[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 845. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
CRESSY'S NEW-YEAR'S RENT.
BY L. A. TEREBEL.
Fred Hallowell was sitting at his desk in the _Gazette_ office, looking
listlessly out into the City Hall Park, where the biting wind was making
the snowflakes dance madly around the leafless trees and in the empty
fountain, and he was almost wishing that there would be so few
assignments to cover as to allow him an afternoon in-doors to write
"specials." The storm was the worst of the season, and as this was the
last day of December, it looked as if the old year were going out with a
tumultuous train of sleet and snow. But if he had seriously entertained
any hopes of enjoying a quiet day, these were dispelled by an office-boy
who summoned him to the city desk.
"Good-morning, Mr. Hallowell," said the city editor, cheerfully. "Here
is a clipping from an afternoon paper which says that a French family in
Houston Street has been dispossessed and is in want. Mr. Wilson called
my attention to it because he thinks, from the number given, the house
belongs to old Q. C. Baggold. We don't like Baggold, you know, and if
you find he is treating his tenants unfairly we can let you have all the
space you want to show him up. At any rate, go over there and see what
the trouble is; there is not much going on to-day."
Fred took the clipping and read it as he walked back to his desk. It was
very short--five or six lines only--and the facts stated were about as
the city editor had said. The young man got into his overcoat and
wrapped himself up warmly, and in a few moments was himself battling
against the little blizzard with the other pedestrians whom he had been
watching in the City Hall Park from the office windows.
When he reached Houston Street he travelled westward for several blocks,
until he came into a very poor district crowded with dingy
tenement-houses that leaned against one another in an uneven sort of
way, as if they were tired of the sad kind of life they had been
witnessing for so many years. The snow that had piled up on the
window-sills and over the copings seemed to brighten up the general
aspect of the quarter, because it filled in the cracks and chinks of
material misery, and made the buildings look at least temporarily
picturesque, just as paint and powder for a time may hide the traces of
old age and sorrow. Fred found the number 179 painted on a piece of tin
that had become bent and rusty from long service over a narrow doorway,
and as he stood there comparing it with the number given in his
clipping, a little girl with a shawl drawn tightly over her head and
around her thin little shoulders came out of the dark entrance and
stopped on the door-sill for a moment, surprised, no doubt, at the sight
of the tall rosy-cheeked young man so warmly clad in a big woollen
overcoat that you could have wrapped her up in several times, with goods
left over to spare.
"Hello! little girl," said Fred, quickly. "Does Mr. Cressy live here?"
The child stared for a few seconds at the stranger, and then she
answered, bashfully, "Yes, sir. But he has got to go away."
"But he hasn't gone yet?" continued Fred; and then noticing that the
child, in her short calico skirt, was shivering from the cold, and that
her feet were getting wet with the snow, he added, "Come inside a minute
and tell me where I can find Mr Cressy."
The two stepped into the dark narrow hallway that ran through the house
to the stairway in the rear, where a narrow window with a broken pane
let in just enough light to prove there was day outside. The little girl
leaned against the wall, and looked up at the reporter as if she
suspected him of having no good intentions toward the man for whom he
was inquiring. Very few strangers ever came into that house to do good,
she knew. Most of them came for money--rent money--and sometimes they
came, as a man had come for Mr. Cressy, to tell him he must go.
"What floor does he live on?" asked Fred.
"On the fifth floor, sir," answered the child. "In the back, sir. But I
think he is really going away, sir."
"Well, no matter about that," said Fred, smiling. "I will go up and see
him. I hope he won't have to go out in the storm. It is not good for
little girls to go out in the storm, either," he added. "Does your mamma
know you are going out?"
"Oh yes, sir! She has sent me to the Sisters to try to get some
medicine."
"Is she sick?" asked Fred, quickly.
"Yes, sir," continued the child.
"What floor does she live on? I will stop in and see her."
"Oh, you'll see her! She's in the room, too."
"Then you are Mr. Cressy's little girl?"
"Yes, sir."
So Fred patted her on the head and told her to hurry over to the Sisters
in Eleventh Street, and gave her ten cents to ride in the horse-cars;
and then he opened the door for her, and as soon as she had left he felt
his way back to the staircase and climbed to the fifth floor.
There he knocked upon a door, which was soon opened by a man apparently
forty years of age, a man of slightly foreign appearance, with a
careworn look, but with as honest a face as you could find anywhere.
"Is this Mr. Cressy?" asked Fred.
"Yes, my name's Cressy," replied the man. He spoke with so slight an
accent that it was hardly noticeable.
"I am a reporter from the _Gazette_," continued Fred.
"Oh!" said the man. "Come in," and as he spoke he looked somewhat
embarrassed and anxious, for this was doubtless the first time he had
had any dealings with a newspaper. Lying on a bed in an alcove was a
woman who looked very ill, and piled in a corner near the door were a
couple of boxes and a few pieces of furniture. The stove had not yet
been taken down, and some pale embers in it only just kept the chill off
the atmosphere. Fred took off his hat, and led the man across the room
toward the window.
"Have you been dispossessed?" he asked.
"Yes," said the man, "we must leave to-night."
"Why?" asked the reporter.
Cressy smiled in a ghastly sort of way.
