The bitter storm raging over the country, and spreading woe and terror
and desolation far out at sea, does not much affect the expected
guests. Carriage after carriage drives in at the gates of Government
House; and ere long, many eager eyes are fixed on the drop-scene,
the owners of them ready to be pleased or otherwise by the coming
performance. Curiosity and criticism are on the alert; some of the
audience are just as much inclined to find fault as to admire. When
Lady Dillworth 'comes on' she feels unaccountably agitated at seeing
her 'dear friends' sitting in solemn state on rows of chairs, all
ready to detect her slightest shortcomings. For the moment she feels
as though she would fain dart away beyond their range of vision. But
this nervousness speedily vanishes. Amidst the bursts of applause that
greet her, she begins to catch somewhat of the spirit of a successful
_débutante_, and her pulse throbs triumphantly. Her voice rings out in
strains of pathetic melody; she forgets her qualms, her trepidation,
and almost even her own identity, so carried away is she by the
intensely tragic music.
During the first part, the singing goes on faultlessly, then a somewhat
awkward sense of failure begins to steal over the performers. Major
Dillon and Walter differ about some minor points, and the former nearly
bewilders the others with his eccentric proceedings. The chorus get
out of tune, and the Major reproves them so vigorously that he nearly
banishes all sense of harmony out of their heads.
Liddy Delmere is much amused, and she and Walter make themselves
conspicuous with ill-timed mirth. This is unfortunate, as the irate
mother of the hapless 'Lucia' should be grave and dignified. But Liddy
forgets her part, the words and air and everything, and only remembers
Walter Reeves is beside her. Lady Dillworth calls her to order with one
of her haughtiest looks.
'Liddy, Liddy! do be reasonable. Don't you see what wretched idiots
we are making of ourselves? We are only bringing down ridicule on our
heads.'
Then in a pause, when she is not wanted to sing, Katie slips away to a
room adjoining, that has been fitted up temporarily for the performers.
She lifts the window-blind, and looks out on the rather grim garden,
dimly lighted up with flickering coloured lamps. Dense clumps of
evergreens glitter with raindrops, and cast deep uncertain shadows on
the grass. The bare branches of the beech-trees are swaying wildly in
the wind, and flinging themselves about like gaunt weird arms. Above in
the troubled sky, heavy masses of storm-cloud are driven rapidly past,
giving glimpses now and then of an almost full moon.
'Oh, what a fearful night this must be at sea!' muses Katie, and
then a sudden shudder comes over her as her thoughts fly off to the
unfortunate ship _Daring_, perhaps even now wrecked and broken up on
the fatal Short Reefs.
'What have I done? what have I done?' she exclaims wildly, as like a
lightning flash, a sudden revelation of the possible result of her act
that morning comes before her. She has prevented the _Leo_ from going
to sea by altering her husband's order; her own meddling fingers have
kept back the very aid that might have saved the ship. The _Leo_ is
at that moment safely riding at her anchor in Seabright harbour; her
captain is sporting himself in delightful ease. But what about the
_Daring_? Where is she?
Even now the pitiless waves may be dashing over her, even now she may
be breaking up on the sharp rocks. Perhaps the storm that rages past is
bearing on its wild wings the awful death-shrieks of sailors as they go
down into the pitiless waters.
Ah, they may be crying for help, that never comes!--help, _she_ has
kept back from them, foolishly, wickedly kept back! Souls, precious
souls, may be going to their doom, in life's full prime, with
unrepented sins on their heads; and she indirectly may be the one
who has hurled them to their end. These thoughts rush through Lady
Dillworth's mind with a crushing force, and with a vividness that makes
her heart bound, her whole frame tremble. In the howling of the wind,
as it sobs with wild violence through the trees, she fancies she hears
the cries of the sailors writhing in agony amidst the surging waves.
She thinks they are calling on _her_--accusing _her_, and her brain
whirls and her heart beats almost to madness.
'"There is sorrow on the sea; it cannot be quiet." O God! help these
poor men in their distress--lay not their death to my charge!' she
cries almost aloud, and then she looks up, and sees Liddy Delmere
watching her with alarm.
'O Lady Dillworth! what _is_ the matter? How pale and ill you look!
Shall I call any one? Shall I get anything?'
'Be quiet, Liddy; I insist. I feel faint; but you need not proclaim the
fact to the whole world.'
Katie covers her face with her hands, and stands for a minute trying to
recover herself--trying--while the angry wind howls like an avenging
spirit in her ears. Presently she looks up: 'I feel better now. What do
you want of me, Liddy?'
'Have you forgotten our duet comes on when this chorus is over? Are you
well enough to sing?' asks Miss Delmere, as she gazes with amazement at
Lady Dillworth's haggard face and startled eyes.
