the Honourable Robert Mervyne took from his pocket more than once
to peruse, as the train rolled him along the lovely Great Western
coast-line, in answer to his friend’s appeal. He was a fine
broad-shouldered fellow, had pulled in his College Eight at Oxford,
and, since that semi-boyish period, had done a great deal of genuine
yachting-work, especially in Corinthian matches in the lower reaches
of the Thames, where he had acquired a skill and experience in the
handling of small craft under racing canvas which fully justified the
confidence which Hetherington reposed in him. Moreover, the coasts of
Devon were well known to him; and to the local knowledge of the pilot
and the technical skill of the yacht-sailor, he added that quickness
of resource which so often makes the gentleman the superior of the
professional. He was delighted at the opportunity afforded him by his
friend’s letter, and had not hesitated a moment in complying with the
request conveyed therein. They were, in fact, far too old chums for
either to fail the other at a pinch; and though it was near the end
of August, he would still have time to get back for the First. So he
smoked his cigar and gazed out at the glancing waters of the sparkling
sea, as he whirled by Dawlish and Teignmouth towards the little
old-fashioned town of Dartmouth, and allowed his thoughts to roam far
ahead in pleasing anticipation of the delights of the coming struggle
for the prize.
As the shades of evening drew on, the train ran into the neglected
little station at Kingswear, and Mervyne found Hetherington waiting
for him on the platform; but, to his surprise, there was a decided
lack of cheerfulness on his countenance, which seemed to betoken some
unpleasant news in the background. It was not long in coming forward.
Hardly had his friend’s modest bag been carried into the hotel—for
the little _Redbreast_ afforded poor accommodation for any but her
owner—than the cause of his gloom came out.
‘It is awfully good of you to come down, old chap,’ he said; ‘but I’m
afraid it’s a wild-goose chase after all, for I’m sorry to say that I
can’t possibly sail to-morrow. It’s a dreadful nuisance,’ he added,
‘and a disgusting piece of roguery to boot.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ asked Mervyne in surprise. ‘Have they
disqualified the _Redbreast_, or knocked a hole in her, or what has
happened?’
‘No,’ said his friend; ‘nothing of that sort. It’s a bit of dirty
underhand scheming on the part of that fellow O’Gorman, confound
him! Knowing that he could not get over from Ireland himself to try
conclusions with me, he has got that cad Brewster, the fellow who owns
the _Cockyollybird_, and made himself so notorious at Southampton—to
come round and sail against me; and I hear from the Wight that he left
there three or four days ago with one or two of his own set, vowing
that he will show me the way round the course, and knock one hundred
pounds out of me into the bargain.’
‘Well, but,’ said Mervyne, ‘we ain’t going to be frightened by
Brewster’s brag. Being abroad all this summer, I have not seen the
_Cockyollybird_; but from her record, the _Redbreast_ ought to have a
very fair chance against her.’
‘Yes, yes! It isn’t that; though, I fancy, she’s a trifle better than
we are in running,’ replied Hetherington. ‘But after that disgraceful
affair at Southampton, a lot of small yacht-owners, myself among the
number, put their heads together, and signed an agreement never to race
against him again. One or two of those men are in the harbour now, and
they won’t sail if he does, neither of course can I. I’m pretty sure
that O’Gorman knew that when he got him to come round; and of course he
knows it too.’
‘Then why should he boast so loudly about beating you?’
‘Oh, that’s just to carry it off with a high hand, and appear to be
ignorant of the fact.’
‘And the _Cockyollybird_ is in?’
‘Well, no; she isn’t; but she’s entered for the race, and she is sure
to be here, bar accidents.’
‘She must look pretty sharp, then,’ said Mervyne, ‘or she may be too
late. Keep your courage up, old chap! Perhaps she won’t get in, after
all. Lots of things may happen between this and to-morrow morning.—But
look here! Suppose she _does_ come in, what shall you do? You can’t
race—of course, I see that, and I’m sorry for it; but I should like a
bit of a sail, after coming all this way, and I want to see how the
little craft behaves.’
‘Oh, by all means,’ replied Hetherington eagerly. ‘I had thought of
that. I can’t lie in harbour and see all the craft going out to race;
and I don’t think I could bear to see the racing going on without being
able to join in it. I vote for getting under way early in the morning,
and making tracks to the eastwards. I mean to lay her up with Camper
and Nicholson, and there is nothing more to keep me out now, confound
it!’