"Because," he replied--"because I have not a cent to my name, sir, and
the landlord has got it in for me--and I must go."
"Who is your landlord?" asked the reporter.
"Baggold--Q. C. Baggold, the shoe-man."
"How much do you owe?"
"Twenty dollars--two months' rent."
"Were you ever in arrears before?"
"Never."
"What's the trouble? Out of work?"
"Yes, sir, I have been. But I've got a job now, and I'll have money on
the tenth of the month. But that is not it."
"What is 'it,' then?" continued Fred.
"Well, I'll tell you. I don't want this in the paper, but I'll tell you
Baggold hates me. He knows the woman's sick, and he takes advantage of
my owing him to drive me out. Do you want to know why? Well, I'll tell
you. I worked for him for five years, sir, in his shoe-factory. He
brought me over from France to do the fine work. He had a lawsuit about
six months ago, and he offered me $500 to lie for him on the stand. I
would not do it, sir, and when they called me as a witness I told the
truth, and that settled the case, and Baggold had to pay £10,000, sir,
for a sly game on a contract. Then he sent me off, and I've been looking
for a job, and I've got behind, and I'm just getting up again, and here
he is sending me out into the snow! To-morrow is what we call at home,
in France, the _jour de l'an_--the day of the New Year, sir, and it is a
fête. And the little one, here, always looked forward to that day, sir,
for a doll or a few sweetmeats; but this time--I don't think she'll have
a roof for her little head! I have not a place in the world to go to,
sir, but to the police station, and there's the woman on her back!"
Two big tears rolled down the man's cheeks. Fred felt a lump rising in
his throat, and he knew that if he had had twenty dollars in his pocket
he would have given it to Cressy. But he did not have twenty dollars, so
he coughed vigorously, and put on his hat quickly, and said:
"Well, this is hard, Mr. Cressy. I'll see what we can do. I must go up
town for a while, and then I'll come back and see you. Don't move out in
this storm till the last minute."
As he rushed down the stairs he met the little girl coming back with a
big blue bottle of something with a yellow label on it. He stopped and
pulled a quarter out of his pocket, thrust it into the child's hand, and
leaped on down the stairs, leaving the little girl more frightened than
surprised, as he dashed out into the snow.
He entered the first drug-store he came to and looked up Q. C. Baggold's
address in the directory. It was nearly four o'clock, and he argued the
rich shoe-manufacturer would be at his home. The address given in the
directory was in a broad street in the fashionable quarter of the city.
Half an hour later Fred was pulling at Mr. Baggold's door-bell. The
butler who answered the summons thought Mr. Baggold was in, and took
Fred's card after showing the young man into the parlor. This was a
large elegantly furnished room filled with costly ornaments, almost
anyone of which, if offered for sale, would have brought the amount of
Cressy's debt, or much more.
Presently Mr. Baggold came into the room. He was a short man with a bald
head and a sharp nose, and his small eyes were fixed very close to one
another under a not very high forehead.
"I am a reporter from the _Gazette_," began Fred at once. "I have called
to see you, Mr. Baggold, about this man Cressy whom you have ordered to
be dispossessed."
"Ah, yes," said Mr. Baggold, smiling. "My agent has told me something
about this matter, but I hardly think it is of sufficient importance to
be of interest to the readers of the _Gazette_."
"The readers of the _Gazette_," continued Fred, "are always interested
in good deeds, Mr. Baggold, and especially when these are performed by
rich men. I came here hoping you would disavow the action of your agent,
and say that the Cressys might remain in the room."
"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Baggold, "I cannot interfere with my agent. I
pay him to take care of my rents, and I can't be looking after fellows
who won't pay. This man Cressy is in arrears, and he must get out."
"But his wife is sick," argued Fred.
"Bah!" retorted the other. "That is an old excuse. These scoundrels try
all sorts of dodges to cheat a man whom they think has money."
"This woman is actually sick, Mr. Baggold," said Fred, severely, "and to
drive her out in a storm like this is positive cruelty."
"Cressy has had two weeks to find other quarters, and to-morrow is the
first of the month. I can't keep him any longer."
"Yes, to-morrow is the great French fête-day, and you put Cressy in the
street."
"My dear sir," returned the rich man, "I cannot allow sentiment to
interfere with my business. If I did I should never collect rents in
Houston Street. And, as I told you before, I do not see that this
question is one to interest the public. It is purely a matter of my
private business."
"Very true," replied Fred; "but I don't think it would look well in
print."
This statement seemed to startle Mr. Baggold a little, and Fred thought
it made him feel uncomfortable. There was a brief silence, after which
the rich man said:
"It would depend entirely upon how you put it in print. To tell you the
truth, I am not at all in favor of these sensational articles that so
many newspapers publish nowadays. Reporters often jump at conclusions
before they are familiar with the facts of a case, and it makes things
disagreeable for all concerned. Now, if you will only listen to me, sir,
I think we can come to an understanding about this Cressy matter. I
don't want anything about it to get into the papers--especially now. I
have many reasons, but I cannot give them to you. Yet I think we can
come to an understanding," he repeated, as he looked at Fred and smiled.
"How?" asked the reporter.