'O yes; I will sing. Don't be uneasy; I shall not break down.' She
takes Liddy's arm, and they make their appearance on the stage just
in time. Much license has been taken with the score of _Lucia di
Lammermoor_--new songs and duets have been introduced, and it is one of
the latter in which Katie is now required to take a part.
With a great effort she composes herself, and begins. As she goes
on, her voice regains its rich fullness; no one would suppose such a
tempest of agony had so lately swept over her.
While she is sustaining a rather prolonged cadence, she sees the
Admiral enter the room. He stands for a minute looking at her, and
listening; then he catches a glimpse of Walter Reeves, and goes
quickly towards him. Though in the middle of her duet, Katie notices
the start her husband gives and the quick frown that gathers on his
brow. She sees him beckon Walter aside; the heads are bowed a moment as
an excited whisper passes, then they leave the room together. Ere her
part is over, she sees Walter return alone, and quietly make his way
among the groups of people till he gets near the stage again, and there
he takes up his position. The moment Lady Dillworth is free she is at
his side, questioning and eager.
'I saw Sir Herbert here a minute ago. Where is he now?'
'He went out to find your father, for he said he must see him at
once. I offered to go; but Sir Herbert would not hear of that.--How
splendidly you sang in that duet, Lady Dillworth! Your voice came out
in perfection.'
'Why did he want to see my father?' she asks impatiently.
'Sir Herbert did not say; but something appears to have annoyed him
very much. I never saw him more put out, though he gave no explanation.'
Katie changes the subject abruptly.
'Is it very stormy at sea to-night, Captain Reeves? I mean, is there
any danger to ships?'
'I should think there _is_. We haven't had such a storm as this since
last winter. Every roar of the wind only makes me congratulate myself
on being in such snug quarters. There's a wonderful difference between
this fairy scene, with its music and mirth and its galaxy of youth
and beauty, and what one would meet with out on the wild billows
to-night.--What a charming evening you have given us, Lady Dillworth!'
Katie can hardly keep herself from stamping her little foot with
impatience, as she looks up at Walter's self-satisfied face, beaming
with enjoyment; and then she watches the smile with which he presently
bends down to whisper something to Miss Delmere. Liddy responds with a
flash of her bright blue eyes, and a heightened colour springs to her
cheek as she makes room for Walter beside her. Never has she looked
better than on this evening; the quaint antiquated costume contrasts
capitally with her fair laughing face. At last the charade comes to
an end; there is a subdued murmur of applause as everybody says how
cleverly it has all been done. They make wild guesses at the word, and
Walter has at last to explain the secret. Lady Dillworth listens to
the comments of her guests with an abstracted air; and when the last
carriage drives away, she summons the footman and inquires whether Sir
Herbert has returned.
Hunter is an old servant of the Admiral's, and has followed his
master's fortunes in various places and homes, and was with him when
the first Lady Dillworth died; so he knows his ways, and sees more
than perhaps his employers give him credit for. He turns a grave face
towards his mistress, as he replies: 'Yes, my Lady. Master came in just
when the acting was over; and when he saw the company wasn't gone, he
told me to tell your Ladyship he was very tired, and would go to bed at
once, instead of going back to the drawing-room.'
'_Very_ tired, did he say?'
'Yes, my Lady; and he looked weary-like.'
'That will do, Hunter. We want breakfast very early to-morrow morning,
as Miss Delmere is going away by the first train.'
Then Katie goes up to her boudoir. The fire is still burning brightly,
and the lamp is throwing a soft light through the curtained room.
Still in her fancy dress, the stomacher flashing with jewels, she
seats herself in the arm-chair; and there, while the warmth steals
over her, she covers her face with her hands, and thinks bitterly,
confusedly--the loud shrieking of the wind and the fury of the cruel
storm keeping up a wild accompaniment to her musings.
She wonders what she had better do. Shall she rouse her husband from
his slumbers, and tell him all, or shall she wait till events call
forth a confession? Never has she felt such a poor, mean, despicable
coward. She hates herself for her irresolution; and all the time her
fancy pictures up the surging whirlpools, the jagged rocks, the dashing
waves, the yawning gulfs, and the drowning men with their despairing
eyes, ever calling for the help that does not come!
REMINISCENCES OF QUEBEC.
For the following reminiscences connected with the stay of one of
the British regiments at Quebec during the winter of 1870-71, we are
indebted to an officer of the garrison. He writes as follows:
Until the close of 1871, Quebec was a fortress occupied by British
troops; but before the winter set in, the _Orontes_ and other
store-ships carried away the troops and their possessions, and the
stronghold passed for ever away from the rule of Great Britain.
Quebec, the principal fortress of Canada, also known as the 'Gibraltar
of the West,' is built upon the strip of land projecting into the
confluence of the St Lawrence and St Charles rivers. Originally a
French settlement, it afterwards became one of the colonies of Great
Britain, and has continued to be so until the present date.
