whether friendship is or is not extinct. Men are gregarious, and flocks
of them meet together at all hours of the day and night. They exchange
conventional words of greeting, they wear happy smiles, they are
apparently cordial and charming' one with another; and yet a rigidly
accurate observer may look mournfully for signs of real friendship. How
can it exist? The men and women who pass through the whirl of a London
season cannot help regarding their fellow-creatures rather as lay
figures than as human beings. They go to crowded balls and seething
"receptions," not to hold any wise human converse, but only to be able
to say that they were in such and such a room on a certain night. The
glittering crowds fleet by like shadows, and no man has much chance of
knowing his neighbour's heart.
How fast the flitting figures come--
The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have left their trace!
Ah, it is only the faces that the tired pleasure-seeker sees and knows;
the real comrade, the human soul, is hidden away behind the mask!
Genuine heroic friendship cannot flourish in an artificial society; and
that perhaps accounts for the fact that the curled darlings of our
modern community spend much of their leisure in reading papers devoted
to tattle and scandal. It seems as though the search after pleasure
poisoned the very sources of nobleness in the nature of men. In our
monstrous city a man may live without a quarrel for forty years; he may
be popular, he may be received with genial greetings wherever he
goes--and yet he has no friend. He lingers through his little day; and,
when he passes away, the change is less heeded than would be the removal
of a chair from a club smoking-room. When I see the callous indifference
with which illness, misfortune, and death are regarded by the dainty
classes, I can scarcely wonder when irate philosophers denounce polite
society as a pestilent and demoralizing nuisance. Among the people
airily and impudently called "the lower orders" noble friendships are by
no means uncommon. "I can't bear that look on your face, Bill. I'm
coming to save you or go with you!" said a rough sailor as he sprang
into a raging sea to help his shipmate. "I'm coming, old fellow!"
shouted the mate of a merchant-vessel; and he dived overboard among the
mountainous seas that were rolling south of Cape Horn one January. For
an hour this hero fought with the blinding water, and he saved his
comrade at last. Strange to say, the lounging impassive dandies who
regard the universe with a yawn, and who sneer at the very notion of
friendship, develop the kindly and manly virtues when they are removed
from the enervating atmosphere of Society and forced to lead a hard
life. A man to whom emotion, passion, self-sacrifice, are things to be
mentioned with a curl of the lip, departs on a campaign, and amid
squalor, peril, and grim horrors he becomes totally unselfish. Men who
have watched our splendid military officers in the field are apt to
think that a society which converts such generous souls into
self-seeking fribbles must be merely poisonous. The more we study the
subject the more clearly we can see that where luxury flourishes
friendship withers. In the vast suffering Russian nation friendships are
at this very moment cherished to the heroic pitch. A mighty people are
awakening, as it were, from sleep; the wicked and corrupt still sit in
high places, but among the weltering masses of the populace purity and
nobleness are spreading, and such friendships are fostered as never have
been shadowed forth in story or song. Sophie Peroffsky mounts the
scaffold with four other doomed mortals; she never thinks of her own
approaching agony--she only longs to comfort her friends and she kisses
them and greets them with cheering words until the last dread moment
arrives. Poor little Marie Soubotine--sweetest of perverted children,
noblest of rebels--refuses to purchase her own safety by uttering a word
to betray her sworn friend. For three years she lingers on in an
underground dungeon, and then she is sent on the wild road to Siberia;
she dies amid gloom and deep suffering, but no torture can unseal her
lips; she gladly gives her life to save another's. Antonoff endures the
torture, but no agony can make him prove false to his friends. When his
captors give him a respite from the thumbscrews and the red-hot wires
that are thrust under his nails, he forgets his own torment, and
scratches on his plate his cipher signals to his comrades. Those men and
women in that awful country are lawless and dangerous, but they are
heroic, and they are true friends one to another.
How far we proud islanders must have forsaken for a time the road to
nobleness when we are able to exalt the saying "A full purse is the only
true friend" into a representative English proverb! We do not rage and
foam as Timon did--that would be ill-bred and ludicrous; we simply smile
and utter delicate mockeries. In the plays that best please our golden
youth nothing is so certain to win applause and laughter as a sentence
about the treachery or greed of friends. Do those grinning,
superlatively insolent cynics really represent the mighty Mother of
Nations? Ah, no! If even the worst of them were thrust away into some
region where life was hard for him, he would show something like
nobility and manliness; it is the mephitic airs of ease and luxury that
breed selfishness and scorn in his soul. At any rate, those effeminate
people are not typical specimens of our steadfast friendly race. When
the folk in the colliery village hear that deadly thud and feel the
shudder of the earth which tell of disaster, Jack the hewer rushes to
the pit's mouth and joins the search-party. He knows that the gas may
grip him by the throat, and that the heavy current of dissolution may
creep through his veins; but his mate is down there in the workings,
and he must needs save him or die in the attempt. Greater love hath no
man than this. Ah, yes--the poor collier is indeed ready to lay down his
life for his friend! The fiery soldier, William Beresford, sees a
comrade in peril; a horde of infuriated savages are rushing up, and
there is only one pony to carry the two Englishmen. Beresford calls,
"Jump up behind me!" but the friend answers, "No; save yourself! I can
die, and I won't risk your life." Then the undignified but decidedly
gallant Beresford observes, "If you don't come, I'll punch your head!"