"Well," drawled Mr. Baggold, "there are some points that I may be able
to explain to you. Of course I don't want to put you to any trouble for
nothing. If it is worth something to me not to have notoriety thrust
upon me, of course, on the other hand, it might be worth something to
you to cause the notoriety. But just excuse me a moment."
Mr. Baggold arose hastily and stepped into a rear room, apparently his
library or study.
"H'm," thought Fred to himself. "This old chap talks as though he were
going to offer me money. I'd just like to see him try! I'd give him such
a roasting as he has never had before! Some of these crooked old
millionaires think that sort of thing works with reporters, but I'll
show him that it does not. I have never known a newspaper man yet that
would accept a bribe."
And as Fred mused in this fashion, Mr. Baggold returned. He bore a long
yellow envelope in his hand.
"Here," he said, "are some papers and other things that I should like to
have you look over before you write the article. I think they will
influence you in your opinion of the matter. I am sorry I cannot tell
you any more just now, but I have an appointment which I must keep. Take
these papers and look them over at your leisure, and if you find later
this evening that they are not satisfactory, I will talk with you
further. Good-afternoon, sir. I hope you will excuse me for the
present."
And so saying he handed the envelope to Fred, bowed pleasantly, and left
the room. Fred had been standing near the door, and so he put the
envelope in his pocket and went out. He walked a few blocks down the
street, and went into the large hotel on the corner in order to get out
of the storm and to find some quiet place where he might look over Mr.
Baggold's documents. He was very curious to see what they could be. He
found a seat in a secluded corner of the office, and there tore open the
envelope. To his disgust, it contained three ten-dollar bills, and a
brief note, unsigned, which read,
"The accompanying papers will show you that the matter we spoke of
is not of sufficient importance to be published."
Fred Hallowell was furious. This was the first time in his brief career
as a newspaper man that anything like this had happened to him. He grew
red in the face, his fingers twitched, and he felt as if he had never
before been so grossly insulted. As he sat in his chair, fuming and
wondering what he should do, Griggs, the fat and jolly political
reporter of the _Gazette_, came up to him and said, laughing,
"Well, you look as if you were plotting murder!"
"I am--almost!" exclaimed Fred, and then he told Griggs all about what
had happened.
Griggs listened patiently, and at the end he chuckled to himself, and
said: "Well, Hallowell, don't waste any righteous wrath on any such
stuff as that Baggold. I'll tell you how to get even with him." And then
he talked for twenty minutes to the younger man.
At the end of the conference Fred smiled and buttoned his coat, and
hastened back to Cressy's room in Houston Street. He found a Sister of
Charity there nursing the sick woman. Cressy came to the door, pale and
eager.
"Well?" he said, nervously.
"Oh, it's all right," returned Fred, laughing. "I have just seen Mr.
Baggold. He said his agent was perfectly right in having you
dispossessed, because that was business; but when he heard what I had to
say, he gave me this money." And here Fred handed out the thirty
dollars. "It is for you to pay the agent with, and then you can keep
your room, and you will have ten dollars besides."
Cressy was speechless. The sick woman wept softly. The Sister said
something in Latin, and the little girl just looked; she did not
understand what it was all about.
"You see," said Fred to Cressy, "I suppose Mr. Baggold does not want his
business to be interfered with by his sentiment." And before Cressy
could reply the reporter had slipped out of the door, and in a moment
was hurrying down town to his office.
The next morning--New-Year's morning--the _Gazette_ contained a pretty
little story of how a rich man, who had heard of the distress of a
tenant, put his hand in his own pocket and paid his tenant's rent to
himself, so that the new year would begin well for him by having rents
coming in at the very opening of the twelvemonth.
"I'll bet Baggold was surprised this morning when he read that," gurgled
the genial Griggs; "but it will do him more good than ten columns of
abuse and exposure. So here's a Happy New Year to him!"
A CURIOUS ADVERTISEMENT.
When the British nation built its famous military railroad that extends
through the northwest provinces of India, the natives established at or
near the many stations little restaurants and retreats for travellers.
Recently a native bought one of these rooms from its owner, and wishing
to advertise himself and his new acquisition as much as possible, issued
the following notification to his present and prospective patrons:
"Begs to say that from the 1st of October, 1893, I am in charge of the
above from the other man who was manager here for few years. Flesh of
club and store Calcutta is supplied here, for Butter and Milk Cows live
here; if 8 gentlemen eat on one table they can get english things, Bread
and Sweet maker is present here. All things are new and fresh than
before, if any gentleman will give great Tiffin or dinner, or supper a
etc. then he will make the management very well and the charge will be
less and the cook is of the first class, every gentlemen can get rest
like his own will, the railway station is on the few feet from here, and
wine can also be supplied."
THE TWELFTH-NIGHT PARTY.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
"Very jolly, isn't it?" was Bessie's criticism, as she gave a series of
satisfied little pats to the skirt of her dress.
"Do you really think there is any one here we know?" was the reply.
"Why, of course there is! the costumes change everybody." But her friend
Hortense looked bewildered, notwithstanding the hopeful words, as clouds
of Valenciennes lace floated off down the stairs, and the two young
girls were for a moment alone in the dressing-room.