'There is but one Quebec, and its beautiful scenery,' remarked a valued
friend to the writer, as one autumn afternoon we scanned the view from
the Levis Cliffs, and watched the 'Fall fleet' preparing to depart for
England ere winter had closed the St Lawrence. 'The scenic beauty of
Quebec,' says an old writer, 'has been the theme of general eulogy.'
The majestic appearance of Cape Diamond, surmounted by fortifications;
the cupolas and minarets, like those of an eastern city, blazing
and sparkling in the sun; the loveliness of the panorama, the noble
river like a sheet of purest silver, in which one hundred vessels may
ride with safety; the graceful meandering of the river St Charles
before it finds its way into the St Lawrence; the numerous village
spires scattered around; the fertile fields clothed with innumerable
cottages, the abodes of a rich and moral peasantry; the distant Falls
of Montmorenci; the rich park-like scenery of Levis; the lovely Isle
of Orleans; and more distant still the frowning Cape Tourment, and
the lofty range of purple mountains of the most picturesque forms,
which bound the prospect, unite to make a _coup d'œil_ which without
exaggeration is scarcely to be surpassed in any part of the world.
In the winter-time there is much more leisure for the merchants than
in summer, as the St Lawrence from the end of December until the end
of April is one vast ice-field, isolating Quebec from water-commerce,
but giving full employment to numbers of 'ice-men' to saw out great
oblong masses of clear bright ice to fill the ice-houses with this
much-needed summer luxury. The ice and snow are also turned to account
in the fashionable amusements of snow-shoeing, tobogganing, skating,
sleigh-driving, &c. Snow-shoeing is capital exercise, but somewhat
trying at the commencement; for with a pair of snow-shoes fastened to
the feet, the beginner is rather apt to find himself immersed in a
snow-drift, and it is a difficult matter to get upon his legs again.
This pastime, however, is so well known in theory that we pass to the
more favourite one of tobogganing. The toboggan or Indian sleigh--one
or two thin planks neatly curled round at one end--is drawn over the
snow to the top of a hill. The passengers sit down, carefully 'tucking
in' all articles of dress; a slight push is given, and away glides the
toboggan at the rate of from twenty to thirty miles an hour. Starting
is easy enough; but to descend to the desired spot is not so easy as
might appear at first sight, and requires some skill in steering; for
if that important matter be unskilfully performed, the toboggan, like
a boat, gets 'broadside on' to the hill, twists and turns, shooting
out its passengers, who rarely escape some hard knocks. If, however,
the steering is successful, the tourists have, in school-boy phrase,
a 'jolly ride,' and glide along the level ground at the foot of the
slope for a considerable distance. There is, of course, the bother of
pulling the toboggan up to the top of the hill; but such effect has the
exhilarating dryness of the atmosphere upon one's spirits, and such is
the charm of the amusement, that this labour is cheerfully undertaken.
One favourite run was down the citadel glacis, through a gap in a fence
and into a closed yard at the base; another, also from the glacis, but
running in the direction of the Plains of Abraham. The former being
the most dangerous slide, was the favourite one, and many hard blows
were given and received. One young gentleman met his fate in the form
of a deep cut across his knee, by being tossed out of the toboggan
among some scrap-iron and old stove-pipes hidden under the snow. Much
sympathy was felt for him, for the wound took a long while to heal, and
prevented him tobogganing more that winter. Another gentleman coming
down the slide by moonlight with two young ladies in his toboggan, in
place of steering through the fence, steered into it, and his face came
in contact with a post; unluckily for him, the post was the hardest,
and he escaped with a broken jaw, and the ladies with more or less
bruises. There was a laughable upset on another occasion. A lady,
said to be at least forty (also 'fat and fair'), with a friend of the
opposite sex, tempted fortune in a toboggan; but as they approached the
gap above mentioned she lost her nerve, and threw herself out as the
toboggan was rushing down the steepest part of the slide. In less time
than the reader will take to peruse this incident, she was on her head
in the snow, and her feet, incased in very black boots, in the air; she
then tumbled across the slide; the toboggan with its remaining occupant
flew lightly over her, and then this frisky matron and her friend
rolled like a pair of frolicksome lambkins to the foot of the slope,
the toboggan of course arriving before them.
Skating at Quebec is chiefly carried on at the Rink, a large building
about one hundred and seventy feet long and seventy wide, the
earth-floor of which is flooded. The ice is carefully swept daily;
and each evening the rink-keeper 'dusts' it with just enough water to
fill up the cuts made in it by the skaters; so that each morning finds
a fresh field of glittering smooth ice. The wooden shed does three
duties--namely, keeps out the heat of spring, keeps off the snow, and
keeps in the cold of winter; so that skating can often be had at the
Rink and nowhere else.
