which May still wore at her
breast.
It was but for a moment, though; for
the colour mounted to the girl’s temples
as she snatched it off, and threw it upon
the floor.
“May I take this, sir?” said Ander
son, stooping and picking up the bow,
while May turned away panting.
“Take it—take what you will, An
derson,” cried Mr. Halley; “only tell
me first that you’ve forgiven me my
insults.”
“Another word, sir, and you drive
me away,” said Anderson. “ I did say
that I’d never darken your door again ;
but man proposes—”
“And God disposes,” said a gruff
voice, which drew attention to Basalt,
with whom Mr. Halley and May shook
hands most heartily.
“ It’s all right, sir—don’t say anything
about it; only that you didn’t oughter
have separated the May from the on’y
cap’n as could sail her.”
“ I do say it, my man, most heartily,”
said Mr. Halley; and he shook hands
once more.
“ And not to come to me first, John! ”
said a piping old voice, as Mrs. Anderson
entered directly after, and was clasped
in the strong man’s arms.
“ I wouldn’t let him till he’d done
his business,” cried Tudge; “but, you
wicked old woman, didn’t I send a cab
for you to come here, where he’s only
I
�»
Christmas, >§73.]
X
1I
“SHIP AHOY!”
95
been five n,.,mtes ? And for you, too, about half a crew, and slowly sailed the
Mrs. Gurnett ?”
vessel home.
“ For which thankye, I says,” said old
“ Which not another man in England
Basalt, smiling down upon the comely could have done,” cried Tudge, as he
face streaming with tears. “ Didn’t waved an extemporized ruler round his
I tell you, my lass, as it would be head, and brought it down bang upon
all right ? Sweet little cherub up the table.
aloft, eh? And here we are, safe back
“ But what’s the good of a cap’n with
again.”
out a well-found craft?” cried Basalt.
“ And what ought to be done to the
Did Desdemona listen with such glow scoundrels who would send men help
ing cheek to the battle tales of the lessly to drown?” cried Tudge.
Moor as did May Halley that day,
“They need no punishment,” said
when in plain, unvarnished Saxon J ohn Mr. Halley; “for sooner or later it
Anderson told to all of their perils by returns upon themselves.”
sea, speaking often, with solemn voice,
There was silence then, and John
of how they had been preserved time Anderson spoke with all eyes fixed
after time from what seemed imminent upon him, as upon one who had returned
death ? Surely not. But it was a hard from the dead.
task; for Jeremiah Basalt would keep
“ Mr. Halley has spoken rightly,” he
interrupting with choice bits of his own said. “No punishment that man could
that Anderson would have left out; and invent could equal those conscience
these bits were always of some piece of cries that must at times be felt by the
seamanship or daring, while the trium most hardened of those who have to
phant bit of all was that when Basalt answer for the lives of men. I tell you
sprang up and waved his arm about this,” he said, and his eyes flashed as
like a semaphore, and told of how he looked round—“ I who have stood
Anderson had saved his life.
again and again face to face with death
“ Saved my life—not as it was mine, —I tell you that at the most awful of
but belonging to Mrs. Gurnett here,” he those moments, when I was standing
said; “for which, my dear, you ought to ready to meet Him who sent me upon
give him thanks.”
this earth, I swear to you, by His holy
Basalt nodded approvingly, as he saw name, that I would not have changed
Mrs. Gurnett go tearfully up to Ander places with one of those men at home
son, and kiss the hands he held out to at ease who have to answer for the life
her; and then he started up, and John of the father, the lover, and the son who
Anderson started too, as May Halley have sailed in their rotten hulks. Punish
stood by Basalt’s side, and thanked him, ment! My God! they have the cry of
for her father’s sake, she said, for what the bereaved maiden, the widow’s moan,
he had done.
and the bitter wailings of the starving
It was an uneventful narrative, that child of him whose bones lie fathoms
latter part, which told of how, nearly by low in the great deep. They need no
a miracle, John Anderson got his boat punishment—they make their own.”
back, with its almost lifeless burden, to
And a sweet voice said, below its
the Merry May; and then of how they breath, heard by its utterer alone—
reached the Mauritius, refitted, engaged
“Amen!”
I
r
b) *
r
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^HIRTY-pIXTH
£aBLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_TENGTH.
THE LAST KNOTS, AND HOW JEREMIAH BASALT CRIED “SHIP AHOY!|
COLD day for a wedding— j
Christmas? That is a matter
of opinion. But, there, what
need is there to tell? Of course
it followed—they followed; for John
Anderson and Basalt were married
upon the same day, and Tudge gave
away the widow, grudgingly, he said;
for if it hadn’t been for Basalt----Then, too, he half threatened to hang
himself in his braces.
But only half; for he made the punch
a month later at Canonbury, and helped
to drink it, sipping slowly while Mrs.
Anderson related to him John Ander
son’s adventures from the age of six
weeks, including his battle with the
croup, fight with the measles, and dire
encounter with the thrush.
“But after all,” she said, “fine man
as John was, he would never be equal
to his father.”
The Basalts wanted to get out of com
ing to that dinner, but Mr. Halley would
not hear of it, for he said that Jeremiah
was one of his best friends; and Basalt
blushed, really and rosily, as did his wife,
who sat and worshipped him with all
her might.
It was a bright and manly speech
that Mr. Halley made, and so was the
response of John Anderson as he rose
from beside his blushing wife.
It was a happy party that night, even
though it was what Philip Merritt called
“disgustingly low;” but then, the pre
vious day, he had taken a receipt from
Mr. Tudge for a heavy sum of money
borrowed fourteen months before, and
which he had been compelled to refund.
But low or not, there was happiness
within those walls, and mirth and bright
ness, till John Anderson, captain, gave
a toast, drunk by all standing and in
silence—a toast that we will drink with
all our hearts—“ God bless the men this night at sea! ”
And then came the parting.
Mr. Basalt was only merry when he
shouted along the hall to his captain, as
he stood with his wife upon his arm—
“What cheer there with the Merry
May?"
And again, as he was ensconced
within the cab, and Samuel had closed
the door, grinning with all his might,
Basalt thrust out his head, and with
lusty lungs roared out, as the cab was
moving off—“Ship
aiioy!”
�APPENDIX.
r
N case you should think that the state of things indicated in this story is
at all overdrawn, the following two or three cases, well established by
J competent witnesses, are added for your information.
J
The following is from the finding of the Court of Inquiry, held in Aberd! deen, in October, 1873, into the loss of the Benachie (steamer), which foundered,
d as the Court says, in “ comparatively calm weather, in August last.” . . .
1
“ The evidence of the manager of the firm which built the vessel is to the effect that
I
d| had she been intended for the carriage of iron ore (the article which she was only employed
£ to bring home), she should have been especially strengthened for that purpose; and the capJ tain of the vessel represented to one of the superintendents employed by the owners, after
il the ship had made a few voyages, that if she were .to be continued in the iron ore trade,
ia| she would require to be strengthened................... After an anxious and careful review of the
whole evidence, we can arrive at no other“ conclusion than that the ship had been, generally
(9 on her homeward voyages, overladen. The cargoes of iron ore were much in excess of the
¡'' cargoes which she took out, and being stowed as they were, must have brought great strain
on every part of the ship. The result of our investigation is to leave no doubt upon our
minds that the cause of the vessel foundering was .... the excessive weight of cargo
which the ship had to carry...................
“ Some of the witnesses declared that they observed the boiler moving, although they differed
as to the amount of the movement. Others observed the forecastle head twisting, and the
} master stated that there was more vibration in the Benachie than in any other steamer in
I which he had sailed. The carpenter told us that he and a former chief officer often spoke
of the straining of the vessel, attributing it to the heavy cargo, and deposed that it was
matter of common conversation among the crew...................
“ The firemen, on rough nights, were frightened to go from the engine-room to their berths in
the forecastle, and preferred to stay in the engine-room during the time they were entitled to be
in bed; while the owners’ superintendent admits that he on several occasions heard the crew,
after the return of the vessel to this country, talking to each other about the straining of the
ship, in a manner which seemed to him intended to attract his attention...................
“ It is proper to say that .... to sail with so low a freeboard as 2 ft. 9 in. was unques
tionably hazardous. The owners have been at pains to prove that such a freeboard, is common in
the trade. That is probably quite true; but it only makes it the more imperative upon us to give
no uncertain sound on the subject, but to declare emphatically that .... to sail a vessel
�2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which we desire, with the perfect concurrence of the assessors, to express our unqualified con
demnation. The sum of the whole matter is this—the Benachie was run to death by carrying too I
heavy cargoes at too high a rate of speed.”
The Court consisted of the Sheriff, Comrie Thomson, Esq., and Colonel '
Cadenhead, assisted by two nautical assessors.
The crew would all have been lost had not one of H.M. ships oi war picked
them up.
Another Court of Inquiry into the loss oi a steamer, held at Newcastle, con
clude their finding by saying, “ That they could not dismiss this painful case i
without respectfully urging upon the Government the necessity of instituting ,
some inspection to prevent a system of overloading, which had become so notorious j
in vessels leaving the Tyne;" and
Mr. Stephenson, the Secretary to Lloyd’s, read before the Royal Commis
sioners the following letter from the mate of a ship to his sweetheart (see
Minutes of Evidence, p. 249):—
(Copy.)
“ Dear Lizzie—We sail to-night, and I wish she was going without me; for I don’t like
the look of her, she is so deep in the water. But I won’t .show the white feather to any one. I
she can carry a captain, she can carry a mate too. But it’s a great pity that the Board of Trade
doesn’t appoint some universal load water-mark, and surveyors to see that ships are not sent to
sea to become coffins for their crews. But don’t torment yourself about me. I dare say I shall
get through it as well as anybody else. Hoping that you may continue well—I remain, yours
fondly,
“ Tom.”
The ship went to the bottom with all hands. “ That,” said the witness, “ was
an instance of a vessel going to sea with competent persons on board, who knew
she was going to the bottom. He had received many letters of this kind.”
So far as to overloading. Cases might be added indefinitely; indeed, in at
least two cases known to the writer (one a young man of twenty, and one the
second mate of a ship), both men went home and put on old suits of clothing,
that the sister in one case, and the wife in the other, might have the better
clothing to sell in case they were lost, which they knew to be inevitable unless
they had calm weather all the way. In both cases, the ships and all the men
were lost.
UNSEAWORTHINESS.
Many good people find it hard to believe that men can be found so wicked
as knowingly to send a ship to sea in an unseaworthy state. They not only do
so, but, if the men show any reluctance to be drowned for their profit, they try
and too often succeed in sending them to gaof for their reluctance.
In September last, five seamen were brought before the magistrates at Dover
for refusing to go to sea. By desire of the bench, a surveyor was directed to
examine the vessel (let us be thankful for that now, it was not always so); and
his report stated that there was a great insufficiency of ropes, spare sails, and the
necessary gear, and the vessel was unseaworthy.
In the same month (September, 1873), four men were brought before the Hull
magistrates on a similar charge. A survey was ordered, and Mr. Snowden, sur
veyor, reported “that there was sufficient to justify the prisoners in not proceed
ing in the vessel. The deck wants caulking, and certain timbers are rotten; and it
is quite possible that the masts might roll out of her, and make her at the mercy
�APPENDIX.
3
of the sea. Water also came through the deck on to the men in the forecastle.”
Asked, if he were a sailor would he go to sea in her, he answered, “ I would
not do so.”
In the same month it was attempted to send six seamen to gaol for refusing
to go to sea in a ship of which (a survey having been ordered) two surveyors
reported:—“We find as follows :—Bobstay slack, jib and flying jibstay decayed, hawse pipes both dan
gerously started, jib and flying jibguys look bad, part of cutwater started; fid of maintopmast
rotten, and topmast sagged two or three inches, and slung with chains from lower masthead;
lower deck beams rotten, many lodging knees also rotten, breast hooks rent and rotten, ceiling
rotten in several places, riders started and bolts loose and apparently broken; cathead beam very
rotten, and breast beams rotten. Certainly, in her present state, we consider that she is unfit to
proceed to sea.”
In the evidence given before the Royal Commissioners (see Minutes of
Evidence, p. 207), a Liverpool shipowner, called William James Fernie, says, in
reply to questions, that he gave ¿3,500 for a ship registered at 2,800 tons. The
same witness, in answer to a question as to what a good ship would cost per
ton, answered, “¿13 or ¿14;” and he was also asked by another Commis
sioner—
* “ Do you think you have a right to expect to obtain a perfectly sound vessel
at ¿1 per ton ?”
As to the sort of ship she really was, another Commissioner, as it happened,
was able to tell his fellow-Commissioners that he himself had surveyed her, and
had reported to the Salvage Association as follows—inter alia:—
“ She was trussed with transverse bars of iron, screwed up amidships, like an
old barn or church, before she started on this last voyage. That is to say, that
the whole of the fastenings at the beam ends and knees were so rotten, that there
was no junction on the sides of the ship, and this , mode of fastening was intro
duced, and the only way of fastening the ship together was to introduce these
enormous amounts of iron.” (Inventive genius of the British shipbuilder!)
(Report of Royal Commissioners, p. 3.) This, bear in mind, is the evidence of
one of the Commissioners themselves. This man also admitted that he had lost
nineteen ships in the last ten years only (he has been a shipowner twenty-five
years), with the following ascertained loss of life:—
In the General Simpson
...
Eight lives lost.
Dawn of Hope
...
Twenty-eight.
Royal Victoria
...
Fourteen.
Royal Albert ...
...
All hands, number not known.
Great Northern
...
Sixteen lives lost.
Windsor Castle
...
Twenty.
Golden Fleece ...
...
One.
Royal Adelaide
...
Seven.
Florine...
...
...
All hands lost.
Malvern
...
...
Not stated.
Denmark
...
...
Not stated.
Henry Fernie ...
...
Not stated.
Dunkcld
...
...
Not stated.
(See Minutes of Evidence, p. 207./
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
4
This witness stated that in 1866 he formed the Meichants’ Trading
Company, to which his ships were transferred, and of which he is the managing
director; and he admitted that nine thousand nine hundred and ninety shares
out of the ten thousand) were held by his brother-in-lav/, in trust for his wife
and family, and the other ten shares were held by himself and his dependents.
(See idl)
The Board of Trade have issued their Annual Report for 1872, arid say in it
that “ forty ships have foundered from unseaworthiness in that year.”
Extract of a letter from David Maclver, Esq., one of the managing partners
in the firm which owns the Cunard steamers at Liverpool, published in the Liver
pool Mercury:—
“ Wanlass How, Ambleside, Oct. 20, 1873.
“ Dear Sir—
-5?#
“ Far more vessels are lost than ought to be, and many oi these have been new, or nearly new
steamers. I do not say Liverpool steamers; but I do say that their loss is as easily accounted for
as the loss of a few 56 lb. weights- would be it you put them into an old basket, or sent them afloat
in a tin pan of inferior material or workmanship.—Yours very sincerely,
“David MacIver.”
Extract from a letter, written by Mr. R. Knight, Secretary of the Iron Ship
builders’ (operatives) Society, and published in the Liverpool Daily Courier,
Oct., 1873:—
*#$*#*#»
“The facts of the case are as follows—viz., the screw steamer Brighton, built in 1872, by
Blumer and Co., of Sunderland, for the Commercial Steamship Company, London, registered
number 68,364, went only one voyage to Gibraltar, and when she returned to this port the owners
or agents were compelled to put her in the Herculaneum Dock about February last for repairs,
and she remained there nearly seven weeks. The keel rivets were all loose, and had to be taken
out, and others put in; also a large number in the stem and stern. I went and examined the
vessel, and saw that she was very badly built; any one could pass a mechanic’s rule between the
frames and the shell plates in many places, also between the strips, as the work was never
properly closed. As the men put in the new rivets and closed the work, the old rivets projected
about 3-i6ths of an inch; and had the men continued to close the work as it should have been
done when the vessel was built, they would have been compelled to rivet hex- all over. The fore
man and inspectors seeing this, requested the men to use light hammers, about 2 lbs. (the usual
hammers for that kind of work are about 5 lbs.), so as to nobble the end of the rivet in the hole,
and not close the plates to the frames. This was'done, and she was made watertight; but she
would not keep so very long, as the straining of the vessel would very soon loosen the rivets,
through the work not being closed; and where the plates met, the joints were so open that they
had caulked her with oakum.”
• Are men sent to gaol for refusing to go to sea in such ships ? Let the
following tables reply.
Particulars of seamen committed to gaol for refusing to go to sea in vessels
alleged by them to be unseaworthy, so far as has been ascertained
England ...
Wales
Scotland ...
Ireland ...
<44
...
...
...
...
...
55
281
90
41
79
479
491
294
107
23
1872.
187L
1870.
...
...
...
..............
..............
..............
420
I5Ö
45
43
658
�APPENDIX.
5
ENGLAND.
Men Committed.
Prison.
County.
Chester
..............
Cornwall ..............
Devonshire
Dorsetshire
Durham
..............
Essex
..............
Gloucester
Kent.........................
99
99
99
Lancashire
99
Lincolnshire
Middlesex..............
99
••*
•••
Monmouthshire ...
Norfolk
..............
N orthumberland ...
99
...
Southampton '
Suffolk
..............
Yorkshire..............
J?
99
•••
• ••
99
z
County Prison
Bodmin
Exeter
..............
Plymouth ...
Dorchester
Durham
Springfield..............
Bristol
Maidstone..............
Canterbury...
Dover
Sandwich ...
Preston
Liverpool ...
Lindsey - ...
Coldbath Fields ...
Holloway ...
Usk..........................
Great Yarmouth ...
Morpeth
Newcastle ...
Winchester
Southampton
Ipswich
...
... •
Northallerton
Wakefield ...
Kingston-upon-Hull
Scarborough
1870.
1871.
1872.
Total.
8
32
17
5
2
5
24
4
3
6
—
32
13
88
26
48
6
56
2
—
—
9
7
7
7
■—
26
—
82
—
—
i
I
40
—
52
—
—
5
22
2
i
i
24
—
4
8
—
—
—
294
5
i
9
59
51
71
i
175
9
15
33
21
15
17
7
4
45
2
68
5
hi
2
202
13
7
11
13
7
'
7
6
5
5
—
—
18
4
i
6
6
281
5
14
5
i
—
16
2
16
II
2
'
40
2
38
4
5
23
3
10
11
420
995
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
..............
294
„
1071
...........................................................
281
„
1872
...........................................................
420
Total
43
13
7
6
995
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
6
WALES.
County.
Men Committed.
Town.
..............
Total.
3
2
—.
20
77
26
—
51
32
2
13
5
i
80
90
• 7
I
208
150
347
U
n
i
27
24
co
Pembroke
1872.
4
—
—
Beaumaris ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ...
Cardiff
Swansea
Haverfordwest
1871.
107
Anglesey ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ..............
Glamorgan
1870.
26
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
„
»
...
1871
1872
107
................................................
90
................................................
150
Total
347
-
SCOTLAND.
Cases Tried.
County.
Aberdeen
Ayr
Town.
...
..............
Aberdeen ...
Fraserburgh
Ardrossan ...
Troon
Alloa
Leith
Granton
Dundee
Glasgow
Greenock ...
StornoWay ...
Lerwick
I
I
—
1871.
1872.
i
—
i
i
—
1870.
Men Committed.
Number
of Men
Committed.
i
i
—
2
i
1870.
3
2
I
i
—
16
I
n
Forfar
Lanark
Renfrew
Ross.............
Shetland
...
i
i
4
—
i
7
—
—
—
—
5
2
i
i
20
20
7
—
—
5
4
3
—
9
Clackmannan
Edinburgh ...
16
16
109
I
—
—
—
—
5
—
i
3
6
i
25
8
1871.
i
—
i
i
■—■
6
—
—
6
10
16
1872. Total.
i
i
—
3
2
8
16
3
3
6
4
i
4
20
20
109
7
—
—
23
!
7
10
2
8
41
45
I
i
25
8
ABSTRACT.
...
1870
9
„
...
1871
16
„
...
1872
16
Number of Cases
Total
41
Men Committed
•
5J
23
41
45
Total
IC9
�APPENDIX.
7
IRELAND.
Men Committed.
1872.
Total.
'
1870.
00
Town.
County.
Antrim
..............
Cork.........................
Donegal ..............
Louth
..............
Sligo.........................
Waterford..............
Belfast
Cork
. Lifford
Dundalk
Sligo
...
Waterford 1.............