‘Capital! that will suit me first-rate. What time do you start?’
‘Oh, any time in the early morning will do. The tide will be flowing
about four A.M. But I daresay you won’t like to turn out as early as
that.—Tell you what—you’d better choose your own time to come on board,
and then you can rouse me out, if I’m not already up.’
‘All right! But what about Phipps?’
‘Oh, he won’t come with us. I’ve told him about Brewster, and, of
course, he’s very sorry; but the Carmichael girls are here in a big
family schooner with an uncle of theirs; and you may be sure Phipps
wouldn’t let that chance slip. So it will be just you and I, that’s
all. And now, let’s jump into the punt, and go on board for ten
minutes, just to show you the little craft.’
So the two friends paddled off to the _Redbreast_, which was lying
snugly under the land by the railway with other small craft of similar
size and draught; and after the peculiar excellences of her interior
fittings had been inspected by the aid of the little swing-lamp—for
it was now nearly dark—and dilated upon enthusiastically by her
owner, they went once more ashore together to dine at the hotel, and
pass the evening over a game of billiards at the neighbouring Yacht
Club. But as they landed, their attention was attracted by a smart
little craft making the best of her way up the calm waters of the
land-locked harbour in tow of a steam-launch. Hetherington looked at
her long and earnestly; at last he said: ‘Ah, there she is! That’s the
_Cockyollybird_, and that’s Brewster steering, confound him! It’s all
up now. We’ll get out of this to-morrow morning.’
They dined; but their quiet game of billiards at the club was rudely
broken in upon by the appearance of the objectionable Brewster
himself, with a couple of friends of similar kidney, who had also
most unmistakably been dining, and who, in addition to their natural
bluster and vulgarity, made themselves more than usually disagreeable
by half-facetious and wholly offensive observations as to the victory
which they intended to score on the morrow, and the humiliation
which they would inflict on those who imagined that they could sail
against them; while ‘my friend O’Gorman’ was frequently referred to by
Brewster himself, evidently for Hetherington’s benefit; and whispered
personalities were greeted by the precious trio with loud bursts of
drunken laughter.
‘I’d like to punch the fellow’s head,’ growled Hetherington to his
friend, chafing angrily at the covert insults.
‘Better let him alone,’ said the other. ‘There’s no glory to be got out
of a row with a drunken sweep like that. He knows he’s an arrant cad,
and it is that very knowledge which makes him carry on like this. Let’s
leave them to enjoy themselves in their own way; and we’ll go and turn
in, as we shall be up early to-morrow.’
So each went his way: Hetherington to his tiny yacht, the other to the
hotel close by.
Mervyne was an ardent yachtsman, as has been said; and perhaps it was
the anticipations of the morrow which made it impossible for him to
take the rest which he had himself advised. Whatever the reason was,
after tossing about for some hours in troubled and unrestful sleep,
he finally found himself wide awake, and likely to remain so; and at
last, jumping out of bed, he threw open his window and keenly inspected
the weather. There was every prospect of a glorious day. He looked at
his watch—it was about four o’clock. The sun had not yet risen; but
the sky was clear and luminous with stars, and, as far as he could
tell, there was a light breeze from the westward. He looked over the
water. The riding lights of the crowded yachts were twinkling away, as
if a town had sprung up in the night on the calm silent waters of the
river. The hoarse hoot of a steamer caught his ear, and he could see
her green eye winking at him as she made her cautious way in mid-stream
to the expectant coal-hulk beyond. He could hear even the tinkle of
her engine-room bell and the husky cry of ‘Starboard!’ from the pilot
who was bringing her in; and as he leaned out of the window to follow
her track, a man-of-war brig struck ‘eight bells’ with a clear musical
ring, an example which was followed a second or two after by her
consorts in the harbour, and by some few large yachts who conformed to
naval fashion in this matter. He turned from the window and glanced
into the dim room. At the other end was his bed, looking tumbled and
unpromising, even in the gloom. He was too wide awake to turn in again.
His mind was made up. The tide would be flowing; the wind seemed fair;
he would dress and rouse up Hetherington, and they would get under way
at once.