The band of the Rifles often played at the Rink, which was sometimes
lighted up at night by gas; and visitors to Quebec had capital
opportunities of seeing its young ladies exhibit their skill in the
execution of sundry intricate skating-figures. Some years ago, there
was a fancy-dress ball on the Quebec rink, and we have extracted
a portion of its description from one of the local papers of that
date: 'The bugle sounded at nine o'clock, and the motley crowd of
skaters rushed on the ice, over which they dashed in high glee,
their spirits stirred to the utmost by the enlivening music and the
cheering presence of hundreds of ladies and gentlemen. Over the
glittering floor sped dozens of flying figures, circling, skimming,
wheeling, and intermingling with a new swiftness, the bright and
varied colours, the rich and grotesque costumes succeeding each other,
or combining with bewildering rapidity and effect. The gentlemen, in
addition to the usual characters, introduced some novelties: an owl,
a monkey, a monster bottle, a tailor at work, a boy on horseback--all
capital representations and by good skaters. Among the ladies were
representations of "Night" and "Morning," a vivandière, a habitant's
wife, and other characters that appeared to advantage. The skaters
presented both a varied and brilliant appearance, their parts being
well sustained as to costume and deportment, and their movements on the
ice being characterised by that grace and skill of movement bred of
long practice. The dances included quadrilles, waltzes, galops, &c.'
That this elegant accomplishment can be turned to use is proved by a
legend of two settlers in the Far West who saved their lives by the
aid of a pair of skates. One had been captured by Indians, who did
not intend to let him live long; but amongst his baggage was a pair
of skates. The Indians' curiosity was excited, and the white man was
desired to explain their use; he led his captors to the edge of a wide
lake, where the smooth ice stretched away as far as the eye could see,
and put on the skates. Exciting the laughter of his captors by tumbling
about in a clumsy manner, he at length contrived to get a hundred yards
from them without arousing their suspicion, when he skated away as fast
as he could, and finally escaped.
The other settler is said to have been skating alone one moonlight
night; and while contemplating the reflection of the firmament in the
clear ice, and the vast dark mass of forest surrounding the lake and
stretching away in the background, he suddenly discovered, to his
horror, that the adjacent bank was lined with a pack of wolves. He at
once 'made tracks' for home, followed by these animals; but the skater
kept ahead, and one by one the pack tailed off; two or three of the
foremost, however, kept up the chase; but when they attempted to close
with the skater, by adroitly turning aside he allowed them to pass him.
And after a few unsuccessful and vicious attempts on the part of the
wolves, he succeeded in reaching his log-hut in safety.
The cold during the winter of 1870-71 was often extreme, the
thermometer ranging as low as forty degrees below zero. Upon two days
the writer had the pleasure of witnessing the beautiful phenomenon
called silver-thaw--that is, the trees and shrubs encircled with
ice-crystal, the glitter of which on the twigs and branches in the
sunlight is wonderfully beautiful. Occasionally the St Lawrence is
entirely frozen over opposite Quebec, and ice boats (on skates) are
popular, and the bark glides along at a pace that depends upon the
wind and quantity of sail carried. Sleighing was much in fashion; and
it is agreeable enough rushing through the extremely cold but dry
atmosphere with a pretty young lady nestling against you as you fly
along the noiseless track to the music of the sleigh bells, which the
law requires each horse to carry on its harness.
Practical jokes are not unknown at Quebec, and several silly ones
without wit or purpose were perpetrated that winter; but one of a
special and decidedly original character played upon the Control
Department, may be worth recording. The Control Department--at the
head of which was Deputy-Controller Martindale--was intrusted with
the providing of fuel, food, ammunition, bedding, transport, &c. for
the British troops, and for some reason or another that branch of the
department at Quebec is said to have been somewhat unpopular in the
garrison.
On the 23d and 24th February the following advertisement appeared in
the columns of the principal French paper, _l'Evénement_:[1] 'CHATS!
CHATS! CHATS! 50 CHATS sont demandés pour donner la chasse aux Rats et
Souris qui infestent les Magasins du Gouvernement. Toute personne qui
apportera un Chat au Bureau du Député-Contrôleur Martindale, entre 11
heures et midi un jour quelconque jusqu'au 28 du courant, recevra en
retour un Dollar (1 $) par Chat.--Par ordre,
_D. C. MARTINDALE, Député-Contrôleur._
_QUEBEC, 23 Fév. 1871--3f._'
The powers of advertising were in this instance wonderfully
exemplified, for at least eight hundred cats were duly brought to the
Bureau; but the unfortunate cat-merchants did not receive a dollar.
Some, being of a speculative turn, had bought up a number of their
neighbours' cats at prices varying between ten cents and twenty-five
cents each; and what with the ire of the cat-merchants at the hoax,
the astonishment and indignation of the Control officers, and the
caterwauling of the pussies brought in boxes, baskets, bags, &c., the
scene was one which will long be remembered in Quebec. On Sunday,
26th February (according to a local custom of treating _government
advertisements_), the doors of the churches in the country districts
round Quebec had the 'cat advertisement' duly posted up, so that on
Monday the 27th a bountiful supply of mousers was brought from suburban
districts to complete the Control catastrophe.
