I.
What doth the Lady Alice so late on the turret-stair,
Without a lamp to light her but the diamond in her hair;
When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom,
And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room?
She trembles at her footsteps, although their fall is light;
For through the turret-loopholes she sees the murky night,—
Black, broken vapours streaming across the stormy skies,—
Along the empty corridors the moaning tempest cries.
She steals along a gallery, she pauses by a door;
And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken floor;
And thrice she seems returning,—but thrice she turns again;—
Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old father’s brain!
Oh, well it were that _never_ thou should’st waken from thy sleep!
For wherefore should they waken who waken but to weep?
No more, no more beside thy bed may Peace her vigil keep;
Thy sorrow, like a lion, waits[1] upon its prey to leap.
II.
An afternoon in April. No sun appears on high;
A moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky;
And through the castle gateway, with slow and solemn tread,
Along the leafless avenue they bear the honoured dead.
They stop. The long line closes up, like some gigantic worm;
A shape is standing in the path; a wan and ghostlike form;
Which gazes fixedly, nor moves; nor utters any sound;
Then, like a statue built of snow, falls lifeless to the ground.
And though her clothes are ragged, and though her feet are bare;
And though all wild and tangled, falls her heavy silk-brown hair;
Though from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the bloom, has
fled;
They know their Lady Alice, the Darling of the Dead.
With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they lay;
Where all things stand unaltered since the night she fled away;
But who shall bring to life again her father from the clay?
But who shall give her back again her heart of that old day?
Footnote 1:
The lion was said to ‘prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.’
ILLUSTRATIONS OF CHEAPNESS.
A GLOBE.
One of the most remarkable of self-educated men, James Ferguson, when a
poor agricultural labourer, constructed a globe. A friend had made him a
present of ‘Gordon’s Geographical Grammar,’ which, he says, ‘at that
time was to me a great treasure. There is no figure of a globe in it,
although it contains a tolerable description of the globes, and their
use. From this description I made a globe in three weeks, at my
father’s, having turned the ball thereof out of a piece of wood; which
ball I covered with paper, and delineated a map of the world upon it,
made the meridian ring and horizon of wood, covered them with paper, and
graduated them; and was happy to find that by my globe (which was the
first I ever saw) I could solve the problems.’
‘But,’ he adds, ‘this was not likely to afford me bread.’
In a few years this ingenious man discovered the conditions upon which
he could earn his bread, by a skill which did not suffer under the
competition of united labour. He had made also a wooden clock. He
carried about his globe and his clock, and ‘began to pick up some money
about the country’ by cleaning clocks. He became a skilled
clock-cleaner. For six-and-twenty years afterwards he earned his bread
as an artist. He then became a scientific lecturer, and in connection
with his pursuits, was also a globe maker. His name may be seen upon old
globes, associated with that of Senex. The demand for globes must have
been then very small, but Ferguson had learned that cheapness is
produced by labour-saving contrivances. A pretty instrument for
graduating lines upon the meridian ring, once belonging to Ferguson, is
in use at this hour in the manufactory of Messrs. Malby and Son. The
poor lad ‘who made a globe in three weeks’ finally won the honours and
riches that were due to his genius and industry. But he would never have
earned a living in the continuance of his first attempt to turn a ball
out of a piece of wood, cover it with paper, and draw a map of the world
upon it. The nicest application of his individual skill, and the most
careful employment of his scientific knowledge, would have been wasted
upon those portions of the work in which the continued application of
common routine labour is the most efficient instrument of production.
Let us contrast the successive steps of Ferguson’s first experiment in
globe-making with the processes of a globe manufactory.
A globe is not made of ‘a ball turned out of a piece of wood.’ If a
solid ball of large dimensions were so turned, it would be too heavy for
ordinary use. Erasmus said of one of the books of Thomas Aquinas, ‘No
man can carry it about, much less get it into his head;’ and so would it
be said of a solid globe. If it were made of hollow wood, it would warp
and split at the junction of its parts. A globe is made of paper and
plaster. It is a beautiful combination of solidity and lightness. It is
perfectly balanced upon its axis. It retains its form under every
variety of temperature. Time affects it less than most other works of
art. It is as durable as a Scagliola column.
