VIII.
Lambkin’s Special Correspondence
Lambkin was almost the first of that great band of Oxford Fellows who go as special correspondents for Newspapers to places of difficulty and even of danger. On the advantages of this system he would often dilate, and he was glad to see, as he grew to be an older, a wealthier, and a wiser man, that others were treading in his footsteps. “The younger men,” he would say, “have noticed what perhaps I was the first to see, that the Press is a Power, and that men who are paid to educate should not be ashamed to be paid for any form of education.” He was, however, astonished to see how rapidly the letters of a correspondent could now be issued as a book, and on finding that such publications were arranged for separately with the publishers,and were not the property of the Newspapers, he expressed himself with a just warmth in condemnation of such a trick.
“Sir” (said he to the Chaplain), “in my young days we should have scorned to have faked up work, well done for a particular object, in a new suit for the sake of wealth”; and I owe it to Lambkin’s memory to say that he did not make a penny by his “Diary on the Deep,”[46]in which he collected towards the end of his life his various letters written to the Newspapers, and mostly composed at sea.
The occasion which produced the following letter was the abominable suppression by Italian troops of the Catholic Riots at Rome in 1873. Englishmen of all parties had been stirred to a great indignation at the news of the atrocities. “As a nation” (to quote my dear friend) “we are slow to anger, but our anger is terrible.” And such was indeed the case.
A great meeting was held at Hampstead,in which Mr. Ram made his famous speech. “This is not a question of religion or of nationality but of manhood (he had said), and if we do not give our sympathy freely, if we do not send out correspondents to inform us of the truth, if we do not meet in public and protest, if we do not write and speak and read till our strength be exhausted, then is England no longer the England of Cromwell and of Peel.”
Such public emotion could not fail to reach Lambkin. I remember his coming to me one night into my rooms and saying “George (for my name is George), I had to-day a letter from Mr. Solomon’s paper—The Sunday Englishman. They want me to go and report on this infamous matter, and I will go. Do not attempt to dissuade me. I shall return—if God spares my life—before the end of the vacation. The offer is most advantageous in every way: I mean to England, to the cause of justice, and to that freedom of thought without which there is no true religion. For, understand me, that though these poor wretches are Roman Catholics, I hold that every man shouldhave justice, and my blood boils within me.”
He left me with a parting grip of the hand, promising to bring me back photographs from the Museum at Naples.
If the letter that follows appears to be lacking in any full account of the Italian army and its infamies, if it is observed to be meagre and jejune on the whole subject of the Riots, that is to be explained by the simple facts that follow.
When Lambkin sailed, the British Fleet had already occupied a deep and commodious harbour on the coast of Apulia, and public irritation was at its height; but by the time he landed the Quirinal had been forced to an apology, the Vatican had received monetary compensation, and the Piedmontese troops had been compelled to evacuate Rome.
He therefore found upon landing at Leghorn[47]a telegram from the newspaper, saying that his services were not required, but that the monetary engagements entered intoby the proprietors would be strictly adhered to.
Partly pleased, partly disappointed, Lambkin returned to Oxford, taking sketches on the way from various artists whom he found willing to sell their productions. These he later hung round his room, not on nails (which as he very properly said, defaced the wall), but from a rail;—their colours are bright and pleasing. He also brought me the photographs I asked him for, and they now hang in my bedroom.
This summary must account for the paucity of the notes that follow, and the fact that they were never published.
[There was some little doubt as to whether certain strictures on the First Mate in Mr. Lambkin’s letters did not affect one of our best families. Until I could make certain whether the Estate should be credited with a receipt on this account or debited with a loss I hesitated to publish. Mr. Lambkin left no heirs, but he would have been the first to regret (were he alive) any diminution of his small fortune.
I am glad to say that it has been satisfactorily settled, and that while all parties have gained none have lost by the settlement.]
The Letterss.s. Borgia, Gravesend,Sunday, Sept. 27th, 1873
Whatever scruples I might have had in sending off my first letter before I had left the Thames, and upon such a day, are dissipated by the emotions to which the scenes I have just passed through give rise.[48]
What can be more marvellous than this historic river! All is dark, save where the electric light on shore, the river-boats’ lanterns on the water, the gas-lamps and the great glare of the town[49]dispel the gloom. And over the river itself, the oldTamesis, a profound silence reigns, broken only by the whistling of the tugs, the hoarse cries of the bargemen and the merry banjo-party under the awning of our ship. All is still, noiseless and soundless: a profound silence broods over the mighty waters. It is night.
It is night and silent! Silence and night! The two primeval things! I wonder whether it has ever occurred to the readers of theSunday Englishmanto travel over the great waters, or to observe in their quiet homes the marvellous silence of the night? Would they know of what my thoughts were full? They were full of those poor Romans, insulted, questioned and disturbed by a brutal soldiery, and I thought of this: that we who go out on a peculiarly pacific mission, who have only to write while others wield the sword, we also do our part. Pray heaven the time may soon come when an English Protectorate shall be declared over Rome and the hateful rule of the Lombard foreigners shall cease.[50]
There is for anyone of the old viking blood a kind of fascination in the sea. The screw is modern, but its vibration is the very movement of the wild white oars that brought the Northmen[51]to the field of Senlac.[52]Now I know how we have dared and done all. I could conquer Sicily to-night.