Of course very strict inquiries were made, with a view of ascertaining
the author of the hoax; but that individual has not yet presented
himself to public notice, and judiciously made use of the post-office
to carry the letter to the _Evénement_ respecting the insertion of the
advertisement. We also understand the editor of the _Evénement_ was
politely requested to render his account for the advertisements to the
Control Department. There is, we believe, an old proverb, 'A cat may
look at a king;' but many of the inhabitants of the Quebec suburbs did
not like to look at cats for some time afterwards.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Cats! Cats! Cats! 50 Cats are required to capture the rats and mice
that are infesting the Government Magazines. Whoever shall bring a cat
to Deputy-Controller Martindale's office between 11 and 12 o'clock on
any day up till the 28th inst., shall receive one dollar per cat. By
order, &c.
FRENCH FISHER-FOLK.
They live by themselves and to themselves, these French fisher-folk;
an amphibious race, as completely cut off from the shore-staying
population as any caste of Hindustan. The quaint village that they
inhabit consists of half a score of steep and narrow lanes, and as
many airless courts or alleys, clinging to the cliff as limpets
anchor to a rock, and topped by the weather-beaten spire of a church,
dedicated of course to St Peter. Hard by there may be a town rich
and populous; but its wide streets and display of plate-glass are
not envied by the piscatorial clan outside. They have shops of their
own, where sails and shawls, ropes and ornaments, high surf-boots and
gaudy gown-pieces, jostle one another in picturesque profusion. From
the upper windows of the private dwellings project gaffs and booms,
whence dangle, for drying purposes, wet suits of dark-blue pilot cloth
and dripping pea-coats. Everywhere prevails an ancient and fish-like
smell, struggling with the wholesome scent of hot pitch simmering for
the manufacture of tarpaulins and waterproofs. Half the houses are
draped in nets, some newly tanned to toughen them, others whose long
chain of corks is still silvered with herring-scales. The very children
are carving boats out of lumps of dark wreck-wood, or holding a mock
auction for tiny crabs and spiked sea-urchins. The whole atmosphere of
the place has a briny and Neptunian savour about it, and is redolent of
the ocean.
A word now as to the fishers themselves; as proud, self-reliant, and
independent a race as those hardy Norsemen from whom ethnologists
believe them to descend by no fictitious pedigree. Of the purity of
their blood there can be little doubt, since the fish-maiden who mates
with any but a fisherman is considered to have lost caste; precisely as
the gipsy girl who marries a Busné is deemed to be a deserter from the
tribe. Marrying among themselves then, it is not surprising that there
should be an odd sort of family likeness among them, with one marked
type of face and form, or rather two, for the men, curiously enough,
are utterly unlike the women. Your French fisher is scarcely ever above
the middle height, a compact thick-set little merman, with crisply
curling hair, gold rings in his ears, and a brown honest face, the
unfailing good-humour of which is enhanced by the gleam of the strong
white teeth between the parted lips.
The good looks of the women of this aquatic stock have passed into
a proverb; but theirs is no buxom style of peasant comeliness. Half
the drawing-rooms of London or Paris might be ransacked before an
artist could find as worthy models of aristocratic beauty as that of
scores of these young fish-girls, reared in the midst of creels and
shrimp-nets and lobster-traps. Their tall slight figures, clear bright
complexions, and delicate clean-cut features, not seldom of the Greek
mould, contrast with the sun-burnt sturdiness of husband, brother, and
betrothed; while the small hands and small feet combine to give to
their owners an air of somewhat languid elegance, apparently quite out
of keeping with a rough life and the duties of a workaday world.
Work, however--hard and trying work, makes up the staple existence of
French fisher-folks, as of French landsmen. In the shrimp-catching
season, it must indeed be wild weather which scares the girls who
ply this branch of industry, with bare bronzed feet and dexterously
wielded net, among the breakers. Others, a few years older, may be
seen staggering under weighty baskets of oysters, or assisting at
the trimming and sorting the many truck-loads of fish freighted for
far-away Paris. The married women have their household cares, never
shirked, for no children are better tended than these water-babies,
that are destined from the cradle to live by net and line; while the
widows--under government authority--board the English steam-packets,
and enjoy the sole right of trundling off the portmanteaus of English
travellers to their hotel.
