[Illustration:
CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 721. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
TOYS.
Of British industries, not the least interesting to a large world of
readers, great and small, will be found the manufacture of toys. Mr
Bartley, in treating this subject in Mr Stanford's useful series of
Handbooks to British Manufactures, rightly assumes that objects which
are so inseparably connected with the happiness of our early life
cannot be held unimportant; while we need but mention the name of
Charles Dickens, in order to lend a charm to the avocations of a doll's
dressmaker and a journeyman toy-maker. Although the English productions
are almost entirely confined to a few special types of goods, which not
only hold their own among foreign rivals, but are largely exported to
the continent, we find that in London alone there are, besides various
importers of toys, eleven rocking-horse manufacturers, ten wholesale
dealers, and one hundred and fifty-one retail dealers, not including
the large tribe of small retailers, who combine other occupations with
the sale of toys. Though Germany, Switzerland, and France are the great
storehouses of all toys of which the material is soft wood, the toy
manufacture of London forms a large and interesting industry.
Penny wooden toys are turned out of a manufacturing establishment
which consists of a toy-maker, his wife, and family. When the father
has finished his work on the lathe, the mother and children have each
their particular share in gluing, pasting, and painting. The material
for these articles are scraps of timber bought out of builders' yards,
the principal tools being the chisel and the lathe. Pewter toys are
made in London in very large quantities. At one establishment a ton
of metal is consumed each month in the production of Lilliputian tea,
coffee, and dinner sets. English taste may be gathered from the fact,
that the number of _tea_-sets made is nearly thirty times larger than
either of the other two. Twenty-three separate articles make up a set,
and of these articles two millions and a half are made yearly by one
house alone. The metal is provided from miscellaneous goods, such
as old candlesticks, tea-pots, pots and pans, bought from 'marine'
store-dealers by the hundredweight; and when melted, is formed into the
required shapes by different processes of casting in moulds. One girl
can make two thousand five hundred small tea-cups in a day. Putting
together the four separate pieces of a mould made of hard gun-metal,
she fills it with the molten metal, dips its mouth into cold water,
takes it to pieces, and turns out a cup that only wants trimming.
Under the head of paper toys, miniature packs of cards demand a large
amount of material and labour. It is astonishing to read that one firm
alone in London turns out each year _one million_ packs of toy cards,
using five or six tons of paper for the purpose, on each sheet of which
are printed three packs in black and red. When these sheets have been
pasted on cards--called 'middlings'--one girl can cut up and complete
eight hundred and sixty-four packs each day, earning about one pound
a week. These cards are sold at twopence, one penny, and a halfpenny
a pack. The penny cards have, as might be expected, far the largest
sale with the public; the manufacturer getting five shillings for a
gross of twelve dozen, or somewhat less than half the retail price.
Many thousand gross of these little packs go to all parts of the world.
The twopenny packs are precisely the same as the penny packs, with
the addition of an ornamental paper back to each card. The demand for
these superior packs is small, for when the price of an article gets
above a penny, we read that it at once shuts it out from a certain
class of the buying public. The purchaser that will spend more than a
penny will spend sixpence. The spending public, it seems, go in sets.
There is the farthing set, mostly children, who patronise small shops
of toys and sweets; there is the halfpenny set; and the penny set. We
then jump to the sixpenny set. There is a very large manufacture of toy
picture-books which are sold at one penny, a halfpenny, and a farthing.
Even the farthing books have a picture on the cover printed in four
colours; and valentines printed from wood-blocks and hand-painted can
be sold for a halfpenny.
Another large industry grown up or developed of late years is the
manufacture of india-rubber toys. The india-rubber, cut up into
small pieces, and formed, by the admixture of white-lead and other
substances, into sheets of a putty-like inelastic material, is fitted
into two pieces of an iron mould, variously shaped according to the
requirements of the toy, and then plunged into the vulcanising bath--a
vessel filled with sulphur and other ingredients. When taken out, the
india-rubber has become elastic, the two pieces of mould are unscrewed,
and the toy, after trimming and painting, is ready for use.
Toy-boats, which in their construction go through fifteen different
hands, are very cheap, though the whole of the work is done by hand. In
one London manufactory as many as ten thousand sailing-boats are made
every year; upwards of five hundred twelve-feet lengths of three-inch
deals being used in their manufacture, and eight tons of lead being
required for their keels.
