BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
Dover, December 20th, 1836.
Dear your Lordship,—I never writ to a lord before, and don't do it now spontaneous; but Mrs. Miggins desires me to ask you to join our Christmas party next week. Now I think that will be what you call a bore, because 'tisn't only us ourselves, but I can't give up old friends and relations, and so there'll be more Migginses than you ever saw before; and, always excepting daughter Sophy, I suspect you've seen more already than you ever wish to see again. However, daughter Sophy did seem to attract your notice like, last autumn here, when you was staying with the duke. I saw clear enough you didn't want the duke nor the duchess to know about it, and so I were glad when you took yourself away; but Sophy hankers after you, and my wife says,—and she's right enough there, though it doesn't generally follow that a thing's right because she says it,—that there's no reason why daughter Sophy shouldn't be a lord's wife and a lady herself, like other fine girls no ways her betters; and, though I did make my money in the soap and candle line, the money, now it's made, an't the worse; and so, if you really wants to marry Sophy, say it out and out, and I'll give my consent. It is but fair and right to tell your Lordship that there's another young man desperate about her,—not, when I say another young man, that I mean to call your lordship a young man, for I know that wouldn't be respectful. However, if I had my own way in all things,—which I haven't, and few men have,—Captain Mills of the artillery would be the man for Sophy. He's a mighty proper man to look at, and I've asked him down to spend Christmas here too; so, if your lordship don't think it worth while to come, why only say the word, and, to my thinking, Captain Mills will have a good chance.
People do report things that I don't want to believe about your lordship's ways of going on; but if you do marry Sophy, hang it! make her happy. Don't take her away from them as loves her, and then be neglectful and unkind; for she don't know yet what unkindness is, and I know 'twould break her heart, and then I should break mine, and my poor wife would follow,—so that would break us all. But a lord must be a gentlemen, and a gentleman can't behave like a blackguard to a woman. So some down here on Saturday the 24th, and we'll have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. In all which my wife and Sophy do join. So no more at present
From your dear lordship'shumble servant at command,Peter Miggins.
From your dear lordship'shumble servant at command,Peter Miggins.
Peter Miggins's letter to Lord John Lavender has probably sufficiently introduced him to the reader. The right honourable personage to whom that letter was addressed was the youngest son of a duke, and in all respects as great a contrast to all the blood of the Migginses as can possibly be imagined.
Lord John had been, for many years, one of the best-looking men about town; so many years, indeed, had he been a beauty, that it was quite wonderful to detect no change in his figure, face, or manner. He still looked as he always had looked, and probably always intended to look. There is this one great advantage in beginning tomake upearly in life,—nobody detects any difference. The toilet requires a more protracted attention, and a steadier hand; but, once completed, to the eye of the observer the colours and the outline are the same. No woman ever thought more about her appearance than did Lord John Lavender; yet there was a manliness in his manner and conversation which rescued him from the charge of effeminacy.
He was devoted to the fair sex; so much so, that the world could not help giving him credit for being so sedulously attentive to the beautification of his person solely that he might render himself agreeable in their eyes.
He certainly succeeded most admirably; and, at the same time that he was in all societies courted and caressed by the fairest and the most distinguished, there was one little well-known theatrical connexion,ofwhich we will say as little as possible, andtowhich old Mr. Miggins had alluded in his letter.
Lord John Lavender's income was small, his expectations minute, his expenses great, and his debts amounted to his overplus expenditure for the number of years he had been about town. Of the sum total of his incumbrances he was ignorant. Bills came in at stated periods, and were carelessly thrown aside; for what was the use of looking at their amount, knowing beforehand that he could not pay them? But he was aware this could not go on for ever; he knew that, according to custom, tradesmen would trust him, as they constantly trust others, almost to any amount, for a certain period, without having from the first the slightest reason to suppose that the individual so trusted would ever be in a condition to pay them; and then all of a sudden they would pounce upon him, demand payment of all arrears, and trust no more.
Now, it was quite impossible for Lord John to think of retrenchment. Among the absolute necessaries of life he reckoned at least two pair of primrose kid gloves a-day, at three shillings a-pair. Two guineas a-week for gloves,—the price of a moderate bachelor's lodging! Life would be intolerable without such things; so, in order that he might continue in the land of the living, his fastidious lordship had deigned to smile upon Miss Sophy Miggins, and had permitted the idea of marriage with a plebeian to enter his aristocratic mind.
No wonder that Sophy should be dazzled by smiles from such a quarter. She was pleased and flattered, and imagined that she liked his lordship exceedingly, though she never felt at ease in his presence. He was so unlike everybody with whom she had been accustomed to associate, that she had sense enough to suppose she must be equally unlike his former companions, and she was always afraid of exciting his wonder and ridicule by some awkward breach of the usages of good society. But then to walk about with a lord, was a thing not to be resisted; and though she would have been much happier with the Captain Mills of whom her father made honourable mention in his letter to Lord John, still she never could bring herself to reject the proffered arm of his lordship.