A globe may not, at first sight, appear a cheap production. It is not,
of necessity, a low-priced production, and yet it is essentially cheap;
for nearly all the principles of manufacture that are conditions of
cheapness are exhibited in the various stages of its construction. There
are only four globe-makers in England and one in Scotland. The annual
sale of globes is only about a thousand pair. The price of a pair of
globes varies from six shillings to fifty pounds. But from the smallest
2-inch, to the largest 36-inch globe, a systematic process is carried on
at every step of its formation. We select this Illustration of Cheapness
as a contrast, in relation to price and extent of demand, to the Lucifer
Match. But it is, at the same time, a parallel in principle. If a globe
were not made upon a principle involving the scientific combination of
skilled labour, it would be a mere article of luxury from its excessive
costliness. It is now a most useful instrument in education. For
educational purposes the most inexpensive globe is as valuable as that
of the highest price. All that properly belongs to the excellence of the
instrument is found in combination with the commonest stained wood
frame, as perfectly as with the most highly-finished frame of rose-wood
or mahogany.
The mould, if we may so express it, of a globe is turned out of a piece
of wood. This sphere need not be mathematically accurate. It is for
rough work, and flaws and cracks are of little consequence. This wooden
ball has an axis, a piece of iron wire at each pole. And here we may
remark, that, at every stage of the process, the revolution of a sphere
upon its axis, under the hands of the workman, is the one great
principle which renders every operation one of comparative ease and
simplicity. The labour would be enormously multiplied if the same class
of operations had to be performed upon a cube. The solid mould, then, of
the embryo globe is placed on its axis in a wooden frame. In a very
short time a boy will form a pasteboard globe upon its surface. He first
covers it entirely with strips of strong paper, thoroughly wet, which
are in a tub of water at his side. The slight inequalities produced by
the over-lapping of the strips are immaterial. The saturated paper is
not suffered to dry; but is immediately covered over with a layer of
pasted paper, also cut in long narrow slips. A third layer of similarly
pasted paper—brown paper and white being used alternately—is applied;
and then, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth. Here the pasting process ends
for globes of moderate size. For the large ones it is carried farther.
This wet pasteboard ball has now to be dried,—placed upon its axis in a
rack. If we were determined to follow the progress of this individual
ball through all its stages, we should have to wait a fortnight before
it advanced another step. But as the large factory of Messrs. Malby and
Son has many scores of globes all rolling onward to perfection, we shall
be quite satisfied to witness the next operation performed upon a
pasteboard sphere that began to exist some weeks earlier, and is now
hard to the core.
The wooden ball, with its solid paper covering, is placed on its axis. A
sharp cutting instrument, fixed on a bench, is brought into contact with
the surface of the sphere, which is made to revolve. In less time than
we write, the pasteboard ball is cut in half. There is no adhesion to
the wooden mould, for the first coating of paper was simply _wetted_.
Two bowls of thick card now lie before us, with a small hole in each,
made by the axis of the wooden ball. But a junction is very soon
effected. Within every globe there is a piece of wood—we may liken it to
a round ruler—of the exact length of the inner surface of the sphere
from pole to pole. A thick wire runs through this wood, and originally
projected some two or three inches at each end. This stick is placed
upright in a vice. The semi-globe is nailed to one end of the stick,
upon which it rests, when the wire is passed through its centre. It is
now reversed, and the edges of the card rapidly covered with glue. The
edges of the other semi-globe are instantly brought into contact, the
other end of the wire passing through its centre in the same way, and a
similar nailing to the stick taking place. We have now a paper globe,
with its own axis, which will be its companion for the whole term of its
existence.