We have left to the last place notice of the toy which is the
speciality of English toy-makers, the wax-doll. The wax, after being
melted in large vessels by means of boiling water, is poured into
hollow plaster-moulds made in three pieces, and laid in rows with the
crown of the head downwards. When the workman has filled from a can ten
or twelve of these moulds, returning to the first one in the row, he
pours back into his can as much of the wax as remains fluid; and so on
with the other moulds. Most of the wax is thus poured back again into
the can; but that which adheres to the mould has now become a hollow
wax head, thick or thin according to the time which elapses between
pouring the wax into the mould and pouring it out again. Then comes the
process of fixing the glass eyes, which, save the very best, are now
made abroad, the Germans having driven the Birmingham manufacturers
out of the field. The wax ridges left by the joints of the mould are
smoothed down, the surface is brushed over with turpentine to clean
it, and with violet powder to beautify it; and when the cheeks have
been tinted with rouge and the lips with vermilion, the head is ready
for the hair-dressing operations. For the best dolls, the wig is made
by a lengthy process of fixing one or two hairs at a time, so as to
give a natural appearance to the hair. In the common dolls, the hair
is more quickly put on in locks. The black hair, most of which comes
from abroad, is human; but the favourite flaxen curls are of mohair,
the silky wool of the Angora goat. _Composition_ dolls' heads are
made of pasteboard from iron moulds. The pasteboard is placed over a
mould representing half a head cut vertically behind the ear, and is
then forced by means of a pestle into every crevice. Another mould for
the other half of the head, is similarly filled; and when nearly dry,
the two halves are removed from the moulds and pasted together. The
head thus moulded, which becomes as hard as leather, is coated with
a composition of size and whiting, washed with oil and turpentine;
and then having received a pair of eyes, is dipped into a vessel of
melted wax, and re-dipped until it looks like a solid wax-head. The wax
is then cut from off the eyes, and scraped from the part of the head
which the hair will cover; and the head is then ready for painting,
powdering, and hair-dressing. A third class of dolls, known in the
trade by the misnomer of 'rag dolls,' is the pretty muslin-faced
creature with blue eyes and becoming cap. Her face is of wax, covered
with an outer skin of muslin, and is made by pressing a wax mask,
moulded in the ordinary way, into a mould exactly like the one in which
the wax was cast, over which is stretched a piece of thin muslin. In
this way the wax necessarily adheres so closely to the muslin, that
it becomes a sort of skin to the mask. These faces are nothing but
masks, and require the caps to conceal the junction with the skulls,
made of calico and sawdust, like the bodies. The bodies are mostly the
handiwork of women and the smaller members of the doll-maker's family.
The doll manufacturer gives out so many yards of calico which are to
produce so many bodies, the sawdust to be found by the maker. Then by
a division of labour in cutting out, sewing up, filling with sawdust,
and making the joints, many dozen bodies will be turned out by one
family in a week. The arms are a branch of the trade upon which certain
persons are almost exclusively employed. They are made of calico above
the elbow, of leather for the part below, and are paid for at the
incredibly small price of sixpence-halfpenny a dozen pairs; smaller
arms for very cheap dolls costing three-halfpence a dozen pairs. We
read that the hands, which thus cost each the sixteenth part of a
penny, have always a certain number of fingers! The materials are found
by the makers themselves; so when we consider that each doll sold to
the public for sixpence should not cost more than threepence in the
making, if the toy-merchant and the retailer are to earn a living,
there remains but a pittance to be earned by the Caleb Plummers and
Jenny Wrens. Though most dolls leave their first homes in an undressed
condition, the larger establishments employ many young women in the
dressmaking department of their trade. One article of dolls' attire
forms a distinct branch of trade--the little many-coloured leather
shoes, which are made from the waste material left by the makers of
children's ornamental boots and shoes. A thousand such pairs are made
weekly by one large manufactory in Clerkenwell.
And now we replace our puppets in their box, grateful for having been
let into some of the mysteries of their creation, not only the more
ready to admire the charming little picture of the toy-maker, by John
Leech, in the _Cricket on the Hearth_, but more sensible of a sympathy
with doll-nature, and more certain that toys are as much needed for
old as for young. Happy is it if the toys of grown-up folks cause as
little mischief and as much pleasure as the innocent toys of childhood!
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
PART II.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
When Deborah awaked, old Marjory was sitting watching over her; the sun
was still glorious on the woods outside, but the chamber was left in
grateful gloom. She could not even distinguish her father's picture;
but soon, clear and distinct through the gloom, laughed out the boyish
face of Charlie. Charlie? What had Charlie done? Mute and still,
Deborah looked up at her old nurse, while the darkness of reality
dawned on her wakening mind.
'Thou'rt ill, child,' said old Marjory abruptly.
'What makes you think so, dame?' asked Deborah faintly.
'Why, thy face betrays thee; it is white as my apron, and thine was a
sleep o' sorrow. _I_ know it. Thou'lt eat summat now, an' no more o'
these airs.'
'Have ye no letter or message for me, Marjory? What are you hiding
there?' and Deborah raised herself in feverish excitement.
'Why, it's a letter that'll keep, I warrant me, my Lady Deb. It's from
the old man at Lincoln.'
'Give it me, Marjory, and leave me, dear old dame. I wish to be alone.'
So Marjory left her; but soon the old woman was knocking at the door
again with food and wine for Deborah. She found her sitting on the
floor white as a ghost. 'O child, thou'rt faintin' for good victuals!