And had she made up her mind to accept thehandof Lord John Lavender, should that also in due course of time be proffered? Not exactly; but Mrs. Miggins had decided for her. That his intentions were honourable, she could not doubt. Honourable! nay, was he not arighthonourable lover? So, in full expectation of an offer for her daughter, the old lady bought a "Peerage," placed it in a conspicuous part of her drawing-room, and looked very coldly on Captain Mills.
The captain was ordered to Woolwich; and Lord John having left Dover, Sophy could not, at parting, help evincing to poor Mills a little of the partiality which she felt. Such was the position of affairs when Mr. Miggins, who had no notion of men (nor lords neither) being shilly shally, as he called it, was determined to bring matters to a crisis. He therefore, after much serious cogitation, wrote the letter which has been confidentially exhibited to the reader; and also another, requiring infinitely less forethought, which he dispatched to Captain Mills.
"What day of the month is it?" said Lord John to his valet, after perusing the epistle of his Dover correspondent.
"The twenty-first, my lord."
"The twenty-first!" exclaimed his lordship finishing his coffee.—"Wednesday, I declare!—and Sunday is Christmas-day! If I go at all, I must go on Saturday at latest."
"My lord?"
"I must go to Dover, Friday or Saturday."
"Oh! on your way to the Continent? I think it would be advisable, my lord."
"The Continent! no:—why advisable?"
"Why, my lord;mayI speak?" inquired Faddle, as he removed breakfast.
"Certainly: what have you to say?"
"Why, the tradespeople, my lord:—just at Christmas-time the bills do fall in like a shower of paper-snow in a stage-play."
"Oh! and you think I must get out of the way, and let the storm blow over, eh?"
"I do, indeed, my lord; for I'm sorry to say it's very threatening."
"Oh, well! we'll go as far as Dover; there's no occasion to cross that odious channel."
"If I may make bold to ask, why will your lordship be safer at Dover than in London?"
"Don't you remember that pretty girl, Faddle? the girl with the rich father,—Miss Miggins?"
"Oh!marriage!" said Faddle, with a very deep sigh.
"Yes, Faddle, marriage."
"And here's a billet from May-fair!"
"Ah! let me see;" and Lord John opened an elegant little note, penned on a rose-leaf,—at least, in colour and fragrance it resembled one.
"She acts to-night, and desires me to dine with her on Christmas-day. Leave me, Faddle. Give me pen, ink, and paper; send me thecoiffeurdirectly. I must speak to Tightfit's man at one; appoint Heeltap at two, and Gimcrack and Shine a quarter of an hour later."
"To speak about their bills, my lord?"
"Oh dear, no; to elongate their bills. Buttheyare too distinguished in their respective lines to breathe a hint about thetrifles. As to thecanailleof tradesmen, mention my intended marriage."
"Oh! it's settled?"
"Why, to be sure; you don't suppose I've anything to dobut to go!"
The valet bowed, and left the noble lord to his meditations. At three he was in his cab,—at five in May-fair,—at eight in the green-room.
Rapidly passed Thursday and Friday; and, among his many preparations for departure on Saturday, Lord John forgot to write to his future father-in-law, to intimate that it was his intention to depart. No matter; they would only be the more delighted at his unexpected arrival. Faddle packed up all his things; and, as his cambric handkerchiefs and kid gloves entirely filled one portmanteau, some notion may be formed of the quantity of luggage which it was absolutely necessary for him to take.
All this, however, was despatched by the mail on Friday night, directed to "Lord John Lavender, Worthington's Ship Hotel." On Saturday morning, his lordship, accompanied by his faithful Faddle, was to follow in a post-chariot and four. But Saturday morning came, and with it came another rose-leaf, on which were lines so delicately penned, that——
Suffice it to say that Lord John Lavender postponed his departure, dined in May-fair on Christmas-day, and, having resolved to travel all night, ordered horses to be at the door at ten. He at length tore himself away, wrapped himself up in several cloaks, threw himself into a corner of the carriage, and fell fast asleep. Poor Faddle in the rumble was most uncomfortably situated. It was no common snow-storm that commenced on Christmas-night 1836, nor was it a commonly keen wind that blew upon him. He shivered and shook, muttering foul curses on May-fair; and very shortly became as white as a sugar ornament on the exterior of a twelfth-cake, and very nearly as inanimate. With much ado they reached Canterbury; their stopping suddenly, roused Lord John Lavender from his repose. Somebody tapped at the window, and most reluctantly he opened it.
"If you please, my lord, we can't go any further," stammered the miserable and long-suffering Faddle.
"IfIplease! nonsense: horses out directly!"
"They say it's not possible, my lord: we've come through terrible dangers as it is."
"Not possible! why not?"
"The snow, my lord."
"Snow! nonsense!—as if it never snowed before! Tell them who I am. I say, you fellows, put horses to,—the distance is nothing;—go on;" and Lord John pulled up the glass, threw himself again into his corner, and the landlord, knowing that though they would inevitably be obliged to return, the horses must be paid for, tipped the postilion the wink, and on they went.
But not to Dover!Slowly they proceeded: now one wheel was up in the air, and then the other. Lord John was himself startled when he saw the deep drifts through which they waded; and when at last they stopped at a low miserable hovel by the road-side, he no longer urged the possibility of proceeding farther.