The pony canters heavily off; one stumble would mean death, but the
dauntless fighting man brings in his friend safely, though only by the
skin of his teeth. It is absolutely necessary for the saving of our
moral health that we should turn away from the dreary flippancy of an
effete society to such scenes as those. If we regarded only the pampered
classes, then we might well think that true human fellowship had
perished, and a starless darkness--worse almost than Atheism--would fall
on the soul. But we are not all corrupt, and the strong brave heart of
our people still beats true. Young men cherish manly affection for
friends, and are not ashamed to show it; sweet girls form friendships
that hold until the maidens become matrons and till the shining locks
have turned to silver white. Wherever men are massed together the
struggle for existence grows keen, and selfishness and cynicism thrust
up their rank growths. "Pleasure" blunts the moral sense and converts
the natural man into a noxious being; but happily our people are sound
at the core, and it will be long ere cynicism and corruption are
universal. The great healthy middle-class is made up of folk who would
regard a writer of spiteful memoirs as a mere bravo; they have not
perhaps the sweetness and light which Mr. Arnold wished to bestow on
them, but at any rate they have a certain rough generosity, and they
have also a share of that self-forgetfulness which alone forms the basis
of friendship. Having that, they can do without Carlyle's learning and
Wilberforce's polish, and they can certainly do without the sour malice
of the historian and the prelate.
_July, 1887._
_DISASTERS AT SEA_.
During last year the register of slaughter on the ocean was worse than
any ever before seen since the _Royal Charter_ took her crew to
destruction; and it seems as though matters were growing worse and
worse. One dismal old story is being repeated week in, week out. In
thick weather or clear weather--it does not seem to matter which--two
vessels approach each other, and the presiding officers on board of each
are quite satisfied and calm; then, on a sudden, one vessel shifts her
course, there are a few hurried and maddened ejaculations, and then
comes a crash. After that, the ugly tale may be continued in the same
terms over and over again; the boats cannot be cleared away, the vessels
drift apart, and both founder, or one is left crippled. I shall have
something to say about the actual effects of a collision presently, but
I may first go on to name some other kinds of disaster. A heavy sea is
rolling, and occasionally breaking, and a vessel is lumbering along from
crest to hollow of the rushing seas; a big wall of water looms over her
for a second, and then comes crashing down; the deck gives way--there
are no water-tight compartments--and the ship becomes suddenly as
unmanageable as a mere cask in a seaway. Again, a plate is wrenched, and
some villainously-made rivets jump out of their places like buttons from
an over-tight bodice; in ten minutes the vessel is wallowing, ready for
her last plunge; and very likely the crew have not even the forlorn
chance of taking to the boats. Once more--on a clear night in the
tropics an emigrant ship is stealing softly through the water; the merry
crowd on deck has broken up, the women, poor creatures, are all locked
up in their quarters, and only a few men remain to lounge and gossip.
The great stars hang like lamps from the solemn dome of the sky, and the
ripples are painted with exquisite serpentine streaks; the wind hums
softly from the courses of the sails, and some of the men like to let
the cool breeze blow over them. Everything seems so delightfully placid
and clear that the thought of danger vanishes; no one would imagine that
even a sea-bird could come up unobserved over that starlit expanse of
water. But the ocean is treacherous in light and shade. The loungers
tell their little stories and laugh merrily; the officer of the watch
carelessly stumps forward from abreast of the wheel, looks knowingly
aloft, twirls round like a teetotum, and stumps back again; and the
sweet night passes in splendour, until all save one or two home-sick
lingerers are happy. It never occurs to any of these passengers to
glance forward and see whether a streak of green fire seems to strike
out from the starboard--the right-hand side of the vessel--or whether a
shaft of red shoots from the other side. As a matter of fact, the vessel
is going on like a dark cloud over the flying furrows of the sea; but
there is very little of the cloud about her great hull, for she would
knock a house down if she hit it when travelling at her present rate.