"Bessie, you look fine! And how clever of your mother to get you up so
awfully smart! I was simply horrified when I learned your character. For
you're Maria, the waiting-woman, aren't you?"
"Yes; but mayn't waiting-women wear pretty clothes? This frock's only
lawn, and cost thirty cents a yard."
"Bah! the price doesn't count; it's the color and the way it's made,"
said Hortense, walking off to more effectively study her friend's
costume; and again came the words, more slowly this time, "Yes, you look
_fine_; your dress seems a veritable French flower-bed."
"Who are you, Hortense?" and a wounded look came into Bessie's eyes,
while she added, "I think you _might_ have told me, since you knew who I
was."
A light laugh followed, and then the words, "I'm ashamed of you if you
cannot guess; surely you've read _Twelfth-Night_?"
"I have never read any of Shakespeare's plays; mamma thinks I'm not old
enough. I don't believe half the children here have read it."
"Then how have they known the way to dress?"
"Their mothers or big sisters have told them, of course. I know what
Twelfth-night means, for mamma explained that it was an old festival
held twelve days after Christmas, and that it was a season of revels,
dances, and the most comic of ludicrous games. I wish we got more fun
out of our holidays. Mamma says when she was a girl Christmas used to
last all the week. You know her home was away down South; and if people
could spare time for a week's fun then, why can't they do so now?
Besides, mamma told me many of the English people still keep festivities
going from Christmas until Twelfth-night. I don't believe in letting
England get ahead of us, even if she has the word 'merrie' tacked to
her. When you came in, Hortense, I thought you were a boy, and wondered
how you got into this room."
These words proved very amusing, and Hortense craned her neck haughtily
while she promenaded before the pier-mirror, saying: "So I look like a
boy, do I? Well, that's good; precisely the way I want to look, for I am
a boy to-night; I'm personating Viola, and I may as well explain. She
made believe she was a boy, and called herself Cesario, and got a lot of
fun out of it too. So I'm really Viola, but call me Cesario."
They had just come to a Twelfth-night party, given by a dear friend two
years their senior, and, as may be assumed, there had been considerable
chattering between the knots of girls, assembled in recess hours, about
their comical clothes; but there had also been considerable secrecy, as
no one seemed very desirous to tell what she was going to wear; then,
too, the boys were unusually quiet, and everybody wondered whether they
were to dance, play games, or what was to be done anyway.
Therefore it was with a mixture of curiosity and satisfaction that these
two young people descended the staircase. Curiosity, because they were
sure of a surprise, no matter how things were arranged, and
satisfaction, because, as has been stated, they were quite satisfied
with their own and each other's appearance.
Having reached the last step of the stairs, they were met by a very
magnificently attired young man, whom they had hitherto known as their
hostess's big brother; but to-night he was no less a personage than the
imperious Duke of Illyria. He asked each her name; and escorting Bessie
in first, because she was the taller, he presented her to his sister as
Maria, and immediately afterwards Hortense, as Viola, or the page
Cesario. The hostess took the character of the Lady Olivia, and wore the
apparel befitting the daughter of a wealthy duke. Her dress was white
chiffon over white silk, and was spangled with gold dust. She wore a
long necklace of pearls, and strings of pearls kept back her wavy though
high-dressed hair.
Notwithstanding the fact that Hortense and Bessie were sure of each
other for company, they did feel considerably confused at the singular
strangeness of the scene, for the large rooms were filled with young
people who seemed almost to have come from another world, so oddly were
they attired; and they certainly were a part of another century,
country, and station. For so carefully the costuming had been done,
that, in fancy, the older people, who were the hostess's mother, father,
and two great-aunts, could well believe they were living about the year
1600, and that they formed a part of a great pageant, that the Lord of
Misrule was about somewhere, and William Shakespeare also, and that
Christmas was a Christmas worth having this year, for it was lingering
so long and so happily. Therefore, when the older people were so much
impressed with the odd sight of children coming in _Twelfth-Night_
costume, it was no wonder that the children were not a little awed until
woke up first by the didos of the clown, and then by a party of
revellers covered with white masks and dominoes, who fantastically
capered and danced before them; then it was the awed feeling passed, and
the spirit of wildest jollity followed. These revellers were none other
than a dozen of the hostess's particular friends, whom she had prepared
so to do.
None of the _Twelfth-Night_ characters were missing--indeed, they were
prominently conspicuous. Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, of whom Sir Toby said,
"Thou art a scholar"; Malvolio, correctly yellow-stockinged and
cross-gartered; my most exquisite Sir Topas; the two sea-captains, one
the friend of Viola, and the other of her brother; the lost Sebastian;
Feste, the clown; and lords, priests, officers, musicians, servants, and
attendants.
So when all had at last arrived, the parlor was a rare and charming
sight. Such a mixture of color and fantasy! Lavender, pink, and yellow
silk hose; powdered hair, and as white, curled, or wavy wigs; velvet
satin-lined short cloaks, velvet or silk knee-breeches; dark blue and
white sailor's dress; navy-blue clothed and brass-buttoned sea-captains,
scarlet and gold-buttoned officers, black-robed priests;
Swiss-embroidered or lace flounces, trained velvets, white jackets,
natty costumes, furbelows of all sorts; as also tambourines, banjos,
mandolins, violins, and all the other musical instruments that formed a
part of this altogether gay people that composed the _dramatis personæ_
of _Twelfth-Night_.