"We must return to Canterbury."
"Impossible, my lord: after we passed a part of the road which had been cut between two hills, an immense mass of snow fell, and blocked it up. It is a mercy it did not fall uponus;—we had a narrow escape."
"Wecan'tstay here," said Lord John, looking at the wretched hut before him.
"Wemuststay here," said one of the drivers.
"Why, I haven't got my things!—what can I do, Faddle, without my things? I haven't even a clean cambric handkerchief, nor a tooth-brush!"
It was too true: it had appeared so easy to have his "things" unpacked and placed on his dressing-table the moment he arrived at Dover, that literally nothing had been provided. Intense cold soon drove Lord John into the hut; from which, however, his first impulse was to emerge again, so execrable were the fumes of bad tobacco, and so odious the group which preoccupied the low chamber.
"Walk in and welcome," cried a tipsy waggoner; "we be all friends."
"Oh, faith!" said an Irishlady, whose husband, a "needy knife-grinder," was asleep on the floor, "he's a rale gintleman, and I'll give him a sate by myself, and p'raps he'll trate me to a drop of comfort."
Lord John felt exceedingly sick; and, choking with anger and tobacco-smoke, he turned to the ragged lad of the house, and ordered a private room.
"There be no room, sir, but this here, besides that there up the ladder."
"Up there, then," said his lordship, approaching it.
"No, but ye can't though," said the lad interposing: "mother and sister's asleep up there, and the waggoner's wife, and all the females except she as sits there, by the fire."
Lord John paused; he could not invade the territory of the fair sex: what was to be done?
"Can't I have a bed?"
"Therebesome dry straw left, I take it: I'll go and see, and give you a shake down here, and welcome."
"A shake down!" groaned his lordship, "Faddle!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Where are you?"
"Here—dying, I believe; I never was so ill!" and there in truth lay Faddle, rolling on the bare floor.
"I say, Mother Murphy," said the tipsy Waggoner, "that ere chap's a lord!"
"They be going to do away wi' them, I hear," said the Radical knife-grinder, waking up; "and a good job too;—werry useless fellors, I take it."
"Bless his pretty face!" said the Irish lady: "exchange is no robbery; and I'd gi' him a kiss for a drop of the cratur."
"You be hung!" cried her husband, throwing a stool at her head; "you've had too much already."
The fair representative of Hibernia was not to be put upon; up she started, and there was a pitched battle between her and her husband, which ended in the fall of both.
Unused to fatigue, Lord John at last threw himself on his straw. But what a night did he pass! the noise, the smell, the discomfort, the fleas—oh!
By many will the last week of 1836 be long remembered, but by none with greater horror than by the Right Honourable Lord John Lavender.
Without wholesome food,—without a change of linen,— exposed to cold, privation, and every possible annoyance, he became seriously unwell; and when, at the end of a week, the indefatigable Mr. Worthington opened a communication between Dover and Canterbury by means of a sledge, the poor prisoner was unable to avail himself of it. Some comforts and necessary restoratives were, however, conveyed to him; and at the end of another week, after the road had been traversed by many, four horses were again put to his carriage, and, entering it like the shadow of his former self, he once more started on his way to Dover. We have said that there is a great advantage in having begun to "make up" early in life. Not so, however, when the process has been suddenly and unavoidably interrupted. But Lord John was sure to find all he wanted as soon as he arrived at the Ship Hotel; a few hours' renovation would prepare him for his interview with the fair Sophy. He threw himself back in the carriage, and indulged in the most gratifying anticipations.
He was roused from his reverie by the rapid approach of a chariot and four greys; and, leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of Sophy,—the lovely, amiable Sophy,—who, having heard of his dilemma, had, doubtless, set out to seek him!
"Stop! stop!" cried Lord John. "Here, Faddle, get down; call to those drivers. Hollo there!—open the door—let down the step—give me your arm—that will do: I'm delighted to see you, Sophy; I recognised you in a minute: I was on my way to Dover to pay my respects."
Sophy blushed, and smiled, and did not seem to know what to say: at last she articulated,
"Papa and mamma will be happy to see you, my lord: allow me to introduce to your lordship my husband, Captain Mills;" and a gentleman leaned forward and bowed, who had before been invisible.
"Your lordship will be in time for the wedding-dinner; you will have the kindness to say you have seen us."
Saying thus, Captain Mills andhis ladyagain bowed and smiled; and, leaving his lordship in amazement, the wedding equipage dashed on.
Lord John Lavender proceeded to Dover, and, looking into some Sunday chronicle of fashionable scandal, he saw that his friend of May-fair had just entered into anotherarrangement. His case was desperate; and, accompanied only by his valet, he proceeded on what lords and gentlemen so circumstanced, call, aContinental trip.
They who choose to read a document on a certain church-door, may ascertain, that though no Robin Hood, the Right Honourable Lord John Lavender is an outlaw.
LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE.
Tapton Everard, Feb. 14, 1837.