As I paced the deck, an officer passed and slapped me heartily on the shoulder. It was the First Mate. A rough diamond but a diamond none the less. He asked me where I was bound to. I said Leghorn. He then asked me if I had all I needed for the voyage. It seems that I had strayed on to the part of the deck reserved for the second-class passengers. I informed him of his error. He laughed heartily and said we shouldn’t quarrel about that. I said his ship seemed to be a Saucy Lass. He answered “That’s all right,” asked me if I played “Turn-up Jack,” and left me. It is upon men like this that the greatness of England is founded.
Well, I will “turn in” and “go below” for my watch; “you gentlemen of England” who read theSunday Englishman, you little know what life is like on the high seas; but we are one, I think, when it comes to the love of blue water.
Posted at Dover, Monday, Sept. 28, 1873.
We have dropped the pilot. I have nothing in particular to write. There is a kind of monotony about a sea voyage which is very depressing to the spirits. The sea was smooth last night, and yet I awoke this morning with a feeling of un-quiet to which I have long been a stranger, and which should not be present in a healthy man. I fancy the very slight oscillation of the boat has something to do with it, though the lady sitting next to me tells me that one only feels it in steamboats. She said her dear husband had told her it was “the smell of the oil”—I hinted that at breakfast one can talk of other things.
The First Mate sits at the head of our table. I do not know how it is, but there is a lack ofsocial reactionon board a ship. A man is a seaman or a passenger, and thereis an end of it. One has no fixed rank, and the wholesome discipline of social pressure seems entirely lost. Thus this morning the First Mate called me “The Parson,” and I had no way to resent his familiarity. But he meant no harm; he is a sterling fellow.
After breakfast my mind kept running to this question of the Roman Persecution, and (I know not how) certain phrases kept repeating themselves literally “ad nauseam” in my imagination. They kept pace with the throb of the steamer, an altogether new sensation, and my mind seemed (as my old tutor, Mr. Blurt, would put it) to “work in a circle.” The pilot will take this. He is coming over the side. He is not in the least like a sailor, but small and white. He wears a bowler hat, and looks more like a city clerk than anything else. When I asked the First Mate why this was, he answered “It’s the Brains that tell.” A very remarkable statement, and one full of menace and warning for our mercantile marine.
Thursday, Oct. 1, 1873.
I cannot properly describe the freshness and beauty of the sea after a gale. I have not the style of the great masters of English prose, and I lack the faculty of expression which so often accompanies the poetic soul.
The white curling tips (white horses) come at one if one looks to windward, or if one looks to leeward seem to flee. There is a kind of balminess in the air born of the warm south; and there is jollity in the whole ship’s company, as Mrs. Burton and her daughters remarked to me this morning. I feel capable of anything. When the First Mate came up to me this morning and tried to bait me with his vulgar chaff I answered roundly, “Now, sir, listen to me. I am not seasick, I am not a landlubber, I am on my sea legs again, and I would have you know that I have not a little power to make those who attack me feel the weight of my arm.”
He turned from me thoroughly ashamed, and told a man to swab the decks. The passengers appeared absorbed in theirvarious occupations, but I felt I had “scored a point” and I retired to my cabin.
My steward told me of a group of rocks off the Spanish coast which we are approaching. He said they were called “The Graveyard.” If a man can turn his mind to the Universal Consciousness and to a Final Purpose all foolish fears will fall into a secondary plane. I will not do myself the injustice of saying that I was affected by the accident, but a lady or child might have been, and surely the ship’s servants should be warned not to talk nonsense to passengers who need all their strength for the sea.
Friday, Oct. 2, 1873.
To-day I met the Captain. I went up on the bridge to speak to him. I find his name is Arnssen. He has risen from the ranks, his father having been a large haberdasher in Copenhagen and a town councillor. I wish I could say the same of the First Mate, who is the scapegrace son of a great English family, though he seems to feel no shame. Arnssen and I would soon become fast friends were it not that his time isoccupied in managing the ship. He is just such an one as makes the strength of our British Mercantile marine. He will often come and walk with me on the deck, on which occasions I give him a cigar, or even sometimes ask him to drink wine with me. He tells me it is against the rules for the Captain to offer similar courtesies to his guests, but that if ever I am in Ernskjöldj, near Copenhagen, and if he is not absent on one of his many voyages, he will gratefully remember and repay my kindness.
I said to the Captain to-day, putting my hand upon his shoulder, “Sir, may one speak from one’s heart?” “Yes,” said he, “certainly, and God bless you for your kind thought.” “Sir,” said I, “you are a strong, silent, God-fearing man and my heart goes out to you—no more.” He was silent, and went up on the bridge, but when I attempted to follow him, he assured me it was not allowed.
Later in the day I asked him what he thought of the Roman trouble. He answered, “Oh! knock their heads together and have done with it.” It was a bluffseaman’s answer, but is it not what England would have said in her greatest days? Is it not the very feeling of a Chatham?
I no longer speak to the First Mate. But in a few days I shall be able to dismiss the fellow entirely from my memory, so I will not dwell on his insolence.
Leghorn, Oct. 5, 1873.
Here is the end of it. I have nothing more to say. I find that the public has no need of my services, and that England has suffered a disastrous rebuff. The fleet has retreated from Apulia. England—let posterity note this—has not an inch of ground in all the Italian Peninsula. Well, we are worsted, and we must bide our time; but this I will say: if that insolent young fool the First Mate thinks that his family shall protect him he is mistaken. The press is a great power and never greater than where (as in England) a professor of a university or the upper classes write for the papers, and where a rule of anonymity gives talent and position its full weight.[53]