II
21
17
4
2
—
55
29
Il8
5
70
—
—
—
13
27
—
. —
—
17
4
2
4
3
7
79
43
177
ABSTRACT.
Number of Men Committed
1870
55
1871
79
1872
43
Total
52
177
A statement sent to me by certain seamen, showing the treatment of sailors
charged with refusing to go to sea.
Sometimes (very rarely) they escape, and this is how they fare:—
I
(Copy.)
“To Samuel Plimsoll, Esq., M.P.
“Hull, ist October, 1873.
“ SIR—We, the undersigned, beg to hand you the following statement, being an account 01
the treatment which we (together with a seaman named John Williams) have experienced on
‘ our refusal to go to sea in an unseaworthy ship.
“On the nth day of September, 1873, we shipped on board the brig Expert, belonging to
Mr. Stephen Heaton Lennard, of Hull, which was bound in ballast for Norway, to fetch a
cargo of ice.
“ On proceeding on board with our clothes the same evening, we saw that the ship was unsea
worthy, and refused to sail in her. On the following morning (12th September) we were given
into the custody of the Board of Trade constable (by Mr, Lennard, the owner), and taken by
him before the magistrates, sitting at the police court of this borough, and charged with refusing
to proceed to sea.
“We were asked by the magistrates why we refused to do so, and we told them that the
vessel was unseaworthy, and requested that a survey might be held on the vessel by the proper
authorities.
[The power to demand a survey was only confirmed last year, and few
seamen know of it. They also have to pay all expenses if it is shown that they
are mistaken.—S. P.J
In answer to this request we were told that we should have to deposit the sum of two
guinea? for the survey. This sum we could not at the time deposit; but we stated that we would
be all jointly answerable for the amount, if, on survey, she was found to be in a fit state to go to sea.
“We were, however, then remanded to the gaol of this borough, not being able to find bail,
and were taken there in the prison van.
One of us (namely, Mundy) being in a very delicate state of health, suffering from a severe
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
cold and affection of the chest, for which he had remained on shore for about five months; and he
had with him some medicine, and also an extra flannel on his chest as a protection.
“ On arriving at the gaol, we were marched in single file by a warder to the remand part ot
the prison, when we were at once placed in separate, small, dark cells, and ordered to strip off
the whole of our clothes for a bath.
“ We did so, and waited for upwards of twenty minutes «in these cold cells without a particle
of clothing upon us, expecting every minute to be called out for a bath.
“ Mundy was shaking with cold, owing to his bad health and the removal of his warm cloth
ing, and we were all more or less affected by the cold by taking off all our flannel garments
which we, as mariners, usually wear. After waiting for about twenty minutes we were removed
from these cells, but not taken to a bath as previously ordered, but were marched a distance of
about forty yards entirely naked, through a cold, stone passage, to the clothing room, where i
prison raiment was given to us, consisting only of a rough cotton shirt, a rough singlet, with a
pair of stockings; and with only this clothing on we were marched back again through the;
passage, along which we had previously gone naked, and were then placed in separate cells, and
ordered to bed.
“ A short time afterwards we were supplied with a tin containing skilly, and a piece of black
bread, which we refused to eat.
“ What few provisions we. had taken in with us we were refused permission to eat, they being
all taken away from us, as well as the medicine and breast flannel belonging to Mundy. We
remained in these cold cells until the following morning, when we were again offered the same
kind of skilly and black bread for breakfast as had been supplied to us the previous night, and
which we again refused to eat. We were then ordered to the bath-room, and were taken along
the cold stone passage in the cotton shirt, singlet, and stockings, and placed into a warm bath;
and after having a bath, we were taken back naked through this stone passage to be measured,
and when this was done we were taken to the cells where we had been confined for the night, and
our own clothes were then given to us, which we put on.
“ About ten o’clock the same morning we were removed in the prison van to the cells of the
police court, and in the afternoon we were taken before the magistrates (Messrs. Jameson, Foun
tain, and Palmer), who, upon hearing the evidence of Mr. Snowden, senior surveyor to the Board
of Trade (who proved that the ship was unseaworthy), we were discharged, and the following
remarks were at the same time made by Mr. Palmer—namely, ‘ That he considered that the
Board of Trade surveyor had given his evidence in a clear, straightforward manner, and was the
right man in the right place, and that he should never dream of punishing us. That we had
exercised a sound judgment in not going to sea in this vessel, and advised us in future to look at
vessels before signing articles to go to sea in them, especially if they were to have ice in them.
“ We were, however, discharged without any recompense for our false imprisonment, and the
indignities we suffered during our incarceration, and through which Mundy considers his life was
endangered.
“We therefore wish you to lav this matter before the proper authorities, so that we may obtain
iustice and reparation, and that the seamen of England may not be treated in the gaols of this
country in the way we have described (before being convicted of an offence), for simply refusingto risk their lives in rotten ships.-— We are, Sir, yours obediently,
“ (Signed)
(Signed)
(Signed)
William Mundy.
William Rivis (his X mark).
Gabriel (his X mark) Guslaf.
“ P.S.—Mundy.is still under medical care, and is now much worse from the imprisonment.
“ Signed in the presence of Geo. Barker, Clerk to Messrs. Oliver and Botterell, Solicitors
Sunderland.”
letter from the governor of one of her majesty’s prisons.
“ Sir—I beg to enclose you an account of a representative case just given me by the writer
it, who, with another of his shipmates, is a prisoner here. They are both, to all appearances,
honest sailors and most respectable young men. It thus appears that there is no alternative for
the unsuspicious seaman who, in good faith, enters on board a spongy-bottomed vessel, between
drowning and imprisonment. Their late ship has gone to sea with their clothes and certificate^
�APPENDIX.
9
anOE® young man is writing in the greatest grief to his parents, dreading the shock upon them
when they hear that he is in prison. Sandwich Island kidnapping is not more iniquitous than
a case such as this.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I may’add, in confidence, that one oi the committing magistrates is a merchant, and that the
merchants are much interested in supporting shipowners against their seamen; for if they do not
do so, and if they allow shipowners to think that their crews are not well looked after by the
im authorities, it is feared that shipowners will not allow their vessels to touch at ----- , and
'!J0 consequently business will decline.
********
If.
“They (the seamen) state that they were engaged at Liverpool, upon the assertion that the
ship was going on 1 a nice little voyage to----- only,’ and that it was only on their arrival at
|----- that they were informed that the old, leaky vessel was to go round the Horn to Callao.
ah 'Also, that when they were had up before the magistrates, they pointed out that they had taken
Pio ‘ advance,’ which showed clearly that, when they shipped, it was their own bond fide intention
to go to sea in the ship, according to their engagement, if she had been seaworthy.
*
******
*
“The two prisoners have, of course, neither seen nor spoken to one another since they have
been here. I have examined them separately, and there is not the shadow of a doubt about the
■4. absolute truth of their story—only, as the ship has sailed, there seems no probability of proving
it. Seamen are the worst men possible to make out a good case for themselves when had up in
court. They look upon themselves as doomed at once—that ‘ it’s no use saying anything.’ The
prosecutor makes an audacious harangue, the seamen chew their quids with energy, and look as
though they would like to chew him. Sentence is pronounced by a magistrate whom they know
ip knows no more about ships than they do of the mysteries of marine insurance. They feel that
they have been infamously hocussed, but that ‘it’s all a muddle,’ and that it’s better to go to
prison than to be drowned, and so they are hustled out of the dock. Other dupes, half-drunk,
perhaps, are shipped in their place; the manager or agent remains until the ship is out of sight,
and returns to his owners to expatiate on his success. We have a splendid specimen of a
9< seaman here now, who has been wrecked three times in the last few months, with the loss of
everything on each occasion. I could not help thinking ot them and of you yesterday, when in
'f the morning’s Psalms we read, 1 Let the sorrowful sighing of the prisoner come before Thee
and thought that you were the instrument of the Lord, raised up to do His work, to show that
theie is a God tnat judgeth the eaith, chat in this God-governed world there is no such thing as
1 permanently-successful villainy either for Napoleons or Gradgrinds; and I pray that those who
have been grinding the face of the poor with such impunity hitherto, may find that ‘ the day of
the Lord ’ is not merely 1 at hand,’ which they have disbelieved, but that it has come upon them
and upon their evil houses.
********
£I discharged yesterday, two prisoners on expiry of sentence, whose case was somewhat simi
lar to the present one —joining a ship out in a roadstead upon glowing representations—on get
ting out to her finding her to be a rotten corfin, and on demand to be put on shore again, sent to
prison on a summary conviction. They served out their imprisonment with the patience or
oxen ;> and until the law is framed to protect them as it does children and minors, they will, with
the simplicity of children, fall again into the first trap that is laid for them.”
THE WRECK REGISTER AND CHART FOR
1872,
“Of the 439 total losses from causes other than collisions, on and near the coasts of the
United Kingdom, in 1872, 56 arose from defects in the ship or in her equipments, and of these 56
no less than 40 appear to have foundered from unseaworthiness.”
LETTER FROM THE FRENCH CONSUL AT IRISH PORT.
“Dear Sir—-Every humane person must wish you success in the courageous campaign you
have begun against an infernal set of scoundrels; and I think every one, whatever is his nationality
8 oound to give all assistance in his power. You will be glad to hear from me that so far you
have been successful, that some of the notorious shipowners are trying to put their rotten ships
�IO
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
under foreign flags, keeping the ownership of them at the same time, and being in hope, by so B
doing, of evading whatever law Parliament might enact. Yesterday, one of those notorious ship- U
owners applied to me to authorise a French subject to purchase one of his ships, and to request p
me to give a provisional French nationality to this ship. Knowing the party by reputation, and if
the character of his ships, I was doubly on my guard; and, after inquiry, was satisfied that this |!f
was not a bonci fide transaction, and was made to evade the British law, and, I strongly suspect, ffi
to avoid an examination by the surveyor of the Board of Trade. I formally refused to grant the I.'
request made to me in this instance, and have officially informed my Government of my reasons
for giving such refusal. I must say I am rather afraid of your law of libel: this is my reason for 1?
putting ‘ private’ on the top of this letter, and giving no name for the present. However, if you J
thought the name might keep your case, if it is asked from me by the Commissioners, I shall give |
it willingly. I have not yet had time to read your book, but I saw a number of extracts from it i
and, after having seen them, all I say is, God help you in your good work.”
|
LETTER FROM THE SOLICITOR TO THE BOARD OF TRADE.
“Custom House, February 24th, 1873.
j
|
“My DEAR Sir—You have made a move in the cause of humanity for which you deserve 1
immortal credit. I have not seen your book; but I read a review of it in the Times with the -I
deepest interest. When you, some years ago, referred to me as having, on the occasion of a i
Board of Trade inquiry, described the conduct of a shipowner as ‘homicidal,’ you were well |
iustified in doing so. I might have used the more felonious term, because cases have occurred
where delinquents have been executed for murder who deserved the gallows less than the moneyed
barbarians who have sent overladen ships to sea. I send you enclosed an illustration of the
justice of my statement. But, to judge accurately of the disgraceful case, you should read the
evidence on the inquiry. It was proved that the decks were so laden with bales ot cotton that j
the crew had to stand and walk on the top of them so as to manage the ship; and Mr. Pearson, |
a shipowner, examined for the defence, swore that the higher the bales were piled the more it |
conduced to the safety of the ship, as, if the ship went down, the crew and passengers would I
have a better chance of escaping.
“ I am, my dear Sir, &c.,
■
“James O’Dowd.”
*
LETTER FROM A LONDON MERCHANT.
“ Great Tower-street, London, February 26, 1873.
'
“ Dear Sir—I have read, with very great interest, of your efforts to better the position of the 1
mercantile marine ; and believing that every little information is of use to you, I have taken the j
liberty of addressing you. I was brought up at a seaport town, and was twelve years in a ship- a
building and repairing yard; six years of the time I acted as outside superintendent, so that I had •
abundant opportunity of noticing the sort of ‘ coffins ’ in which sailors are often sent to sea. Bel- I
fast being a depot for the north of Ireland, there are two important trades carried on—viz., coal I
and wood. The coal trade—at least, three years ago (when I left)—was principally carried on by I
small merchants. They employed schooners, brigantines, and brigs to carry coal from the Scotch '
and English ports. Very few of these vessels were classed, and the majority were equipped in the |
most miserable way. One merchant whom I could name lost two or three vessels every year, ana '
generally all hands with the vessels. He has often been known to send his vessels to sea without 1
proper ground-gear, in order that the captain would have to beat a passage, and not take an inter- "
mediate port. I have seen dozens of such vessels that could not be properly caulked, the planks
being so rotten that pieces of wood had to be driven in the seams; and if a piece of plank was
taken out, no timber or frames could be found to fasten it to, a plate of iron having to be laid
on the ceiling, or inside skin, for this purpose. Then, again, the running gear, as a rule
was perfectly rotten—rotten masts, spars, and sails—and miserable cabins and forecastles. 1
These vessels would make a passage across the Channel in the middle of winter, with perhaps
18 inches of side above water. The timber ships are employed running to North America 5 1
many of these vessels have no character or class, and their hulls are just as bad as the coal
schooners. I have been told that all over the seaports of Ireland such vessels are employed. The
timber ships have generally to bring home heavy deck-loads, and you are well aware of the
�APPENDIX.
ir
number of such vessels that are lost annually. Belfast being a very handy place for wind-bound
and distressed vessels, I had many chances of seeing vessels which had put into the port leaky
carrying all sorts of cargoes—salt, pig-iron, rails, &c. These cargoes are very severe on old
ships. Often the crew have mutinied, or, more properly speaking, refused to proceed in the ships?
having regard for their own safety ; very often they were imprisoned for doing so. I may adcl
that I have no interest, at least pecuniary, in this matter now, as I am in quite a different trade ;
but I know that you are right, although you may encounter a great deal of opposition. I am sure
my old master, Mr. ——-, of Belfast, who is still a ship-builder and repairer, would give you
every information he could in a private way. I have written this letter on the impulse of the
moment.”
SCHEDULE OF SHIPS
POSTED AT LLOYD’S ' TO JUNE 30TH THIS YEAR AS
missing! ! NEVER HEARD OF MORE!
WRECKS AND CASUALTIES.)
Jan.
5
17
Year.
1872
1873
...
...
Feb.
15
18
(EXCLUDING ALL OTHER FATAL
Mar.
G
27
...
Apr.
6
23
May
9
24
June
5
19
Though desirous to avoid all comments in compiling this Appendix, I think
it right to say here, that this terrible increase of loss was foreseen by me—and
by me alone. One correspondent at Liverpool, in February last, expressed great
fear that unless the Government helped me promptly with a temporary measure,
that whilst the prospect of overhauling would cause a great deal of repairing of
ships and care in loading amongst many, in some it would create so great anxiety in
certain quarters to get rid of ships anyhow—which would not bear examination—■
that a large temporary increase of losses was greatly to be feared. This was why I
was so anxious—almost frantically anxious—to get a temporary measure passed.
My firm conviction is, that had the Government helped me, instead of doing
their utmost to thwart my efforts, many, many hundreds of brave men now at the
bottom of the sea would have been alive at this moment.
The total number of lives lost in 92 of these ships—where the number of the
crews is known—is 1,328. Supposing the remaining 36 to have carried a similar
number of men, then the total is 1,747 in six months!—although this year has
been unusually free from stormy weather, and the year 1872 was an “unusually
disastrous year!” What will the whole year give? and what will other weeks
add to this number? These are missing ships only. May God forgive us for our
murderous neglect of our fellow-men at sea!
I deeply regret that the time available to me to write this Appendix is too
limited to enable me to take proper pains with it. I only heard by accident
of the intention to dedicate the Christmas number of Once a Week to this
subject; and instantly asked for permission to write this Appendix, to enable me
to do which, the publication was suspended. Editors of newspapers are earnestly
entreated to copy this Appendix or such parts of it as they may deem suitable to
their columns.
GRAIN-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 3OTH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
26
.....................................
1873
...
50
t
/
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
12
COAL-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
ii
...................................................
1873
•••
4°
TIMBER-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TII IN EACH OF THE
1872
...
6
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
...................................................
1873
...
17
FRAGMENTS OF EVIDENCE GIVEN BEFORE THE ROYAL COMMISSIONERS.
Mr. M. Wawn, examined by the Chairman: “You are a surveyor under the Board of
Trade?”—“ Yes.”
“ Have you known many ships broken up on account of their age; because we have been told
that in the case of colliers they are hardly ever broken up, but that they go on till they sink ?”—
“ I cannot say that I know of any cases where they have been broken up.”
“What becomes of these old vessels—do they go on till they are lost?”—“I suppose Sa
(Minutes of Evidence, p. 123.)
Mr. S. Robins, examined by the Chairman (Minutes of Evidence, p. 117): “Are you a
licensed shipping agent under the Board oi Trade?”—“ I have been so up to the present year.
For between eleven years and twelve years I was a licensed agent under the Board of Trade.”
“ Can you state to whom the Satellite belonged?”—“ I cannot say. She belonged to a Liver
pool firm.”
“Was she laden with coal?”—“Yes.”
*
“What was her destination?”—“ I believe it was Rio.”
“ Did you consider that ship not seaworthy?”—“.I did.”
Then, in the first instance, when you got a part of the crew for her, did you consider her to
be a safe and seaworthy vessel? (Minutes of Evidence, p. 118.)—“Noj I considered her a
very old vessel, and I had heard reports concerning her from shipmasters, and I considered in
some respects that she was a bad class of vessel, and not fit for the voyage upon which she was
%oing. ... I considered her an old trap.”
“ Did the sailors object?”—“ I had a great deal of trouble in getting them aboard.”
When you considered the vessel to be a bad vessel, did you still endeavour to get them on
board?”—“Yes; it was more than I dared do to attempt to back a man out.” '
“ You considered that the sailors, having engaged themselves to go, were obliged to?”—“ Yes,
01 else refuse on the pier to go in her; and if they refused, there were police officers to take them
in charged . .
“What happened to this ship?”—“She was lost!”
“ I thought that you engaged for her?” “ A part of them on the first occasion. I had not
then seen the vessel; and, after engaging the men, it was my duty to see them again aboard at
the time of sailing, and that was when I first saw the vessel.”
If these facts do not stir the hearts of my fellow-countrymen, no words of
mine will; but, in that case, England will have become false to all her history,
and all faith in her destiny will have died out of my heart.
I leave it to God.,
SAMUEL PLIMSOLL.
�
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"Ship ahoy!": a yarn in thirty-six cable lengths being the Christmas annual of Once a Week
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Waddy, Frederick [1848-1901]
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1873
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Text
Io f
W1; ’1; w
SCOTT
EXHIBITION
Under the Special Patronage of Her Majesty the Queen.
■7
■)
CATALOGUE
OF
THE LOAN EXHIBITION
In QUmnunwratwn of Sir cMalter Staff
AT
EDINBURGH
In the Galleries of the Royal Scottish A cademy,
National Gallery,
IN JULY AND AUGUST 1871.
EDINBURGH : THOMAS AND ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE,
PRINTERS TO THE QUEEN AND TO THE UNIVERSITY.
1871.
�THE OBJECTS OF EXHIBITION ARE—
1. Portraits of Sir Walter Scott, whether Paintings, Drawings,
Statues, Busts, Fine Impressions of the Best Prints, or Medals.
2. Specimens of his Autograph Writings, including some of the
Original Manuscripts of the Waverley Novels.
3. Pictures or other Works of Art illustrating his Writings and
Personal History.
�Under
the
Special Patronage of
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.
JJHember# erf the Cermmittee.
Sir WM. STIRLING-MAXWELL of Keir
and
Pollok, Bart.,—Convener.,
His Grace the DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH and QUEENSBERRY, K.G.
The Right Hon.
the
EARL OF STAIR, K.T.
.
The Hon. LORD JERVISWOODE.
The .Right Hon. the LORD JUSTICE-GENERAL.
The Right Hon. Sir WILLIAM GIBSON CRAIG of Riccarton, Bart.
Sir HUGH HUME CAMPBELL of Marchmont, Bart.
Sir GEORGE HARVEY, P.R.S.A.
Sir J. NOEL PATON, R.S.A.
JAMES BALLANTINE, Esq.
ADAM BLACK, Esq.,
of
Prior Bank.
JAMES T. GIBSON CRAIG, Esq.
JAMES DRUMMOND, Esq., R.S.A.
DAVID LAING, Esq.
ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL SWINTON, Esq., of Kimmerghame.
H. W. CORNILLON, Secretary.
�CONTENTS.