The captain is a thrifty man, and the owners are thrifty persons; they
consider the cost of oil; and thus, as it is a nice clear night, the
side-lights are not lit, and the judgment of the tramping look-out man
on the forecastle-head is trusted. Parenthetically I may say that,
without being in any way disposed to harbour exaggerated sentiment, I
feel almost inclined to advocate death for any sailor who runs in
mid-ocean without carrying his proper lights out. I once saw a big iron
barque go grinding right from the bulge of the bow to the stern of an
ocean steamer--and that wretched barque had no lights. Half a yard's
difference, and both vessels would have sunk. Three hundred and fifty
people were sleeping peacefully on board the steamer, and the majority
of them must have gone down, while those who were saved would have had a
hard time in the boats. Strange to say, that very same steamer was
crossed by another vessel which carried no lights: but this time the
result was bad, for the steamer went clean through the other ship and
sank her instantly.
To return to the emigrant vessel. The officer continues his tramp like
one of the caged animals of a menagerie; the spare man of the watch
leans against the rail and hums--
We'll go no more by the light of the moon;
The song is done, and we've lost the tune,
So I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid--
A-roving, A-roving, &c.
--the pipes glow in the clear air, and the flying water bubbles and
moans. Oh, yes, all is well--beautifully well--and we need no lights
whatever! Then the look-out man whistles "Hist!"--which is quite an
unusual mode of signalling; the officer ceases his monotonous tramp and
runs forward. "Luff a little!" "He's still bearing up. Why doesn't he
keep away?" "Luff a little more! Stand by your lee-braces. Oh, he'll go
clear!" So the low clear talk goes, till at last with a savage yell of
rage a voice comes from the other vessel--"Where you coming to?" "Hard
down with it!" "He's into us!" "Clear away your boats!" Then there is a
sound like "smack." Then comes a long scraunch, and a thunderous rattle
of blocks; a sail goes with a report like a gun; the vessels bump a few
times, and then one draws away, leaving the other with bows staved in. A
wild clamour surges up from below, but there is no time to heed that;
the men toil like Titans, and the hideous music of prayers and curses
disturbs the night. Then the vessel that was hit amidships rolls a
little, and there is a gurgle like that of an enormous, weir: a mast
goes with a sharp report; a man's figure appears on the taffrail and
bounds far into the sea--it is an experienced hand who wants to escape
the down-draught; the hull shudders, grows steady, and then with one
lurch the ship swashes down and the bellowing vortex throws up huge
spirts of boiling spray. A few stray swimmers are picked up, but the
rest of the company will be seen nevermore. Fancy those women in that
darkened steerage! Think of it, and then say what should be done to an
owner who stints his officers in the matter of lamp-oil; or to a captain
who does not use what the owner provides! The huddled victims wake from
confused slumbers; some scream--some become insane on the instant; the
children add their shrill clamour to the mad rout; and the water roars
in. Then the darkness grows thick, and the agonized crowd tear and
throttle each other in fierce terror; and then approaches the
slowly-coming end. Oh, how often--how wearily often--have such scenes
been enacted on the face of this fair world! And all to save a little
lamp-oil!
Yet again--a great vessel plunges away to sea bearing a precious freight
of some one thousand souls. Perhaps the owners reckon the cargo in the
hold as being worth more than the human burden; but of course opinions
differ. The wild rush from one border of the ocean to the other goes on
for a few days and nights, and the tremendous structure of steel cleaves
the hugest waves as though they were but clouds. Down below the
luxurious passengers live in their fine hotel, and the luckier ones are
quite happy and ineffably comfortable. If a sunny day breaks, then the
pallid battalions in the steerage come up to the air, and the ship's
deck is like a long animated street. A thousand souls, we said? True!
Now let some quiet observant man of the sailorly sort go round at night
and count the boats. Twelve, and the gig aft makes thirteen! Allowing a
tremendously large average, this set of boats might actually carry six
hundred persons; but the six hundred would need to sit very carefully
even in smooth water, and a rush might capsize any one boat.
The vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour--a speed that
might possibly shame some of the railways that run from London
suburbs--and the officers want to save every yard. No care is omitted;
three men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, a
port look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that the
masthead light is all right The officer and the look-out men pass the
word every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice. If some unlucky
steerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a very
good chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in the
deck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths. Each
officer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and he
peers forward as if life depended on his eyesight--as indeed it does.
But there comes a bright evening, and the monster liner's journey is all
but over; three hours more of steaming and she will be safe. A little
schooner comes skimming up on the port side--and the schooner is to the
liner as a chip is to a tree-trunk. The schooner holds on her course,
for she is not bound to give way at all; but the officer on the bridge
of the steamer thinks, "I shall lose a quarter of an hour if I edge away
to starboard and let him fall astern of us. I shall keep right on and
shave his bows." The liner is going at nineteen knots, the schooner is
romping along at eight--yet the liner cannot clear the little vessel.