The men, the real bread-winners of the community, enter well provided
into the field of their hereditary labour. The big Boulogne luggers,
strongly manned, and superior in tonnage and number to those which any
other French port sends forth, are known throughout the Channel, and
beyond it. They need to be large and roomy, since they scorn to be
cooped within the contracted limits of the narrow seas, but sail away
year after year to bleak Norway and savage Iceland; and their skippers,
during the herring-fishery, are as familiar with the Scottish coast
as with that of their native Picardy. It is requisite too that they
should be strong and fit to 'keep,' in nautical parlance, the sea;
for Boulogne, lying just where the Channel broadens out to meet the
Atlantic, is exposed to the full force of the resistless south-west
gale, that once drove Philip II.'s boasted Armada northward to wreck
and ruin.
These south-west gales, with the abrupt changes of weather due to
the neighbourhood of the fickle Atlantic, constitute the romance, or
compose the stumbling-block of the fisherman's life. His calling may
seem an easy and even an enviable one, to those who on summer mornings
watch the fishing fleet glide out of harbour; the red-brown sails
gilded by the welcome sunshine and filled by the balmy breeze, the
nets festooned, the lines on the reel; keg and bait-can and windlass,
harmonising well with the groups of seafaring men and lads lounging
about on board; too many, as the novice thinks, for the navigation of
the craft. But at any moment, with short warning, the blue sea may
become leaden-hued, and the sky ragged with torn clouds and veiled with
flying scud, and the howling storm may drive the fishers far from
home, to beat about as best they may for days and nights, and at length
to land and sell their fish (heedfully preserved in ice) at Dunkirk,
Ostend, Flushing, or even some English harbour perhaps a hundred and
fifty miles away.
The conscription, that relentless leech which claims its tithe of the
blood and manhood of all continental nations, in due course takes toll
of the fishers. The maritime population, however, supplies the navy,
not the army with recruits. It is not until flagship and frigate are
manned, that the overplus of unlucky drawers in that state lottery
of which the prizes are exemption, get drafted into the ranks. These
young sailors find military life a bitter pill to swallow. The writer
of these lines has before his eyes a letter from a conscript to his
mother in the fishing village, and in which the young defender of his
country describes last year's autumn manœuvres in Touraine, the Little
War as he calls it, from a soldier's point of view. There is not a
spark of martial ardour or professional pride in this simple document.
All the lad knows is that he is marched and countermarched about vast
sandy plains from dawn till dark, wet, hungry, and footsore; and how
difficult it is at the halting-place to collect an armful of brushwood,
by whose cheerful blaze he may warm his stiff fingers and cook his
solitary pannikin of soldier's soup.
As might be expected, in a community which more resembles an overgrown
family than the mere members of a trade, there exists among these
people an unusual amount of charity and rough good-nature. The
neighbourly virtues shine brightly amid their darksome lanes and
stifling courts, and a helping hand is freely held out to those whom
some disaster has crippled in the struggle for existence. Bold and
self-assertive as their bearing may be, there are no Jacobins, no
partisans of the Red faction among these French fishers. They are pious
also in their way, seldom failing to attend _en masse_ at the church of
St Nicholas or the cathedral of Notre-Dame, before they set out on a
distant cruise.
Once and again in early summer, a fisher's picnic will be organised,
when in long carts roofed over with green boughs, Piscator and his
female relatives, from the grizzled grandmother to the lisping little
maiden, who in her lace-cap and scarlet petticoat looks scarcely larger
than a doll, go merrily jolting off to dine beneath the oaks of the
forest. In their quiet way, they are fond of pleasure, holding in
summer dancing assemblies, where all the merry-making is at an end by
half-past nine, and which are as decorous, if less ceremonious, as any
ball can be. They are patrons of the theatre too, giving a preference
to sentimental dramas, and shedding simple tears over the fictitious
sorrows of a stage heroine; while in ecclesiastical processions the
brightest patches of colour, artistically arranged, are those which are
produced by the red kirtles, the blue or yellow shawls, and the snowy
caps of the sailor-maidens.
The gay holiday attire, frequently copied, on the occasion of a fancy
dress-ball, by Parisian ladies of the loftiest rank, with all its
adjuncts of rich colour and spotless lace; the ear-rings and cross of
yellow gold, the silver rings, trim slippers, and coquettish headgear
of these French mermaidens; no doubt lends a piquancy to their beauty
which might otherwise be lacking. Sometimes an exceptionally lovely
fisher-girl may be tempted by a brilliant proposal of marriage, and
leaves her clan to become a viscountess, or it may be a marchioness,
for mercenary marriages are not universal in France. But such
incongruous unions seldom end very happily; for the mermaiden is, alas!
entirely uneducated, and proves at best too rough a diamond to appear
to advantage in a golden setting.
EMERGENCIES.
Accidents of various kinds are continually occurring in which the
spectator is suddenly called upon to do his best to save life or
relieve suffering without the aid of skilled advice or scientific
appliances. A body has been drawn from the water in an insensible
condition, and thus far a rescue has been effected; but the scene may
be more or less distant, not only from the residence of the nearest
doctor, but from any house; and unless the by-stander is able to apply
prompt means to restore respiration and warmth, a life may yet be lost.