The house was large and richly furnished, a proper setting for Olivia,
daughter of a duke; to add to the grandeur and lavish beauty, rare
plants and masses of flowers had been effectively placed. Yards and
yards of evergreen and laurel were twined in and out and around
staircase and fret-work. Holly and bay-leaves were wound most generously
around pictures and over doorways; and mistletoe, the plant that the
ancients bought from the Druids to wear about the neck to keep away the
witches, was suspended from every chandelier.
[Illustration]
Early in the evening the sailors, sea-captains, and musicians
disappeared, but with great hilarity soon returned, the sailors
preceding, with the Captains at the head, drawing in the Yule-log. This
was nothing more nor less than a rugged log, knotted at each end with
long strong ropes, by which it was pulled. As they drew it, the sailors
sang, the musicians accompanying:
"Welcome be ye that are here,
Welcome all, and make good cheer;
Welcome all another year,
Welcome Yule."
And this verse was sung over and over, until the Yule-log lay on the
hearth-stone.
Of course all the children who were not on their feet at its entrance
rose to receive it; and even the older people's voices joined with the
others as the verse, being repeated over and over again, closed with all
singing "Welcome Yule."
This song was followed by the masked game of "Twelfth-night Pie."
Two people--a boy and girl--each in grotesque apparel and with masked
faces, walked in, rolling before them, on a wheelbarrow, an enormous
pie. It was made after the fashion of a Jack Horner pie, being in a deep
dish covered with diamond-dusted white paper, with tiny ribbons exposed.
The first performance was to roll the pie all around the room, and then
to the centre, where the boy and girl sang:
"Who'll have a bird from this Twelfth-night pie?
Whoever guesses me may answer, I."
After this there was solemn stillness until the names were guessed; then
the couple unmasked. The correct guesser then drew a ribbon; it proved
to bring out a robin red-breast made of candy and stuffed with
sugar-plums. As soon as the person drew it, the boy who rolled the
barrow imitated a bird-song on a harmonica. This was easily effected, as
it was the girl who presented the pie, and engaged the attention of the
individual who was drawing; and, indeed, every one in the room was
watching what was drawn, and therefore the boy for the moment was
forgotten. He made believe something had been dropped, and, getting down
back of the girl, sang at the time the bird was drawn, without
detection. Ten of the others drew in a similar manner, the first ten to
the right of the guesser; but the boy did not sing, except when he stood
no chance of being caught.
"This would be good fun for New-Year's night," said Hortense to the boy
standing next to her.
"Good fun for any time, I should say."
The next game was called "The Messenger-Boy."
One of the girls, stepping up to the wall, pretended she was talking
through a telephone and wanted a messenger-boy. In a few seconds a bell
was heard, and the boy, having arrived, was ushered into the parlor. The
boy had left the room before the game commenced.
The players were seated when the messenger entered. He said to the girl,
"I was ordered to come to you."
"Yes, I'm waiting."
"What for?"
"For you to do as I do."
Then the girl nodded her head, the messenger then nodded his head, and
the girl, turning to her right-hand neighbor, said, "Do as I do."
This party then repeated the same words to her right-hand neighbor, and
so on, until everybody was nodding. And so they continued from nodding
to rocking until every one was laughing uproariously, and the game was
obliged to end. The evening was an undeniable success.
[Illustration]
OUGHT A BOY TO GO TO SEA?
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.
Two sorts of boys go to sea--one for love, the other for necessity. Those
who go to it for love stand, perhaps, more in need of advice than those
who are sent to it for a living. The young lover of the sea is nearly
always a boy of lively imagination. He has read romances, he has watched
the passage of a ship through an ocean sunset, he has haunted pier-heads
and quay-sides; the creak of a block has fired his enthusiasm, the
fabric of a squalid little butter-rigged schooner has despatched his
spirit into distant purple seas studded with islands like emeralds, and
perfumed with gales of Arabian sweetness.
This boy, to be sure, will be disappointed. A boy going on board a ship
without a day-dream sulkily accepts the new conditions; he has no
illusions which a ship can destroy. But no sooner has the young lover of
the sea climbed over the ship's side than his fine imaginations vanish
in the twinkling of an eye. The romance is gone, the tender coloring
that distance lends has disappeared; the young sea-lover hears himself
rudely bawled at; nobody shows him any respect or consideration; if he
asks a civil question about his bed or berth the answer he gets may
probably be a thrust in the ribs from the elbow of a drunken sailor. He
is bewildered, without finding anything to fascinate him. On the
fo'c's'le some noble hurricane chorus is timed by the pulses of the
windlass pawls. Men dangling high aloft are shrieking to their shipmates
below to "sheet-home!" The tug is manoeuvring to catch hold of the
tow-rope. The pilot is cracking his pipes in strong commands on the
forecastle head. The very cook is full of business, and seems to find
everybody in his way.
Much such is the scene of a ship leaving the docks of London river.