There comes a fresh gust of wind; the sailing vessel lies over to it,
and just touches the floating hotel amidships--but the touch is enough
to open a breach big enough for a coach and four to go through. The
steamer's head is laid for the land and every ounce of steam is put on,
but she settles and settles more and more. And now what about the
thirteen boats for a thousand people? There is a wild scuffling, wild
outcry. Women bite their lips and-try, with divine patience, to crush
down all appearance of fear, and to keep their limbs from trembling;
some unruly fellows are kept in check only by terror of the revolver;
and the officers remember that their fair name and their hope of earthly
redemption are at stake. In one case of this sort it took three mortal
hours to ferry the passengers and crew over smooth water to the
rescuing vessel; and those rescued folk may think themselves the most
fortunate of all created souls, for, if the liner had been hit with an
impetus of a few more tons, very few on board of her would have lived to
tell the tale. Unless passengers, at the risk of being snubbed and
threatened, criticise the boat accommodation of great steamers, there
will be such a disaster one day as will make the world shudder.
The pitiful thing is to know how easily all this might be prevented.
Until one has been on board a small vessel which has every spar, bolt,
iron, and plank sound, one can have no idea how perfectly safe a
perfectly-built ship is in any sort of weather. A schooner of one
hundred and fifty tons was caught in a hurricane which was so powerful
that the men had to hang on where they could, even before the flattened
foaming sea rose from its level rush and began to come on board. All
round were vessels in distress; the scare caused many of the seamen to
forget their lights, and the ships lumbered on, first to collision, and
then to that crashing plunge which takes all hands down. The little
schooner was actually obliged to offer assistance to a big
mail-steamer--and yet she might have been rather easily carried by that
same steamer. But the little vessel's lights were watched with sedulous
care; the blasts might tear at her scanty canvas, but there was not a
rag or a rope that would give way; and, although the awful rush of the
gale carried her within eight miles of a rocky lee-shore, her captain
had sufficient confidence in the goodness of his gear to begin sailing
his ship instead of keeping her hove to. One rope faulty, one light
wrong, one hand out of his place at the critical time, and the bones of
a pleasant ship's company would have been strewn on a bleak shore: but
everything was right, and the tiny craft drew away like a seagull when
she was made to sail. Of course the sea ran clean over her, but she
forged quietly on until she was thirty miles clear of those foaming
breakers that roared on the cliffs. During that night more good seamen
were drowned than one would like to number; ships worth a king's ransom
were utterly lost. And why? Simply because they had not the perfect gear
which saved the little schooner. Even had the little craft been sent
over until she refused to rise again to the sea, the boats were ready,
and everybody on board had a good chance. Care first of all is needed,
and then fear may be banished. The smart agent reads his report glibly
to the directors of a steamboat company--and yet I have seen such smart
agents superintending the departure of vessels whereof the appearance
was enough to make a good judge quake for the safety of crew and cargo.
What do I advise? Well, in the first place, I must remind shoregoing
folk that a sound well-found vessel will live through anything. Let
passengers beware of lines which pay a large dividend and show nothing
on their balance-sheets to allow for depreciation. In the next place, if
any passenger on a long voyage should see that the proper lights are not
shown, he ought to wake up his fellow passengers at any hour of the
night, and go with his friends to threaten the captain. Never mind
bluster or oaths--merely say, "If your lights are not shown, you may
regard your certificate as gone." If that does not bring the gentleman
to his senses, nothing will. Again, take care in any case that no raw
foreign seamen are allowed to go on the look-out in any vessel, for a
misunderstood shout at a critical moment may bring sudden doom on
hundreds of unsuspecting fellow-creatures. Above all, see that the
water-casks in every boat are kept full. In this way the sea tragedies
may be a little lessened in their hateful number.
_March, 1889._
_A RHAPSODY OF SUMMER_.
There came into my life a time of strenuous effort, and I drank all the
joys of labour to the lees. When the rich dark midnights of summer
drooped over the earth, I could hardly bear to think of the hours of
oblivion which must pass ere I felt the delight of work once more. And
the world seemed very beautiful; and, when I looked up to the solemn
sky, so sweetly sown with stars, I could see stirring words like "Fame"
and "Gladness" and "Triumph" written dimly across the vault; so that my
heart was full of rejoicing, and all the world promised fair. In those
immortal midnights the sea spoke wonderful things to me, and the long
rollers glittering under the high moon bore health and bright promise as
they hastened to the shore. And, when the ships stole--oh, so
silently!--out of the shadows and moved over the diamond track of the
moon's light, I sent my heart out to the lonely seamen and prayed that
they might be joyous like me. Then the ringing of the song of
multitudinous birds sounded in the hours of dawn, and the tawny-throated
king of songsters made my pulses tremble with his wild ecstasy; and the
blackbird poured forth mellow defiance, and the thrush shrilled in his
lovely fashion concerning the joy of existence.