There! eat and drink like a Christian. Why, bless thee, Lady Deb, dear,
I know the master's in his old quandaries. But don't take on, my Rose.'
'Dame, come and comfort me. Pray, take that food away! Let me lay my
head on thy kind old breast. Thou'rt a mother to me, Marjory--always
wert. Dame, I've no dear mother!'
The dame took her darling in her arms, and rocked her gently to and
fro, with the toil-hardened old hand stroking the girl's silken hair,
and her grave old face laid against it.
'No; thou hast no mother, poor lamb; worse for thee.'
'It's hard to know right from wrong, Marjory; but I am quick to decide,
and once decided, never falter. I try to do all for the best.'
'I know it, I know it. But child, my Lady Deb, have no dealin's with
that old man Master Sinclair. He's a demon.'
'Hush! or give the demon his due, Marjory. He has been kind to my
brother Charlie.'
'For what? We all know it; all Enderby knows what he's after.'
'That is no concern of Enderby's. I hate this gossip. Look you, dame,
if I choose to wed fifty such, it is no concern of Enderby's. If I did
wed Master Sinclair, it would be of mine own free will: let all the
world know that!'
'But thou'lt never wed him, dearie!' cried the old nurse, in tremulous
breathless haste.
'I do not answer you Yes or No; but I am my own mistress.'
'Too much so--ever too much so,' muttered Marjory below her breath.
'What say'st thou, Marjory?'
'That thou wantest a strong kind hand over thee, bein' too headstrong
by half. I wish Master King was here; _he'd_ advise thee!'
'Best not,' said Deborah, with a quick breath of pain. 'Let "Master
King" attend to his own affairs. Each one has his troubles. Nurse, love
me! I have need of it. O that I were a little tiny child again, when,
in affright or in distress, I wrapped these arms o' thine about me;
and they would seem to shelter me from all the world! O that thou wert
magician, fairy, to give me my childhood back! I was happy _then_.'
'An' not now? What ails my bright bird? Is it Master Charlie?'
'O Marjory, don't speak of that. Look you at his picture; look there!
Could those fearless eyes ever turn aside in shame or dread? Would
Charlie, with all his faults, ever bring _dishonour_ on us? Tell me
that?'
'No, _never_.' The old face turned white, but did not flinch; Marjory
believed in the honour of her wild boy, as in her own soul.
'Ah, Marjory, nurse, my darling! How I do love thee! No; never believe
that any but a black liar would ever accuse Charlie Fleming of a mean
low act. Wild, reckless he may be, but dishonourable, never! Ah, my
love, my comfort, our true and faithful friend, _we_ believe in Charlie
Fleming!'
'Where is my boy?' asked the old woman, with troubled tears in her
eyes. 'Why don't he come to Enderby? They _will_ say strange things o'
him if he don't come home. Oh, he'll break his father's heart by bein'
so wild; but it's his father's blood that's in him.'
'And his mother's too, for they say our sweet mother was a mad, mad
lass. Dame, who was she? What was my mother's name?'
The girl gazed straight at the old woman till Marjory's eyes fell, and
the girl's fair face was flushed with crimson. 'I have never asked
you,' she said, 'not since I was a child; but who was my mother, dame?
Prithee, tell me. Ah, say not that there was shame! Poor and honest, I
care not; but naught of _shame_.'
'No, my Lady Deb, no; naught o' shame. She was the child o' wedded
parents, I promise thee; she was lawful wedded wife, thy mother; but
if I was to tell thee who she was, Sir Vincent would strike me dead. I
cannot tell thee; there's my faithful promise given, not.'
'I will not ask ye then. One day I will--must know. Does Charlie know?'
'Ne'er from me or his father. But no one knows what Master Charlie
knows.'
'There's my father calling me; I must go. Good-bye, dame. Pray for me.'
Deborah went down into the hall. Sir Vincent got up and met her. He
shut the door carefully, and led her to a chair; he sat down opposite
her, and screening his face from the light with one great sinewy hand,
gazed out from under its shadow, as if he would read his daughter's
soul. For her part, she gazed at him with all her great and tender soul
in her eyes, her own despair forgotten in her father's. There was a
long silence between them, each gazing on the other, sorrow-stricken
and speechless.
'Father,' said Deborah softly then, 'sweet father, have I not done thee
some good? See! here's the letter from Lincoln; and in three weeks
I shall be Master Sinclair's wife. It is my duty, father, my free
choice. My heart is very strong. Sweet father, thou'rt sad still, ay,
even heart-broken; I know thy face so well! I have saved Charlie.
