(_For the Mirror_.)
It was a bright summer afternoon: the estuary of Poole Harbour lay
extended before me; its broad expanse studded with inlands of sand and
furze bushes, of which Brownsea is the most considerable. A slight
ripple marked the deeper channels which were of a blue colour, and the
shallow mud banks being but barely covered by the tide, appeared like
sheets of molten silver. The blue hills of Purbeck bounded the distant
heath-lands to the westward, and the harbour extended itself inland
towards the town of Wareham, becoming more and more intricate in its
navigation, although it receives the contributions of two rivers, the
Piddle and the Froome, arising probably from the soil carried down by
the streams, and the faint action of the tide at a distance of eight
or ten miles from the mouth of the harbour. The Wareham clay boats
added life to the scene. Some were wending their way through the
intricate channels close hauled upon a wind; others were going right
away with a flowing sheet. On the eastern side was the bold sweep of
the shore, extending to the mouth of the harbour, and terminating in a
narrow point of bright sand hills, separating the quiet waters of the
harbour from the boisterous turmoilings of the English Channel.
Sauntering along the Quay of Poole, indulging in a kind of reverie,
thinking, or in fact, thinking of nothing at all, (a kind of waking
dream, when hundreds of ideas, recollections, and feelings float with
wonderful rapidity through the brain,) my attention was attracted by
a stout, hardy-faced pilot, with water boots on his legs, and a red,
woollen night-cap on his head, who was driving a very earnest bargain
for a "small, but elegant assortment," of dabs and flounders. "Dree
and zixpence if you like," said he. "I could a bought vour times as
much vor one and zixpence coast-ways, if I'd a mind, and I'll give
thee no more, and not a word of a lie." His oratory conquered the
coyness of the fishy damsel; and he invited the lady to take a glass
of "zomat avore he topped his boom for Swanwidge."
Having before me the certainty of a dull, monotonous afternoon, and
cheerless evening, without any visible means of amusement, I instantly
closed a bargain with Dick Hart (for such was the pilot's name) to
give me a cast to Swanwidge. In a short time I found myself on board
a trim, little pilot boat, gliding along the waters as the sun was
sliding his downward course, and shedding a mellow radiance over the
distant scenery towards Lytchett. The white steeple of Poole church
was lighted by the rays, while the town presented a neat and
picturesque appearance with the masts of the shipping cutting against
the blue sky.
Dick Hart formed no small feature in the scene as he stood at the helm
with his red cap and black, curly hair, smoking a short, clay pipe,
which like his own face, had become rather brown in service. He looked
around him with an air of independence and unconcern, as the "monarch
of all he surveyed," casting his eye up now and then at the trim of
his canvass, but more frequently keeping it on me. Dick began to open
his budget of chat, and I found him as full of fun as his mainsail was
full of nettles.
A voice from the forecastle called out to Dick, who was so intent on
his story that the helm slipped from his hand, and the ship flew up
in the wind, "Mind, skipper, or you will run down Old Betty." I was
astonished at the insinuation against my noble captain that he was
likely to behave rude to a lady, but my suspicions were soon removed,
when I saw Old Betty was a buoy, floating on the waters, adorned with
a furze bush. Old Betty danced merrily on the rippling wave with her
furze bush by way of a feather, with shreds of dried sea weed hanging
to it forming ribbons to complete the head dress of the lady buoy.
The nearer we approached, the more rapid did Betty dance, and when
we passed close alongside of her, she curtsied up and down as if to
welcome our visit. Dick narrated why a buoy placed at the head of a
mud bank obtained the name of a _lady fair_, and I briefly noted it
down.
Many years ago a single lady resided at Poole, of plain manners,
unaffected simplicity, affable, yet retiring, and--
"Passing rich with forty pounds a-year."
The gentry courted her, but she still adhered to her secluded habits.
Year after year rolled on, and though some may have admired her,
she was never led to the altar, and consequently her condition was
_unaltered_. Kind and friendly neighbours kept a vigilant eye upon her
proceedings, but her character was unimpeachable; and they all agreed
that she was a very suspicious person, because they could not slander
her. She lived a blameless single lady.
Her attentions were directed to an orphan boy. He was her constant
companion, and the object of her tenderest solicitude. As he grew up
he excelled the youth of his own age in manly exercises; could thrash
all of his own size, when insulted, but never played the tyrant, or
the bully. He could make the longest innings at cricket, and as for
swimming in all its various branches, none could compare with William.
It was finally arranged by a merchant to send William a voyage to
Newfoundland, and the news soon spread round the town that William
(for he was a general favourite) was to _see_ the world by taking to
the _sea_.
The time arrived when the ship was to be warped out from the Quay, and
to sail for her destination. The crew and the passengers were all on
board, and William was, by his absence, rather trespassing on the
indulgence of the captain; but who could be angry with the boy whom
every body loved?