His determination was quickly carried out; and he soon found himself
outside the hotel in search of a waterman to take him on board. This
was by no means an easy task; but by the aid of a railway porter, he
managed at last to knock up an individual, who consented, with many
sleepy growls at the unusual hour, to convey him on board. Arrived
alongside, he stepped lightly on the dainty deck, dismissing his surly
friend with a tip so largely in excess of that worthy’s expectations,
as to make him instantly regret not having named a sum double at least
of that which he had demanded. It was getting lighter now; and he
took in at a glance the delicate lines, the admirable workmanship, and
the business-like spars of the little craft, and then turned towards
the hatch to rouse up his chum. But as he did so, he hesitated for the
first time since leaving his bed. Hetherington was probably sleeping
soundly. It would be a shame to spoil his sleep simply because he
himself had failed to rest. He listened for a moment: he could hear
Hetherington snoring away in the little cabin. Then another idea struck
him. Why not get under way himself, without bothering Hetherington at
all? Capital! it would be first-rate fun! He took a look round. The
yacht was made fast to some private moorings, so he would not have to
get her anchor up. He could easily make sail himself. Hetherington
would be delighted to wake up and find himself at sea—that he was sure
of. It was an admirable idea.
No sooner was the notion entertained, than it was put into execution.
His rubber-soled shoes enabled him to walk over the deck with an entire
absence of noise. He took off the sail-covers, and with his broad
shoulders and muscular arms, he found no difficulty in hoisting her
mainsail, though perhaps there was a wrinkle or two which he would
have preferred to get rid of. Her head-sails were mere child’s-play;
and presently, he cast off her moorings, lowered them quietly
overboard, and hurried aft to the tiller. With a gentle breeze from the
north-west, the pretty boat yielded to the pressure of her snow-white
canvas, and with an almost imperceptible incline to her mast, moved
quietly out from the crowd of others among which she had been lying.
Silently she slid through the placid and unruffled waters of the river,
splashed with the white light of many a bright star, and with the
redder gleams of the many riding-lamps, obeying every touch of her helm
so readily as to send a thrill of pleasure through Mervyne’s veins as
he cleverly worked her into the open and pointed her head seawards.
And indeed, with a lovely yacht beneath one’s feet, with a fair wind,
a calm sea, and a brilliant promise of dawn, the man must be sluggish
indeed who does not experience a keen sense of enjoyment.
Once clear of the river and with a good offing, he turned her head
eastwards, making a course for Portland Bill. The wind was, as he had
imagined, in the north-west, and it being off the land, and by no
means strong, the sea was extremely smooth and in places even glassy.
The little beauty sped along on her course, making no fuss whatever,
peeling the bright water evenly away from the polished surface of her
sharp bow, and running it aft with a gentle little hiss, and only the
faintest, dimmest suggestion of a shadowy wake astern. Mervyne would
have liked to get her topsail up, but this he could not well attempt
alone, and he feared to wake Hetherington, for, having got out of the
harbour, he was now possessed with a boyish desire to see how far on
his course he could reach before his chum awoke: however, the tide was
in his favour, and he was making splendid way as it was, so, lighting
his pipe, he gave himself up to all the exquisite enjoyment of the
situation. The beautiful coast, with its brilliant colouring of vivid
green and warm red, familiar to him as an oft studied book, was itself
a constantly changing object of interest and admiration; each trawler,
with the early sun gleaming through the shining mists of morning upon
her tanned canvas, was transfigured into a fairy barque, with sails
of red and burnished gold. Even the long ugly steamers, with their
graduated train of smoke fading away into the limitless haze astern
of them, betrayed no vestige of their commonplace origin, but seemed
to float in mid-air, shadowy and impalpable, throwing ever and anon
a gleam of light from off their bows, more like a flash of summer
lightning than the foam of churning water; while the buoyant motion of
the little craft beneath him, the noiseless speed with which she sliced
her way through the dimpling wavelets, the instant and intelligent
response which she gave to the faintest movement of the helm, left him
absolutely without a shadow to dim his sense of placid contentment.
He began to hope that Hetherington would sleep on for ever. So he
smoked on, and noted with satisfaction that with the rising sun the
breeze was freshening fast: little waves now lifted up their smiling
heads and plashed playfully at the pretty craft as she cut through
them; the tall mast inclined more decidedly before the eager wind;
and the foot of the mainsail began its welcome chorus of flip-flip,
flip-flip-flip as the breeze poured out of it. Berry Head was long
past; Torbay was crossed; the Thatcher and the Oarstone were left faint
and filmy in the far distance on the port quarter, and now the little
vessel was getting a trifle more lively as the water deepened and the
wind increased and the shore receded further and further; and still
Hetherington slept. Mervyne could still hear him snoring at times.