Listen! This Master Sinclair puts everything in my power, makes me
absolute mistress of all he has. My first act will be to save us from
ruin; Charlie from ruin too. But tell me what more there is? What
serpent has wronged Charlie falsely? ay, _falsely_, for before heaven,
father, I would _swear_ that Charlie has done no dishonour! Sooner
would I doubt my own soul than his. He is incapable of double-dealing,
incapable of all meanness and dishonesty. To doubt him, to believe for
one moment that he could act dishonourably, is to believe that Charlie
Fleming is no son of thine and mother's; that this Charlie Fleming is
not the boy who has grown up under thine eyes and mine; graceless,
truly, but the very soul of honour. Even the masters at his school,
his tutors, his comrades who knew him best, have done him justice in
calling him honourable and true. Then doubt him not for one moment!'
Under the fire and sweetness of her faith in her brother, Sir Vincent
waxed wan, and his fierce eyes grew dim with sadness.
Laying one hand upon her hands, and shading his own face still, he
whispered brokenly: 'Believe on--hope on. Sweet child, sweet Deb, my
brave best one, I _must_ confide in thee, or my old heart will break.
This boy--this son, in whom I trusted--Ah me!' and with his clenched
hand on his brow and his eyes raised to heaven, the father gave a deep
and bitter sob--'has _betrayed_ me--_his father_!' With a strange
hoarse eager whisper, and eyes that gleamed like a madman's, Sir
Vincent leaned forward and uttered those words to Deborah. She, white,
still, waited without a word for more. 'I have seen the papers--Adam
Sinclair holds them--by which that boy of mine has anticipated my
death, and raised money upon Enderby; his writing--his name--Charles
Stuart Fleming. Adam Sinclair has got those papers out of Parry's
hands; and by marrying thee, my fairest and my best, he buys those
papers of Parry and destroys their shameful purport. But Deb--does
that wipe out the stain? Does that blot out the fact that that boy of
mine, deceiving and betraying me--ay, cursing my lengthened life, and
hungering for the old man's death--has got a hound to raise this money?
Ay, that hound has in turn betrayed him into Sinclair's hands; and
Charles Fleming's black-heartedness is laid bare to him and me.'
'Have ye seen those papers, father, with your very eyes? And Charlie's
writing?'
'Ay, ay.'
Deborah panted, terribly white and wild she looked, with her hands
pressed on her side. Sir Vincent kneeled down beside her and laid his
head upon her shoulder. Bitter, bitter was that hour.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
Some days after that--it might have been centuries to Deborah
Fleming--she heard a peal at the great hall bell; and Kingston
Fleming, pale, disordered in dress, and haggard-eyed, entered the
library. Deborah was looking idly over the books, not reading; she
was stunned, and could neither read nor write; she scarcely had the
power of thought. One look at King, and she knew that he knew her fate.
'Deborah!' he said, roughly and hoarsely, 'you have played me _false_!
By words strong and binding as an oath, you told your brother you would
not wed Adam Sinclair--that no ruin, no misery, should lead you to so
ignoble a sacrifice. Is it then under the mask of doing good, ye do
this grievous evil? Soiling your soul, sacrificing your life, not to
save your father and your brother, for Charles Fleming would rather see
you dead than accept your bounty _then_, but to win rank and money--to
shuffle off this miserable coil of poverty, that wearies you; and to
sell yourself for gold and tinsel to this hoary reprobate! No good
intention, no amount of self-sacrifice, could justify so detestable a
deed.'
Palely beautiful, but full of calm scorn, Deborah Fleming faced her
fiery and impetuous kinsman; before she spoke, her haughty eyes flashed
fire and disdain.
'Kingston Fleming, are _you_ my brother? Are _you_ my guardian, my
master, or the master of this house, that you dare to insult me thus?
What earthly right have you to question or to jeer at me? Were I a man,
I would strike you on the face for this. Coward! Because I am alone and
a woman, you dare to insult me by these words! What if I choose to be
wed to Adam Sinclair, and to love his "gold and tinsel;" what is that
to you? What if I choose to "sell" my precious self for his name and
fortune; what is that to you? I have my father's consent; I am under my
father's protection; you have no earthly claim on me. Fair and friendly
have you ever been to me. Courteous has been your kindly interest in
me from childhood upwards; but scarcely enough so, to justify your
interference now. I thank you, Master Kingston Fleming, for your
anxiety on my account; but I'll thank you also to leave me and mine
alone.'
Even in that wild moment, Kingston saw that she was trembling with
fierce passion--ay, she could have struck him; in that moment, she
_hated_ him. But Kingston too, goaded by his wild unavailing remorse
and love, mad with the knowledge of how cruelly his taunt had wronged
her, desperate at her beauty and her sacrifice, cared for nothing.
Dashing down his hat and whip, he caught her hands in his: 'Beautiful,
cruel, heartless, reckless Deborah! Child, I have loved thee--too late,
too late. I am _free_! I am free to woo thee; I am a free man now!
But when I come in mad haste to ask thy love and pity, I find thee
betrothed, and cast away, and _sold_! Listen! I would have _made_ thee
love me. No woman on earth have I loved but Deborah Fleming! I would
have _made_ thee love me!'
Then, with a sharp bitter cry, Deborah wrenched away her hands.