PAGE
Pictures illustrative of the Writings and Personal History
of Sir Walter Scott; Portraits of Personal Friends;
Sketches and Drawings,
5
.....
Historical Portraits, and Pictures illustrative of the
Writings of Sir Walter Scott,
.
.
.
11
.
Portraits of Sir Walter Scott and his Family, with the
Miniatures of Friends and Historical Personages, .
16
Engravings illustrative of the Writings of Sir Walter
Scott, etc.,
.......
20
Engraved Portraits of Sir Walter Scott, his Family, and
.
.
.
.
.
.
21
Works by Sir Walter Scott,*
.
.
.
.
.
28
other Friends,
.
Manuscripts and Letters written by or having reference
.
.
.
.
.
37
Books edited by Sir Walter Scott,
.
.
.
.
40
to Sir Walter Scott,
.
Additional Manuscripts and Letters written by or having
reference to Sir Walter Scott,
.
.
.
46
Miscellaneous, ........
49
.
Busts, Tapestry, Armour, etc.,
.
.
.
.
.
54
List of Contributors,
.
.
.
.
.
57
.
�PICTURES illustrative of the Writings and Per
sonal History of Sir Walter Scott; Portraits
of Persona! Friends; Sketches and Drawings.
NORTH OCTAGON.
[The Numbers commence with the Oil Painting on the Left hand.]
1. LOCAL SCENERY of, and Scene in, “ The Antiquary.”
By W. F. Vallance.
Lent by David Corsar, Esq.
1*. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD. By Sir William Allan,
P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
2. WHITTAKER reading the List of Guests for the Restoration
Feast, “ Peveril of the Peak?’ By J. Oswald Stewart.
Lent by A. B. Spence, Esq.
3. CULLODEN MOOR. By Wm. Simson, R.S.A.
Lent by John White, Esq.
4. GEORGE KEMP. By Wm. Bonnar, R.S.A.
Lent by Thos. Bonnar, Esq.
5. SCENE from “ The Talisman.” By Sir John Watson Gor
don, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by H. G. Watson, Esq.
6. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S Favourite Dog, “Camp.” By Howe.
Lent by Thomas George Stevenson, Esq.
7. SCENE. The Meeting of Mark and the Reformer with
Christie of the Clinthill and Edward Glendinning : “ The
Monastery.” By Macartney.
Lent by Mrs. Finlayson.
8. HARRIET, Duchess of Buccleuch, the Early Patroness of
Sir Walter Scott. By William Bonnar, R.S.A.
Lent by Thomas Bonnar, Esq.
9. FATHER CLEMENT and Catharine Glover, the “Fair
Maid of Perth.” By Thomas Duncan, R.S.A., A.R.A.
Lent by A. Dennistoun, Esq.
�6
NORTH OCTAGON.
10. THE STUDY AT ABBOTSFORD. By Sir Edwin LandJ
seer, R.A., IT.R.S.A.
Lent by W. P. Adam, Esq., M.P.
11. CHARLES MACKAY, as Bailie Nicol Jarvie.
Macnee, R.S.A.
Lent by Mrs. Glover.
By Daniel
12. HENRY MACKENZIE. By Colvin Smith, R.S.A.
Lent by Colvin Smith, Esq.
13. WALTER SCOTT in his Boyhood, and his pretty Nurse.
By Wm. Nicholson, R.S.A.
Lent by J. Rennie, Esq.
14. MONTROSE led Prisoner through Edinburgh, 1650.
James Drummond, R.S.A.
Lent by James Drummond, Esq.
By
15. RICHIE MONIPLIES. By George Hay, A.R.S.A.
Lent by John Williamson, Esq.
16. BEN VENUE from the Silver Strand. By Alex. Fraser,
R.S.A.
Lent by G. B. Simpson, Esq.
17. CHARLES MACKAY, “The Bailie.” By Sir John Watson
Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by Mrs. Mackay.
18. PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON. By Sir John Watson
Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
19. JOCK GRAY, the Original of Davie Gellatly.
Smellie Watson, R.S.A.
Lent by W. Smellie Watson, Esq.
By W.
20. PRINCE CHARLES and Flora Macdonald in the Cave.
By Thomas Duncan, R.S.A., A.R.A.
Lent by the Trustees of the late Alex. Hill, Esq.
21. BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.
By William Bonnar
R.S.A.
Lent by R. B. Wardlaw Ramsay, Esq.
22. ROBERT CADELL. By Sir John Watson Gordon,
P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by the Rev. R. H. Stevenson.
�NORTH OCTAGON.
7
23. ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. By Sir Henry Raeburn,
R.A. Has been Engraved by G-. T. Payne.
Lent by Thomas Constable, Esq.
24. ALEXANDER BALLANTYNE. By John Ballantyne,
RS.A.
Lent by Robert M. Ballantyne, Esq.
25. ROLAND GRAEME’S Introduction to the Knight of
Avenel. By Patrick Allan Fraser, H.R.S.A.
Lent by Mrs. P. A. Fraser.
26. JEANTE DEANS on her Way to London. By W. Q.
Orchardson, A.R.A.
v
Lent by Robert Mercer, Esq.
27. LOUIS XI. and Oliver Dain : “ Quentin Durward.” By
W. B. Johnston, R.S.A.
Lent by Patrick Allan Fraser, Esq.
28. LOCH KATRINE. By Horatio MacCulloch, R.S.A.
Lent by Sir Andrew Orr.
29. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. By Robert Scott Lauder,
R.S.A.
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
30. THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
By Sir John Watson
Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
31. FRANCIS JEFFREY. By Colvin Smith, R.S.A.
Lent by Colvin Smith, Esq.
32. THE GLEE MAIDEN. By R. S. Lauder, R.S.A.
Lent by Patrick Allan Fraser, Esq.
33. THE FUNERAL OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By
Col. Sir James Alexander.
Lent by Col. Sir James E. Alexander.
34. M ATTRTCE DRUMMOND, Abbot of Inchaffray, blessing
the Scottish Army before the Battle of Bannockburn.
By James Drummond, R.S.A.
Lent by James Ballantine, Esq.
35. BOTHWELL CASTLE, on the Clyde. By Alex. Fraser,
R.S.A.
Lent by G. B. Simpson, Esq.
36. THOMAS THOMSON. By R. S. Lauder, R.S.A.
Lent by Lockhart Thomson, Esq.
I
�8
NORTH OCTAGON.
37. AN ANTIQUARY. By W. M. F. Douglas, R.S.A.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
38. JAMES BALLANTYNE.
Lent by Rev, Raymond Blathwayt.
39. INTERIOR OF ROSLIN CHAPEL. By H. Hansen.
Lent by James Ballantine, Esq.
40. CUDDIE HEADRIGG. By Thomas Duncan, R.S.A., A.R.A.
Lent by John White, Esq.
40*. BAILIE NICOL JARVIE in the Clachan of Aberfoyle.
By Alexander Ritchie.
Lent by Robert Robertson, Esq.
41. TRUDCHEN (Quentin Durward). By William Dyce, R.A.,
ER.SA
Lent by Mrs. Cumine Peat.
42. JOHN BALLANTYNE.
Lent by John Ballantyne, Esq., R.S.A.
42*. LADY FORBES, Williamina Stuart Belshes. By George
Saunders.
Lent by the Right Hon. Lord Clinton.
43. THE CURLERS. By Sir George Harvey, P.R.S.A.
“ There was the finest fun amang the curlers ever was seen.”
Guy Mannering, chap, xxxii.
Lent by Gilbert Stirling, Esq.
44. DAVIE GELLATLY’S Mode of Delivering a Letter. By
Wm. B. Kidd, KR.S.A.
Lent by G. B. Simpson, Esq.
45. THE DAY AFTER PRESTONPANS. By J. Drummond,
R.S,A,
Lent by James Clark, Esq.
45*. VIEW OF ROSLIN, in Water-colour. By H. W. Williams.
Lent by Mrs. M. Sanson.
45**. RETURN OF JEANIE DEANS. By Sir William
Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A;
Lent by Professor Maclagan.
46. QUEEN MARY’S ROOM, Craigmillar Castle. By James
Drummond, R.S.A.
Lent by James Drummond, Esq.
47. STEINIE, the Son of Mucklebackit. By John Ewbank.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
48. PENCIL DRAWING of Castle Campbell. By R. Gibb, R.S.A.
SEPIA DRAWING of Tantallon Castle. By John Ewbank.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
�NORTH OCTAGON.
19? JOHN
9
KNOX’S HOUSE. By James Drummond, R.S.A.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
50. SCOTT MONUMENT, a Drawing by George Kemp, and
presented by him to John Dick, Esq.
Lent by Mrs. Dick.
51. WEST BOW. By Walter Geikie.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
52. MELROSE ABBEY. By H. W. Williams.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
53. MELROSE ABBEY. By Mrs. Smith.
Lent by Mrs. Smith.
54. CUCHULLIN MOUNTAINS, Isle of Skye.
MacLeay, R.S.A.
Lent by Kenneth MacLeay, Esq.
By Kenneth
55. FRAME—four Drawings of Melrose; two Drawings of
Kelso. By W. H. Lizars.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
56. GOATFELL and the Mountains of Arran, from Brodick
Bay. By Kenneth MacLeay, R.S.A.
Lent by Kenneth MacLeay, Esq.
56*. JOHN DUKE OF ARGYLL. Drawing by J. Ramage.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
57. THE BASS. By Sam. Bough, A.R.S.A.
Lent by William Paterson, Esq.
58. SOUTH GRAY’S CLOSE, Edinburgh, in which stands Dr.
Rutherford’s House. Sketch by James Drummond, R.S.A.
Also
HIGH SCHOOL WYND, Edinburgh. And
DUNBAR’S CLOSE.
Cromwell’s Headquarters while in
Edinburgh—Looking towards the New Town, with the
Scott Monument.
Lent by James Drummond, Esq., R.S.A.
59. PORTRAIT of Professor Wilson. By James Swinton.
Lent by A. Campbell Swinton, Esq.
60. FIVE VIEWS OF EDINBURGH.
By Hamilton and
Ewbank.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
�10
NORTH OCTAGON.
61. DRYBURGH ABBEY. By William Banks.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
62. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S first School, Potterrow. By Mrs.
Smith.
Lent by Mrs. Smith.
63. EIGHT DRAWINGS. Illustrations for “Tales of a Grand
father.” By Lizars and Corbould.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
64. FIVE DRAWINGS, Illustrations of “ Waverley.” By
Heath.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
65. DESIGN for Scott Monument. By David Roberts, R.A.
Lent by W. D. Clark, Esq.
66. ROB ROY. Copy of Original Picture.
By Andrew
Henderson.
Lent by Kenneth MacLeay, Esq.
67. PORTRAIT of John Leycester Adolphus, Author of
“ Letters on the Authorship of the Waverley Novels.”
1821. By W. F. W. [William Frederick Witherington,
R.A.]
Lent by Mrs. Adolphus.
68. DAVID RITCHIE, the Original of the Black Dwarf.
Lent by David B. Anderson, Esq.
69. SMAILHOLM TOWER. Sketch.
Lent by James Drummond, Esq., R.S.A.
70. THIRTEEN DRAWINGS of Edinburgh. By J. Ewbank.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
71. QUEEN MARY at the Place of Execution. By David
Scott, R.S.A.
Lent by Thomas Bonnar, Esq.
72. FIVE DRAWINGS of Border Abbeys. By W. H. Lizars.
Lent by William MacDonald, Esq.
7 3. THE SHAFT of the Old Cross of Edinburgh, as it stood
in the Grounds of Drum. Sketch. Also
CARDINAL BEATON’S PALACE, Edinburgh. Demo
lished in 1870. Sketch.
Lent by James Drummond, Esq., R.S.A.
74. NINE DRAWINGS of Melrose, Abbotsford, etc., by John
Ewbank.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
�GREAT ROOM.
11
75. HEAD OF COLLEGE WYND—Situation of the House
where Sir Walter Scott was Born. By Wm. Smith.
Lent by Mrs. Smith.
76. SEVEN DRAWINGS
1 Dunkeld, by R. Gibb.
5 Views of Edinburgh, by J. Ewbank.
1 Jenny Geddes, by W. H. Lizars.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
77. JAMES I. appointing Sheriffs. By David Scott, R.S.A.
Lent by Thomas Bonnar, Esq.
78. NINE DRAWINGS in Bistre. By Wm. Gibb, R.S.A.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
GREAT ROOM.
HISTORICAL PORTRAITS, and PICTURES illus
trative of the Writings of Sir Walter Scott.
[The Numbers commence on the Left hand on entering.]
79. THE LADY of Avenel leaving Glendearg. By Alexander
Chisholm.
Lent by J. D. Gillespie, Esq., M.D.
80. CHARLES Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles I.
Honthorst.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
81. BALFOUR OF BURLEY in the Cave.
Lent by Mrs. M. Sanson.
By
By Wm. Carse.
82. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN. By Patrick Nasmyth.
Lent by William D. Clark, Esq.
83. COVENANTERS Preaching. By Sir George Harvey,
P.R.S.A.
Lent by the Glasgow Corporation.
84. KING JAMES VI.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
85. ROSLIN CHAPEL. By Patrick Gibson, R.S.A.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
�12
GREAT ROOM.
86. ANNE OF DENMARK, Wife of James VI.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
87. GLENDINNING and the Monk. By John Pettie, A.R.A.
Lent by Robert Mercer, Esq.
88. THE BLACK DWARF. By Sir William Allan, P.R.S.A.,
R.A.
Lent by Trustees of the National Gallery of Scotland.
89. JEANIE DEANS in the Robbers’ Barn.
By William
Bonnar, R.S.A.
Lent by James Ballantine, Esq.
90. MORTON awaiting his Death at the hands of the Cameronians in the Farm-house of Drumshinnel. By W. F.
Douglas, R.S.A.
Lent by George Armstrong, Esq.
91. HENRY BENEDICT STUART, The Cardinal York.
Domenico Dupra.
Lent by Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
By
92. BOTHWELL CASTLE. By Alexander Runciman.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
93. PRINCE CHARLES'EDWARD STUART. Domenico
Dupra.
Lent by Sir Wm. Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
94. THE PORTEOUS MOB. By James Drummond, R.S.A.
Lent by Trustees of the National Gallery of Scotland
and Royal Association for Promotion of the Fine
Arts.
95. JEANIE DEANS and the Robbers. By Thomas Duncan,
R.S.A., A.R.A.
Lent by Trustees of the National Gallery of Scotland.
96. PRINCE CHARLES at Holyrood. Original Sketch.
William Simson, R.S.A.
Lent by Robert Mercer, Esq.
By
97. SCENE from the “Talisman.” By Sir John Watson Gordon,
P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by H. G. Watson, Esq.
98. JAMES EDWARD STUART, Chevalier de St. George.
Lent by Sir Wm. Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
99. HOY HEAD. By John Cairns.
Lent by G. B. Simpson, Esq.
�GREAT ROOM.
13
100. GEORGE IV. at Holyrood, 1822. With Sir Walter Scott
introduced as Bard. By Sir David Wilkie, R.A.
Lent by Her Majesty the Queen.
101. PETER PEEBLES in the Parliament Square. By Wm. B.
Kidd, 2LR.S.A.
Lent by J. D. Gillespie, Esq., M.D.
102. JEANIE DEANS begging the Life of her Sister from
Queen Caroline. By J. G. Middleton.
Lent by Alexander Dennistoun, Esq.
103. KING JAMES IV.
Lent by Sir Wm. Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
104. THE FIERY CROSS. By J. Lamont Brodie.
Lent by The Mayor of Manchester.
105. PRINCE CHARLES coming down the Canongate. By
Thomas Duncan, R.S.A., A.R.A.
Lent by the Trustees of the late Alexander Hill, Esq.
106. THE DOOR of the Old Edinburgh Guard-House.
Wm. B. Kidd, KR.S.A.
Lent by David Bryce, Esq.
By
107. RAVENSWOOD and Lucy Ashton. By R. Scott Lauder,
R.S.A.
Lent by Francis Farquharson, Esq.
108. HENRY BENEDICT STUART, The Cardinal York.
Lent by J. Drummond, Esq.
109. JOHN GRAHAM OF CLAVERHOUSE,
Dundee. Painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller.
Lent by the Earl of Strathmore.
Viscount
110. THE BATTLE of Drumclog. By Sir George Harvey,
P.R.S.A.
Lent by James Muspratt, Esq.
111. WALLACE, the Defender of Scotland.
Painted by David Scott, R.S.A.
Lent by Robert Carfrae, Esq.
An Allegory.
111*. JOHN GRAHAM OF CLAVERHOUSE, Viscount
Dundee.
Lent by Lady Elizabeth-Jane Leslie-Melville Cartwright.
�14
GREAT ROOM.
112. JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of Montrose.
Lent by the Earl of Dalhousie.
By Honthorst.
113. MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. By George Jamesone.
Lent by Lady Colquhoun.
114. BATTJE MACWHEEBLE at Breakfast. By James E.
Lauder, R.S.A.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
115. PRINCE CHARLES reading General Cope’s Letter, while
at Holyrood. By William Simson, R.S.A.
Lent by T. A. Hill, Esq.
116. QUEEN MARY at Lochleven. By Thomas Duncan, R.S.A.,
A.R.A.
Lent by J. D. Gillespie, Esq., M.D.
117. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By J. L. Brodie.
Lent by W. F. Sale, Esq.
117*. HEAD OF LOCHLOMOND. By Miss Jane Nasmyth.
Lent by Mrs. M. Sanson.
118. JAMES EDWARD STUART, Chevalier de St. George.
Lent by the Earl of Breadalbane.
119. FAST CASTLE. By Rev. John Thomson.
Lent by M. N. MacDonald Hume, Esq.
120. ROSE BRADWARDINE visiting her Father in the Cave,
with Food. By Wm. Bonnar, R.S.A.
Lent by John Inglis, Esq.
121. ROSE BRADWARDINE. By Robert Herdman, R.S.A.
Lent by A. B. Shand, Esq.
122. SIR WALTER SCOTT and his Friends. By Thomas
Faed, Esq., R.A., ER.S.A. Engraved.
Lent by Alexander Dennistoun, Esq.
123. EDINBURGH—1765. By W. De La Cour.
Lent by R. B. Wardlaw Ramsay, Esq.
124. PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART.
Lent by the Earl of Breadalbane.
125. FAST CASTLE. By Rev. John Thomson.
Lent by M. N. MacDonald Hume, Esq.
�GREAT ROOM.
“The last scene of all.”
Herdman, R.S.A.
Lent by James Blaikey, Esq.
126. QUEEN MARY.
15
By Robert
127. HEROISM and Humanity. By Sir William Allan, P.R.S. A.,
R.A.
Lent by J. A. Butti, Esq.
128. STROMNESS BAY, Orkney. By John Cairns.
Lent by G. B. Simpson. Esq.
129. RUINS of the Ancient Castle of the Peverils, near Whit
ington. By George Barret.
Lent by Daniel Bruce, Esq.
130. VIEW of Edinburgh from the North. By Robert Norie.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
131. THE ANTIQUARY. By William F. Douglas, R.S.A.
Lent by Thomas Bonnar, Esq.
132. LINLITHGOW PALACE. By Alexander Nasmyth.
Lent by Thomas S. Aitchison, Esq.
133. SHIPWRECK near the Fitful Head. By Thomas Fen
wick.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
134. BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. By R. S. Lauder, R.S.A.
Lent by Mrs. Melville.
135. GEORGE HERIOT. Painted by Scougal, and Engraved
by J. and C. Esplens, 1743.
Lent by the Governors of George Heriot’s Hospital.
136. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Cabinet Portrait.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
137. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Cabinet Portrait by Mark
Gerard.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
�16
SOUTH OCTAGON.
SOUTH OCTAGON.
PORTRAITS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT and his
Family, with the Miniatures of Friends and
Historical Personages.
[Born 15 th August 1771.
Died 21st September 1832.]
138. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., his Family and Friends.
Painted in 1825 from Miniatures, by W. Stewart Watson.
Lent by Mrs. Stewart Watson.
139. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., sitting to J. Northcote, R.A.
Lent by Sir William W. Knighton, Bart.
140. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Cabinet Picture, Painted
for Lady Ruthven in 1831, by Sir Francis Grant, P.R.A.,
7LR.S.A. Engraved in 1835 by Thomas Hodgetts.
Lent by Right Hon. The Dowager Lady Ruthven.