The paper globe is next placed on its axis in a frame, of which one side
is a semi-circular piece of metal;—the horizon of a globe cut in half
would show its form. A tub of white composition,—a compound of whiting,
glue, and oil is on the bench. The workman dips his hand into this
‘gruel thick and slab,’ and rapidly applies it to the paper sphere with
tolerable evenness: but as it revolves, the semi-circle of metal clears
off the superfluous portions. The ball of paper is now a ball of plaster
externally. Time again enters largely into the manufacture. The first
coating must thoroughly dry before the next is applied; and so again
till the process has been repeated four or five times. Thus, when we
visit a globe workshop, we are at first surprised at the number of white
balls, from three inches diameter to three feet, which occupy a large
space. They are all steadily advancing towards completion. They cannot
be hurriedly dried. The duration of their quiescent state must depend
upon the degrees of the thermometer in the ordinary atmosphere. They
cost little. They consume nothing beyond a small amount of rent. As they
advance to the dignity of perfect spheres, increased pains are taken in
the application of the plaster. At last they are polished. Their surface
is as hard and as fine as ivory. But, beautiful as they are, they may,
like many other beautiful things, want a due equipoise. They must be
perfectly balanced. They must move upon their poles with the utmost
exactness. A few shot, let in here and there, correct all
irregularities. And now the paper and plaster sphere is to be endued
with intelligence.
What may be called the artistical portion of globe-making here
commences. In the manufactory we are describing there are two skilled
workers, who may take rank as artists, but whose skill is limited, and
at the same time perfected, by the uniformity of their operations. One
of these artists, a young woman, who has been familiar with the business
from her earliest years, takes the polished globe in her lap, for the
purpose of marking it with lines of direction for covering it with
engraved strips, which will ultimately form a perfect map. The
inspection of a finished globe will show that the larger divisions of
longitude are expressed by lines drawn from pole to pole, and those of
latitude by a series of concentric rings. The polished plaster has to be
covered with similar lines. These lines are struck with great rapidity,
and with mathematical truth, by an instrument called a ‘beam compass,’
in the use of which this workwoman is most expert. The sphere is now
ready for receiving the map, which is engraved in fourteen distinct
pieces. The arctic and antarctic poles form two circular pieces, from
which the lines of longitude radiate. These having been fitted and
pasted, one of the remaining twelve pieces, containing 30 degrees, is
also pasted on the sphere, in the precise space where the lines of
longitude have been previously marked, its lines of latitude
corresponding in a similar manner. The paper upon which these portions
of the earth’s surface are engraved is thin and extremely tough. It is
rubbed down with the greatest care, through all the stages of this
pasting process. We have at length a globe covered with a plain map, so
perfectly joined that every line and every letter fit together as if
they had been engraved in one piece,—which, of course, would be
absolutely impossible for the purpose of covering a ball.
The artist who thus covers the globe, called a paster, is also a
colourer. This is, of necessity, a work which cannot be carried on with
any division of labour. It is not so with the colouring of an atlas. A
map passes under many hands in the colouring. A series of children, each
using one colour, produce in combination a map coloured in all its
parts, with the rapidity and precision of a machine. But a globe must be
coloured by one hand. It is curious to observe the colourer working
without a pattern. By long experience the artist knows how the various
boundaries are to be defined, with pink continents, and blue islands,
and the green oceans, connecting the most distant regions. To a
contemplative mind, how many thoughts must go along with the mark, as he
covers Europe with indications of popular cities, and has little to do
with Africa and Australia but to mark the coast lines;—as year after
year he has to make some variation in the features of the great American
continent, which indicates the march of the human family over once
trackless deserts, whilst the memorable places of the ancient world
undergo few changes but those of name. And then, as he is finishing a
globe for the cabin of some ‘great ammirall,’ may he not think that, in
some frozen nook of the Arctic Sea, the friendly Esquimaux may come to
gaze upon his work, and seeing how pretty a spot England is upon the
ball, wonder what illimitable riches nature spontaneously produces in
that favoured region, some of which is periodically scattered by her
ships through those dreary climes in the search for some unknown road
amidst everlasting icebergs, while he would gladly find a short track to
the sunny south. And then, perhaps, higher thoughts may come into his
mind; and as this toy of a world grows under his fingers, and as he
twists it around upon its material axis, he may think of the great
artificer of the universe, having the feeling, if not knowing, the words
of the poet:—
‘In ambient air this ponderous ball HE hung.’
Contemplative, or not, the colourer steadily pursues his uniform labour,
and the sphere is at length fully coloured.
The globe has now to be varnished with a preparation technically known
as ‘white hard,’ to which some softening matter is added to prevent the
varnish cracking. This is a secret which globe-makers preserve. Four
coats of varnish complete the work.