Conscious of her brother's dishonour, sublime in the greatness of her
sacrifice, and her terrible secret and her suffering, she looked back
on Kingston only with passion and scorn, to hide the love that would
still master her, and hurled him back taunt for taunt. 'Ah! you are
a good one to preach honour and good faith to me! throwing over one
woman to woo another who is betrothed! I feel dishonoured even to have
heard your words of love, when I have plighted troth to Adam Sinclair.
But don't think to win or move me by thy treachery. Deborah Fleming
doesn't change her troth-plight every hour. Her vows once made, are
binding, binding till _death_!'
'Then good-bye, Deborah.' He took up his hat and whip and strode to the
door. His looks were turned back on her, a smile was in his haggard
eyes--intense passion, love, and suffering; his face was pale as death.
His last sight of her was the proud erectness of her figure, and the
bright watchfulness of her beautiful haughty eyes, following him, and
burning on him. But when he was gone from her sight, the bells of
Enderby, as all through their interview, came clanging wildly out,
clashing on heart and brain.
'I know not if I love or hate him most!' cried the girl, half mad with
her despair. 'I love him, and I hate him too!'
Then rang out the bells of Enderby, loud and clear, the refrain, 'I
love him, and I hate him too!' Low in the lull, loud and clear on the
gale, 'I love him, and I hate him too!'
Mistress Dinnage in those days was well-nigh desperate. After hearing
that Deborah Fleming was betrothed to Adam Sinclair and was to be
wedded to him in three weeks' time, she knew no rest. It was all
for Charlie, it was on his account; Charlie therefore must know of
this, and there would be an end of it. For two evenings Mistress
Dinnage watched for her lover in vain. She had talked herself hoarse
to Deborah; she had exhausted threats and entreaties: she might as
well have talked to the idle wind--and so she knew--as to Deborah
once resolved. On the third evening-watch, however, Margaret saw the
well-known form. She was out in a moment under the gloom of the trees
and the twilight.
'I have somewhat to tell you, Charlie. Let me speak quickly and
clearly, love. Your sister Deborah is betrothed to Master Sinclair;
they are to be wedded in two weeks and four days. There have been sad
doings at Enderby. Your father! Ah! I dare not tell ye what I fear.
But oh! grievous trouble has he been in through tidings from Master
Sinclair about _you_! So Mistress Deborah promised then and there to
be Master Sinclair's wife. Oh, I tell you she is desperate since! She
loves another; I know it; but she gives up all for you and Enderby.'
'Can this be true! Meg, I will kill him first. Has he betrayed me then?
What tidings has he sent?'
'I know not; but of terrible losses, be sure. Ah, dear, are ye not in
terrible trouble, and waiting about for love of me? Stay no longer,
Charlie! Think not o' me; I will follow; I've got good courage. Release
sweet Mistress Deborah.'
'How, quotha? Death only will release that mad reckless girl. Ah! I
might have known her.'
'Neither prayers nor commands, Charlie, would she listen to; no, not
if you were rolling in riches now, she says she would not break her
oath. Charlie! O love, what do I urge you to! You must fight that old
man, and we must fly. Not to kill him, Charlie, hark ye!--not to kill
him; but to disable him for what life he has left! Think me merciless,
unwomanly; I care not, so that it saves her. Or stay, stay, Charlie!
Will ye use all your influence first to turn him? O ye can talk to
tenderness a heart o' stone! Talk to Adam Sinclair then till he melts
to pity; but set sweet Deborah free!'
'_Talk_ to him!' said Charlie Fleming, with a short laugh; 'ay, I
will _talk_. But we have old accounts to settle first, old debts to
square. We have a little affair to settle between ourselves, Adam
Sinclair and I. Hark ye, Meg! He has accused me of foul play--not to
my face, not he! but behind my back. He has accused me of cheating at
cards--a dirty trick to brand on a man; and as ye know, love, whatever
Charlie Fleming's faults, he would scorn so foul an act. I don't mind
telling ye now, Meg, that I must wipe off this slander with blood.
All my comrades are up in arms at it; and even _now_ I am on my way
to Lincoln, to meet Adam Sinclair face to face; and in case I fall,
Meg--to bid thee now farewell.' He took her in his arms; he folded
back the long dark hair from the passionate face. In bitter wrath and
passion had she trembled at hearing of the foul slander put on his fair
fame; and her fiery spirit, following the spirit of his words, had
made her grasp his hands, and pant and frown in eagerness for revenge.
But when she pictured him dead--lying perchance beneath the old man's
deadly shot, stiffening in his blood, in the perished glory of his
youth and strength--then her woman's heart began to shudder and to
faint: she leaned on his broad breast and moaned.
'What! sick?' he whispered. 'Faint? A little _poltroon_! The wife of a
Fleming must be brave. _Thou_ wouldst hate and despise Charles Fleming
if he could for one moment brook such an insult as this. Come; I meant
to bid thee good-bye, and hide this from thee; but now I have told thee
all, thou must face death with me, and take it as it comes.'