Friend Bentley,—I see you have got hold of some of our family secrets; but Seaforth was always a blab. No matter: as youhavefound your way into our circle, why, I suppose we must even make the best of it, and let you go on. The revival of "Old Sir Giles's" story has set us all rummaging among the family papers, of which there is a large chest full "apudcastrode Tappington," as a literary friend of mine has it. In the course of her researches, Caroline the other day popped upon the history of a far-off cousin, some four or five generations back,—a sad story,—a sort of Uriah business,—in which a principal part was played by a great-great-aunt of ours. In order to secure her own child's succession to a fair estate, she was always believed to have wantonly exposed the life of her husband's only son by a former marriage; and through the assistance of her brother, a sea-captain, to have at least thrust him unnecessarily into danger, even if their machinations went no farther. The lad was killed; and report said that an old boatswain confessed on his death-bed—But Miss Simpkinson will tell you the story better than I can. She has dished it up for you in her choicest Pindarics; and though the maiden is meek, her muse is masculine.
Yours, as it may be,Thomas Ingoldsby.
Yours, as it may be,Thomas Ingoldsby.
The captain is walking his quarter-deck,With a troubled brow and a bended neck;One eye is down through the hatchway cast,The other turns up to the truck on the mast;Yet none of the crew may venture to hint"Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"The captain again the letter hath readWhich the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead—Still, since the good ship sailed away,He reads that letter three times a-day;Yet the writing is broad and fair to seeAs a skipper may read in his degree,And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,"Curse the old woman—she bothers me so!"He pauses now, for the topmen hail—"On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!"That grim old captain he turns him quick,And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick."The breeze is blowing—huzza! huzza!The breeze is blowing—away! away!The breeze is blowing—a race! a race!The breeze is blowing—we near the chase!Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,—Oh where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"——"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"————————Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,Between a gingerbread nut and a Jew,And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;He stands by the breech of a long carronade,The linstock glows in his bony hand,Waiting that grim old skipper's command."The bullets are flying—huzza! huzza!The bullets are flying—away! away!"The brawny boarders mount by the chains,And are over their buckles in blood and brains:On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,Young Hamilton TigheWaves his cutlass high,AndCapitaine Crapaudbends low at his knee.Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand,Is waiting that grim-looking skipper's command:—A wink comes slyFrom that sinister eye—Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!————————There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:"Now haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and seeHow he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!"The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,They bring her a little pale mealy-faced boy;And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother dear,Now Hamilton's dead, I've a thousand a-year!"The lady has donn'd her mantle and hood,She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:—"Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul,And the tablet fair shall be hung up on high,Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"Her coach and fourDraws up to the door,With her groom, and her footman, and half a score more;The lady steps into her coach alone,And they hear her sigh and they hear her groan;They close the door, and they turn the pin,But there's one rides with her who never stept in!All the way there, and all the way back,The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick:And the grooms and the footmen wonder and say,"What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?"But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and seesA man sitting there with his head on his knees.'Tis ever the same, in hall or in bower,Wherever the place, whatever the hour,That lady mutters and talks to the air,And her eye is fixed on an empty chair;But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,"She talks to a man with never a head!"————————There's an old yellow admiral living at Bath,As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath;And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,They seem to be trying to peep at his ears.That old yellow admiral goes to the Rooms,And he plays long whist, but he frets and fumes,For all his knaves stand upside down,And the Jack of clubs does nothing but frown;And the kings, and the aces, and all the best trumps,Get into the hands of the other old frumps;While, close to his partner, a man he seesCounting the tricks with his head on his knees.In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,And a great black doll hangs out at the door;There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,And musty phials, and fusty rags,And a lusty old woman, called Thirsty Nan,And her crusty old husband's a hairy-faced man!That hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone;And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chapThat sits there and grins with his head in his lap!"And the neighbours say, as they see him look sick,"What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"That admiral, lady, and hairy-faced manMay say what they please, and may do what they can;But one thing seems remarkably clear,—They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,—But wherever they live, or whenever they die,They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe.
The captain is walking his quarter-deck,With a troubled brow and a bended neck;One eye is down through the hatchway cast,The other turns up to the truck on the mast;Yet none of the crew may venture to hint"Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"
The captain again the letter hath readWhich the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead—Still, since the good ship sailed away,He reads that letter three times a-day;Yet the writing is broad and fair to seeAs a skipper may read in his degree,And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,"Curse the old woman—she bothers me so!"
He pauses now, for the topmen hail—"On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!"That grim old captain he turns him quick,And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.
"The breeze is blowing—huzza! huzza!The breeze is blowing—away! away!The breeze is blowing—a race! a race!The breeze is blowing—we near the chase!Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,—Oh where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"—
—"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"
————————
Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,Between a gingerbread nut and a Jew,And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;He stands by the breech of a long carronade,The linstock glows in his bony hand,Waiting that grim old skipper's command.
"The bullets are flying—huzza! huzza!The bullets are flying—away! away!"The brawny boarders mount by the chains,And are over their buckles in blood and brains:On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,Young Hamilton TigheWaves his cutlass high,AndCapitaine Crapaudbends low at his knee.
Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand,Is waiting that grim-looking skipper's command:—A wink comes slyFrom that sinister eye—Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!
————————
There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:"Now haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and seeHow he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!"The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,They bring her a little pale mealy-faced boy;And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother dear,Now Hamilton's dead, I've a thousand a-year!"
The lady has donn'd her mantle and hood,She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:—"Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul,And the tablet fair shall be hung up on high,Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"
Her coach and fourDraws up to the door,With her groom, and her footman, and half a score more;The lady steps into her coach alone,And they hear her sigh and they hear her groan;They close the door, and they turn the pin,But there's one rides with her who never stept in!All the way there, and all the way back,The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick:And the grooms and the footmen wonder and say,"What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?"But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and seesA man sitting there with his head on his knees.
'Tis ever the same, in hall or in bower,Wherever the place, whatever the hour,That lady mutters and talks to the air,And her eye is fixed on an empty chair;But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,"She talks to a man with never a head!"
————————
There's an old yellow admiral living at Bath,As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath;And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,They seem to be trying to peep at his ears.That old yellow admiral goes to the Rooms,And he plays long whist, but he frets and fumes,For all his knaves stand upside down,And the Jack of clubs does nothing but frown;And the kings, and the aces, and all the best trumps,Get into the hands of the other old frumps;While, close to his partner, a man he seesCounting the tricks with his head on his knees.
In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,And a great black doll hangs out at the door;There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,And musty phials, and fusty rags,And a lusty old woman, called Thirsty Nan,And her crusty old husband's a hairy-faced man!
That hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone;And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chapThat sits there and grins with his head in his lap!"And the neighbours say, as they see him look sick,"What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"
That admiral, lady, and hairy-faced manMay say what they please, and may do what they can;But one thing seems remarkably clear,—They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,—But wherever they live, or whenever they die,They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe.
Or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War.
BY THE OLD SAILOR.
THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN.
For the purple Nautilus is my boat,In which I over the waters float;The moon is shining upon the sea.Who is there will come and sail with me?—L.E.L.
For the purple Nautilus is my boat,In which I over the waters float;The moon is shining upon the sea.Who is there will come and sail with me?—L.E.L.
Of all the craft that ever swam upon salt-water give me the dashing forty-four gun frigate, with a ship's company of dare-devils who would board his Satanic Majesty's kitchen in the midst of cooking-time, if they could only get a gallant spirit to lead them. And pray, what would a ship's company be without leaders? for, after all, it is the officers that make the men what they are; so that, when I see a well-rigged man-o'-war, in which discipline is preserved without unnecessary punishment or toil, that's the hooker for me; and such was his Britannic Majesty's frigate, "the saucy, thrash-'em-allSpankaway," for by that title was she known from Yarmouth Roads to the Land's End. Oh, she was a lovely creature! almost a thing of life! and it would be outraging the principles of beauty to give her any other than a female designation. Everybody has been in love some time or other in the course of his existence, and the object of affection was no doubt an angel in the eyes of the ardent lover:—just so was the frigate to me—an angel; for she had wings, and her movements were regulated by the breath of heaven. She was the very standard of loveliness, the most exquisite of graceful forms. At anchor she sat upon the water with all the elegance and ease of the cygnet, or like a queen reclining on her downy couch. Under weigh she resembled the pretty pintado bird skimming the billow tops, or the fleet dolphin darting from wave to wave. Then to see her climb the rolling swell, or cleave the rising foam, baptising her children with the spray, and naming them her seamen—Oh, it was a spectacle worth a life to witness!
And who was her captain? the intrepid Lord Eustace Dash; a man more ennobled by his acts than by the courtesy which conferred his title; one who loved the women, hated the French, and had a constitutional liking for the rattling reports of a long-eighteen. His first lieutenant, Mr. Seymour, knew his duty, and performed it. The second lieutenant, Mr. Sinnitt, followed the example of his senior. The third lieutenant, Mr. Nugent, obeyed orders, touched the guitar, and was extremely anxious to become an author. Then there was Mr. Scalpel, the surgeon; Mr. Squeez'em, the purser; and Mr. Parallel, the master; with the two marine officers, Plumstone and Peabody. Such were theéliteof the frigate; but it would be unpardonable—a sort of sea-sacrilege—not to notice Mr. Savage, the boatswain; Mr. Blueblazes, the gunner; and Mr. Bracebit, the carpenter, all good men and true, who had come in at the hawse-holes, and served through the various gradations till they mounted the anchor-buttonon their long-tailed coats. As for the mates, midshipmen, and assistant-surgeons, there was a very fair sprinkling,—the demons of the orlop, each with his nickname. Her crew—but we will speak of them presently.