And next the ball has to be mounted. We have already mentioned an
instrument by which the brass meridian ring is accurately graduated;
that is, marked with lines representing 360 degrees, with corresponding
numerals. Of whatever size the ring is, an index-hand, connected with
the graduating instrument, shows the exact spot where the degree is to
be marked with a graver. The operation is comparatively rapid; but for
the largest globes it involves considerable expense. After great
trouble, the ingenious men whose manufactory we are describing have
succeeded in producing cast-iron rings, with the degrees and figures
perfectly distinct; and these applied to 36-inch globes, instead of the
engraved meridians, make a difference of ten guineas in their price. For
furniture they are not so beautiful; for use they are quite as valuable.
There is only one other process which requires great nicety. The axis of
the globe revolves on the meridian ring, and of course it is absolutely
necessary that the poles should be exactly parallel. This is effected by
a little machine which drills each extremity at one and the same
instant; and the operation is termed poling the meridian.
The mounting of the globe,—the completion of a pair of globes,—is now
handed over to the cabinet-maker. The cost of the material and the
elaboration of the workmanship determine the price.
Before we conclude, we would say a few words as to the limited nature of
the demand for globes.
Our imperfect description of this manufacture will have shown that
experience, and constant application of ingenuity, have succeeded in
reducing to the lowest amount the labour employed in the production of
globes. The whole population of English globe-makers does not exceed
thirty or forty men, women, and boys. Globes are thus produced at the
lowest rate of cheapness, as regards the number of labourers, and with
very moderate profits to the manufacturer, on account of the smallness
of his returns. The _durability_ of globes is one great cause of the
limitation of the demand. Changes of fashion, or caprices of taste, as
to the mounting—new geographical discoveries, and modern information as
to the position and nomenclature of the stars—may displace a few old
globes annually, which then find their way from brokers’ shops into a
class somewhat below that of their original purchasers. But the pair of
globes generally maintain for years their original position in the
school-room or the library. They are rarely injured, and suffer very
slight decay. The new purchasers represent that portion of society which
is seeking after knowledge, or desires to manifest some pretension to
intellectual tastes. The number of globes annually sold represents to a
certain extent the advance of Education. But if the labour-saving
expedients did not exist in the manufacture the cost would be much
higher, and the purchasers greatly reduced in number. The contrivances
by which comparative cheapness is produced arise out of the necessity of
contending against the durability of the article by encouraging a new
demand. If these did not exist, the supply would outrun the demand;—the
price of the article would less and less repay the labour expended in
its production; the manufacture of globes would cease till the old
globes were worn out, and the few rich and scientific purchasers had
again raised up a market.
THE GHOST OF THE LATE MR. JAMES BARBER.
A YARN ASHORE.
‘“Luck!” nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance
any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to
blame.’
This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged
midshipman, his elder brother.
‘Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman
Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?’ was the
rejoinder.
‘Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and—and——.’ The speaker
looked another way, and hesitated.
‘I am _not_, you would add—if you had courage. But I say I am, and a
better seaman than Bobbin.’
‘Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years older in the service. But
it was in the theoretical part of seamanship—which is equally
important—that you broke down before the examiners,’ continued the
younger officer, in tones of earnest but sorrowful reproach. ‘You never
_would_ study.’
‘I’ll tell you what it is, master Ferdinand,’ said the elderly middy,
not without a show of displeasure. ‘I don’t think this is the correct
sort of conversation to be going on between two brothers after a five
years’ separation.’
The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly on his brother’s arm, and
entreated him to take what he said in good part.
‘Well, well!’ rejoined the middy, with a laugh half-forced. ‘Take care
what you are about, or, by Jove, I’ll inform against you.’
‘What for?’
‘Why, for preaching without a license.—Besides, you were once as bad as
you pretend I am.’