'I know it! I know it! Not for one moment would I say aught but "Go!"
Yet, pity my woman's fears; think how long I have loved but thee! Ay, I
have kissed the stones where thy shadow passed! and to lose thee now,
_now_--my husband of but a week, my darling _husband_! Nay; I will not
grieve before 'tis time!' she cried with sudden fire, gazing up at him.
'See! I am so brave that I would fain be thy second, and see thy true
shot speed to that old coward heart! Oh, thou'lt kill him, Charlie,
thou'lt kill him, or hurt him sorely. A dead-shot he may be; but men
say thine is deadlier. Nay; do not laugh; I have listened, till I know
better than thou canst know thyself, all Charles Fleming's brave gifts.
They say thou'rt a deadly shot.'
He stooped and kissed her. 'A deadly shot! Yes; I will shoot him for
love of _thee_. Better not mangle the old traitor; I will kill him
clean, or not at all. Thank heaven, if he kills me it will be clean!
Love, if I fall, don't weep; _I leave a hope with thee_.' These words
were whispered; she did not answer, she did not speak.
A few more happy stolen hours, and he was gone. She went with him to
the gate in the woods, where he was wont to come and go, through the
mossed entrance and the tangled clambering ivy. There they stood, her
hand upon the gate; her dark head, that reached no higher than his
heart, laid there. The mute clinging hand did not escape him; every
motion, every gesture of his young love, was marked by his keen hawk
eyes, as if it were her last. He pulled open the stubborn gate; still
the two clung as if they would never part.
'Sweet love, good-bye.' He listened for her answer, but only heard a
sob; kisses were Margaret's good-bye--kisses, and the deathless love
within them. Then her arms fell asunder, and leaning against the gate,
she let him go. With the iron grasped within her little hands, she
stood gazing through the bars and saw him wave adieu; still stood,
while the quick hoofs bore him far away; still stood, gazing for him
through the night, though Mistress Margaret Fleming (for Mistress
Fleming indeed she was) saw him no more!
COD-FISHING IN ICELAND.
Though the French are not naturally a maritime nation, there is a hardy
race of fishermen to be found on the coasts of Normandy and Brittany,
from whose ranks are obtained a large proportion of the hands that
are employed in the cod-fishing of Newfoundland and Iceland. Though
it is a painful and dangerous occupation, there are few that offer a
higher remuneration to the masters and crews; the shoals of fish are
inexhaustible, and the demand is always greater than the supply.
It is, however, not always easy to get up the necessary complement of
hands; and captains sometimes have recourse to the unlawful acts of the
press-gang of former days. A ship ready to start will enter a little
creek on the coast of Brittany near an almost unknown village; and
after mass on Sunday, the captain announces at the church door that he
is in want of men for Iceland. The advantages are loudly proclaimed:
good food, good wine, brandy, meat three times a week, and above all,
an immediate bounty of from four to eight pounds, with future pay in
proportion to the results. The extreme poverty of the peasants makes
such a sum of money seem fabulous; they have only to say Yes. And yet,
how hard it is to them to leave their beloved home and speak the fatal
word! The captain knows how to overcome their irresolution. Installed
in a neighbouring _cabaret_, he patiently waits until some young and
vigorous men enter, when he pours forth all his eloquence, enumerates
the advantages, slurs over the danger and fatigue, shakes the gold in
his purse, orders an abundance of cider and brandy, and in the end,
draws his victims into the net.
The engagement is signed; and the labourer, who has spent the winter
in collecting sea-weed for the fields and sowing his crops, leaves
the women to manage the rest. All being favourable, he will return in
September with twenty pounds in his pocket. A few voyages make him a
good sailor, when he can be drafted into the fleet at Cherbourg, thence
to be transformed into a servant of his country.
From the difficulty of obtaining men, French shipbuilders reduce the
labour by mechanical appliances; so that five or six men will navigate
ships of two hundred tons. But in cod-fishing craft it is necessary
to have as many men as possible, and twenty are usually taken. The
arrangements are wofully insufficient. There are only sleeping-places
for a third; one sailor resting whilst two are fishing. Thus, after six
hours spent on deck without shelter from rain, wind, and snow, the
waves washing over and the heavy line in their hands, the men go down
stiff with cold and worn out with fatigue. Yet they must lie dressed as
they are, on a hard damp mattress; and frequently the clothes are never
changed from the beginning to the end of the voyage.
After five voyages a man is authorised to take the command, and though
styled captain, he is nothing more than the head of the fishermen.
It is his work to keep the account of the number of cod caught; the
sailors taking care as they hook a fish to cut out its tongue and place
it in a bag hung to their belt. When the hour of repose comes the
tongues are taken to the captain, and about ten centimes is allowed for
each. The second in office is only chosen as being the most skilful
with his line; then comes the man who cuts off the cods' heads, opens
and prepares the fish for the salter; and lastly the one who lays them
in the barrels and closes them for sale.