Hark! it is four bells, in the first dog-watch; and there rolls the summons by the drum, calling the brave to arms. See how the hatchways pour forth the living mass! and in three minutes every soul fore and aft is at his appointed post. The gallant ship lies almost slumbering on the fair bosom of the waters, and the little progress she does make is as noiseless as a delightful dream; like the lone point in the centre of a circle, she is surrounded by the blue waves, and nothing intervenes to break the connected curve of the horizon. Upon the quarter-deck, his right hand thrust into his waistcoat, and his feet firmly planted on the white plank, as if desirous of making the bark feel his own peculiar weight, stands her brave commander: near him Mr. Squeez'em and two young imps of aides-de-camp take up their allotted stations; the former to note and minute down the details of action, the latter to fly to the infernal regions of the magazine,or anywhere else, at the bidding of their chief. The lieutenants are mustering their divisions through the agency of the young gentlemen; the surgeon and his assistants, happily having nothing to do below, appear abaft the mizen-mast; whilst Mr. Parallel holds brief consultation with the veteran Savage, whose portrait is affixed to each cat-head. Mr. Bracebit is sounding the well, and old Blueblazes is skimming about wherever circumstances require his presence. The marines, stiffened with pipe-clay, and their heads immoveable from what the negroes appropriately call "a top-boot round de neck," are parading on the gangway—their thumbs as stark as tobacco-stoppers, and their fingers as straight as a "hap'orth of pins." What a compound of pomatum and heel-ball, pipe-clay and sand-paper!
And now the officers give in their reports to the captain, who walks round the quarters to make a personal inspection, and, as he looks along the frowning battery, his lordship is proud of his bonny bark; whilst, as he gazes on his gallant crew, his heart exults in beholding some of the finest specimens of Britain's own that ever made their "home upon the deep."
"What think you of the weather, Mr. Parallel?" inquires his lordship, on returning to the quarter-deck. "Will it be fine to-night?"
The old man scans the horizon with an eye of professional scrutiny, and then replies, "I have my doubts, my lord; but at this time o' year the helements are beyond the ken of human understanding. I've been up the Mediterranean, off and on, man and boy, some five-and-forty years; it is to me like the face of a parent to a child, but I never could discover from its features what was passing in its heart, or the fit it would take next; one minute a calm, the next a squall; one hour a gentle breeze that just keeps the sails asleep, the next a gale of wind enough to blow the devil's horns off."
Lord Eustace well knows the veteran's peculiarities; indeed he is the only privileged talker in the ship, and so much esteemed by all, that no one seeks to check his loquacity.
"Beat the retreat, and reef the topsails, Mr. Seymour," cries the captain to his first lieutenant, and the latter despatches one of the young gentlemen to repeat the orders.
Rub-a-dub goes the drum again; but before the sound of the last tap has died away, the twhit-twhit of the boatswain's call summons his mates to their duty; a loud piping succeeds, and "Reef topsails ahoy!" is bellowed forth from lungs that might have been cased with sheet-iron, so hoarse is the appeal. And see! before you can slue round to look, from the tack of the flying-jib to the outer clue of the spanker, the lower rattlins of the fore, main, and mizen shrouds are thronged with stout active young men, who keep stealthily ascending, till the first lieutenant's "Away aloft!" sends them up like sparks from a chimney-pot. The topsails are lowered, the studding-sail booms are triced up, the topmen mount the horses, the earings are hauled out, the reef-points tied, the sails rehoisted, and the men down on deck again in one minute and fifty-two seconds from the moment the halliards first rattled from the rack.
"Very well done, Mr. Seymour!" exclaims his lordship, as he stands near the wheel, with his gold repeater in his hand; "and cleverly reefed too: those after-points are well taut, and show as straight a line as if it had been ruled by a schoolmaster."
"Natur's their schoolmaster, my lord," says old Parallel, with a pleased and business-like countenance; "and, consequently, they have everything well taut."
"Very good, master," exclaimed his lordship, laughing, "you get more witty than ever."
"It's strange," muttered the veteran, surlily, "that I can't speak a simple truth, without their logging it down again' me for wit. For my part I see no wit in it."
"Pipe the hammocks down, Mr. Seymour; give them half an hour, and then call the watch," orders his lordship.
"Ay, ay, sir!" responds the first lieutenant. "Stand by the hammocks, Mr. Savage."
"Twhit-twhit!" goes the boatswain's call, followed by a voice like a distant thunderclap, "Hammocks ahoy!" and away flies every man to the nettings; but not a lashing is touched till the whole have found owners, (the occupation of a minute,) when the first lieutenant's "Pipe down!" draws forth a lark-like chirping of the calls, and in a few seconds the whole have disappeared; even the hammock-men to the young gentlemen have fetched their duplicate, and the cloths are rolled up for the night. The gallant Nelson had his coffin publicly exhibited in his cabin; but what of that? the seaman constantly sleeps in his coffin, for such is his hammock should he die at sea.
Lord Eustace has retired to his cabin, and the officers are pacing to and fro the quarter-deck, conversing on
"Promotion, mess-debts, absent friends, and love."
The glory of the day is on the wane; the full round moon arises bright and beautiful, like a gigantic pearl from the coral caverns of the ocean; but there is a sort of sallow mistiness upon the verge of the western horizon, tinged with vermeil streaks from the last rays of the setting sun, that produce feelings of an undefined and undefinable nature: yet there is nothing threatening, for all is delightfully tranquil; no cloud appears to excite apprehensions, for there is a smile upon the face of the heavens, and its dimples are reflected on the surface of the clear waters as assurances of safety. Yet, why arethere many keen and experienced eyes glancing at that sickly aspect of the west, as if it were something which tells them of sudden squalls, of whirling hurricanes, like the unnatural flush that gives warning of approaching fever.