The town gossips, and many a fair maiden, were on the Quay to see
young William embark. The tide had already turned, and the captain
was about to give the word "to cast off and let all go;" to send the
vessel, as it were, adrift, loose and unfettered upon the waters, to
struggle as a thing of life with the billows of the Atlantic, but
animated and controled by the energies of men. Just at this moment
William appeared at the end of the Quay, walking slowly to the scene
of embarkation with his kind and benevolent benefactress leaning, and
leaning heavily, for her heart was heavy, upon the arm of her dutiful
and beloved William. As they approached, the crowd made way with
profound respect, not the cringing respect paid to superior wealth,
but with that respect which worth of character and innate virtue can
and will command, though poverty may smite and desolate.
They walked unconscious of the notice they attracted. Their hearts
were too full to heed the sympathies of others. The youth kept his
eye fixed upon the loosening topsails of his ship; his benefactress
grasped his arm almost convulsively, and looked, or rather stared,
upon the ground. She dreaded the last, the hurried "fare well," the
last look, the last word from her William, and she tottered as she
approached the side of the ship. They stood locked hand in hand at the
edge of the Quay; not a word was uttered by either; but they gazed
at each other with a fondness which showed that their souls were in
communion.
"Now, William, jump on board--cast off there forward," exclaimed the
captain; "swing her head round--heave away my boys--come, William,
come my boy."
The youth awoke as from a startled sleep. He imprinted a kiss, the
last kiss, upon the cold cheeks of his benefactress, and dashing away
with the sleeve of his jacket a tear, of which he felt ashamed, in a
moment he was on the quarter deck of his commander. He durst not look
again upon the Quay; but had he looked he would have seen many a
weeping maiden who had never told her love, and he would have seen his
affectionate benefactress borne away in a fainting fit. All this he
saw not, for he braced his courage up before his future messmates, and
he looked forward to his duties, considering the past as but a dream.
Months elapsed and tidings were frequently received of William. He had
distinguished himself by his activity and docility. His townsmen
heard with pleasure of his good conduct, and looked forward with
satisfaction to welcome his return; when at length a pilot boat
brought intelligence that the ship was lying at anchor at the mouth of
the harbour, waiting the next tide with loss of foremast in a heavy
gale the preceding night off the Bill of Portland. His benefactress,
impatient of delay, immediately hired a boat, and preceded to the ship
before the tide had turned; but she no sooner reached the deck than
she was informed by the captain that William was aloft when the
foremast went by the board on the preceding night, and that he fell
into the raging waves without the possibility of relief being afforded
him.
"God's will be done," murmured the unhappy woman as she clasped her
hands, and taking her station at the gangway, she continued gazing on
the water as it rippled by, in a state of unconsciousness to every
passing object. In the meantime the vessel was under weigh, and was
coming once more in sight of Brownsea, when a plunge was heard--"she's
overboard," exclaimed a sailor--"cut away some spars--lower the
boats--over with the hen coops--down with the helm, and back the
topsails"--roared out many voices; but she had sunk to rise no more!
Her corpse was found a few days after when the tide receded, lying on
a mud bank, close to the buoy which has ever since been known by every
sailor and every pilot of Poole under the name of Old Betty. But to
complete the sad narrative, it appeared that William, as he excelled
in swimming, succeeded in gaining the shore of Portland, and arrived
in time at Poole to attend the remains of his benefactress to the
grave in character of chief mourner.
On opening her papers it was discovered that in losing his
benefactress he had lost his mother! That she had been privately
married to a widower of considerable fortune, who had one son by
his first wife, and that on his demise the estate would devolve
on William, provided his half brother had no children. A few days
afterwards the death of Henry ----, Esq. of ---- Hall, Worcestershire,
was formally announced in the daily Journals, and the unexpected
claims of William being acknowledged, he succeeded to a very fine
property and estate, and died as much respected in a good old age as
he was beloved in his buoyant childhood, when the gossips and the
maidens of Poole agreed that the orphan boy promised to be a "nice
young man."--"And not word of a lie in it," said Dick Hart, as he
finished his story, his pipe, and his grog.
We were now steering across Studland Bay. Banks of dark clouds were
gathering majestically on the eastern horizon, and the sun was
rapidly sinking in a flood of golden light. Behind us was the Isle
of Brownsea, with its dark fir plantations and lofty, cold-looking,
awkward castle. On the left was the line of low sand hills, stretching
away towards Christchurch, and seeming to join the Needles' Rocks,
situated at the western extremity of the Isle of Wight, the high chalk
cliffs of which reflected the sun's last rays, giving a rich and
placid feeling to the cold and distant grey. On the right, and closer
to us, was the brown and purple heath-land of Studland Bay. Here
barren, there patches of verdure, and the thin smoke threading its
way from a cluster of trees, denoted where the village hamlet lay
embosomed from the storms of the southwest gales, close at the foot
and under the shelter of a lofty chalk range which abuts abruptly on
the sea, and before which stands a high, detached pyramidical rock,
rising out of the waters like a sheeted spectre, and known to mariners
under the suspicious name of _Old Harry_.
This coast was once notorious for smuggling, but those days of
nautical chivalry have ceased, if Dick Hart was to be credited, who
shook his head very mournfully as he alluded to "the _Block-head_
service."