141. THE STUDY AT ABBOTSFORD. By Sir Wm. Allan,
P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by T. Williams, Esq.
142. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By Andrew Geddes, A.R.A.
Painted 1818.
Lent by Miss James.
143. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted for Mr. Wells
shortly after Sir Walter’s death, by Sir Edwin Landseer,
R.A., KR.S.A.
Lent by William Wells, Esq., M.P.
144. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted for Lord Chief
Commissioner Adam in 1828. By Colvin Smith, R.S.A.
Lent by W. P. Adam, Esq., M.P.
145. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By Sir David Wilkie,
R.A. Painted in 1822.
Lent by Sir William W. Knighton, Bart.
146. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted for Lord Montague
by Sir Henry Raeburn in 1822.
Lent by the Right Hon. Earl of Home.
147. SIR WA.LTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted in 1820 for
George IV. by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A. It hangs in
the Corridor at Windsor Castle. It has been engraved
by Robinson and others.
Lent by Her Majesty the Queen.
148. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Study of his Head.
�WOUTH OCTAGON.
17
Painted by Sir John Watson Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A., for
his own use.
Lent by H. G. Watson, Esq.
149. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted in 1805 for Lady
Scott by James Saxon. The Picture was transferred to
Messrs. Longman and Co., London, and was engraved by
Heath in 1810.
Lent by William E. Green, Esq.
150. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted in 1808 by Sir
Henry Raeburn, R.A., for Mr. Constable, from whose
possession it came to the present Proprietor. It has
been engraved by C. Turner, and many others.
Lent by his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch.
151. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By Gilbert Stewart
Newton, R.A. Painted in 1824.
Lent by John Murray, Esq., London.
152. GALA DAY AT ABBOTSFORD. Sketch in Sepia by
Sir William Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
153. THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY IN HIS STUDY.
Cabinet Portrait painted for R. Nasmyth, Esq., by Sir
William Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A., in 1831. It has been
Engraved by John Burnet.
Lent by the Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery,
London.
154. GALA DAY AT ABBOTSFORD. Unfinished Sketch in
Oil Colour. By Sir William Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by Robert Horn, Esq.
155. THE ABBOTSFORD FAMILY. Painted for Sir Adam
Ferguson by Sir David Wilkie, R.A., in 1817.
Lent by Mrs. Ferguson.
156. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted for Mr. Cadell in
1830 by Sir John Watson Gordon, P.R.S.A. This has
been Engraved on a small scale by Horsburgh.
Lent by the Dowager Lady Liston Foulis.
157. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted by Colvin Smith,
R.S.A.
Lent by Colvin Smith, Esq.
158. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted in 1829 for the
Royal Society of Edinburgh, by John Graham Gilbert,
R.S.A.
Lent by the Council of the Royal Society.
�18
SOUTH OCTAGON.
159. A SCENE AT ABBOTSFORD during the Last Days of
Sir Walter Scott. Painted by G-ourlay Steell, R.S.A.
Lent by W. Logan White, Esq.
160. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted by Sir Henry
Raeburn, R.A. This was engraved by Walker in 1826,
and by others.
Lent by J. P. Raeburn, Esq.
161. SIR WALTER SCOTT in his Study in Castle Street,
Edinburgh, writing. Cabinet Portrait. Painted by Sir
John Watson Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A. Engraved by R. C.
Bell for the Royal Association for the Promotion of the
Fine Arts in Scotland.
Lent by Henry G. Watson, Esq.
162. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Painted by Thomas
Philips, R.A.
Lent by John Murray, Esq., London.
163. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.—“The Minstrel of the
Border.” Cabinet Portrait. Painted by Sir William
Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A. Engraved on a small scale.
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
164. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Painted by Sir John
Watson Gordon, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by Sir Wm. Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
165. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. Painted by Henry William
Pickersgill, R.A.
Lent by John Murray, Esq.
166. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted by James Hall.
Lent by Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
167. DR. JOHN RUTHERFORD, Professor of Physic, Edin
burgh University. The Grandfather of Sir Walter Scott.
(See Nos. 358 and 359*). Painted by Cosmo Alexander.
Lent by Dr. Rutherford Haldane.
167*. SIR WALTER SCOTT in the Character of Peter Pattieson. By Robert Scott Lauder, R.S.A. (Under South
Archway.)
Lent by John Blackwood, Esq.
[From 168 to 178** in Glass Case.]
168. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Drawing in Water-colour
by William Nicholson, R.S.A. Done about 1820.
Lent by Mrs. Nicholson.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
19
169. SIR WALTER SCOTT as a Boy. Miniature.
Lent by James Young, Esq.
170. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S MOTHER. Miniature.
Lent by W. M'Donald, Esq.
171. MRS. J. G. LOCKHART. By Wm. Nicholson, R.S.A.
Lent by J. R. Hope Scott, Esq., Q.C.
172. FRAME, containing three Miniatures—
1. Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
2. Lord Byron.
3. Thomas Moore.
Enamelled by William Essex.
Lent by H. G. Bohn, Esq.
173. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Drawing in Water-colour
by Wm. Nicholson, R.S.A. Vignette.
Lent by W. C. C. Erskine, Esq.
174. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. By Sir Francis Grant,
P.R.A., KR.S.A.
Lent by J. R. Hope Scott, Esq., Q.C.
175. WILLIAM ERSKINE, Lord Kinnedder. By Wm. Nichol
son, R.S.A.
Lent by W. C. C. Erskine, Esq.
176. MINIATURE of Mrs. Alicia Cockburn (Miss Rutherford),
Authoress of “ The Flowers of the Forest.” Drawn by
Miss Anne Forbes.
Lent by A. D. Cockburn, Esq.
177. MINIATURE of Anne Duff, Countess of Dumfries. The
Friend of Mrs. Cockburn (No. 176). Drawn by Miss Anne
Forbes.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
178. MINIATURE of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, with the
“ Highlander Ribbon.”
Lent by James Drummond, Esq.
178*. JOHN LEYCESTER ADOLPHUS.
Lent by Mrs. Adolphus.
178**. SIX JACOBITE MINIATURES, and One Bronze
Medal.
Lent by Robert Hay, Esq.
178f. THE BREAKFAST ROOM AT ABBOTSFORD (Sep
tember 1832). By Sir Wm. Allan, P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by Her Majesty the Queen.
�20
SOUTH ARCHWAY.
UNDER SOUTH ARCHWAY.
ENGRAVINGS illustrative of the Writings of
Sir Walter Scott, etc.
179. SERIES of Six Engravings in Illustration of “ Guy Mannering.”
Lent by the Royal Association for the Promotion of
the Fine Arts in Scotland.
180. SERIES of Six Engravings in Illustration of “ Rob Roy.”
Lent by Do.
181. COPY Portrait of Graham of Claverhouse. By J. Ramage.
Lent by Wm. MacDonald, Esq.
182. PLAY BILL with Cast of Rob Roy, on the occasion of
the Visit of his Majesty George IV. to the TheatreRoyal, Edinburgh.
Lent by James Ballantine, Esq.
183. ENGRAVED Portrait of Mr. Charles Mackay as “Bailie
Nicol Jarvie.”
Lent by James Drummond, Esq.
184. SERIES of Six Engravings in Illustration of “Old Mor
tality.”
This and the following Four Numbers lent by the
Royal Association for the Promotion of the Fine
Arts in Scotland.
185. SERIES of Five Engravings in Illustration of “ The.Pirate,”
and Engraved Portrait of Sir Walter Scott, after Sir John
Watson Gordon’s Painting of Scott in his Study in Castle
Street.
186. SERIES of Six Engravings in Illustration of “The Anti
quary.”
187. SERIES of Six Engravings in Illustration of “ The Lady of
the Lake.”
188. SERIES of Eight Engravings in Illustration of “ Waverley.”
�NORTH ARCHWA Y.
21
UNDER. NORTH ARCHWAY.
ENGRAVED PORTRAITS of Sir Walter Scott, his
Family, and other Friends.
189. SIB WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Full length. Painted by
F. Grant. Engraved by Thomas Hodgetts.
This and the following 19 contributed by Sir William
Stirling Maxwell, Bart.
190. WALTER SCOTT. Half length. Hayez, del. Milano,
litog. Vassalli.
191. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Full length.
Sir H. Raeburn. Engraved by R. Cooper.
192. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Lawrence, P.R.A., pinxit.
Mezzotint.
Painted by
Half length. Sir Thomas
William Humphrey, sculp.
193. WALTER SCOTT. Half length. Copied from Robinson’s
Print after Sir T. Lawrence, but reversed. Laurens,
pinxit. Belnos, del. Lith. Lemerair. Paris and New
York.
194. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Engraved by W. Holl.
195. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Medallion.
J. Bate, exect.
From a Medal by Stothard (No. 458), after a Bust by
Chantrey.
196. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
by Thompson.
Bust by Chantrey.
Engraved
197. THE ABBOTSFORD FAMILY. Painted by Sir D.
Wilkie. Engraved by Robert Graves, A.R.A.
198. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length. From the
original Picture by Mr. Leslie. London, C. Tilt, Sept.
1833.
199. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length. Painted by
J. Graham. Engraved by J. Thompson. Painted in 1829
for the Royal Society, Edinburgh. L. 762.
200. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Engraved with permission
of John Murray, Esq., from a Painting by T. Phillips,
R.A., by W. T. Fry.
201. WALTER SCOTT. Half length. Mr. T. Laurence,pinxit.
�22
NORTH ARCHWAY.
202. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Bust.
203. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
204. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
pinxit.
H. Raeburn, 1811.
Half length. C. R. Leslie,
205. WALTER SCOTT, Esq. Bust. Raeburn,pinxit. C. Heath,
sculpt.
206. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Half length. Painted by C. R.
Leslie, R.A. Engraved by M. I. Danforth. London,
1829.
207. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Bust.
R. Cooper, sculpt.
208. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Bust.
209. WALTER SCOTT, Esq. Full length, seated. Engraved
by C. Turner from the original Picture by Raeburn, in the
possession of Archibald Constable. Published 1810.
A Proof impression, having the Harp mark.
Lent by James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
210. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head. Engraved by Wm.
Walker from a Picture by Sir Henry Raeburn, R.A.
Dedicated to the King. Published 2d Oct. 1826. Edin.
and London. The original Picture in the possession of
J. P. Raeburn, Esq.
Lent by Dr. J. A. Smith.
211. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length. Painted by
Sir David Wilkie, R.A. Engraved by Ed. Smith.
This and Nos. 212 to 256 contributed by
J. Drummond, Esq.
212. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Full length. In his Study
reading Proclamation. Etching by Sir Wm. Allan from
his own Picture, painted in 1831.
213. WALTER SCOTT, Anno 1777. 2Et. 6. Miniature Por
trait. From an original, in a Frame. Engraved by
Horsburgh, 1839.
214. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Full length, seated. En
graved by Horsburgh from Picture by Sir H. Raeburn.
215. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Kit-Kat. T. Phillips, R.A.
Engraved by S. W. Reynolds in Mezzotint.
216. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Three-quarters. Engraved
by John Horsburgh. Painted by Sir John Watson Gor
don. Cadell, 1831.
�NORTH ARCHWAY.
23
217. WALTER SCOTT.
Head. Engraved by F. 0. Lewis.
Drawn by A. Geddes. London, Carpenter & Son. 1824.
218. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
John Ballantyne, R.S.A.
Head Size.
Drawn by
219. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Bust. W.H. Weisse, fee.
F. Schenck, lith.
220. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted by Sir David
Wilkie in 1826. Engraved by E. Smith.
221. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
W. Read.
Kit-Cat.
Engraved by
222. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length. Painted
by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A. Engraved by John H.
Robinson.
223. WALTER SCOTT, surnamed Beardie, Grandfather of Sir
Walter Scott. Engraved by G. B. Shaw from the Ori
ginal at Abbotsford.
224. WALTER SCOTT, Writer to the Signet, Father of Sir
Walter Scott. Engraved by G. B. Shaw, from a Picture
at Abbotsford.
225. ANNE RUTHERFORD, Mother of Sir Walter Scott,
Engraved by G. B. Shaw, from a Picture at Abbotsford.
226. LADY SCOTT.
Saxon, pinxit.
G. B. Shaw, sculp.
227. MRS. J. G. LOCKHART, Eldest Daughter of Sir Walter
Scott. Full length, with Dog. Engraved by G. B. Shaw.
Painted by Nicholson.
228. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head in Oval, Coat of
Arms and Scotch Thistles.
On same page, view of
Abbotsford in rich frame. The whole surrounded by an
Ornamental border.
229. ANNE SCOTT, Second Daughter of Sir Walter Scott.
Engraved by G. B. Shaw. Painted by W. Nicholson.’
230. J. G. LOCKHART.
W. Allan, R.A.
G. B. Shaw.
231. SCENE AT ABBOTSFORD. Painted by E. Landseer,
A.R.A. Engraved by C. Westwood.
232. CHARLES EDWARD STUART. T. Wageman, Artist.
J. Cook, sculp.
233. COLONEL GARDINER. Engraved by G. B. Shaw.
�24
NORTH ARCHWAY.
234. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Head size. Vignette
(Lithograph). Gatti, pinxit. Napoli R. Litografia Militare, 1829.
235. WALTER SCOTT. Head size. From one of the Raeburn
Pictures. Lith. vignette. Mauraisse, ft. 1826.
236. WALTER SCOTT. Half length. Vignette (Lithograph).
Napoli Lit. a Fergola, e De Falco. 1832. Proto e Marta,
pinxt.
237. THE ABBOTSFORD FAMILY. Engraved by John Smith
from Wilkie’s Picture painted in 1817. (Line.)
238. SIR WALTER SCOTT and his Family. Group of Nine
Figures. This Picture was painted in 1817 for Sir Adam
Ferguson. (Line.) Engraved by W. Greatbach. Painted
by Sir David Wilkie, R.A.
239. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Head size. Engraved by J. B.
Bird. Painted by G. S. Newton, R.A., in 1824.
240. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head size. Engraved by
W. Finden from Newton’s Picture, painted in 1824.
241. SIR WALTER SCOTT (o&. 1832).
Engraved by H. T.
Ryall. Painted by J. P. Knight, R.A., in 1826.
242. THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY. Full length.
Outline. Published in “ Fraser’s Magazine.”
In
243. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Head and Shoulders. Engraved
by Holl. Vignette.
244. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Wright, sculp.
245. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
by W. Read.
246. WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
Meyer.
Head.
Branston and
Half length.
Engraved
Head size. Engraved by H. T.
247. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
sculp.
Kit-Cat.
J. R. West,
248. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Sitting Posture. From Statue in
Monument at Edinburgh. (Lithograph.) Drawn by J.
Sutcliffe. Statue by John Steell, R.S.A.
249. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Statue by John Green
shields, on Pedestal, “ Sic Sedebat.” Engraved by G. B.
Shaw.
�NORTH ARCHWAY.
25
250. WALTER SCOTT. Medallion. Engraved by machinery
by T. S. Woodcock, Brooklyn, N.Y., from a Medal by
Crawford.
251. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Statuette, being Testimonial
to the Secretary from the Bannatyne Club. (See No. 439.)
252. WALTER SCOTT.
Head.
No Engraver’s name.
253. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head size. No Engraver’s
name. W. Darton, London, 1822.
254. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Head and Shoulders. From
Raeburn’s Portrait.
255. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Head. From Raeburn’s Portrait.
256. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., Colossal Marble Statue of.
Full length. Woodcut. John Steell, R.S.A.
257. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., in his Study at Abbotsford.
Engraved from the original Picture in the possession of
R. Naysmith, Esq., P.R.C.S., and respectfully dedicated to
his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch, by his obliged servant,
William Allan. This is one of a very few impressions
thrown off with Mr. Nasmyth’s name misspelled.
This and Nos. 258 to 267 contributed by D. Laing, Esq.
258. WALTER SCOTT, Esq. Full figure, seated.
by Colin Campbell, Edin., 1817.
Engraved
259. WALTER SCOTT. Head in Oval. Small German Print.
Knigt, del, Riedel, sc.
260. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., P.R.S.E.
Head and
Shoulders. Engraved by J. Thomson from an original
Picture (W. Nicholson).
261. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head and Shoulders.
Knight and Lacey. London, 1828.
262. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head size. No Engraver’s
name.
263. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Three-quarters, sitting.
Engraved by T. Crawford, 1833.
264. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Roffe.
Head size.
265. WALTER SCOTT, Esq., Writing.
by T. Arrowsmith.
Engraved by
From a stolen Sketch
�26
NORTH ARCHWAY
266. SIR. WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head Size.
W. T. Fry.
Engraved by
267. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head and Shoulders.
Engraved by W. Holl, from, an Original Drawing.
268. THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY in his Study. W.
Allan, A.R.A., pinxt. E. Goodall, sculp.
This and Nos. 269 to 279 contributed by J. Rose, Esq.
269. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Head and Shoulders.
Engraved by J. Thomson from a Drawing by J. Partridge.
London, 1823.
270. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Head and Shoulders.
271. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head and Shoulders.
After Sir J. W. Gordon.
272. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Copy from Engraving by
Hodgetts.
273. WALTER SCOTT. Naples, 16th April 1832.
part of body. Vinct. Morani, fee. (Na. 1832.)
graph Vig.
Upper
Litho
274. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Medallion. Engraved by Tacey.
The Ornament by Mitan, after H. Corbould.
275. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. A Composite Picture from
various Portraits of Sir Walter, at different periods, 1777,
1820, 1830, 1831. Designed by H. Corbould. Fngraved by W. Finden.
276. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Head and Shoulders.
by Woolnoth and Hawksworth, 1825.
Engraved
277. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Head in outline.
278. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
Head in Small Oval.
279. WALTER SCOTT. Half length. W. N.,//., 1817 (Wm.
Nicholson). Autograph of Sir Walter Scott, and “ I beg
your acceptance of a specimen of Edinburgh Art, which I
hope you will like.”
280. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length. Drawn and
engraved by R. M. Hodgetts.
Lent by W. Riddell Carre, Esq.
281. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Head. Engraved by R.
W. Sievier from an original Sketch by Mr. Slater, 1821.
Lent by Daniel Bruce, Esq.
�NORTH ARCHWAY.
27
282. THE GRAVE of Sir Walter Scott in Dryburgh Abbey.
Drawn by J. A. Bell. Engraved by W. Millar.
Lent by J. Drummond, Esq.
283. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S ARMOURY at Abbotsford.
From a Painting by Col. Henry Stisted. Lithograph.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
284. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Half length.
by R. Hodgetts, jun. Painted by Mr. Henry.
Lent by T. George Stevenson, Esq.
285. WALTER SCOTT, Esq. Half length.
Heath, sculpt.
Lent by W. Riddell Carre, Esq.
Engraved
Saxon, pinxt.
286. WALTER SCOTT, Esq. From a Picture by Raeburn.
Engraved by Picart from a Drawing by Evans.
Lent by A. Campbell Swinton, Esq.
287. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Engraved by E. Mitchell
from a Picture by Sir Henry Raeburn.
Lent by Archibald Hutton, Esq.
288. THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.
Full length.
W. Crombie,/^.
Lent by Dr. John A. Smith.
B.
289. LANDSEER’S STUDIO, with the Bust of Sir Walter
Scott introduced from a picture. By Sir Edwin Landseer.
Lent by Henry Graves, Esq.
290. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Bust, Profile, Woodcut, from
Sketch by Robert Scott Moncrieff, Advocate, made in the
Parliament House between 1816 and 1820. In Leisure
Hour, July 1871.
Lent by Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
�28
SOUTH OCTAGON.
SOUTH OCTAGON.
WORKS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
EARLY EDITIONS AND ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS.
291. THE CHASE, and William and Helen : Two Ballads from
the German of Gottfried Augustus Burger. Edinburgh :
Printed by Mundell and Son, R. Bank Close, for Manners
and Miller, Parliament Square. 1796. 4to.
Lent by Mr. Campbell Swinton.
292. GOETZ of Berlichingen, with the Iron Hand : a Tragedy.
Translated from the German of Goethe, author of the
“ Sorrows of Werther,” etc. By Walter Scott, Esq., Ad
vocate, Edinburgh. London : Printed for J. Bell, No.
148 Oxford Street. 1799. 8vo.
Lent by Mr. Campbell Swinton.