There is no sentiment. Presently the young sea-lover begins to feel a
little sick, and with sickness come heart-chill and the sense of
friendlessness. But I would bid such a boy to be of good cheer,
nevertheless, for by-and-by, when the roughnesses of the life are worn
down by use and custom, he may find his old shore-going sentiments
recur. He will fall in love with the tall white beauty under whose
starry trucks he is floating towards countries which are strange and
therefore wonderful to him. He may find the Captain equal to the
expression of a civil word now and again; the mate may be good-natured
enough to answer his questions occasionally. He may meet amongst the
crew some plain, steady, respectable old sailor from whose conversation,
practical advice, and teaching he will pick up more about his calling in
a month than he could acquire in a whole round voyage from the mere
mechanical routine of laying aloft or going below and standing a watch.
But illusion or no illusion, the boy who goes to sea must make up his
mind to suffer from end to end a hard life. Some call it a dog's life.
And depend upon it, there are a great many dogs who, if they knew how
sailors fare and toil, would not exchange places with them even to be
men.
I deal in this brief essay with sailing-ships because a boy must first
serve an apprenticeship to tacks and sheets before he is qualified to
serve in steam. In England a boy may pass three years of still-water
seafaring life on board such training-ships, for example, as the
_Worcester_ or the _Conway_, and the service will be accepted as a
considerable contribution towards the whole period required. The
training-ship has, no doubt, certain features of merit. A boy may enter
at a comparatively tender age. He is rescued from the violent hardships
of the life and the temptations of the ports, and he is fairly equipped
as a sailor when he goes to sea in earnest. It is a question, however,
whether, if the sea be decided on as a career for a lad, it is not
better to dismiss him heroically and at once, to acquire a knowledge of
the real life in a ship sailing the ocean, than to keep him playing at
sailor aboard a gigantic toy moored in a smooth stream.
But the question is that of earning a living. A boy comes to me and
says, "Can I get a living by going to sea as a sailor?" I assume he is a
lad of respectable antecedents, and that he has parents or "friends" who
are willing to give him a start. I would tell him, first of all, that
his going to sea--supposing him to be a lad of, say, fourteen years of
age--would be cheaper to his parents than going to school. The boy would
be bound apprentice for a fee in guineas--from twenty to fifty; one
cannot talk positively on this head, as some owners take apprentices at
much cheaper rates than others.
Now, to be sure, whilst my young friend is at sea as an apprentice he is
not earning a living; but then he is at no cost to himself nor to his
parents outside the premium and the outfit. Meanwhile he is learning a
profession, and that means a great deal. He is finding out all about the
intricacies of a ship's hull and rigging; he discovers how her cargo is
stowed; some old salt in the crew will point out the difference between
the screws and iron rigging of to-day and the dead eyes and the
immensely thick shrouds of thirty years ago. He will take sights at
noon, for his father will surely provide for his being instructed in the
use of the sextant on board ship. A boy will not qualify for a
Board-of-Trade examination by dipping his hand in the tar-bucket only;
he will have to prove to the examiners that he knows how to find a
ship's situation by several processes in the art of navigation. And the
examiners will require a great deal more than that. But I should need a
page of this publication to explain what is expected of a second mate
before a certificate is granted to him.
When my young friend has successfully passed as second mate--he will not
find it very hard--he will go to work for a chief mate's certificate.
Meanwhile he is at sea as second officer, let us say of a small barque.
On what wages? Shall I suggest twenty dollars a month? This is no
liberal income; but it suffices to keep a man's sea-chest filled with
good clothes, and all the while he is at sea and in harbor abroad he is
maintained at the ship's expense. My young friend must think of that.
Forecastle sailors complain of the poorness of their pay, and I have
again and again said that it is miserable enough as a return for the
services rendered; but Jack forgets one feature of his money-getting;
what he receives, to use the commercial phrase, is _net_--his money is
not taxed for what he has eaten and drunk, and for the use of his
bedroom and sea-parlor. A man might step ashore and draw for his
services thirty or forty pounds. If he is a careful man he will know
what to do with as much of it as he can put away; and after several
voyages there is no reason why he should not have saved money enough to
establish himself in a little business, or to purchase an interest in
some longshore or water-borne industry. But this refers to forecastle
Jack, and I must recover the hand of my young friend.
He will naturally start with high ambitions. He will think of the fine
berths which must be constantly falling vacant on board the grand
Atlantic expresses through officers tumbling overboard or being left
sick behind. Dreams of the Peninsular & Oriental Company, of the Cape
Mail lines, of many services which need not be named here, will have
haunted his young imagination; but for the most part he will find them
but stars, which a man may see without being able to approach. I should
say that it is only a little less difficult to secure a berth, in this
age of interest and directors, on board of the great mail-steamers than
it is to enter the royal navy. If I were my young friend I should not
look very high, though. I should still think cheerily of the sea as a
vocation. First and foremost it is the calling of and for a _man_. That
is good. Hundreds of sailing-ships and of steamers crowd the docks and
harbors, and whiten the sea with sail or wake. They are not necessarily
P. & O.'s or White Star liners, yet they will yield a young fellow the
chance he seeks; they will give him a living; they will find him posts
of trust and command.