With this short description of the crew we will pass over the voyage,
as described by a French writer, M. Aragon, and take the reader to the
Icelandic coast, Patrix-Fiord, where a number of vessels are already
collected. Deserted during the past season, it now presents a scene
of the greatest animation. A man-of-war is there to provide for any
repairs that may be needed; carpenters and blacksmiths are busy doing
their work, the bay echoes with the noise of hammers and saws. Other
vessels, called _chasseurs_, come from France to take away the fish.
On the shore rises the little wooden hut of the _cocman_, a Danish
merchant who lives there during the summer months to trade with the
people and sell spirits. No night comes on to interrupt the incessant
labour; during the middle of May the sun is never below the horizon,
and but a few stars may be seen on the zenith about the end of June.
Those ships that have chosen their position for fishing take down their
sails and lie as quietly at anchor as the wind will permit, the men
standing in a close line at the side of the vessel. They are clothed
from head to foot in knitted or flannel garments, with waterproof
capes and hats. A petticoat of strong linen is tied round the waist,
descending below the knees, and to preserve the feet from wet they wear
woollen stockings and waterproof boots. Thick woollen gloves lined with
leather save their hands from the injury of constant friction from
the heavy line. The whole forms a curious picture of ragged, patched,
greasy, well-tarred habiliments, which a comic pencil might rejoice
to portray. The men, indifferent to their appearance, seek only to be
saved from moisture. The lines they use are necessarily very heavy to
bring on board a fish weighing say forty pounds. There are two hooks
baited with the entrails of fish; but the voracity of the cod is such
that it is scarcely necessary to be too particular as to the lure. Thus
the men stand for six hours consecutively, gently moving the line, and
when a shake indicates a catch, lifting the heavy weight on board.
The fatigue is very great, and much of it is pure loss, as the line too
often brings up another fish, called the flétan, which though very good
to eat, does not bear preserving. The sailors hold this interloper in
extreme aversion, as it often breaks the line by its weight, and gives
them much trouble to heave on board.
Let us now take a glance at the scenery which surrounds these hardy
seamen. The coast is broken up into large gulfs, strewn with shoals and
reefs of a most dangerous character, where misfortunes are so frequent
that the place is called by the fishermen 'The Ships' Cemeteries.'
Enormous precipices line the coast, with heaps of volcanic stones, worn
by the action of the waves, lying at the foot. These rocks are cut
at certain distances into spaces like the mouth of an immense river,
called fiords, which communicate with the sea by a comparatively narrow
inlet, and spread out into a sort of lake, surrounded by vertical
and jagged rocks. The more sinuous the outlet, the more sure is the
anchorage; and in each bay there is generally found one sandy spit,
forming a sort of natural jetty, behind which the ships are secure, and
where the cocman builds his hut. Far away in the distance rises the
gigantic cone of the extinct volcano Sneffiels-Jœkul, whose summit is
covered with rosy-tinted snow. In the hollows of the rocks thousands
of sea-birds build their nests, to be slaughtered by the inhabitants
at a certain season for the sake of _fuel_, their flesh being utterly
unpalatable to the least fastidious appetite.
One of the most important fiords is the Dyre-Fiord, where a small
hamlet of a dozen huts or _bœrs_ is built in a large meadow. These
constructions are not easy to describe; they are low and massive,
formed of lava-stone and peat. To avoid cold and damp within, a very
small door opens into a dark narrow passage, towards which the rooms
converge. The walls and pointed roof are covered with turf, upon which
grows a thick crop of grass, making it very difficult to distinguish
the _bœr_ from the field in which it stands. Within, the accommodation
is most simple--a kitchen and one sleeping-apartment, with closets
to contain provisions, clothes, and fishing apparatus. Beyond the
vegetable garden is a building for drying fish, the planks of which
are separated to admit the free circulation of the air. Here the
decapitated cod are hung, emitting a savour far from pleasant. The
heads form the food of the Icelanders with butter and milk; the fish
are sold for export. The sea-wolf is also largely eaten, though its
flesh is tough and rancid, the frequency of leprosy and elephantiasis
in the island being attributed to this unwholesome diet.
Men and women, masters and servants, all inhabit the same room,
whilst cleanliness is not much attended to; but poor as they are,
and accustomed to great privations, they set an example of cheerful
contentment. The beauty of the young girls is remarkable; their fair
hair falls in long plaits, partially covered by a black cloth coif,
daintily worn on one side of the head, and finished at the top with
a tassel of coloured silk run through a silver or steel buckle,
which floats on the shoulder. It reminds the traveller of the Greek
head-dress; but the blue eyes with their sweet benevolent expression
soon recall to his mind their Danish origin. The dress is made of the
cloth woven in the country, and on festival days the bodice is gaily
adorned with silver braid and velvet, whilst the belt and sleeves
are ornamented with silver devices, beautifully chased and often of
great value. On wet and cold days the shawl becomes a useful mantilla,
completely enveloping the head, and defending the wearer from the
effects of the frequent storms.