"The captain will be happy to have the company of the gun-room officers, to wind up the day, sir," said his lordship's steward, addressing the first lieutenant.
"The gun-room officers, much obliged, will wait upon his lordship," returned Mr. Seymour; then, turning to Mr. Parallel, "Come, master; what attracts your attention there to windward? The captain has sent us an invitation to take our grog with him. Are you ready?"
"Ay, ay!" responded the old man, "with pleasure; his lordship means to make Saturday night of it, I suppose; and I must own it has been a precious long week, though, according to the log, it's ounly Thursday."
The cabin of Lord Eustace had nothing splendid about it; the guns were secured by the tackles, ready for instant use, and everything was plain and simple; the deck was carpeted, and the furniture, handsome of its kind, more suited for utility than show. The baize-covered table was amply supplied with wines, spirits, and liquors, which his lordship prided himself in never having but of the best quality; and a jovial party sat around to enjoy the invigorating cheer.
"Gentlemen," said his lordship, rising, "The King!"
Heartily was that toast drunk, for never was monarch more affectionately served by his royal navy than George the Third. Other toasts were given, national and characteristic songs were sung; the relaxation of discipline loosened the restraints on harmony, and that kindly feeling prevailed which forms the best bond of union amongst the officers, and commands respect and esteem from the men.
"Come, Mr. Nugent, have you nothing new to give us? no fresh effusion of the muse?" enquired his lordship.
"As for any thing fresh," said old Parallel, "I know he puts us all into a pretty pickle with his 'briny helement,' and in his 'salt-sea sprays,' everlasting spouting like a fin-back at play; what with him and the marines' flutes I suffer a sort of cable-laid torture."
"You've no taste for poetry, master," returned the young officer: "but come, I'll give you my last song; Plumstone has set it to music;" and with a clear sonorous voice he sang the following:
"Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! Britannia's proudest boast;Her herald o'er the distant sea, the guardian of her coast;Where'er 'tis spread, on field or flood, the blazonry of fame;And Britons hail its mastery with shouts of loud acclaim.Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! in battle or in blast;Whether 'tis hoisted at the peak, or nail'd to splinter'd mast;Though rent by service or by shot, all tatter'd it may be,Old England's tars shall still maintain its dread supremacy.Hail to the flag—the gallant flag, that Nelson proudly bore,When hostile banners waved aloft, amid the cannon's roar!When France and Spain in unison the deadly battle close,And deeper than its own red hue the vital current flows.Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! for it is Victory's own,Though Trafalgar re-echoes still the hero's dying groan;The Spaniards dows'd their jaundiced rag on that eventful day,And Gallic eagles humbly crouch'd, acknowledging our sway.Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! come, hoist it once again;And show the haughty nations round, our throne is on the main;Our ships are crowns and sceptres, whose titles have no flaw,And legislators are our guns dispensing cannon law.Once more then hail the gallant flag! the seaman's honest pride,Who loves to see it flaunt the breeze, and o'er the ocean ride;Like the genius of his country, 'tis ever bold and free;And he will prove, where'er it flies, we're sovereigns of the sea."
"Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! Britannia's proudest boast;Her herald o'er the distant sea, the guardian of her coast;Where'er 'tis spread, on field or flood, the blazonry of fame;And Britons hail its mastery with shouts of loud acclaim.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! in battle or in blast;Whether 'tis hoisted at the peak, or nail'd to splinter'd mast;Though rent by service or by shot, all tatter'd it may be,Old England's tars shall still maintain its dread supremacy.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag, that Nelson proudly bore,When hostile banners waved aloft, amid the cannon's roar!When France and Spain in unison the deadly battle close,And deeper than its own red hue the vital current flows.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! for it is Victory's own,Though Trafalgar re-echoes still the hero's dying groan;The Spaniards dows'd their jaundiced rag on that eventful day,And Gallic eagles humbly crouch'd, acknowledging our sway.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! come, hoist it once again;And show the haughty nations round, our throne is on the main;Our ships are crowns and sceptres, whose titles have no flaw,And legislators are our guns dispensing cannon law.
Once more then hail the gallant flag! the seaman's honest pride,Who loves to see it flaunt the breeze, and o'er the ocean ride;Like the genius of his country, 'tis ever bold and free;And he will prove, where'er it flies, we're sovereigns of the sea."
"Very fair, very fair, Mr. Nugent," said his lordship; "and not badly sung, either."
"Ay, ay, my lord, the youngster's well enough," chimed in old Parallel; "but, what with his poetry and book-making, I'm half afraid he'll forget the traverse-tables altogether."
"And pray how does the book-making, as the master calls it, get on, Nugent?" inquired the captain: "have you made much progress?"