One condition of the sea should be indicated by every one who offers
advice to the young as to the life. I refer to the engine-room. When
parents talk of sending their sons to sea, they seem to think only of
the old traditional quarter-deck; they forget that amidships of the
steamer is a well, filled with resplendent arms of steel, and with the
innumerable machinery of perhaps the most marvellous and perfect of
human inventions. The engine-room requires men. It must be fed with men
of the workshops of the rivers, as the furnace is fed with coal from the
bunkers. There is still a great plenty of sailing-ships afloat, and
there will always be a demand for masters and mates for these vessels.
But a boy intent on a sea life should be invited to dwell upon the
liberal and popular side of it--the side where there is most abundance,
where the pickings are fairly plentiful if seldom handsome. Now a
steamer needs two sets of men, a crew for her fo'c's'le and a crew for
her engine-room. They are perfectly independent of each other, and
though no doubt the captain is master of the ship, it is often the
engineer who, by virtue of his post of enormous trust and usefulness,
subtly but certainly holds the real command.
The suggestion of the engine-room to a young lover of the sea might
affect him with something like a shock; he wants to be on deck, to climb
the masts, to behold the blue sea foaming to the horizon. But waiving
all romance, if I am to be asked should a boy go to sea for a living, I
am bound to annex the engine-room as a present considerable and
ever-growing chance. The theoretical examinations are no doubt a little
stiff (in the British royal navy they are simply man-killing, and I
marvel that any young fellow is able to obtain even a third-class
certificate, so numerous and abstruse are the subjects he is examined
in; the merchant-service examinations are much easier), and there is
plenty of hard work involved in the probationary term of labor in a
shipwright's yard, but then the opportunities of employment are
plentiful as compared with the chilling toil of seeking a situation in
sailing-ships; the pay is, all round, better than the money received on
the bridge or the quarter-deck. Socially, moreover, the marine engineer
is fast lifting his head. Time was when, only a very rough class of men
could be found for the engine-room. The tradition of roughness lingers.
It is well known and complained of in British war-ships, that though the
officers of the engine-room mess with the officers of the vessels there
is a "feeling"; in a word the lieutenants and midshipmen have not yet
got to regard the engineers as of themselves, as men as fully entitled
to the same degree of respect as is exacted by the quarter-deck. But the
lad who thinks of the sea as a profession, and who may lightly or
seriously turn his thoughts to the engine-room, should consider that
everyday witnesses the growing importance and dignity of the marine
engineer. Science is asserting him. He has scarcely had time to declare
himself. He is mainly hidden in the bowels of the ship, and is little
seen, though the safety of the whole magnificent fabric is as much in
his hands as in the captain's. Let us consider that there are plenty of
people now living who remember the time when there was not a passenger
steamship afloat. So the marine engineer still advances socially and
commercially, while the master and mate of the sailing-ship walk in
footprints as old as the red flag of Great Britain.
The profession of the sea, however, is so full of hardships, perils, and
difficulties, that the friends of a lad should endeavor to make him as
clearly understand it as a vocation as his unformed intellect will
allow. He might be sent on a short excursion to sea as a sailor-boy; in
his presence seafaring men might be consulted, and their words would
weigh with him. The peculiarity of the sea is this, that when once
adopted as a calling it generally unfits a young man for any form of
steady, monotonous life ashore. Richard Dana used to say that had he
remained another year on the coast of California he should have been a
sailor forever. A lad, or rather the lad's friends, before deciding
should, unless the little fellow be an enthusiast, weigh the chances of
payment and promotion at sea with the opportunities a boy is likely to
obtain ashore. Such is the stress of life nowadays that I do not think a
serious consideration of chances ashore and afloat would tell very
heavily against the sea. It is the life of a _man_, as I have said, and
sailors are always wanted. And for my own part, I would rather be the
master of a vessel on fifty dollars a month than the manager of a bank
on two thousand dollars a year.
MY REALM.
BY ALBERT LEE.
When I was quite a little chap
They took me to the sea;
A broad-brimmed hat, a wooden spade,
And pail they gave to me.
They turned my little trousers up,
They stripped me of my socks,
And let me paddle in the waves,
And climb the weed-grown rocks.
I built great walls and fortresses
With parapets and moats;
I dug deep lakes and waterways
To sail my paper boats.
And thus I learned to love the sea,
The shells, the surf, the sand,
For, truly, all this seemed to me
A very fairy-land
Where I was king of all the shore
So far as I could see,
And Ocean was a docile thing,
Obedient to me.
For when I built a fort of sand
And gave it to the foe,
I called upon the tide to come
And wash the fortress low.
But when I knew the flood must turn,
I shook my little spade,
And drove the curling breakers back
As far as I could wade.
Oh, truly, for big sailing-ships
I think God made the sea;
But all the shore, the surf, the sand,
He made for little me.
A PATRIOTIC ANSWER.
Just after the war of 1776 an American frigate visited England. Her crew
of gallant tars had been principally recruited from the fisheries, and
some of them, it is to be acknowledged, did not compare favorably in
appearance with the spick-and-span, jaunty English naval seamen, for the
former were of all shapes and sizes, from the tall, round-shouldered,
long-armed Cape Coder, down to the short, wiry members of the ship's
company who hailed from various ports farther south, where less brawn
was to be found.