The people offer the most generous and cordial hospitality to all
travellers, and especially to shipwrecked mariners. An opportunity
for proving this hospitality once occurred in the open and dangerous
bay of the Westre-Horn, surrounded by breakers and reefs. Here forty
vessels were fishing on a fine morning in March, when the breeze began
to freshen. The cod was abundant, and the men were tempted to stay
too near the coast. All the vessels but five doubled the point; these
beaten back by the enormous waves, and not daring to raise a sail, were
broken on the rocks. Thirty men reached the shore, sixty-six found a
watery grave. The _Sea-bird_ struggled long, until breaking up, all
perished excepting the mate and cabin-boy; the former had received a
severe wound in the leg by falling on some broken glass. Tied to the
rigging, together they awaited their fate, frozen with cold, the waves
washing over them. After three hours the boy expired of exhaustion;
and the mate unloosing the ropes was soon thrown on to the shore. The
corpses of his friends were lying around him, the survivors having
gone inland for shelter; but with great difficulty he followed them,
crossing streams and marshes, sinking into ice and snow at every step,
his wounded leg torn by the sharp points. Six weary hours were thus
passed, when his heartrending cries at length reached two Icelanders,
who carried him into a _bœr_ not far off.
For five months these good people nursed and tended the sufferer. At
the end of that time he was still confined to bed, but the healing
had begun. A vessel was sent round to bring him away; yet his hosts
evinced much sorrow at the prospect of his departure. At their request
the captain left him one night longer, when the shipwrecked mariner
was escorted to the beach by the whole family, all manifesting a
deep emotion. After thanking the father, not only for his care of
the survivor, but also for the burial he had given to the victims of
the storm, the captain assured him that the French government would
indemnify him for the expense he had incurred; but the good man only
pressed his hand, declaring that he had done his duty, and deserved
neither indemnity, thanks, nor recompense. The Minister of Marine sent
a gold medal to him after hearing of his generous conduct.
Robbery, murder, and theft are almost unknown in this peaceful little
country; not a soldier or policeman is needed even in the capital
Reikiavik; a fact which fully proves the virtues of the Icelanders.
Travellers have asserted that the hospitality was not quite so
disinterested as it appears, and there may be an exception in certain
localities, such as the road to the Geysers, traversed every year by
many tourists. Here the Lutheran ministers offer shelter in their
churches, which are transformed into hotels, and provide fish, milk,
and coffee for those who need it at a certain charge. Roads are
almost unknown; the configuration of the ground wholly prevents their
formation. The island has been the scene of such tremendous volcanic
action that the mountains are heaped together in the most fantastic
manner. From the glaciers which cover the summits of extinct volcanoes
rush torrents of water, bringing down the disintegrated rocks to
accumulate in the valleys below.
Yet in the midst of these convulsions, Nature does not forget her
rights, and wherever a little earth can be found there grows a tuft of
grass. Meadows undulating with the rocky ground cover it with a green
mantle, and in summer the botanist will find most of the wild-flowers
which bloom in our temperate climates. During the winter, the water
infiltrating through the soil turns the whole into an impassable
marsh, where the unwary traveller may sink into quicksands of the most
dangerous character, since there is no exterior sign to denote their
existence. In a country whose natural configuration scarcely admits
of carriage-roads, ponies are invaluable, their robust constitution
defying alike climate and fatigue. Small in size, quiet and patient,
they resemble the Corsican or Pyrenean breed. Such is their docility,
that the most inexperienced rider may mount without fear, and trust to
their instinct in the difficult mountain passes. Three or four thousand
are exported yearly into England, where they are used chiefly for
coal-mines; and such is the estimation in which they are now held, that
their cost has largely increased.
The eider-duck is one of the most profitable sources of revenue, and
strict laws prevent their wanton destruction. A gun is not allowed to
be fired near the places they frequent, for fear of alarming them;
thus they have become so tame that they allow themselves to be stroked
without fear. They choose the islands for their homes--where their
deadly enemy the fox cannot reach them--and the steep barren rocks
in the fiords. Many of the owners clear a thousand a year by the
sale of the down, without any expense. It is scarcely necessary to
make laws for the preservation of game, since shooting is a pleasure
the Icelanders wholly despise. The curlew, snipe, golden plover, and
wild-duck abound, as well as the delicate white partridge; but the
natives despise them as food, and prefer smoked or dried salmon, with
which their streams abound.
In the middle of August the greater part of the French ships meet
in the Faskrud-Fiord before starting home. By this time the snow is
beginning to fall and ice to form around the bays. Detached icebergs
make their appearance in forms as singular as varied, sometimes
resembling fantastic animals or the prow of a ship. The anchors are
raised, and the convoy leaves the wintry shore; and anticipations of
home once more dawn on the weary fishermen.
THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.