‘I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of
poor James Barber——’
‘Of whom?’ asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass
along the table. ‘You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him;
once my messmate in the brig “Rollock.”’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What! dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, it was one of our great delights, when in harbour and on shore, to
“go the rounds,”—as he called it—with Jovial Jemmy. He understood life
from stem to stern—from truck to keel. He knew everybody, from the First
Lord downwards. I have seen him recognised by _the_ Duke one minute, and
the next pick up with a strolling player, and familiarly treat him at a
tavern. He once took me to a quadrille party at the Duchess of
Durrington’s, where he seemed to know and be known to everybody present,
and then adjourned to the Cider Cellars, where he was equally intimate
with all sorts of queer characters. Though a favourite among the
aristocracy, he was equally welcome in less exclusive societies. He was
“Brother,” “Past Master,” “Warden,” “Noble Grand,” or “President” of all
sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncommonly knowing was Jemmy in all
sorts of club and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave the best dinners,
and was always invited to the best balls. He was a capital judge of
champagne, and when he betted upon a horse-race everybody backed him. He
could hum all the fashionable songs, and was the fourth man who could
dance the polka when it was first imported. Then he was as profound in
bottled stout, Welsh rabbits, Burton ale, devilled kidneys, and bowls of
Bishop, as he was in Roman punch, French cookery, and Italian singers.
Afloat, he was the soul of fun:—he got up all our private theatricals,
told all the best stories, and sung comic songs that made even the
Purser laugh.’
‘An extent and variety of knowledge and accomplishments,’ said
Lieutenant Fid, ‘which had the precise effect of blasting his prospects
in life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed the service for
intemperance and incompetence.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘What, _alive_?’ inquired Ferdinand Fid, changing countenance.
‘Of course! Surely you do not mean to insinuate that you have seen his
ghost!’
The lieutenant was silent; and the midshipman took a deep draught of his
favourite mixture—equal portions of rum and water—and hinted to his
younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of immediately confiding
the story to the Marines; for he declined to credit it. He then ventured
another recommendation, which was, that Ferdinand should throw the
impotent temperance tipple he was then imbibing ‘over the side of the
Ship’—which meant the tavern of that name in Greenwich, at the open
bow-window of which they were then sitting—and clear his intellects by
something stronger.
‘I can afford to be laughed at,’ said the younger Fid, ‘because I have
gained immeasurably by the delusion, if it be one; but if ever there was
a ghost, I have seen the ghost of James Barber. I, like yourself and he,
was nearly ruined by love of amusement and intemperance, when he—or
whatever else it might have been—came to my aid.’
‘Let us hear. I see I am “in” for a ghost story.’
‘Well; it was eighteen forty-one when I came home in the “Arrow” with
despatches from the coast of Africa: you were lying in the Tagus in the
“Bobstay.” Ours, you know, was rather a thirsty station; a man inclined
for it comes home from the Slaving Coasts with a determination to make
up his lee way. I did mine with a vengeance. As usual, I looked up
“Jovial Jemmy.”’
‘’Twas easy to find him if you knew where to go.’
‘I _did_ know, and went. He had by that time got tired of his more
aristocratic friends. Respectability was too “slow” for him, so I found
him presiding over the “Philanthropic Raspers,” at the “Union Jack.” He
received me with open arms, and took me, as you say, the “rounds.” I
can’t recal that week’s dissipation without a shudder. We rushed about
from ball to tavern, from theatre to supper-room, from club to
gin-palace, as if our lives depended on losing not a moment. We had not
time to walk, so we galloped about in cabs. On the fourth night, when I
was beginning to feel knocked up, and tired of the same songs, the same
quadrilles, the bad whiskey, the suffocating tobacco smoke, and the
morning’s certain and desperate penalties, I remarked to Jemmy, that it
was a miracle how he had managed to weather it for so many years. “What
a hardship you would deem it,” I added, “if you were _obliged_ to go the
same weary round from one year’s end to another.”’
‘What did he say to that?’ asked Philip.
‘Why, I never saw him so taken aback. He looked quite fiercely at me,
and replied, “I _am_ obliged!”’
‘How did he make that out?’
‘Why, he had tippled and dissipated his constitution into such a state
that use had become second nature. Excitement was his natural condition,
and he dared not become quite sober for fear of a total collapse—or
dropping down like a shot in the water.’
The midshipman had his glass in his hand, but forebore to taste
it.—‘Well, what then?’
‘The “rounds” lasted two nights longer. I was fairly beaten. Cast-iron
could not have stood it. I was prostrated in bed with fever—and worse.’
Ferdinand was agitated, and took a large draught of his lemonade.
‘Well, well, you need not enlarge upon that,’ replied Phil Fid, raising
his glass towards his lips, but again thinking better of it; ‘I heard
how bad you were from Seton, who shaved your head.’