It was rather odd, he thought. Lazy fellow! He need not have been so
careful not to wake him. He wondered what time it was. He took out his
watch. Eight o’clock! And he was getting hungry too. He had better wake
him; so, without leaving the helm, he began thumping over his chum’s
head on the deck with a stick. ‘Hi! Hetherington! Jack! Wake up! Turn
out! Get up, you lazy dog! Eight bells, do you hear?’
But not a sound did he evoke in response; only, as he stopped and
listened, the same loud snoring broke upon his ear. Very odd!
Hetherington was not usually so late or so heavy a sleeper. Next he
slid back the hatch and shouted loudly to his chum to rouse up. Still
no answer—still the same stertorous breathing.
‘Why on earth don’t he wake?’ said Mervyne to himself, and, trusting
the yacht to steer herself for a moment or two, he dived down the
little hatchway and entered the tiny cabin. It was empty! He stared
around in blank astonishment, nearly amounting to dismay, and as he did
so, a snore of almost gigantic volume assailed his ears. It came from
the forecastle. This was more surprising than ever, for Hetherington,
he knew, had no crew on board. An enthusiastic yachtsman, he, in true
Corinthian spirit, worked his little craft himself, with the assistance
of one or two good friends and fellow-spirits like Phipps—no paid
hands being permitted on board during a Corinthian race—and even when
cruising, scrubbed decks and polished brasswork with his own hands,
sleeping also on board in harbour, unlike men of more luxurious habits,
who generally preferred the comforts of a hotel to the straitened
accommodation of a five-tonner, even when it was their own.
Where, then, was Hetherington? and who was the occupant of the
forecastle? He slid aside the little door which separated the cabin
from the quarter assigned to the crew, when such an individual existed,
and looked in. It was very dark in the little close den, but he could
just discern a hammock stretched fore and aft under the deck, and in
that hammock a bearded being sleeping a riotous sleep. He went up to
the hammock and shook it. ‘Here! rouse up, here! Where’s your master?’
he cried.
The figure grunted, shifted its position slowly and uneasily, and
seemed inclined to settle once more into repose, but the shaking being
repeated and continued with increasing violence, a weather-stained,
lurid, and sodden countenance, set in a wild tangle of hair and beard,
appeared over the edge of the hammock, and after staring stupidly with
vacant eyes a moment or two into the gloom, inquired thickly and with
gin-saturated utterance, ‘Wash up?’ and then falling heavily back on
its pillow, instantly resumed its state of stertorous insensibility.
The man was hopelessly and helplessly drunk. But who could he be?
At that moment, a terrible suspicion flashed through Mervyne’s mind
like an electric shock. He turned, and bolted through the little cabin
and up on deck like a shot. The first thing that caught his eye as he
faced aft was the brass rudder-head, and on it, in necessarily small
letters, unperceived by him before, was the one word, _Cockyollybird_.
It was the wrong yacht!
* * * * *
Hetherington and Phipps both agree in asserting that they never had
such a race as that in which they won the first prize at Dartmouth; but
the former also adds that that fellow O’Gorman gave a lot of trouble
before paying up the hundred pounds.
CHINA GRASS-CLOTH.
The well-known and popular China, or Chinese, grass-cloth, specimens
of which, generally in the shape of handkerchiefs, are brought home by
most travellers in the East, is now likely to become yet more popular
and have a far more extensive market in Europe than was formerly the
case. This China grass—_soie végétal_, the French call it—is the fibre,
not of a grass, but of a species of nettle, the _Bœhmeria nivea_ and
other specimens of the _urtica_. These nettles are carefully cultivated
in China, where they grow in great quantities, as they do in India
and Ceylon. In India, hitherto, unfortunately, no marked or diligent
attempt at cultivation has been made. These _urticas_ are perennial
herbaceous plants, having broad oval leaves, with a white down beneath.
They are also free from the stinging character of ordinary nettles. In
Ceylon and India, where the plants grow wild, these nettles are cut
just about the time of seeding, bleached by the assistance of the heavy
night-dews and hot mid-day suns, and the fibres gathered together and
spun into ropes or thin twine, from which coarse matting is made. This
primitive way of treating the nettles is not followed in China, and
indeed the employment of the fibre-silk for commercial purposes seems
to be a Chinese secret.