"I have commenced, my lord," returned the junior lieutenant, pulling out some papers from his pocket; "and, with your lordship's permission——"
"You'll inflict it upon us," grumbled the old master, and shrugging up his shoulders as he perceived his messmate was actually about to read, whether the captain sanctioned it or not.
"Now then, attention to my introduction!" said Nugent, holding up the manuscript, heedless of the nods and winks of his companions; "I'm sure you'll like it. 'The moon is high in the mid heavens, and not a single envious cloud frowns darkly upon her fair loveliness; there is a flood of silvery light; and fleecy vapours, with their hoary crests, like snow-wreaths from the mountain top, float on its surface to do honour to the queen of night. The winds are sporting with the waters; the amorous waves are heaving up their swelling bosoms to be kissed by the warm breeze that comes laden with perfumes from the sunny clime of Italy. There is a glow of crimson lingering in the west, as if departing day blushed for her wanton sister. Hail, thou inland sea, upon whose breast the gallant heroes of the British isles have fought and conquered! Ancient history recounts thy days of old, and the bold shores that bind thee in their arms stand as indubitable records of the truth of Holy Writ. The tall ship, reflected on thy ocean mirror, seems to view her symmetry in silent exultation, as if conscious of her grandeur and her beauty, her majesty and her might. The giantess of the deep, her lightnings sleeping and her thunders hushed, dances lightly o'er thy mimic billows, and curtseys to the gentle gale.' There, my lord, that is the way I begin: and I appeal to your well-known judgment whether it is not a pretty picture, and highly poetical."
"A pretty picture truly," grumbled old Parallel: "it ounly wants a squadron of angels seated with their bare starns upon the wet clouds, scudding away before it like colliers in the Sevin, and in one corner the heads of a couple o' butcher's boys blowing wooden skewers, and then it would be complete. Why, there's the marine a-laughing at you. Talk about the winds kissing the waves, indeed. Ay, ay, young sir, when you've worked as many reckonings as ould Will Parallel,—and that's myself,—you'll find 'em kiss somat else,or you'll have better luck than your neighbours. Why don't you stick to Natur, if you mean to write a book? and how'll the log stand then?—Why, His Majesty's ship Spankaway cruising in the Mediterranean: and if you've worked your day's work, you ought to know the latitude and longitude. Well, there she is, with light winds and fine weather, under double-reefed top-sels, jib, and spanker, the courses snugly hauled up, the t'gant-sels furled in a skin as smooth as an infant's, the staysels nicely stowed, and not a yard of useless canvass abroad. There'd be some sense in that, and everybody would understand it; but as for your kissing and blushing, and such like stuff, why it's all nonsense."
"That's always the way with you matter-o'-fact men," retorted the lieutenant: "you make no allowance for the colourings of the imagination; your ideas of the picturesque never go beyond the ship's paint."
"But they do, though, my young friend," asseverated the master, to the great amusement of all present. "Show me the ship's paint that can compare with the ruby lustre of this fine old port—here's a discharge of grape."
"That's a metaphor, master," said the purser; "and, moreover,"—and he seemed to shudder at the abomination,—"it is a pun."
"Ay, ay," answered the veteran, holding up his glass to the light, and eyeing its contents with evident satisfaction, "we've often met afore; and as for the pun, I'll e'en swallow it;" and he drank off his wine amidst a general laugh. "But do you really mean to write a book, Nugent?"
"I do, indeed, master," answered the lieutenant; "but whether it will be read or not is an affair for others to determine. I've got as far as I have repeated to you, and must now pick up incidents and characters."
"A bundle of shakings and a head-rope of wet swabs!" uttered the old master contemptuously. "Stick to your log-book, Mr. Nugent, if ever you hopes to get command of such a sweet craft as this here, of which I have the honour to be the master. Larn to keep the ship's reck'ning, and leave authorship to the poor devils who starves by it. There's ounly two books as ever I look at—Hamilton Moore and the Bible; and though I never yet sailed in a craft that rated a parson in commission, yet I make out the latter tolerably well, notwithstanding my edication sometimes gets jamm'd in a clinch, and my knowledge thrown slap aback: but that's all nat'ral; for how can a man work to wind'ard through a narrow passage without knowing somut o' the soundings or the outline o' the coast. Howsomever, there's one course as is plain enough, and I trust it will carry me clear at last,—to do my duty by my king, God bless him!—and whilst the yards of conscience are squared by the lifts and braces of honesty, I have no fear but I shall cheat the devil of one messmate, and that's ould Will—myself."
"A toast, gentlemen—a toast!" exclaimed his lordship in high animation; "'The master of the Spankaway and his lady-mate.'"
"I beg pardon, my lord," interrupted the surgeon, "the master is not married; he is yet a solitary bachelor."
"True—most true," chimed in Nugent, laughing; "for, according to the words of the poet,
"None but himself can be hisPARALLEL."
"You are too fastidious, gentlemen," said his lordship: "remember, it is 'Wives and sweethearts;' and, as it is a favourite toast of mine, we will, if you please, drink it standing." The toast was drunk with all due honours. "And now," continued his lordship, "without further preface, I shall volunteer a song, which Nugent may hoist into his book, if he pleases.