‘I had scarcely recovered when the “Arrow” was ordered back, and I made
a vow.’
‘Took the pledge, perhaps!’ interjected the mid, with a slight curl of
his lip.
‘No! I determined to work more and play less. We had a capital naval
instructor aboard, and our commander was as good an officer as ever trod
the deck. I studied—a little too hard perhaps, for I was laid up again.
The “Arrow” was, as usual, as good as her name, and we shot across to
Jamaica in five weeks. One evening as we were lying in Kingston harbour,
Seton, who had come over to join the Commodore as full surgeon, told me
what he had never ventured to divulge before.’
‘What was that?’
‘Why, that, on the very day I left London, James Barber died of a
frightful attack of _delirium tremens_!’
‘Poor Jemmy!’ said the elder Fid sorrowfully, taking a long pull of
consolation from his rummer. ‘Little did I think, while singing some of
your best songs off Belem Castle, that I had seen you for the last
time!’
‘_I_ hadn’t seen him for the last time,’ returned the lieutenant, with
awful significance.
Philip assumed a careless air, and said, ‘Go on.’
‘We were ordered home in eighteen forty-five, and paid off in January. I
went to Portsmouth; was examined, and passed as lieutenant.’
This allusion to his brother’s better condition made poor Philip look
rather blank.
‘On being confirmed at the Admiralty,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘I had to
give a dinner to the “Arrows;” which I did at the Salopian, Charing
Cross. In the excess of my joy at promotion, my determination of
temperance and avoidance of what is called “society” was swamped. I kept
it up once more; I went the “rounds,” and accepted all the dinner,
supper, and ball invitations I could get, invariably ending each morning
in one of the old haunts of dissipation. Old associations with James
Barber returned, and like causes produced similar effects. One morning
while maundering home, I began to feel the same wild confusion as had
previously commenced my dreadful malady.’
‘Ah! a little touched in the top-hamper.’
‘It was just daylight. Thinking to cool myself, I jumped into a wherry
to get pulled down here to Greenwich.’
‘Of course you were not quite sober.’
‘Don’t ask! I do not like even to allude to my sensations, for fear of
recalling them. My brain seemed in a flame. The boat appeared to be
going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Fast as we were cleaving the
current, I heard my name distinctly called out. I reconnoitred, but
could see nobody. I looked over on one side of the gunwale, and, while
doing so, felt something touch me from the other; I felt a chill; I
turned round and saw——’
‘Whom?’ asked the midshipman, holding his breath.
‘What seemed to be James Barber.’
‘Was he wet?’
‘As dry as you are.’
‘I summoned courage to speak. “Hallo! some mistake!” I exclaimed.
‘“Not at all,” was the reply. “I’m James Barber. Don’t be frightened,
I’m harmless.”
‘“But——”
‘“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the intruder. “Seton
did not deceive you—I am only an occasional visitor _up here_.”
‘This brought me up with a round turn, and I had sense enough to wish my
friend would vanish as he came. “Where shall we land you?” I asked.
‘“Oh, any where—it don’t matter. I have got to be out every night and
all night; and the nights are plaguy long just now.”
‘I could not muster a word.
‘“Ferd Fid,” continued the voice, which now seemed about fifty fathoms
deep; and fast as we were dropping down the stream, the boat gave a heel
to starboard, as if she had been broadsided by a tremendous wave—“Ferd
Fid, you recollect how I used to kill time; how I sang, drank, danced,
and supped all night long, and then slept and soda-watered it all day?
You remember what a happy fellow I seemed. Fools like yourself thought I
was so; but I say again, I wasn’t,” growled the voice, letting itself
down a few fathoms deeper. “Often and often I would have given the world
to have been a market-gardener or a dealer in chick-weed while roaring
‘He is a jolly good fellow,’ and ‘We won’t go home till morning!’ as I
emerged with a group from some tavern into Covent Garden market. But I’m
punished fearfully for my sins now. What do you think I have got to do
every night of my—never mind—what do you think is now marked out as my
dreadful punishment?”
‘“Well, to walk the earth, I suppose,” said I.
‘“No.”
‘“To paddle about in the Thames from sunset to sun-rise?”