The government of India, seeing what a great benefit might be expected
to arise could a practical and inexpensive method of gathering the
‘vegetable silk’ be found, offered some time back a reward to stimulate
inventors in discovering an economical method for preparing the fibre
of the China grass. Such discovery has at last been made; three French
gentlemen have been successful in perfecting two different inventions
which would seem to completely meet the existing difficulty. Messieurs
Frémy and Urbain of Paris have invented a method for converting
the fibres of the plants into _filasse_ ready for spinning. This
method, however, would not have been of much use had not a M. Favier
constructed a machine for gathering these fibres by decorticating the
stems of the nettles by means of steam. Thus, the fibre is not only
collected cheaply and easily, but the glutinous matter adhering to
it, and which proved such a stumbling-block to our manufacturers, is
removed at the same time. It is difficult to exaggerate the importance
of these inventions. The _urtica_ grows in immense quantities all
over India; and now that the plant and its fibres can be utilised
economically, doubtless much careful attention will be given to the
question of cultivation and the harvesting of these nettles.
Not only is the texture of the cloth manufactured from this fibre
very beautiful—it is principally remarkable for its splendid gloss
and peculiar transparency—but it is extremely strong and durable.
‘Belting’ for machinery has already been made with China grass-fibre,
and on being tested, it was found that it could bear a strain of
eight thousand three hundred and twenty-six pounds to the square
inch; whereas leather could only sustain a pressure of four thousand
two hundred and thirty-nine pounds to the square inch. A piece of
water-hose made of the same fibre was subjected to the high pressure
of six hundred pounds to the square inch, and it was proved that it
only ‘sweated’ as much as a good ordinary hose does under a pressure
of one hundred pounds. So much for its strength and durability, two
great advantages. And, moreover, it is probable, having regard to these
proved facts, that, although the texture of grass-cloth is so light and
transparent, it would offer a considerable and prolonged resistance to
heat and flames.
As to its beauty, most of our readers have had many opportunities
already of forming an opinion on this head. So soon as manufacturers
and _costumiers_ have had a sufficient time for experimenting, we
may expect to see grass-cloth very generally used for dress fabrics,
hangings, curtains, and in many other ways.
Should these inventions, when put to the test and tried on a large
scale, be found to answer as well as the trial experiments, a little
time is only wanted, when a most important and valuable industry will
arise in India, and, more than probably, give work to many thousands
of hands at home. At all events, if all goes right, India will be the
richer in the near future by many millions of pounds sterling. And it
is even likely that serious attempts at acclimatisation and careful
cultivation of these useful nettles will be made in other of our
semi-tropical colonies and possessions.
THE POET’S TREASURES.
The laughing streams all crystal bright,
How sweet their murmuring song,
As, strewn with blossoms and flecked with light,
They joyously dance along!
They glance through the valleys like silver wings;
They twinkle, they gleam, they shine;
And while my heart in rapture sings,
They whisper they are mine!
Like a maiden’s tresses so sleek, so fine,
They ripple, and wave, and curl;
They blush ’neath the sunset like rosy wine,
And sing like a happy girl.
When, weary, I sink on the emerald sod,
They dimple, and seem to say:
‘We are balm fresh flung from the hand of God;
Come, bathe in our fairy spray.’
The warbling birds are my minstrels all;
Ah! they know that I love them well,
For I hasten forth, when their voices call,
To forest or leafy dell;
On buoyant pinions they come and go,
Capricious, and wild, and free,
And I sing to the children of toil and woe
The songs they sing to me.
The trees are mine, and the humble flowers
That sigh ’mid the rustling grass,
When steeped in the fragrance of summer showers,
The amorous zephyrs pass.
When the world grows cold, and I turn away
From its fickle and loveless throng,
They nestle around me, and seem to say:
‘We love you, poor child of song!’
They kiss the dust from my weary feet;
They tremble, and blush, and sigh;
And the bonny daisy, so fresh, so sweet,
A tear in her golden eye,
Seemeth to me, in her gown of white,
More lovely than all the rest,
With the beauty of summer in her sight,
And its sunshine in her breast.
I own not one inch of the land, not I,
Nor jewels nor silks I wear,
Yet, free to roam ’neath the azure sky,
I am wealthy beyond compare.
To the plodding worldling, let pomp and pride
And the treasures of earth be given,
While I rest content on the fair hillside,
Rich, rich in the gifts of heaven!
FANNY FORRESTER.
* * * * *