293. MINSTRELSY of the Scottish Border : consisting of His
torical and Romantic Ballads, collected in the Southern
Counties of Scotland; with a few of modern date, founded
upon local Tradition. Kelso : Printed by James Ballan
tyne. 1802. 2 vols. 8vo. (With the view of Hermitage
Castle. Williams, del. Walker, sculpt. And Autograph
of John Clerk, Eldin.) Vol. III., as usual, is called the
Second Edition. Edinburgh : Printed by James Ballan
tyne. 1803. 8vo.
Lent by Mr. Gibson Craig.
294. THE MINSTRELSY of the Scottish Border. In Three
Volumes. Second Edition. Edinburgh : Printed by James
Ballantyne. 1803. 3 vols. 8vo. Thick paper copy.*
Lent by Mr. Laing.
295. THE LAY of the Last Minstrel: a Poem, by Walter
Scott, Esq. London : Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees,
and Orme, Paternoster Row, and A. Constable and Co.,
Edinburgh. By James Ballantyne, Edinburgh. 1805.
4to. On the fly-leaf is written,
“ Mrs. Scott, from her affectionate son, the Author.”
Lent from the Abbotsford Library.
296. Another Copy of the same Edition, with Manuscript Cor
rections and Additions by the Author. On the fly-leaf Sir
Walter has written, “ This copy was prepared for the
Second Edition, upon the principle of abbreviating the
Notes recommended by the Edinburgh Review in their
notice of the Poem. But my friend Mr. Constable would
�^VUTH OCTAGON.
29
not hear of the proposed Abridgement, and so the anti
quarian matter was retained.—W. S., 15th June 1821.”
Lent by Her Majesty the Queen.
297. The Third Edition. Edinburgh. 1806. 8vo. A Pre
sentation Copy, with a Letter from the Author to George
Home, Esq.
Lent by Mr. Milne Home of Wedderbum.
298. MARMION : a Tale of Flodden Field. By Walter Scott,
Esq. Edinburgh : Printed by J. Ballantyne & Co., for
Archibald Constable & Company, Edinburgh; and Wil
liam Miller and John Murray, London. 1808. 4to.
Lent from the Signet Library.
299. THE ASHESTIEL MANUSCRIPT. A Volume “collected
and bound by me, in December 1848, J. G. L.” (John
G. Lockhart).
The Original MS. of Sir Walter Scott’s Autobio
graphy. 50 leaves. There is added in this Volume:—
1. The Petition of Walter Scott for admission as an
Advocate, 1791. (Exhibited as No. 362.) 2. Certificate
of Sir Walter’s Marriage in the Parish Church of St. Mary,
Carlisle, 23d December 1797. 3. Commission, Walter
Scott, Esq., to Mr. Charles Erskine, Sheriff-substitute of
Selkirkshire, 14th March 1800. 4. Commission by Lord
Napier, Lord-Lieutenant of the County of Selkirk, in favour
of Walter Scott, Esq., appointing him a Deputy-Lieutenant
of said County, 1800. 5. Burgess Ticket for the Burgh
of Kirkwall, 1814. 6. Burgess Ticket for the Burgh of
Dunfermline.
Lent by J. R. Hope Scott, Esq., Abbotsford.
300. THE ARTICLE ROMANCE. The ORIGINAL MANU
SCRIPT. By Sir Walter Scott. From the Supplement
to “ Encyclopaedia Britannica.” Presented by Professor
Napier to James T. Gibson Craig, Esq.
Lent by Mr. Gibson Craig.
300*. ORIGINAL ARTICLE on the “ Tales of My Landlord.”
Contributed to the Quarterly Review, in the handwriting
of Sir Walter Scott. 4to. Pp. 69.
Lent by Mr. Murray, London.
301. THE LADY OF THE LAKE; a Poem. By Walter
Scott, Esq. Edinburgh : Printed for John Ballantyne &
Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, & Orme,
and William Miller, London. By James Ballantyne &
Co., Edinburgh, 1810. 4to. Presented to “William
Erskine from Walter Scott.”
Lent by Mr. Erskine of Kinnedder.
�30
SOUTH OCTAGON.
302. THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
The ORIGINAL
MANUSCRIPT.
Lent by Francis Richardson, Esq., Mickleham, Surrey.
302*. THE VISION OF DON RODERICK; a Poem. By
Walter Scott, Esq.
Edinburgh: Printed by James
Ballantyne & Co. 1811. 4to.
Lent from the Signet Library.
303. ROKEBY; a Poem. By Walter Scott, Esq. Edinburgh :
Printed for John Ballantyne & Co., Edinburgh; and
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, & Brown, London. By
James Ballantyne & Co. Edinburgh, 1813. 4to. Copy
on Large paper with the inscription, “ William Erskine,
Esq., from his affectionate friend, the Author.”
Lent by Mr. Erskine of Kinnedder.
304. ROKEBY; a Poem in Six Cantos.
The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, on mixed quarto and
folio paper. The chief portion of Cantos I.-III. having been
transmitted in single sheets by the Post-Office, addressed
Mr. James Ballantyne, Printer, Hanover Street, Edinburgh,
have the stamps Melrose, Galashiels; with various notes
and letters of instructions, etc., to Mr. Ballantyne. 1813.
Lent by Mr. Hope Scott, Abbotsford.
305. THE LORD OF THE ISLES; a Poem. By Walter
Scott, Esq. Edinburgh : Printed for Archibald Constable
& Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme,
and Brown, London; by James Ballantyne & Co., Edin
burgh. 1815. 4to.
Lent from the Signet Library.
306. THE LORD OF THE ISLES.
The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, with the Printers’
Marks, and some portions written upon a larger-sized
paper, with extracts for the Notes, in a different hand. 1815.
Lent by Mr. Hope Scott, Abbotsford.
307. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN; or, The Vale of St.
John. Anon. Edinburgh. 1813. 12mo.
This and Nos. 308 to 313 Lent from the Signet Library.
308. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO; a Poem.
Scott, Esq. Edinburgh, 1815. 8vo.
By Walter
309. HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS; a Poem, in Six Cantos.
By the Author of “ The Bridal of Triermain.” Edin
burgh. 1817. 12mo.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
31
310. THE VISIONARY. Nos. I. II. III. Edinburgh : Printed
for William Blackwood, Edinburgh; and T. Cadell &
W. Davies, Strand, London. 1819. 12mo.
310*.HALIDON HILL : a Dramatic Sketch from Scottish His
tory. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Edinburgh. 1822. 8vo.
311. THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL; a Melo-Drama. Auchindrane, or the Ayrshire Tragedy. By Sir Walter Scott,
Bart. Printed for Cadell and Company, Edinburgh.
1830. 8vo.
312. PAUL’S LETTERS TO HIS KINSFOLK. Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. for Archibald Con
stable & Company, Edinburgh. 1816. 8vo.
312*.LETTERS ON DEMONOLOGY AND WITCHCRAFT,
addressed to J. G. Lockhart, Esq. By Sir Walter Scott,
Bart. London : John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1830.
12mo. (Murray’s Family Library).
313. THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, Emperor
of the French; with a Preliminary View of the French
Revolution. By the Author of Waverley, etc. Long
man, Rees, Orme, Brown, & Green, London; and Cadell
& Co., Edinburgh. Printed in 1827. 9 vols. Post 8vo.
314. LETTERS to the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, on the Change
of the Currency, by Malachi Malagrowther. Edinburgh.
1826. 8vo.
This and No. 314* Lent by Mr. Campbell Swinton.
314*.RELIGIOUS DISCOURSES. By a Layman. London:
Henry Colburn, New Burlington Street. 1828. 8vo.
315. THE HISTORY OF SCOTLAND. By Sir Walter Scott,
Bart. In Two Volumes. London: Printed for Long
man, Rees, Orme, Brown, & Green, Paternoster Row; and
John Taylor, Upper Gower Street. 1829, 1830. 2 vols.
12mo. (Gardner’s Cyclopaedia).*
315*. MEMOIRS of the Marchioness De La Rochejaquelein.
Translated from the French. Edinburgh : Printed for
Constable & Co. 1827. 12mo. Constable’s “ Miscellany
of Original and Selected Publications.” *
316. CATALOGUE of the Library at Abbotsford. [Prepared
by J. G. Cochrane.] Edinb. 1838. 4to.*
Copies of this Catalogue presented by Major Sir Walter
Scott, Bart., to the Bannatyne Club. Copies were also
provided for the Maitland Club, as the contribution of
John G. Lockhart, Esq.
�32
SOUTH OCTAGON.
317. THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. Author’s Edition. Eight
Volumes of the Copyright text, selected as specimens,
containing the Manuscript Introductions and Annotations
by Sir Walter Scott, 1829-1832 :—
Vol. I. Waverley.
II. Waverley and Guy Mannering.
III. Guy Mannering continued.
IV. The Antiquary.
V. The Antiquary continued, and Rob Roy.
VI. Rob Roy continued.
VII. The Black Dwarf and Old Mortality.
XVII. The Abbot—Kenilworth.
Lent by Messrs. A. & C. Black.
The Printed Books and MSS. between Nos. 315 and 408,
marked * at the end, Lent by Mr. D. Laing from his own
Collection.
318. WAVERLEY; or, ’Tis Sixty Years Since. In Three
Volumes.
Edinburgh: Printed by James Ballantyne
and Co., for Archibald Constable and Co., Edinburgh;
and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, London.
1814. 3 Vols. 12mo.*
319. GUY MANNERING. By the Author of “Waverley.”
Edinburgh : Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. 1815.
3 Vols. 12mo.
Lent from the Signet Library.
320. THE ANTIQUARY. By the Author of “Waverley”
and “ Guy Mannering.” Edinburgh : Printed by James
Ballantyne. 3 Vols. 1816. 12mo.
This and Nos. 321, 323, 326, 328, 329, and 348 Lent
by Mr. W. Paterson.
321. ROB ROY. By the Author of “Waverley,” “Guy Man
nering,” and “ The Antiquary.” Edinburgh : Printed
by James Ballantyne & Co. 1818. 12mo.
322. ROB ROY. The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
Lent by J. R. Hope Scott, Esq.
The history of this interesting volume is thus given in
a foot-note by Mr. Cadell:—“ This, the Original Manu
script (prima cura of the Author) of the Novel of Rob
Roy, was one of the volumes of MSS. presented by Sir
Walter Scott to Mr. Constable in 1822 on the death of
LordKinnedder, and was sold by auction by Mr. Constable’s
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
33
Trustees on 19th August 1831 ; and it was purchased by
Mr. Wilks, M.P., and resold by auction on 2'2d March
1847, when it fell into the possession of Mr. R. Cadell of
Edinburgh, by whom it is this day presented, with
kind regards, to J. G-. Lockhart, Esq.
“Ratho, 15th August 1848.”
There is inserted the following note to “ Mr. James
Ballantyne, St. John Street—
“ Dear James,
With great joy
I send you Roy.
’Twas a tough job,
But we’re done wi’ Rob.
I forgot if I mentioned Terry in my list of friends.
Pray send me two or three copies as soon as you can.
And we must not forget Sir William Forbes.—Yours
ever,
W. S.”
323; TALES OF MY LANDLORD, Collected and Arranged
by Jedediah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster of Gandercleugh; Edinburgh: Printed for William Blackwood,
Princes Street, and John Murray, Albemarle Street, Lon
don. Four Vols. 1816. 12mo. Vols. I. and II. The
Black Dwarf. Vols. III. and IV. Old Mortality.
323*. OLD MORTALITY. The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
Lent by Francis Richardson, Esq., Mickleham, Surrey.
324. TALES OF MY LANDLORD. Second Series. Collected
. and Arranged by Jedediah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster and
Parish-Clerk of Gandercleugh. Edinburgh : Printed for
Archibald Constable & Company. 1818. 4 Vols. 12mo.
Containing Heart of Midlothian.
This and Nos. 327 to 330, and 333 Lent from the
Signet Library.
325. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN. The ORIGINAL
MANUSCRIPT. 1818.
Lent by John Cowan, Esq., Beeslack, Penicuik.
326. IVANHOE. A Romance. By the Author of “ Waverley.”
Edinburgh. 1820. 3 Vols. 12mo.
327. THE MONASTERY. A Romance. By the Author of
“Waverley.” Edinburgh. 1820. 3 Vols. 12mo.
328. THE ABBOT.
A Romance.
By the Author
“Waverley.” Edinburgh. 1820. 3 Vols. 12mo.
c
of
�34
SOUTH OCTAGON.
329. KENILWORTH; A Romance.
By the Author of
“Waverley,” “Ivanhoe,” etc. Edinburgh. 1821. 3 Vols.
12mo.
330. THE PIRATE. By the Author of “ Waverley,” “ Kenil
worth,” etc. Edinburgh: Printed for Archibald Con
stable & Co.; and Hurst, Robinson, & Co., London.
1822. 3 Vols. 12mo.
331. THE PIRATE. The concluding leaves of the Original
Manuscript. Volume I. Presented to Mark Napier,
Esq., by Mr. John Alexander Ballantyne. This remnant,
says Mr. N., “is specially valuable, as it comprehends
Sir Walter Scott’s corrected draft of the beautiful verses
with which the First Volume of the Pirate concludes—
the ‘Farewell to Northmaven.’ . . . Mr. Ballantyne took
occasion one day, in his own office, to present me with
this valuable and interesting Autograph, which he told me
was the last fragment he possessed of Sir Walter Scott’s
copy for the printer.”
Lent by Mark Napier, Esq.
332. THE PIRATE.
The principal portion
MANUSCRIPT. In One Volume.
Lent by the Rev. R. H. Stevenson.
ORIGINAL
333. FORTUNES OF NIGEL. By the Author of “Waverley,”
“Kenilworth,” etc. Edinburgh. 1823. Three Vols.
12mo.
334. TALES OF MY LANDLORD. Series Third. The
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, Bride of Lammermoor,
containing the first seven Chapters of Volume I. and
Chapters IV. to Chapter XII. Vol. II.
Lent by Mr. Christopher Douglas.
335. THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. A large portion
of the ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
Lent by Sir James Hall, Bart., of Dunglass.
336. THE LEGEND OF MONTROSE. A portion of the
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT near the commencement.
Chapter III. etc. Presented to Mr. Laing by the late John
Alexander Ballantyne, Esq., Printer (along with the next
Number).*
336*. KENILWORTH. A portion of the Original Manuscript
of the earlier Chapters. (See No. 336.)*
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
35
^TJPEVERIL OF THE PEAK. By the Author of “Waver
ley,” “ Kenilworth,” etc. Edinburgh : Printed for Archi
bald Constable & Co., Edinburgh ; and Hurst, Robinson,
& Co., London. 1822. 4 Vols. 12mo.
This and Nos. 338, 339, 341, 344, 345, 347,'and
348 Lent from the Signet Library.
338. QUENTIN DURWARD.
12mo.
3 Vols.
Edinburgh.
1823.
339. REDGAUNTLET, a Tale of the Eighteenth Century.
By the Author of “ Waverley.” Edinburgh: Printed for
Archibald Constable & Co., Edinburgh; and Hurst,
Robinson, & Co., London. 3 Vols. 1824. 12mo.
340. REDGAUNTLET. The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
4to. 1824.
Lent by Dowager Lady Liston Foulis.
341. ST. RONAN’S WELL. By the Author of “Waverley,”
“ Quentin Durward,” etc. Edinburgh : Printed for Archi
bald Constable & Co., Edinburgh ; and Hurst, Robinson,
& Co., London. 1824. 3 Vols. 12mo.
342. ST. RONAN’S WELL. The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
1824.
Lent by A. Skene, Esq., Aberdeen.
343. A PROOF-COPY of the First Sheet of St. Ronan’s Well,
with the Author’s Corrections, sent to Mr. Ballantyne.*
344. TALES OF THE CRUSADERS. By the Author of
“ Waverley,” “ Quentin Durward,” etc. Edinburgh :
Printed for Archibald Constable & Co., Edinburgh; and
Hurst, Robinson, & Co., London. Vols. I. and II. The
Betrothed; Vols. III. and IV. The Talisman. 1825.
4 Vols. Post 8vo.
345. WOODSTOCK; or, The Cavalier. A Tale of the Year
Sixteen Hundred and Fifty-one. By the Author of
“ Waverley,” “ Tales of the Crusaders,” etc. Edinburgh :
Printed for Archibald Constable & Co., Edinburgh; and
Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, & Green, London. 1826.
3 Vols. 12mo.
346. CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE, containing “The
Fair Maid of Perth,” “ The Highland Widow,” and “ The
Surgeon’s Daughter.”
The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
Lent by Dr. J. D. Gillespie.
�36
SOUTH OCTAGON.
347. CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE. By the Author
of “ Waverley,” etc.
Containing “ The Two Drovers,”
“ Highland Widow,” and “ Surgeon’s Daughter.” Edin
burgh : Printed for Cadell and Co., Edinburgh; and
Simpkin and Marshall, London. 1827. 2 Vols. 12mo.
Lent from the Signet Library.
348. CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE. Second Series.
Containing “ St. Valentine’s Day, or The Fair Maid of
Perth.” Edinburgh. 1828. 3 Vols. 12mo.
349. ANNE OF GEIERSTEIN : or, The Maiden of the Mist.
By the Author of “ Waverley,” etc. In Three Volumes.
Edinburgh : Printed for Cadell and Co., Edinburgh : and
Simpkin and Marshal, London. 12mo.
This and Nos. 350 to 353, and 355* Lent from the
Signet Library.
349*.TALES OF MY LANDLORD. Fourth Series. Castle
Dangerous. The ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, in the
handwriting of William Laidlaw, with Corrections and
Additions by the Author.
Lent by Francis Richardson, Esq.
350. TALES OF MY LANDLORD. Fourth and Last Series.
Collected and Arranged by Jedediah Cleishbotham, School
master and Parish-Clerk of Gandercleugh. Printed for
Robert Cadell, Edinburgh; and Whittaker and Co.,
London. 1832. 4 Vols. 12mo. Containing “Count
Robert of Paris ” and “ Castle Dangerous.”
351. THE WAVERLEY DRAMAS. Vol. I. Containing
George Heriot—Ivanhoe—The Battle of Bothwell Bridge
—The Pirate—and, Peveril of the Peak.
Vol. II. Containing Montrose—Waverley—Redgauntlet
—Mary Queen of Scots, and The Talisman.
John Anderson, jun., Edinburgh, and Simpkin &
Marshall, London. 1823. 2 Vols. 12mo.
352. THE POETRY contained in the Novels, Tales, and
Romances of the Author of “ Waverley.” Edinburgh :
Printed for Archibald Constable and Co., and Hurst,
Robinson, and Co., London. 1822. 12mo.
353. TALES OF A GRANDFATHER, being Stories taken from
Scottish History. Humbly inscribed to Hugh Littlejohn,
Esq. In Three Vols. Printed for Cadell & Co., Edin
burgh; Simpkin & Marshall, London. 1828. 12mo.
Ditto. Second Series. Three Vols. 1829.
Third Series.
Three Vols. 1830.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
37
354. TALES OF A GRANDFATHER. First Series. The
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. 1828.
Lent by George Hogarth, Esq., Banker, Cupar-Fife.
355. TALES OF A GRANDFATHER. Another portion of
the ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. 1828.
Lent by Francis Richardson, Esq.
355*. TALES OF A GRANDFATHER; being Stories taken
from the History of France. 1831. 3 Vols.
356. A SERIES of Sketches of the existing Localities alluded
to in the Waverley Novels. Etched from Original Draw
ings. By James Skene, Esq. Robert Cadell, Edin
burgh. 1831. Royal 8vo.*
357. A COLLECTION of Engravings after celebrated Artists,
to Illustrate the Works of Sir Walter Scott. Proof Im
pressions, bound in Two Volumes. Large folio.
Lent by Robert Horn, Esq., Advocate.
MANUSCRIPTS and LETTERS written by or
hauing reference to Sir Waiter Scott.
358. CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE betwixt “ Mr. Walter Scott,
Writer to the Signet, eldest lawfull son of Mr. Robert
Scott in Sandieknow, and Mrs. Anne Rutherfurd, eldest
daughter of Doctor John Rutherfurd, Professor of Medi
cine in the Colledge of Edinburgh, and the deceast Mrs.
Jean Swinton, his first spouse, daughter of the deceast
Sir John Swinton of that Ilk,” etc.
(Subscribed) Walter Scott, Ann Rutherford.
Robert Scott, Jo. Rutherfoord (witnesses).
Six leaves written on stamped paper.
25th April 1758.
Lent by Dr. Daniel Rutherfurd Haldane, Edinburgh.