Again, a lady's dress is in flames, or it may be fire has broken out in
a bedroom--accidents which, if immediate steps be not taken, may end
fatally to life and property, long before the arrival of the physician
or fire-brigade. One's own life too may be placed in such instant
jeopardy that it can only be preserved by active and intelligent
exertions on our own part. Situations of this kind attend the sailor,
soldier, and traveller as 'permanent risks;' while in the city or
field, and even in the security of home, dangers of different kinds
confront us which are best described by the word emergencies.
The pressing question in any emergency is of course, 'What is to be
done?' Unhappily, the answer is not always at hand. We are often
altogether unprepared to act, or we act in such a way as only to
increase the danger. The most humane onlooker in a case of partial
drowning may at the same time be the most helpless. While in any of the
frequent casualties to children--such as choking, scalding, &c.--the
tenderest mother may but contribute to the calamity, either by the use
of wrong means or the inability to apply right ones. How common this
is in respect of many kinds of accidents, and how many of those cases
returned 'fatal' might have had a happier issue had the spectator but
known 'what to do.'
The terse advice supposed to meet every species of emergency is to
'keep cool.' We admit its force, and agree that it cannot be too
frequently insisted upon. Without presence of mind, neither the zeal
of self-interest nor the solicitude of affection itself can act with
effect. In some instances even, special skill and knowledge may be
paralysed by an access of nervousness and its consequent confusion
of mind. Again there occur many grave situations in which tact and
self-possession are all that are necessary to avert serious calamity.
The following anecdote illustrative of this went the round of the
newspapers shortly after the disastrous fire in Brooklyn Theatre. Some
stage-properties suddenly took fire during a performance before a
crowded audience at a certain European theatre. The usual panic ensued.
A well-known actor aware that the danger was not serious, and dreading
the result of a sudden rush from the house, coolly stepped in front of
the curtain, and in calm tones announced that his Majesty the Emperor,
who then occupied the imperial box, had been robbed of some valuable
jewels, and that any one attempting to leave the theatre would be
immediately arrested. The threat would of itself have been useless, but
the fact and manner of its delivery conveyed an assurance of safety to
the excited people which no direct appeal to their reason could have
done. They resumed their places; the fire was subdued; and not till
next day did they learn the _real_ peril they had escaped by the timely
ruse of the great actor. How terrible a contrast that unhappy and
unchecked panic which led to the loss of life at Brooklyn!
The effects of panic and confusion have sometimes their amusing side.
We have seen ordinarily sane people casting crockery and other brittle
ware into the street from a height of several stories--_to save it from
fire_; and there occurs a passage in one of Hood's witty ballads which
seems to prove the incident by no means a rare one:
Only see how she throws out her _chaney_,
Her basins and tea-pots and all;
The most brittle of _her_ goods--or any;
But they all break in breaking their fall.
But while a jest may be pardonable in such a case, this losing one's
head too often takes place in circumstances involving loss of life or
property. An excited pitying crowd, for example, is gathered round a
person struck in the street with apoplexy. An alarm has been given,
and a curious gaping group has come to witness a case of suicide by
hanging. A concourse of people stand before a house from which issue
the first symptoms of a fire. In such cases the spectators are usually
nerveless and purposeless: the danger to life or property is in the
exact ratio of the number of onlookers. How curious and instructive to
note the change which comes over the scene on the arrival of a single
sensible and self-possessed person. One of the idle sympathisers of
the apoplectic patient suddenly frees the neck and chest; a second
goes sanely in search of temporary appliances; a third runs zealously
for a doctor, and the remainder go about their business. One stroke
of a knife and the would-be suicide has been placed in the hands of a
few of the more intelligent by-standers for resuscitation. The precise
locality of the fire has been reached, and the fire either extinguished
promptly with the means at hand, or kept under until the arrival of the
fire-engines which have been at once sent for.
Now, what is the real source of this exceptional self-possession--so
all-important in an emergency? Is it not, after all, the quiet
confidence begot of knowing what is best and proper to be done under
given circumstances? It is quite true, no doubt, that presence of mind
is a moral quality more or less independent of technical knowledge,
but in a plain practical way it is directly _its result_. To become
familiar with difficulties is to divest them of their character as
such, and to enable us to act with all the coolness and precision
exercised in ordinary events. To a surgeon, an accident is a 'case,'
not an 'emergency;' while even an abstract knowledge of 'what to do'
arms the mind of the non-professional against excitement or confusion.
The possession of one little fact, the recollection of some read or
heard of device or remedy, is often, sufficient to steady the mind and
enable it to act effectively. How frequently some half-forgotten item
of surgical knowledge, some stray prescription, or some plan casually
recommended ever so long ago, is the means, here and there, of eluding
the fatal possibilities of an emergency.