One day the captain of the American ship paid a visit to the commander
of a British man-o'-war at anchor in the same harbor. The coxswain of
the gig was a great, lanky seaman, whose backbone was so rounded as to
form a veritable hump. While the boat rested at the gangway of the
visited vessel the English sailors gathered in the open ports and "took
stock," in a rather disdainful fashion, of the occupants of the gig. At
last one of the seamen on board the man-o'-war called down to the
coxswain:
"'Ello there, Yankee; I soy, what's that bloomin' 'ump you 'ave on your
back?"
The American sailor looked up and called back, quick as a shot: "That's
Bunker Hill!"
OUR SUBMARINE TORPEDO-BOAT.
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
Within a year the United States will have a submarine torpedo-boat. It
will be 80 feet long and 11 feet in diameter. It will use steam when
running on the surface of the water, and when running under water it
will use electricity. It will be capable of going nearly nine miles an
hour under water for six hours. On the surface of the water the boat
will be able to go just twice as fast. When running "awash," that is,
with only a small turret sticking out of the water, the speed will be
only one knot an hour slower than when running on the surface.
The submarine boat, as well as most of the other boats of a like
character that have been experimented with for nearly 300 years, should
more properly be called a diving-boat. Its purpose is to duck under
water and remain there as long as may be necessary when its own safety
is in danger. When it engages in a fight, it will begin its work by a
series of dives before discharging one of its five torpedoes from the
bow. Much as a stone may be made to go skipping across the top of the
water, so this boat may be made to skip along underneath the water,
coming occasionally to the top. Although it will remain underneath the
water only six hours without coming up when it is being worked at its
full capacity, it will be able to remain under the water for several
days if it is simply necessary to keep out of sight for a long time. As
fast as fresh air is needed a float with a hose attached is released,
and when it reaches the surface of the water the electric motors suck
down enough air in a few minutes to fill the tanks again, and the stay
may be prolonged until the supply of water and provisions gives out.
The boat is known as the Holland submarine boat, because it is the
invention of Mr. John P. Holland, who has been studying this problem for
more than twenty years. In his experiments he has gone under water, for
a stay of from a few minutes to several hours, more than fifty times. In
spite of discouragements that would have made many a man give up, Mr.
Holland kept on, until he convinced the government that his boat was not
only feasible, but an absolutely necessary article in the equipment of
an up-to-date navy. Other countries have submarine boats, but none of
the boats has been fully successful; and if this vessel will really
accomplish what it is expected to do, the United States will again show
the world that it excels in naval ship-building.
The use of electricity in propelling boats and the power to compress air
in tanks makes navigation under water a comparatively simple matter.
Remaining under water is the easiest part of the task required of a
submarine torpedo-boat. The essential things are that the boat must be
speedy in diving and in coming to the surface, that some means of
steering accurately must be devised, that the boat must be kept at a
certain level in the water, that it must have good speed under the
water, and that it must be able to discharge torpedoes safely under
vessels which it is attacking. If the vessel is successful it will solve
the problem of harbor defence, for no fleet would dare venture into a
harbor knowing that one of these submarine boats was on guard.
[Illustration: TAKING AN OBSERVATION OF THE ENEMY'S FLEET.]
Every boat, no matter what its object, must have a certain amount of
buoyancy to make it float. This vessel has the usual amount for one of
its size. In its hold are a certain number of air-tanks, in which are
stored 30 cubic feet of compressed air at a pressure of 2000 pounds to
the square inch. There are also 620 electric storage batteries for
propelling the ship when the steam is shut off under water. Let us take
the little vessel under water. We have been running along under steam on
the surface and have seen the enemy. All the hatches are closed
water-tight, and the Captain goes into a little armored turret. He gives
the word to run awash. At once the valves in the bottom of the boat are
opened, and certain apartments are allowed to fill with water. This
sinks the boat at once so that only the turret is visible. The enemy is
near and has seen us. It is necessary to dive. Quickly the word is
given, and the smoke-stack is dropped down into the ship and a thick
plate is clamped over it. The fires are banked, and the engine is
disconnected from the screw, and the electric power is attached. An
indicator tells the depth we have reached, and then the mechanism is set
at the required depth, and we are soon skimming along under the water in
absolute safety. The air in the tanks is being released as fast as we
need a fresh supply, and we are dry and comfortable.
[Illustration: DAVID STRIKING GOLIATH.]
The Captain decides that he wants to look around. He steers the boat up
to within four feet of the surface, and then he pokes up out of the
water what looks like a stove-pipe. Its real name is a "camera lucida."
It is an arrangement whereby those inside the turret can get a good look
around by means of mirrors. The Captain decides to go under again, and
makes for his target. He is soon passing under a ship. The darkened
water tells us so. He makes a short turn, or stops, and then backs away
and gives a signal to discharge a torpedo. It leaves the boat with a
rush, and in a few seconds there is a muffled roar. A great war-ship has
been struck. It lurches and staggers. Pandemonium reigns on it, the
order is given for every man to save himself, and in less than five
minutes after the torpedo has been discharged a five-million-dollar
battle-ship, the most powerful engine of destruction man ever made, is
lying at the bottom of the channel, and the enemy has received a mortal
blow. We come up to look around again. David has struck Goliath with a
stone in the forehead and killed him.