359. CONTRACT between James Brown, Architect in Edinburgh, and Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, to feu and
build a Dwelling-house, with Cellars, Coach-house, etc., on
the West Row of the great Square called George Square,
[No. 25] at the annual feu of £5,14s., the first payment to
commence at Whitsunday 1773.
Six pages, each signed Walter Scott.
This and No. 359* Lent by Mr. D. Laing.
�38
SOUTH OCTAGON.
359*. LETTER of Doctor John Rutherfoord, without any ad
dress, evidently relating to his grandchild’s illness. It
begins, “ D. Sir,—Mr. Scot has been with me just now,
and given me an account of his son’s illness, and what
you had done for them very properly. But as the Disease
seems to be increasing, I think -you should immediately
apply a Blister across the forepart of his neck, etc. . . .
Meantime keep the room quiet tho’ not too closs or warm.
I am, in haste,—D. Sir, yours most sincerely,
“Jo. Rutherfoord.
“ Saturday, past 8 p.m.”
360. LETTER, Mrs. A. Cockburn addressed to the Rev. Dr.
Douglas, Minister of Galashiels, containing the description
of Sir Walter Scott when a youth of about six years of
age. First printed by Mr. Lockhart in his Life of Scott,
as follows :—
“I last night supped, in Mr. Walter Scott’s. He has the most
extraordinary genius of a boy I ever saw. He was reading a
poem to his mother when I went in. I made him read on ; it
was the description of a shipwreck. His passion rose with the
storm. He lifted his eyes and hands. ‘There’s the mast gone,’
says he ; ‘ crash it goes !—they will all perish ! ’ After his agita
tion, he turns to me, ‘ That is too melancholy,’ says he ; ‘I had
better read you something more amusing,’ etc.
“ When taken to bed last night, he told his aunt he liked that
lady. ‘What lady?’ says she. ‘Why, Mrs. Cockburn; for-I
think she is a virtuoso like myself.’ ‘Dear Walter,’ says Aunt
Jenny, ‘what is a virtuoso?’ ‘Don’t ye know? Why, it’s one
who wishes and will know everything.’—Now, sir, you will think
this a very silly story. Pray, what age do you suppose this boy
to be ? Name it now, before I tell you. ‘Why, twelve or four
teen.’ No such thing ; he is not quite six years old. He has a
lame leg, for which he was a year at Bath, and has acquired the
perfect English accent, which he has not lost since he came, and he
reads like a Garrick. You will allow this an uncommon exotic.”
Also a small Photograph Portrait of Mrs. Cockburn.
Lent by Miss Douglas, Cumin Place, Grange.
361. FACSIMILE of a School Exercise addressed to Dr. Adam
in the History of the High School of Edinburgh, by
William Steven, D.D., 1849. 12mo.*
362. THE PETITION of Walter Scott, son of Mr. Walter
Scott, Writer to the Signet, unto the Right Honourable
the Lords of Council and Session, to be taken upon Trials
for passing as Advocate, 13th May 1791. With the
attestation of the several Examinators, from June 1791
to July 1792.
Lent by Mr. Hope Scott.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
39
363. DISPUTATIO Juridica, ad Tit. xxiv.
Lib. xlviii.
Pand. de Cadaveribus Damnatorum, Gualterus Scott,
Auct. et Resp. Ad diem 10 Julii, hor. loc. sol. Edin
burgh 1792. 4to.*
364. CASE for the Rev. Mr. M‘Naught, Minister of the Gospel
at Girthan, to be heard at the Bar of the Venerable
Assembly, May 1793, signed Walter Scott; and other
Papers. In 1 Vol.
Lent by Mr. Campbell Swinton.
365. THE SPECULATIVE SOCIETY. Volume of Scroll
Minutes of the Speculative Society from 14th November
1786 to 1st April 1795. The portion of the Minutes,
from 26th November 1791 being holograph of Sir
Walter Scott. Folio.
Also
366. CASH-BOOK of the Speculative Society, commencing
28th November 1786, ending 26th November 1839. 4to.
Lent by the Speculative Society, University.
367. DIPLOMA. Latin Diploma of the Speculative Society,
conferring the degree of an Honorary Member on John
Wilde, Advocate, Professor of Civil Law in the University
of Edinburgh. Written and signed “ Gualterus Scott,
a Secretis. Apud Edinburgum, Feb. 1793/’*
368. ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT: “The Lamentation of the
Faithful Wife of Asan Aga, from the Morlachian lan
guage.” In twenty-seven stanzas, beginning—
“ What yonder glimmers so white on the mountain,
Glimmers so white where yon sycamores grow ?
Is it wild swans around Vaga’s fair fountain ?
Or is it a wreath of the wintry snow ?”
This spirited translation from the German Ballad by
Goethe has probably never been printed. The handwrit
ing is about 1798, and the translation was well known to
some of Sir Walter’s early friends. Goethe’s German
version is entitled “ Klaggesang von der edlen Frau des
Asan-Aga. Morlachisch.
“Was ist Weisses dort am griinen Walde ?
1st es Schnee wohl, oder sind es Schwane ? ” etc.
It was first published by Herder in his well-known collec
tion, “ Volkslieder.” A more literal version by Professor
Aytoun, called “ The Doleful Lay of the Wife of Asa Aga,”
is contained in the Volume of Poems and Ballads of
Goethe. Translated by W. E. Aytoun and T. Martin. 1859.
Lent by Messrs. A- & C. Black.
�40
SOUTH OCTAGON.
BOOKS Edited by SIR WALTER SCOTT.
369. SIR TRISTREM; a Metrical Romance of the Thirteenth
Century. By Thomas of Ercildoune, called The Rhymer.
Edited from the Auchinleck MS. by Walter Scott, Esq.,
Advocate. Edinburgh : Printed by James Ballantyne,
for Archibald Constable & Co., Edinburgh; and Long
man & Rees, London. 1804. Royal 8vo.*
370. ORIGINAL MEMOIRS, written during the Great Civil
War; being the Life of Sir Henry Slingsby, and Memoirs
of Captain Hodgson, with Notes, etc. Edinburgh: Printed
by James Ballantyne & Co. for Archibald Constable &
Co., Edinburgh. 1806. Large paper. 8vo.*
371. MEMOIRS OF ROBERT CARY, Earl of Monmouth,
written by Himself. And Fragmenta Regalia ■, being a
History of Queen Elizabeth’s Favourites. By Sir Robert
Naunton. With Explanatory Annotations. Edinburgh :
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. for Archibald Con
stable & Co., Edinburgh. 1808. 8vo.
372. THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN, now first Collected.
In Eighteen Volumes. Illustrated, with Notes, Historical,
Critical, and Explanatory; and a Life of the Author.
By Walter Scott, Esq. London : Printed for William
Miller, Albemarle Street, by James Ballantyne & Co.,
Edinburgh. 1808. Large paper. Royal 8vo.
Nos. 371 and 372 Lent from the Signet Library.
373. MEMOIRS of Captain George Carleton, an English Officer;
including Anecdotes of the War in Spain under the
Earl of Peterborough, and many interesting particulars
relating to the Manners of the Spaniards in the beginning
of the last Century. Written by Himself. Edinburgh :
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. 1808. Large paper.
8 vo.*
374. THE STATE PAPERS AND LETTERS of Sir Ralph
Sadler, Knight-Banneret.
Edited by Arthur Clifford,
Esq. In Two Volumes. To which is added a Memoir of
the Life of Sir Ralph Sadler, with Historical Notes by
Walter Scott, Esq. Edinburgh : Printed for Archibald
Constable & Co., Edinburgh; and for T. Cadell & W.
Davies, William Millar, and John Murray, London.
1809. 2 Vols. 4to. The same Work on Large paper,
divided into three vols. 4to.*
�WOUTH OCTAGON.
41
375. A COLLECTION of Scarce and Valuable Tracts, on the
most Interesting and Entertaining Subjects; but chiefly
such as relate to the History and Constitution of these
Kingdoms. Selected from an infinite number in Print
and Manuscript, in the Royal, Cotton, Lion, and other
Public as well as Private Libraries; particularly that of
the late Lord Somers. The Second Edition, Revised,
Augmented, and Arranged by Walter Scott, Esq. Thirteen
Volumes. London : Printed for T. Cadell and W. Davies,
Strand; W. Miller, Albemarle Street; R. H. Evans,
Pall Mall; J. White and J. Murray, Fleet Street; and
J. Harding, St. James’s Street. 1809-1815. 4to.
376. THE POETICAL WORKS of Anna Seward; with Ex
tracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by
Walter Scott, Esq. In Three Volumes. Efl inburgh :
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co., for John Ballantyne
& Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, and
Orme, Paternoster Row, London. Post 8vo.
Nos. 375 and 376 Lent from the Signet Library.
377. SECRET HISTORY of the Court of James the First;
containing—1. Osborne’s Traditional Memoirs. 2. Sir
Anthony Weldon’s Court and Character of King James.
3. Aulicus Coquinarise. 4. Sir Edward Peyton’s Divine
Catastrophe of the House of Stuarts. With Notes and
Introductory Remarks. In Two Volumes. Edinburgh :
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co., for John Ballantyne
& Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, &
Brown, London. 2 Vols. Large paper. Royal 8vo.
Lent by Mr. Gibson Craig.
378. MEMOIRS of the Reign of King Charles the First. By
Sir Philip Warwick, Knight. Edinburgh : Printed by
John Ballantyne & Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst,
Rees, Orme, & Brown, London. 1813. Large paper.
Royal 8vo.*
379. THE BORDER ANTIQUITIES of England and Scotland,
comprising Specimens of Architecture and Sculpture, and
other Vestiges of Former Ages, accompanied by Descrip
tions. . Together with Illustrations of remarkable Inci
dents in Border History and Tradition, and Original
Poetry. By Walter Scott, Esq. London: Printed for
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, & Brown, Paternoster Row;
J. Murray, Albemarle Street; John Greig, Upper Street"
Islington; and Constable & Co., Edinburgh. 2 Vols’
Large paper. 4to.*
�42
SOUTH OCTAGON.
380. ILLUSTRATIONS of Northern Antiquities, from the
earlier Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances ; being an
Abstract of the Book of Heroes, and Nibelungen Lay;
with Translation of Metrical Tales from the old German,
Danish, Swedish, and Icelandic languages, with Notes and
Dissertations. By Henry Weber, Robert Jamieson, and
Sir Walter Scott. Edinburgh : Printed by James Ballan
tyne and Co. 1814. 4to.
381. THE WORKS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., Dean of
St. Patrick’s, Dublin; containing Additional Letters,
Tracts, and Poems, not hitherto published, with Notes,
and a Life of the Author, by Walter Scott, Esq. 19
Volumes. Edinburgh : Printed for Archibald Constable
& Co., Edinburgh; White, Cochrane, & Co., and Gale,
Curtis, & Fenner, London ; and John Cumming, Dublin.
1814. Large paper. Royal 8vo.
Nos. 380 and 381 Lent from the Signet Library.
382. MEMORIE OF THE SOMERVILLES; being a History
of the Baronial House of Somerville, by James Eleventh
Lord Somerville. In Two Volumes. Edinburgh : Printed
by James Ballantyne & Co. for Archibald Constable &
Company, Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme,
& Brown, London. 1815. 2 Volumes. Large paper.
Royal 8vo.*
383. THE LETTING of Humours Blood in the Head Vaine,
etc., by S. Rowlands. Edinburgh, Reprinted by James
Ballantyne & Co. for William Laing, and William Black
wood. 1815. Square 12mo. (A Collection of Satires by
a voluminous English writer, Reprinted from the edition
Lond. 1611. With a Preface and Notes, by Sir Walter
Scott.)*
384. DESCRIPTION of the Regalia. Edinburgh.
1819.
12mo.* (Reprinted, with Illustrations, in Provincial
Antiquities, etc., No. 395.)
385. THE SALE-ROOM. No. 1. Saturday, January 4, 1817.
A Periodical Paper, published weekly at No. 4 Hanover
Street, Edinburgh. (No Title.) Carried on to Saturday,
July 12, 1817, when it terminated with No. xxviii. 4to,
pp. 228.*
386. TRIVIAL POEMS, and Triolets. Written in obedience
to Mrs. Tomkin’s Commands. By Patrick Carey. 20th
August 1651. London : John Murray, Albemarle Street.
1820. 4to*
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
43
387. MEMORIALS of the Haliburtons. Edinburgh : Printed
by James Ballantyne & Company, at the Border Press.
1820. Ito, pp. iv. 63.*
Thirty copies only printed for Private Circulation.
The Preliminary Notice is dated Abbotsford, March
1820. Engraved etching of the Haliburton Burial Aisle
in Dryburgh Abbey (from a Drawing by James Skene,
Esq.) On the fly-leaf an inscription, “ For Mr. David
Laing, &c.,” signed Walter Scott.
In the note that accompanied it, he says :—“ I have had the
good fortune to recover the last copy, as I believe, of the Haliburton Memorials, which I enclose for your acceptance. Please to
return the imperfect copy with your convenience. I send also a
copy of Carey’s Poems (rather scarce) which came through my
hands. [See No. 386.] I have since detected the Author, a
Catholic priest and younger brother to the celebrated Lucius Lord
Carey.—Yours truly,
W. Scott.
“Castle Street, Wednesday [January 1823.]”
388. A Reprint of the same Volume. Thirty copies printed.
Edinburgh: November 1824. 4to, on paper slightly
larger than the former.*
389. NORTHERN MEMOIRS, Calculated for the Meridian of
Scotland; to which is added the Contemplative and
Practical Angler. Writ in the year 1658. By Richard
Franck, Philanthropus. New Edition, with Preface and
Notes. Edinburgh: Printed for Archibald Constable &
Co., Edinburgh; and Hurst, Robinson, & Co., London,
1821. 8vo.
This and Nos. 390 and 391 Lent from the Signet Library.
390. CHRONOLOGICAL NOTES of Scottish Affairs from 1680
till 1701 ; being chiefly taken from the Diary of Lord
Fountainhall. Edinburgh: Printed for Archibald Con
stable & Co., Edinburgh; and Hurst, Robinson, & Co.,
London. 4to.
391. MILITARY MEMOIRS of the Great Civil War. Being
the Military Memoirs of John Gwynne; and an Account
of the Earl of Glencairn’s Expedition as General of His
Majesty’s Forces in the Highlands of Scotland, in the
years 1653 and 1654. By a Person who was Eye and
Ear Witness to every Transaction. With an Appendix.
Edinburgh : Printed for Hurst, Robinson, & Co., London;
and Archibald Constable & Co., Edinburgh. 1822. 4to?.
�44
SOUTH OCTAGON.
392. LAYS OF THE LINDSAYS; being Poems by the Ladies
of the House of Balcarras. E dinburgh : Printed by James
Ballantyne & Company. 1824. 4to. Pp. 123.
• This volume was originally designed by Sir Walter
Scott as a contribution to the Members of The Bannatyne
Club ; after the printing had been completed, it was sup
pressed. In a letter to the Secretary of the Club, Sir
Walter writes : “ The Lays of the Lindsays have been
recalled and cancelled, Lady Hardwicke having taken fright
at the idea of appearing in a printed though unpublished
shape. We are, however, to have Auld Robin by himself,
and I wish you would speak to Mr. Lizars about engraving
on my account the enclosed frontispiece, drawn by Mr.
Kirkpatrick Sharpe, and let me know the damage when
you write again.—I am always, Dear Mr. David, yours
assuredly,
« Walter Scott.
“Ajbbotsford, 3cZ October [1824.]”
Lent from the Abbotsford Library.
393. AULD ROBIN GRAY; a Ballad. By the Right Hon
ourable Lady Anne Barnard, born Lady Anne Lindsay of
Balcarras. Edinburgh : Printed by James Ballantyne &
Co. 1825. 4to. Pp. 61, with engraved Frontispiece,
“ C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, delin. W. H. Lizars, sculpt.”
Presented as a Contribution to the Bannatyne Club,
by Sir Walter Scott, Bart., President of the Club. Lady
Anne Barnard was the eldest daughter of Alexander,
sixth Earl of Balcarras; and married, in 1793, Andrew,
son of Thomas Barnard, Bishop of Limerick. She died
at Loudon in 1825.
Lent by Mr. Wardlaw Ramsay.
See Sir Walter's Letter to the Secretary.
394. THE MANUSCRIPT and Continuation of Auld Robin
Gray, in the Autograph of Lady Anne Barnard : Also an
Original Letter to Miss Cummyng, signed with her
maiden name, Anne Lindsay, from Broomhall (about
1770). *
395. THE PROVINCIAL ANTIQUITIES and Picturesque
Scenery of Scotland, with Descriptive Illustrations. By
Sir Walter Scott. 2 Vols. London, 1826. Large paper.
Imperial 4to. With Proof Impressions and Duplicate.
Etchings of the Plates after Turner and others. Engraved
by Cooke, Finden, Le Keux, etc.
Lent from the Signet Library.
�WOUTH OCTAGON.
45
395*. SEPARATE PARTS of the above Work as published.
Large paper.*
396. VOLUME FIRST of the Minutes of the Bannatyne Club,
founded by Sir Walter Scott in February 1823, signed
by him as President. On a separate leaf is the scroll of
the original Scheme, with Sir Walter’s corrections, and
Scroll of a Minute written by Sir Walter (in the Secre
tary’s absence) regarding the extension of the Club, in
1824.
In the short note to the Secretary (received 9th Novem
ber 1830), he says, “I have no prospect of seeing Edin
burgh for some [time], I am too old a Rat to return
willingly into the Rat-trap. I daresay, however, a
Bannatyne Meeting would tempt me.—Believe [me]
always yours, in all fraternitie,
Walter Scott.”*
397. THE BANNATYNE MISCELLANY; containing Ori
ginal Papers and Tracts, chiefly relating to the History
and Literature of Scotland. Volume I. Printed at
Edinburgh. 1827. 4to. Printed under the joint Super
intendence of the President and Secretary.*
397*. MEMORIALS of George Bannatyne.
1545—1608.
Edinburgh. 1829. 4to. (Printed for the Bannatyne
Club.)*
J 9 8. TRIAL OF DUNCAN TERIG alias CLERK, and Alex
ander Bane Macdonald, for the Murder of Arthur Davis,
Sergeant in General Guize’s Regiment of Foot. June,
a.d. 1754. Edinburgh.
1831. 4to.*
“ This copy of a Trial involving a curious point of
evidence,” was presented, as a Second Contribution, by
Sir Walter Scott, Bart., President of the Bannatyne Club.
398*. TWO BANNATYNE GARLANDS from Abbotsford,
1831. 8vo. Also Sir Walter Scott’s Letter to the
Secretary, sending the transcript, chiefly in his own hand,
of “ Captain Ward and the Rainbow.” *
399. PROCEEDINGS in the Court-Martial held upon John,
Master of Sinclair, Captain-Lieutenant in Preston’s Regi
ment, for the Murder of Ensign Schaw of the same
Regiment, and Captain Schaw of the Royals, 17th
October 1708, with Correspondence respecting that
Transaction. Edinburgh. 1828. 4to.
Dedication :—“ To the Members of the Roxburghe
Club, these Documents, containing the account of a
singular and Tragical occurrence during Marlborough’s
�46
SOUTH OCTAGON.
Wars, from an Original and Authentic Manuscript in the
Editor’s possession, are inscribed and presented by their
most obedient and respectful servant, Walter Scott.
“Abbotsford, 1st December 1828.”
Lent by Sir William Stirling Maxwell, Bart.
400. AN APOLOGY for Tales of Terror.
“ A thing of shreds and patches.”
Kelso: Printed at the Mail Office. 1799. 4to. Pp.
76, with the autograph on the title, “Walter Scott,” and
opposite, this note : “ This was the first book printed
by Ballantyne of Kelso—only twelve copies were thrown
off, and none for sale.”
Lent from the Abbotsford Library.
ADDITIONAL MANUSCRIPTS and LETTERS
written by or hauing reference to Sir Walter
Scott.
401. MANUSCRIPT VOLUME, written by Sir Walter Scott,
under the title of Legendary Fragments, with his sig
nature, “ Walter Scott, 1792.” 4to. 64 leaves, contain
ing probably some original pieces.
Lent from the Abbotsford Library.
402. A Similar Volume, with the title “Scottish Songs.”
It might rather be styled a Poetical Commonplace Book,
being probably the foundation of “ The Border Minstrelsy,”
leaves having apparently been cut out for the printer;
various handwritings occur towards the end of the
volume.