‘“Worse. Ha! ha!” (his laugh sounded like the booming of a gong). “I
only wish my doom _was_ merely to be a mud-lark. No, no, I’m condemned
to rush about from one evening party and public house to another. At the
former I am bound for a certain term on each night to dance all the
quadrilles, and a few of the polkas and waltzes with clumsy partners;
and then I have to eat stale pastry and tough poultry before I am let
off from _that_ place. After, I am bound to go to some cellar or singing
place to listen to ‘Hail, smiling morn,’ ‘Mynheer Van Dunk,’ ‘The monks
of old,’ ‘Happy land,’ imitations of the London actors, and to hear a
whole canto of dreary extempore verses. I must also smoke a dozen of
cigars, knowing—as in my present condition I must know,—what they are
made of. The whole to end on each night with unlimited brandy (British)
and water, and eternal intoxication. Oh, F. F., be warned! be warned!
Take my advice; keep up your resolution, and don’t do it again. When
afloat, drink nothing stronger than purser’s tea. When on shore be
temperate in your pleasures; don’t turn night into day; don’t exchange
wholesome amusements for rabid debauchery, robust health for disease
and—well, I won’t mention it. When afloat, study your profession and
don’t get cashiered and cold-shouldered as I was. Promise me—nay, you
must swear!”
‘At this word I thought I heard a gurgling sound in the water.
‘“If I can get six solemn pledges before the season’s over, I’m only to
go these horrid rounds during the meeting of Parliament.”
‘“_Will_ you swear?” again urged the voice, with persuasive agony.
‘I was just able to comply.
‘“Ten thousand thanks!” were the next words I heard; “I’m off, for there
is an awful pint of pale ale, a chop, and a glass of brandy and water
overdue yet, and I must devour them at the Shades.” (We were then close
to London Bridge.) “Don’t let the waterman pull to shore; I can get
there without troubling him.”
‘I remember no more. When sensation returned, I was in bed, in this very
house, a shade worse than I had been from the previous attack.’
‘That,’ said Philip, who had left his tumbler untasted, ‘must have been
when you had your head shaved for the second time.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘And you really believe it was Jovial James’s ghost,’ inquired Fid,
earnestly.
‘Would it be rational to doubt it?’
Philip rose and paced the room in deep thought for several minutes. He
cast two or three earnest looks at his brother, and a few longing ones
at his glass. In the course of his cogitation, he groaned out more than
once an apostrophe to poor ‘James Barber.’ At length he declared his
mind was made up.
‘Ferd!’ he said, ‘I told you awhile ago to throw your lemonade over the
side of the Ship. Don’t. Souse out my grog instead.’
The lieutenant did as he was bid.
‘And now,’ said Fid the elder, ‘ring for soda water; for one must drink
_something_.’
* * * * *
Last year it was my own good fortune to sail with Mr. Philip Fid in the
‘Bombottle’ (74). He is not exactly a tee-totaller: but he never drinks
spirits, and will not touch wine unmixed with water, for fear of its
interfering with his studies, at which he is, with the assistance of the
naval instructor (who is also our chaplain), assiduous. He is our first
mate, and the smartest officer in the ship. Seton is our surgeon.
One day, after a cheerful ward-room dinner (of which Fid was a guest),
while we were at anchor in the bay of Cadiz, the conversation happened
to turn upon Jovial Jemmy’s apparition, which had become the best
authenticated ghost story in Her Majesty’s Naval service. On that
occasion Seton undertook to explain the mystery upon medical principles.
‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘what the commander of the “Arrow” saw
(Ferdinand had by this time got commissioned in his old ship) was a
spectrum, produced by that morbid condition of the brain, which is
brought on by the immoderate use of stimulants, and by dissipation; we
call it Transient Monomania. I could show you dozens of such ghosts in
the books, if you only had patience while I turned them up.’
Everybody declared that was unnecessary. We would take the doctor’s word
for it; though I feel convinced not a soul besides the chaplain and
myself had one iota of his faith shaken in the real presence of Jovial
Jemmy’s _post-mortem_ appearance to Fid the younger.
Ghost or no ghost, however, the story had had the effect of converting
Philip Fid from one of the most intemperate and inattentive to one of
the soberest and best of Her Majesty’s officers. May his promotion be
speedy!