There is really little excuse for ignorance of the means and methods
required to meet ordinary cases, seeing that information in abundance
is to be had at trifling cost and with little trouble. There are
surgical and medical works, published at almost nominal prices, the
expressed aim of which is to instruct the public what steps to take in
most kinds of accidents, in the absence of professional assistance.
There are works also which, treating mainly of household matters,
contain valuable hints to parents and others on the subject of
accidents to children, as also of fires to person and property; while
here and there in our serial literature may be found useful advice on
such special kinds of emergencies as the bolting of horses, capsizing
of boats, bites by poisonous snakes, &c. But above all, to those who
care to remember what they read, the columns of the daily newspapers
afford much sound instruction in every species of untoward event. In
spite, however, of the ease with which people might inform themselves,
and in spite of frequently bitter experience, there is a very general
apathy regarding such matters. In upper and middle class families, a
certain amount of interest is no doubt evinced, and books of reference
are found in their libraries; but the practical importance of knowing
their contents, and so forearming against contingencies, is by no means
widely recognised. It is scarcely surprising then to find the masses so
indifferent, and as a consequence so helpless to assist themselves or
each other in any unusual situation.
The idea of giving the subject some place in the common school course
is one, we think, worthy of consideration. Physical education receives
a fair share of encouragement in the higher class of schools; and some
of the exercises enjoined, such as running, climbing, swimming, and
rowing, are direct provisions against accidents by field or water;
while all of them, by giving a degree of confidence to the mind, are
of the greatest value as a training to meet emergencies generally.
Physiology too is gradually making good its claim to the attention of
teachers; and the instruction in Domestic Economy prescribed for girls
comprises hints how to act in what may be called household emergencies.
All this is very satisfactory; and were some pains taken in addition to
point out to pupils of both sexes the commoner dangers by which life is
beset, and were they told in a plain practical way how these are best
averted, we believe the case would be very fairly met. To the skilled
teacher, a short series of lessons of this kind would not necessarily
be any great tax upon his time, but would rather form one of the most
interesting of those 'asides' to which he properly resorts as an
occasional relief to the tedium of school-routine.
To children of a larger growth, we can only repeat that the means of
informing themselves are not beyond reach. There are, of course, now
and then such combinations of circumstances as no knowledge or training
can provide for, just as there are many accidents which no human
foresight can prevent. Leaving these out of the question, however,
few of us pass through life without having at one time or other to
exercise our intelligence and knowledge to preserve either our own life
or property, or the life or property of others in circumstances where
these may be exercised successfully. Our interest and duty alike enjoin
us to take reasonable pains to forearm ourselves, and the neglect to do
so is clearly culpable. But we may have occasion by and by to present
our readers with a few practical hints on the subject of 'What to do in
Emergencies.'
THE TRADE IN ARTIFICIAL EYES.
On this subject, the _New York Sun_ gives some amusing particulars:
'Between eight and ten thousand eyes are sold annually in the United
States. An eye-maker gives one in one hundred and twenty-five as the
proportion of one-eyed people. Computing the population of the country
at forty-two millions, this rate gives three hundred and thirty-six
thousand as the number of persons with only one eye in the Republic.
Consequently, while ten thousand people supply their optical deficiency
with an artificial eye, two hundred and twenty-six thousand go without.
In proportion to the population, the eye-maker said, there are more
one-eyed people in Paterson, New Jersey, than any other town in this or
any other country. All towns that have many foundries and factories,
and whose air is impregnated with soot and smoke, count their one-eyed
inhabitants by the score; but Paterson is ahead of the rest. The
eye-maker knew of the three proprietors of a single foundry there each
losing an eye. Pittsburg comes next. In this city one-eyed folks abound
in the neighbourhood of manufacturing establishments. Once he had four
patients from near a foundry in West Eleventh Street alone. Not only
the foul atmosphere destroys the sight, but flying pieces of metal burn
out the eyes of the workmen. An importer who sells one thousand five
hundred eyes annually sends one-third to Canada; Chicago takes three
hundred; and Cincinnati more than St Louis. New Orleans, Nashville,
and other towns west and south buy the remainder. The colour for eyes
most in demand is what is known as "Irish blue," a peculiarly light
azure that predominates in Ireland. The average cost of an eye is ten
dollars. He sells comparatively few eyes in this city, as New Yorkers
prefer to have their eyes made to order.'
A NOBLE OCCUPATION.
A newspaper records as follows: 'The Duke of Hamilton left Hamilton
Palace for the south yesterday. During his stay of six days he shot
373½ brace of grouse, 4 brace of black-game, 4 hares, and 2 snipes.'
This makes a slaughter of seven hundred and sixty-one animals in six
days, or at an average upwards of a hundred and twenty-six per diem.
Hard work!
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._