Lent from the Abbotsford Library.
403. COMMISSION, Walter Scott, Gent., to be Quartermaster
in the Royal Edinburgh Volunteers. Signed Ch. Mait
land, Captain Commandant. 12th April 1797.
Lent by Mr. Hope Scott.
404. LETTER to the Right Honble. the Lord Advocate regard
ing Major Maitland, written “ in our official capacity as
Officers and Committee of the Royal Edinburgh Light
Dragoons.” 9th June 1798. Signed, Wm. Rae, Captain
R.E. V.L.D.; J. Gordon, Lieut.; Geor. Robinson, Lieut.;
William Forbes, Cornet; Colin Mackenzie, Member
of Committee; Walter Scott, Secy.*
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
47
(2.) COPY of the above Letter in Sir Walter Scott’s hand
writing, without the signatures. (3.) Letter, Sir Ralph
Abercromby to the Lord Advocate, in reply :—
“ Edinburgh, June 26 th, 1798.—My Lord,—I have the
honor to return herewith a letter addressed to your Lord
ship by the Officers of the Edinburgh Light Dragoons,
recommending to your notice their Commandant, Major
Maitland, to whose merit your Lordship has, as well as
his brother officers, borne ample testimony. It would, on
these reasons, give me much satisfaction, if I could point
out in what manner Major Maitland could be employed
on the North British Staff, but in his present situation it
is incompatible with the rules of the service to give him
any appointment in that line. I am sorry I cannot give
your Lordship a more favourable answer, and have the
honor to be, my Lord, your Lordship’s most humble and
most obedient servant,
(Signed) Ra. Abercr@»Y.”*
405. COMMISSION appointing Mr. Walter Scott, Advocate,
to be Sheriff-Depute of the Shire or Sheriffdom of Selkirk.
Signed by George the Third. Countersigned by the
Duke of Portland, 16th December 179-9.
406. BURGESS TICKET of the Burgh of Selkirk, in favour of
Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate, Sheriff of Selkirkshire.
26th February 1800.
Nos. 405 and 406 lent by Mr. Hope Scott.
407. A TRUE History of several Honourable Families of the
Right Honourable name of Scot, in the Shires of Rox
burgh and Selkirk, and others adjacent. Gathered out
of Ancient Chronicles, Histories, and Traditions of our
Fathers. By
Capt. WALTER SCOT,
An old Souldier, and no Sch oiler,
And one that can Write nane,
But just the Letters of his Name.
Edinburgh : Printed by the heir of Andrew Anderson,
Printer to his most Sacred Majesty, City and Colledge.
1688. 4to.
Presented “to Walter Scott, Esqre., from his obliged
and faithful servant, Archd. Constable. It is the only
copy of the first Edition I have ever seen,
A. C.
“Park Place, 26th March 1818.”
This Work is by no means common, but not so rare as
this note would imply. It was reprinted at Edinburgh,
1776, 4to, and at Hawick, 1786, 8vo; but the interest of
�48
SOUTH OCTAGON.
the present Copy consists in having on the leaf opposite
the title the following lines, written by Sir Walter Scott:—
“ I, Walter Scott of Abbotsford, a poor scholar, no soldier,
but a soldier’s lover,
Tn the stile of my namesake and kinsman, do hereby discover
That I have written the twenty-four letters twenty-four
million times over,
And to every true-born Scott I do wish as many golden pieces
As ever were hairs in Jason’s and Medea’s golden fleeces.”
From the Abbotsford Library.
408. A SET OF PLAYING CARDS, with the Arms of the
Scottish Nobility. Engraved at Edinburgh by Walter
Scott, Goldsmith. Under the Town of Edinburgh Arms
is the engraved title “ Phylarcharum Scotorum Gentilicia
insigna illustria a Gualtero Scot Aurifice Chartis lusorijs.
Expressa, Sculpsit Edinburgi. Anno Dom. cio.io.xci.”
(1691). (A few defects in this Copy were supplied in
facsimile from the one in the Library at Abbotsford.) *
409. LETTER from Sir Walter Scott to Principal Baird,
February 1818, expressing his high opinion of the
Metrical Version of the Psalms used in Scotland.
This and No. 410 Lent by Isaac Bayley, Esq.
410. THE ORIGINAL SCROLL, containing Instructions,
wholly in the hand of Sir Walter Scott, of his
Trust-Disposition and Settlement, dated “Abbotsford,
7th January 1831.” It was found, after his decease, in
his writing-desk, in the Study at Abbotsford. On the
first page, in Sir Walter’s instructions concerning
his funeral, the following words printed in italics are
deleted :—“ The present assignation, having for object :
1. The payment of my debts and funeral expenses, com
mending my body to be laid in my Aisle before the high
altar of Dryburgh Abbey. The funeral to be conducted in the
plainest, without consistent with"------ Mr. Bayley says,
“Before finishing the sentence, Sir Walter may have
recollected that in Scotland testamentary deeds are never
opened until after the Funeral. These instructions were
enclosed in an envelope, with this address:—‘ To my
Children—Rough Notes of Testamentary Dispositions.
The funeral testament, extended and executed, is deposited
in the iron chest of Robert Cadell, Esq., bookseller, in
January 1831.”’
410*. FUNERAL LETTER signed by Major Sir Walter Scott,
to Mr. Mercer, to attend the Funeral of Sir Walter Scott, his
father, to Dryburgh Abbey, on the 26th September 1832.
Lent by Miss Dunlop.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
49
MISCELLANEOUS.
411. STUDY AT ABBOTSFORD. Sketch in Water-colour.
By Sir William Allan, P.R.S.A.
Lent by David Simson, Esq.
412. SCENE from “Waverley.” By John Faed, R.S.A.
This and No. 413 Lent by Messrs. A. and C. Black.
413. SCENE from “The Abbot.”
H.R.S.A.
By Thomas Faed, R.A.,
414. VIEW of Abbotsford. By J. F. Williams, R.S.A.
Lent by Mrs. Margaret Sanson.
415. PORTRAIT of Daniel Terry, Comedian.
Nicholson, R.S.A.
Lent by Mr. Adam Black.
By Wm.
416. SCENE from “ Waverley.” By J. Faed, R.S.A.
This and the next three numbers Lent by Messrs. A.
and C. Black.
417. SCENE from “ Rob Roy.”
By R. R. MTan, A.R.S.A.
418. SCENE from “ Guy Mannering.”
By John Faed, R.S.A.
419. SCENE from “The Heart of Midlothian.”
Faed, R.A., TLR.S.A.
By Thomas
420. OLD MORTALITY. The Original Vignette Drawing.
By Sir William Allan, P.R.S.A.
Lent by Mr. D. Laing.
421. DRAWING of the Lennox or Darnley Jewel, in Gold and
Colours. The old description of this interesting Relic is
as follows :—“ A Golden Heart set with Jewels and orna
mented with emblematical figures enamelled, and Scottish
mottoes.” Mr. Fraser Tytler prepared, by her Majesty’s
command, an elaborate description of the various emblems
and mottoes, clearly showing that this curious and ancient
Jewel contains internal evidence that it was made for
Margaret Countess of Lennox in memory of her husband
the Regent, as a present to her Royal Grandson James
VI. of Scotland.
Lent by Mr. Gibson Craig.
D
�50
SOUTH OCTAGON.
422. LETTER, dated 2 2d Nov. 1799, from Sir Walter Scott to
Wm. Riddell, Esq. of Comieston, soliciting his interest
when applying for the Sheriffship of Selkirk.
Lent by Mr. Riddell Carre of Cavers Carre.
423. LETTER from Sir Walter Scott to the late William
Stewart Watson, approving of the Likenesses painted by
him in 1825.
Lent by Mrs. Stewart Watson.
424. LETTER or Notes by Sir Walter Scott in connexion with
the Traditions of Edinburgh by the late Robert Chambers.
Lent by Mr. James Hay, Leith.
425. LETTER from Sir Walter Scott to Mr. Charles Mackay,
describing his Visit to the Theatre-Royal, Edinburgh, to
witness the play of “ Rob Roy,” and the representation of
the character of Bailie Nicol Jarvie by him.
Lent by Mr. C. G. Mackay.
426. LETTER from Sir Walter Scott to John Scott, Esq. of
Scalloway.
Lent by Mr. R. T. C. Scott, J.P.
427. MEMOIRS of his Dog “ Camp,” by Sir Walter Scott, in
his own handwriting.
Lent by Mr. T. G. Stevenson.
428. LETTER of Thanks from Sir Walter Scott to the late
Peter Maclaurin, Esq.
Lent by Mrs. Maclaurin.
429. LETTER, and Sketch of Tankard. By Sir Walter Scott,
to Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Esq.
Lent by the Rev. W. K. R. Bedford.
430. VOLUME of Notes and Letters from Sir Walter Scott,
&e., to Mr. John Stevenson, Bookseller, Edinburgh, with
Printed Papers, in one vol. 4to.
Lent by Mr. T. G. Stevenson.
431. VOLUME of Sixty-five Original Letters, chiefly Private, on
Matters of Business, etc., addressed to Mr. James Ballan
tyne, from 1808 to 1831.
Lent by Mr. Christopher Douglas.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
51
432. PREFATORY Memoirs to Lives of the Novelists; Sterne,
Goldsmith, Johnson. The Original Manuscript.
Lent by Mr. Christopher Douglas.
432*. PREFATORY Memoir of Moliere. 26 pages. The
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. Also Letter of Sir Walter
Scott, written before 1820, apparently to Mr. Lockhart,
alluding to his purchase of Abbotsford; and other five
Autograph Letters to R. P. Gillies, respecting the “ Foreign
Quarterly Review,” 1826-1828.
Lent by Mr. Henry G. Bohn.
433. THE EVE OF ST. JOHN, the Original Manuscript.
Written by Lady Scott and presented by her to Captain
Scott of Rosebank. 12mo.
Lent by Miss Meik.
434. CALL BOOK at Holyrood Palace (with numerous Original
Signatures), during the Visit of His Majesty George the
Fourth, in August 1822. Folio.
This and the next No. Lent by Mr. Laing.
434*. A DEED, written on Parchment, by the Tutors of Mary
Countess of Buccleuch, with the Signatures of Sir John
Scott of Scotstarvet, dated at Edinburgh, 15th August
1656, and the other Tutors of the chief families of Scott.
The Countess died in 1661, aged 13.
435. VISITORS’ BOOK from Dryburgh for the years 1821-35.
Lent by Mr. John T. Rose.
436. STATUETTE of Sir Walter Scott, from Mr. Steell’s
Statue in the Monument.
Lent by the Royal Association for the Promotion of the
Fine Arts.
437. A SMALL BUST in Parian.
Lent by Mr. John T. Rose.
438. MASK of Sir Walter Scott, after Death. Taken by John
Steell, R.S.A.
Lent by James R. Hope Scott, Esq.
439. THE BANNATYNE CLUB TESTIMONIAL.
The
portion exhibited consists of three emblematical figures
of History, Poetry, and Music, surmounted by a Statuette
�52
SOUTH OCTAGON.
of Sir Walter Scott, the Founder of the Club. [See
No. 396.] Designed and Modelled by Peter Slater,
Sculptor.
Presented to Mr. Laing in 1861, “in grateful acknow
ledgment of his services as Honorary Secretary since the
Institution of the Club in 1823.”
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
440. GEORGE HERIOT’S “Loving Cup.”
Lent by the Governors of George Heriot’s Hospital.
441. LOCKET of Sir Walter Scott’s Hair, presented by Sir
Adam Ferguson to a friend.
Lent by Mr. Thomas Johnston.
442. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S SNUFF-BOX.
Sir Adam Ferguson. 1818.
Lent by Mr. W. Chambers.
Presented to
443. SILVER FRUIT-KNIFE and Ivory Six-inch Rule. Pre
sented by Sir Walter Scott to R. T. C. Scott of Melby,
Shetland, on the 7th August 1814. See Lockhart’s “Life,”
Vol. III. pp. 160, 161.
Lent by Mr. R. T. C. Scott.
444. KEY OF LOCHLEVEN CASTLE. Presented by Sir
Walter Scott to Lord Chief Commissioner Adam. (See
Blair-Adam Tracts, No. I.)
Lent by William Patrick Adam, Esq., M.P.
444*. ANTIQUE KEY OF BRASS, or some Yellow Metal, in
scribed on bowl Marie Rex, and on wards 1565. Found
in Loch Leven ; and supposed to be a Chamberlain’s Key
or Badge of Office.
Lent by Lady Elizabeth-Jane Leslie-Melville Cartwright.
445. BRIDLE-BIT found in a Vault of the Hermitage Castle,
along with some Remnants of Ancient Armour and
several Human Bones. The Vault was that in which Sir
Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie was starved to death
by order of William Douglas, called the Knight of Liddesdale. “The Bit was presented to me by Mr. Elliot,
Tenant in Millburnhall.—W. S. October 1795.”—Given
by Sir Walter Scott to George, ninth Earl of Dalhousie.
Lent by the Earl of Dalhousie.
�SOUTH OCTAGON.
53
446. (1.) SILVER SNUFF-BOX, in constant use by Sir Walter
Scott; (2.) Gold Watch which belonged to Lady Scott,
presented to Dr. Clarkson by Sir Walter’s Son, in acknow
ledgment of his long services, and the friendship enter
tained for him by the family.
Lent by Dr. Clarkson.
447. MEDAL, Sir Walter Scott.
Lent by Mr. Macdonald, Roseville, Eskbank.
448. MEG DODS’ PUNCH-BOWL.
Lent by Mr. Walker, Peebles.
449. LOCKET, with Photograph and Hair of Sir Walter Scott.
Lent by Miss Campbell Swinton.
450. BOX WITH STEEL AND FLINT.
Lent by Mr. Nicholson.
451. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S PIPE.
Lent by Mr. James Douglas.
452. BABY-CLOTHES BASKET used for Sir Walter Scott
in his Infancy.
Lent by the Misses Aytoun.
45 3. PEDIGREE of the Scott Family. Drawn up and written
by Sir Walter in his own hand.
Lent by the Right Hon. Lord Polwarth.
454. IMPRESSIONS of Medals and Seals of Scott.
Exhibited by Mr. H. Laing, Elder Street.
455. THORN WALKING-STICK cut by Sir Walter Scott at
Abbotsford in 1830 and given by him to John Leycester
Adolphus, Author of Letters on the Authorship of
Waverley.
Lent by Mrs. Adolphus.
456. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S Walking-Stick, given by him
to William Laidlaw, and by Mr. Laidlaw to Dr. Charles
Mackay.
Lent by Dr. Charles Mackay.
457. MEDALLION OF SCOTT. Hennings, fed.
Exhibited by Mr. H. Laing.
458. BRONZE MEDALS, Sir Walter Scott, by Stothard after
Chantrey.
Lent by Sir J. Noel Paton, R.S.A., and A. Campbell
Swinton, Esq.
459. GOLD WATCH and Chain, and Silver Neck Chain, worn
by Sir Walter Scott.
Lent by Mr. Alexander Nicholson.
�54
ENTRANCE HALL.
460. LEAF from an Old Family Bible, written by Sir Walter
Scott at the request of his cousin, Mrs. Meik, formerly
Barbara Scott.
This and No. 461 Lent by Mr. Thomas Meik, C.E.
461. LETTER from Sir Walter Scott to his cousin, Mrs. Meik,
on her eldest Son leaving for India.
463. PENCIL-CASE and Pencil which belonged to Sir Walter
Scott, and presented by him to the late Sir John Watson
Gordon, with Letter from H. G. Watson, Esq., to James
Simson, Esq., M.D.
Lent by Dr. Simson.
464. DRESS in which Sir Walter Scott received His Majesty
George IV.
Lent by Mr. Alexander Nicholson.
ENTRANCE HALL.
BUSTS, TAPESTRY, ARMOUR, etc.
465. BUST IN MARBLE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.
By Samuel Joseph, R.S.A.
Lent by Mrs. Callander, Prestonhall.
466. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Bust in Plaster, the first
of forty Casts made under the superintendence of the
Sculptor. By Sir Francis Chantrey, R.A.
Lent by Allan A. Maconochie Wellwood, Esq.
467. COPY IN PLASTER of the Statue of Sir Walter Scott
by Green shields. By Leopoldo Arrighi.
468. BUST OF GEORGE KEMP, Architect, modelled from the
life by the late Alex. Handyside Ritchie, A.R.S.A., and
carved in Marble by John Hutchison, R.S.A., and by him
presented to the Trustees of the Scott Monument, to be
placed in the Museum there.
Lent by John Hutchison, Esq.
469. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Bust in Marble. By
Lawrence MacDonald, at Rome, 1831.
Lent by W. Cross, Esq.
470. STATUETTE IN MARBLE, from the Original Statue in
the Scott Monument. By John Steell, R.S.A., Sculptor
to Her Majesty.
Lent by James Hay, Esq.
�ENTRANCE HALL.
55
471. JEANIE DEANS. Original Model by Wm. Brodie,R.S.A.
Lent by Wm. Brodie, Esq.
472. SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Bust in Bronze. Executed for Mr. Cadell by Sir Francis Chantrey, R.A.
Lent by the Rev. R. H. Stevenson.
473. STATUETTE of Diana Vernon.
By George E. Lawson.
474. DOMINIE SAMPSON—“Prodigious!” By George E.
Lawson.
Nos. 473 and 474 Lent by Mr. G. E. Lawson.
475. TAPESTRY. “ Hunting Scene.”
This and Nos. 476, 477, and 478 Lent by the Right
Hon. the Earl of Breadalbane.
476. TAPESTRY.
“ Hunting Scene.”
477. TAPESTRY.
Subject: “Neptune and Amphitrite.”
478. TAPESTRY.
“ The Forge of Vulcan.”
479. TAPESTRY. “Flora and Attendants.”
Lent by Messrs. Bonnar & Carfrae, 77 George Street.
480. TAPESTRY. “ Apollo and the Muses.”
This and the next two Numbers Lent by the Right
Hon. the Earl of Breadalbane.
481. TAPESTRY.
“Hunting Scene.”
482. TAPESTRY.
“ Apollo.”
The above fine Specimens of Tapestry were obtained for the use of
the Committee by Messrs. Bonnar and Carfrae.
483. COPY written by George Kemp of the Advertisement for
Designs for the Scott Monument; and Letter from Sir
Thomas Dick Lauder in reference to his first Design.
Lent by Mrs. Kemp.
484. “ THE FIRST IDEA,” sent by George Kemp, signed
“John Morvo.”
Lent by Mr. James Ballantine.
484*. DRAWING of the Scott Monument, by George Kemp.
(In North Octagon.)
Lent by Dr Paterson.
�56
ENTRANCE HALL.
485. DRAWING of The Scott Monument.
By George Kemp.
*** Mr. Kemp’s Original Competition Drawing for the Monument!
as first proposed to be erected in the centre of Charlotte Square.
This Drawing has been acquired by the Trustees of the Scott
Monument, to form part of “The Scott Museum,” after the
present Exhibition is closed. The room at present is fitting
up at the expense of the “ Trustees of the Monument.”
486. MODEL of Scott Monument. By George Kemp.
Lent by Thomas Archer, Esq., Director of Museum of
Science and Art.
487. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S STUDY CHAIR.
Lent by the Council of the Society of Antiquaries.
488. THREE SUITS of Armour from the Collection of Sir J.
Noel Paton, R.S.A.
489. SUIT OF ARMOUR.
Lent by Mr. H. G. Watson.
490. THE BOURBON SHIELD.
Lent by Mr. William MacDonald.
491. THE STOCK AN’ HORN.
“ He tuned his pipe and reed sae sweet,
The burds stood listening by;
E’en the dull cattle stood and gazed,
Charmed wi’ his melody.”
The Broom o' the Cowderiknowes.
This and Nos. 492 and 493 Lent by Mr. James
Drummond, R.S.A.
492. TROPHY of Target, Basket Hilts, and other Highland
Weapons.
493. TROPHY of Swords, Rapiers, Crossbows, and other
Weapons, with an Iron Mask.
494. PORTRAIT OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. Painted
for the Speculative Society by Sir John Watson Gordon,
P.R.S.A., R.A.
Lent by the Society.
495. CAPTAIN BASIL HALL, R.N. A Bust in Marble.
Samuel Joseph, Sculptor.
Lent by Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, Bart.
By
496. BAGPIPES, formerly the Property of Sir Walter Scott,
and used by his Piper.
Lent by James Wolfe Murray, Esq. of Cringletie.
�57
ARTICLES omitted in the earlier impressions of the
Catalogue, or receiued for Exhibition subse
quently to their issue.
llO.f SIR WALTER SCOTT. Portrait painted by John
Watson (Gordon) in 1820, for the late Marchioness of
Abercorn, who was the Aunt of Lady Napier, whereby
the present Lord Napier now possesses the picture.
Lent by the Dowager Lady Napier.
The following extracts are from two unpublished letters
addressed by Sir Walter Scott to Lady Abercorn:
“ Edinburgh, 1s£ July 1820.
“ The Portrait is advancing, by the pencil of a clever
Artist, and will, I think, be a likeness, and a tolerably
good picture. I hope to get it sent up before I leave
town, at anyrate I will have it finished so far as sittings
are concerned. If I look a little sleepy your kindness
must excuse it, as I had to make my attendance on the
Man of colours betwixt six and seven in the morning.”
“Abbotsford, 2d August 1820.
“ The dog which I am represented as holding in my
arms is a Highland terrier from Kintail, of a breed very
sensible, very faithful, and very ill-natured. • It some
times tires, or pretends to do so, when I am on horse
back, and whines to be taken up, where it sits before me
like a child without any assistance. I have a very large
wolf-greyhound, I think the finest dog I ever saw, but he
has sate, to so many artists that whenever he sees brushes
and a palette, he gets up and leaves the room, being
sufficiently tired of the constraint.”
167ff. PORTRAIT of Lieut.-Colonel Sir Walter Scott, the
second Baronet of Abbotsford, painted by Colvin Smith,
R.S.A., from a Miniature.
Lent by Lady Scott.
16 8f. WALTER SCOTT, a small Miniature done at Bath,
when he was in the fifth or sixth year of his age. It was
given by his mother to a lady, a relation, in whose family
it remained till lately, for at least seventy years.
A similar Miniature, preserved at Abbotsford, was pre
sented by Sir Walter Scott to his daughter, Mrs. Lockhart;
and has been engraved.
Lent by David Laing, Esq.
�58
290*. ENGRAVED PORTRAIT, from the Picture by Sir
Thomas Lawrence at Windsor. (See No. 147.) Proof
Impression. Published by Virtue & Co., originally in the
“Art Journal.”
From Messrs. Virtue & Co.
307-J-. THE ETTRICKE GARLAND, being two excelled
New Songs on the lifting of the Banner of the House of
Buccleugh, Dec. 4, 1815. Edinburgh, 1815. Royal 8vo.
Four leaves.*
356*. ILLUSTRATIONS of Sir Walter Scott’s Lay of the Last
Minstrel, consisting of Twelve Views on the Rivers
Borthwick, Ettrick, Yarrow, Teviot, and Tweed. Engraved
by J. Heath, R.A., from designs taken on the spot by
John C. Schetky of Oxford. With Anecdotes and De
scriptions. London : Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees'
& Orme, Paternoster Row. 1810. Royal 8vo.*
35 6f. GRAPHIC ILLUSTRATIONS to Sir Walter Scott’s
Works. Scenes described in the Novels and Tales, from
Drawings by A. Nasmyth, engraved by Lizars. (Waverley
to Rob Roy.) Edinburgh, 1821. 16 Plates. 8vo.*
356**. LANDSCAPE ILLUSTRATIONS of the Waverley
Novels, with Descriptions of the Views. 2 Vols. (Vol. I.
Waverley to Legend of Montrose. Vol. II. Ivanhoe to
Woodstock.) London: Charles Tilt, Fleet Street. 1832.
Royal 8vo.*
35 7f. THE BOOK OF WAVERLEY GEMS : in a Series of
Engraved Illustrations of incidents and scenery in Sir
Walter Scott’s Novels. Engravings by Heath, Finden,
Rolls, etc., after pictures by Leslie, Stothard, Cooper,
Howard, etc., with illustrative letterpress. London, 1862.
8vo.
From Henry G. Bohn, Esq., London.
369*. LETTER of Sir Walter Scott, addressed “Dr. Leyden,
Calcutta.”
It begins:—“Your letter of the 10th January 1810
reached me about ten days since, and was most truly wel
come, as containing an assurance of that which, however, I
never doubted—the continuation of your unabated and
affectionate remembrance. I assure you, Charlotte and I
think and speak of you very often, with all the warmth
due to the recollection of our early days, when life and
hope were young with all of us. You have, I hope, long
ere now, received my third poem, ‘ The Lady of the
Lake,’ which I think you will like for Auld Lang Syne, if
not for its intrinsic merit. It have [has] been more suo
�59
cessful than its predecessors, for no less than 25,000
copies have disappeared in eight months ; and the demand
is so far from being abated, that another edition of
3000 is now at press. I send you a copy of the quarto
by a son of Mr. Pringle of Whytbank; and his third son
William Pringle, being now on the same voyage to your
shores, I beg to introduce him,” etc. ... “I expect
this boy to call every moment, so I must close my letter.
Mrs. Scott joins in sending you all the wishes of affec
tionate friendship. Pray take care of your health, and
come home to us soon. We will find an ingleside and
a corner of our hearts as warm for you as ever. My chil
dren are all well; and now I hear the door-bell, vale et
nos ama,
Walter Scott.”
“Edinburgh, 2Qth February 1811.”
V This letter could not have reached its destination,
Dr. John Leyden having sailed from Calcutta with the
expedition against Java in March 1811, where he died of
fever in August following.
Lent by Mrs. W. A Pringle, Portobello. Also,
369**. NOTE to his “ dear young friend,” the late William A.
Pringle, Esq., of the Civil Service, India, in connexion
with the above letter.
409. LETTER, Sir Walter Scott to the Rev. Dr. Baird, Prin
cipal of the University of Edinburgh, and Convener of
the General Assembly’s Committee on Psalmody, expressing his high opinion of the Metrical Version of the
Psalms still used in the Presbyterian Churches in this
country. (February 1818.)
Lent by Isaac Bayley, Esq.
431f. THE HISTORY OF THE BALLANTYNE PRESS, and
its connection with Sir Walter Scott. Edinburgh : Bal
lantyne & Co. 1871. 4to.
From Messrs. Ballantyne & Co.
438. MASK of Sir Walter Scott, after Death. (A Cast in
Bronze by John Steell, R.S.A, of this Mask, is exhibited
at Abbotsford.)
Lent by James R. Hope Scott, Esq.
434*®. BOND signed by John Scott of Sintoun, William Scott
of Raeburne, and John Scott of Ronaldburn, at Edin
burgh, 4th and 7th December 1686.*
457*. SILVER PRIZE MEDAL, presented by Sheriff Trotter
in 1843 to the Dux of the Dumfries Grammar School.
A head of Sir Walter Scott, in profile, is chased upon it
Lent by John Blacklock, Esq.
�No. 122. KEY TO SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS FRIENDS AT ABBOTSFORD.
�LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS.
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, 100, 14", 178t, 296.
Antiquaries, The Society of, Royal Institution, 487.
Alexander, Colonel Sir James E., Westerton, Bridge of Allan, 33.
'
Adam, William Patrick, Esq. of Blairadam, M.P., 10, 144, 444.
Adolphus, Mrs., 23a Connaught Square, London, W., 67, 178*, 455.
Atchison, Thos. S., Esq., 74 George Street, 132.
Anderson, David B., Esq., W.S., 8 Regent Terrace, 68.
Archer, Thomas, Esq., Director of the Museum of Science and Art, 486.
Armstrong, George, Esq., Alnwick, 90.
Arrighi, Leopoldo, Yew Tree House, Meadow Place, 467.
Aytoun, The Misses, 28 Inverleith Row, 452.
Buccleuch and Queen sberry, his Grace The Duke of, K.G., Dalkeith
Palace, 150.
Bread at.ranf., The Right Hon. Earl of, Taymouth Castle, 118, 124, 475
to 478 inch, 480, 481, 482.
Ballantine, James, Esq., 42 George Street, 34, 39, 89, 182, 484.
Ballantyne, John, Esq., R.S.A, Totteridge, Herts, 42.
Ballantyne, R. M., Esq., 6 Millerfield Place, 24.
Bayley, Isaac, Esq., S.S.C., 13 Regent Terrace, 409, 410.
Bedford, Rev. W. K. R., Sutton Coldfield, Warwickshire, 429.
Black, Adam, Esq. of Priorbank, 415.
Black, Messrs. A & C., Publishers, Edinburgh, 317, 368, 412, 413, 416
to 419 incL
Blackwood, John, Esq., 45 George Street, I*, 18, 29, 30, 167*.
Blaikey, James, Esq., 135 Buchanan Street, Glasgow, 126.
Blathwayt, Rev. Raymond, Chaplain H.M. Prison, Worthing, Surrey, 38.
Bohn, Henry G., Esq., Northend House, Twickenham, 172, 432*.
Bonnar, Thomas, Esq., 137 Princes Street, 4, 8, 71, 77, 131.
Bonnar & Carfrae, Messrs., 77 George Street, 479.
Brodie, William, Esq., R.S.A, Cambridge Street, 471.
Bruce, Daniel, Esq., 42 George Street, 129, 281.
Bryce, David, Esq., R.S.A, 131 George Street, 106.
Butti, James A, Esq., 7 Queen Street, 127.
Cartwright, Lady Elizabeth-Jane Leslie-Melville, Melville House, Lady
bank, 111*, 444*.
Clinton, the Right Hon. Lord, Trefusis Castle, Ealmouth, Cornwall, 42*.
Colquhoun, Lady, Strathgarry, Pitlochrie, 113.
Callander, Mrs. Burn, of Prestonhall, 465.
Carfrae, Robert, Esq., 77 George Street, 111.
Carre, W. Riddell, Esq. of Cavers Carre, New Club, 280, 285, 422.
Chambers, William, Esq., Glenormiston, 442.
E
�58
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS.
Clark, James, Esq., Clackmannan, 45.
Clark, W. D., Esq., 67 Princes Street, 65, 82.
Clarkson, Dr., Avenel, Colinton Road, 446.
Cockburn, A. D., Esq., 6 Athol Crescent, 176.
Constable, Thomas, Esq., 11 Thistle Street, 23.
Corsar, David, Esq., Arbroath, 1.
Cowan, John, Esq., Beeslack, Penicuik, 325.
Craig, J. T. Gibson, Esq., 24 York Place, 37, 80, 84, 86, 92, 114, 133,
136, 152, 177, 209, 293, 300, 377, 421.
Cross, W., Esq., 22 Gayfield Square, 469.
Dalhousie, the Right Hon. the Earl of, K.T., Brechin Castle, 112, 445.
Dennistoun, Alexander, Esq., Rosslea, Helensburgh, 9, 102, 122.
Dick, Mrs., 42 George Street, 50.
Douglas, Christopher, Esq., W.S., 13 Athol Crescent, 334, 431, 432.
Douglas, James, Esq., Banker, Kelso, 451.
Douglas, Miss, 4 Cumin Place, 360.
Drummond, James, Esq., R.S.A., 8 Royal Crescent, 14, 46, 58, 69, 73,
108, 178, 183, 211 to 256 incl., 282, 491, 492, 493.
Dunlop, Miss, 27 Brunswick Street, Stockbridge, 410®.
Ebseine, William C. C., Esq., Kinnedder, Fifeshire, 173, 175, 301, 303.
Foulis, The Dowager Lady Liston, 8 Newbattle Terrace, 156, 340.
Farquharson, F., Esq. of Finzean, 5 Eton Terrace, 107.
Ferguson, Mrs., 2 Eton Terrace, 155.
Finlayson, Mrs., 6 Union Place, 7.
Fraser, P. A., Esq., LT.R.S.A., Hospitalfield, Arbroath, 27, 32.
Fraser, Mrs. P. A., Hospitalfield, Arbroath, 25.
Gallery, Trustees of the National, of Scotland, 88, 94, 95.
Glasgow, The Corporation of, 83.
Gillespie, J. D., Esq., M.D., 10 Walker Street, 79, 101, 116, 346.
Glover, Mrs. Edmond, 11 Burnbank Terrace, Glasgow, 11.
Graves, Henry, Pall Mall, London, 289.
Green, William E., Esq., 39 Paternoster Row, London, 149.
Home, The Right Hon. The Earl of, The Hirsel, Coldstream, 146.
Heriot’s Hospital, The Governors of, 135, 440.
Hall, Sir James, of Dunglass, Bart., 335.
Haldane, Dr. Rutherford, 22 Charlotte Square, 167, 358.
Hay, James, Esq., Leith, 424, 470.
Hay, Robert, Esq., Nunraw, by Haddington, 178**.
Hill, The Trustees of the late Alexander, Esq., 12 St. Andrew Square, 20,
105.
Hill, T. A., Esq., 12 St. Andrew Square, 115.
Hogarth, George, Esq., Banker, Cupar Fife, 354.
Home, David Milne, Esq. of Wedderburn, 10 York Place, 297.
Horn, Robert, Esq., Advocate, 7 Randolph Crescent, 154, 357.
Hume, M. N. Macdonald, Esq., 15 Abercromby Place, 119, 125.
Hutchison, John, Esq., R.S.A., 97 George Street, 468.
�LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS.
59
Hutton, Archibald, Esq., 1 East Register Street, 287.
Inglis, John, Esq. of Redhall, 120.
James, Miss, 39 Harewood Square, London, 142.
Johnston, Thomas, 27 St. John’s Hill, 441.
Knighton, SirW. W., Bart., 1 Lowndes Street, London, 139, 145.
Kemp, Mrs., Portobello, 483.
Laing, David, Esq., Signet Library, 49, 85, 130, 137, 257 to 267 incl.,
283, 294, 315, 315*, 316, 318, 336, 336*, 343, 356, 359, 359*, 361,
363, 367, 369, 370, 373, 374, 378, 379, 382 to 388 incl., 394, 395*
to 398* incl., 404, 408, 420, 434, 434*, 439.
Laing, Henry, Elder Street, 454, 457.
Lawson, George A., Esq., Sculptor, Gloucester Road, Regent’s Park,
London, 473, 474.
Maxwell, Sir William Stirling, of Keir and Pollok, Bart., 10 Upper
Grosvenor Street, London, W., 91, 93, 98, 103, 164, 166, 189 to 208
incl., 290, 399, 495.
Manchester, His Honour the Mayor of, 104.
MacDonald, William, Esq., Roseville, Eskbank, Dalkeith, 47, 48, 51, 52,
55, 56*, 60, 61, 63, 64, 70, 72, 74, 76, 78, 170, 181, 447, 490.
Mackay, C. G., Esq., 17 Lutton Place, 425.
Mackay, Dr. Charles, 42 George Street, 456.
Mackay, Mrs., 17 Lutton Place, 17.
Maclagan, Professor, 28 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, 45**.
Maclaurin, Mrs., 9 Randolph Cliff, 428.
MacLeay, Kenneth, Esq., R.S.A., 3 Malta Terrace, 54, 56, 66.
Meik, Miss, 22 Greenhill Gardens, 433.
Meik, Thomas, C.E., 7 Newbattle Terrace, 460, 461.
Melville, Mrs., 8 Newbattle Terrace, 134.
Mercer, Robert, Esq. of Scotsbank, Ramsay Lodge, Portobello, 26, 87, 96.
Murray, James Wolfe, Esq. of Cringletie, 496.
Murray, John, Esq., 50 Albemarle Street, London, W., 151,162, 165, 300*.
Muspratt, James, Esq., Seaforth Hall, Seaforth, Liverpool, 110.
National Portrait Gallery, London, 153.
Napier, Mark, Esq., Advocate, 6 Ainslie Place, 331.
Nicholson, Mr. Alexander, Kelso, 450, 459, 464.
Nicholson, Mrs., 6 Henderson Row, 168.
Orr, Sir Andrew, of Harviestoun and Castle Campbell, Harviestoun Castle
by Dollar, 28.
Polwarth, Right Hon. Lord, Mertoun House, St. Boswells, 453.
Paton, Sir J. Noel, R.S.A., 33 George Square, 458, 488.
Paterson, Dr. A., Bridge of Allan, 484*.
Paterson, Mr. William, 23 Hope Terrace, 57, 320, 321, 323, 326, 328, 329,
348.
Peat, Mrs. Cumine, Welnage, Dunse, 41.
Royal Association for the Promotion of the Fine Arts in Scotland, 94,
179, 180, 184 to 188 incl., 436.
�60
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS.
Royal Society, The, Edinburgh, 158.
Ruthven, Right Hon. the Dowager Lady, Winton Castle, Tranent, 140.
Raeburn, John P., Esq., Charlesfield, Midcalder, 160.
Ramsay, R. B. Wardlaw, Esq. of Whitehill, etc., Lasswade, 21, 123, 393.
Renny, J., Esq., 22 Picardy Place, 13.
Richardson, Francis, Esq., Mickleham, Surrey, 302, 323*, 349*, 355.
Robertson, Robert, Esq., 5 South Lauder Road, Grange, 40*.
Rose, John T., Esq., 11 Duncan Street, 268 to 279 incl., 435, 437.
Scott, J. R. Hope, Esq. of Abbotsford, Melrose, 171, 174, 295, 299, 304,
306, 322, 362, 392, 400 to 403 incl., 405 to 407 incl., 438.
Strathmore, The Right Hon. The Earl of, 20 Rutland Gate, London,
S.W., 109.
Signet Library, 298, 302*, 305, 307 to 313 incl., 319, 324, 327 to 330
incl., 333, 337, 338, 339, 341, 344, 345, 347, 349, 350 to 353, 355*,
371, 372, 375, 376, 380, 381, 389 to 391, 395.
Speculative Society, The, 365, 366, 494.
Sale, W. F., Esq., Irwell Bank, Kersal, Manchester, 117.
Sanson, Mrs. Margaret, 24 Minto Street, 45*, 81, 117*, 414.
Scott, R. T. C., Esq., J.P., Melby, Shetland, 426, 443.
Shand, A. B., Esq., Advocate, 3 Great Stuart Street, 121.
Simpson, George B., Esq., Seafield, Broughty-Ferry, 16, 35, 44, 99, 128.
Simson, David, Esq., 25 India Street, 411.
Simson, James, M.D., 3 Glenfinlas Street, 463.
Skene, A., Esq., 22 Regent Quay, Aberdeen, 342.
Smith, Colvin, Esq., R.S.A., 32 York Place, 12, 31, 157.
Smith, Dr. John A., 7 West Maitland Street, 210, 288.
Smith, Mrs., Frederick Street, 53, 62, 75.
Spence, A. Blair, Esq., Dundee, 2.
Stevenson, Mr. T. George, 22 Frederick Street, 6, 284, 427, 430.
Stevenson, Rev. Robert H., 9 Oxford Terrace, 22, 332, 472.
Stirling, Gilbert, Esq. of Larbert House, Royal Horse Guards, London, 43.
Swinton, Archibald Campbell, Esq., Kimmerghame, Dunse, 59, 286, 291,
292, 314, 314*, 364, 458.
Swinton, Miss, Kimmerghame, Dunse, 449.
Thomson, Lockhart, Esq., S.S.C., 10 Coates Crescent, 36.
Walker, Mr., Peebles, 448.
Watson, Wm. Smellie, Esq., R.S.A., 10 Forth Street, 19.
Watson, Henry G., Esq., 123 George Street, 5, 97, 148, 161, 489.
Watson, Mrs. Stewart, 56 Queen Street, 138, 423.
Wells, William, Esq., M.P., 22 Bruton Street, London, W., 143.
Wellwood, A. A. Maconochie, Esq.,Meadow Bank House, Kirknewton, 466.
White, John, Esq., Netherurd, Peebles, 3, 40.
White, William Logan, Esq., Kellerstain, Hermiston, 159.
Williams, T., Esq., Elmtree Road, London, 141.
Williamson, John, Esq., The Deans, South Shields, 15.
Young, James, Esq. of Kelly, 169.
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Catalogue of the loan exhibition in commemoration of Sir Walter Scott at Edinburgh in the galleries of the Royal Scottish Academy, National Gallery, in July and August 1871
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: Edinburgh
Collation: 60 p. : ill. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Thomas and Archibald Constable
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1871
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5566
Subject
The topic of the resource
Exhibitions
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
[Unknown]
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Catalogue of the loan exhibition in commemoration of Sir Walter Scott at Edinburgh in the galleries of the Royal Scottish Academy, National Gallery, in July and August 1871), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
Exhibitions
Fiction in English
Walter Scott