[Illustration]
LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE
AN
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
BY
G.P.R. JAMES.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
CHILDS AND PETERSON,
602 ARCH STREET.
1858.
I. WATY
Lord Montagu's Page:
AN
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
OF THE
Seventeenth Century.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES,
_Author of_
"RICHELIEU," "DARNLEY," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," "OLD DOMINION," ETC.
PHILADELPHIA:
CHILDS & PETERSON, 602 ARCH ST.
1858.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
CHILDS & PETERSON,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
PRINTED BY DEACON & PETERSON.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
[_From Allibone's forthcoming Dictionary of Authors._]
George Payne Rainsford James was born in London about the year 1800, and
commenced his literary career at an early age by anonymous contributions
to the journals and reviews which catered to the literary taste of "a
discerning public." Some of these juvenile effusions fell under the
notice of Washington Irving, and this gentleman, with his usual kindness
of heart, encouraged the young author to venture upon something of a
more important character than the fugitive essays which had hitherto
employed his pen. Thus strengthened in his literary proclivity, the
young aspirant nibbed his "gray-goose quill," commenced author in
earnest, and gave to the world in 1822 his first work,--a Life of Edward
the Black Prince. Mr. James now turned his attention to a field which
had recently been cultivated with eminent success,--historical
romance,--and completed in 1825 his novel of Richelieu, which, having
received the favorable verdict of Sir Walter Scott, made its appearance
in 1829. This was followed in the next year by Darnley and De L'Orme.
Richelieu was so fortunate as to secure the favor of the formidable
Christopher North of Blackwood; but this invaluable commendation was
withheld from Darnley:--
"Mr. Colburn has lately given us two books of a very different
character, Richelieu and Darnley. Richelieu is one of the most
spirited, amusing, and interesting romances I ever read;
characters well drawn--incidents well managed--story perpetually
progressive--catastrophe at once natural and unexpected--moral
good, but not goody--and the whole felt, in every chapter, to be
the work of a--Gentleman."--_Noctes Ambrosianæ, April, 1830;
Blackw. Mag., xxvii. 688, q.v._
From this time to the present Mr. James has been no idler in the
Republic of Letters, as the following alphabetical list of his writings
amply proves:--
1. Adra, or the Peruvians; a Poem, 1 vol. 2. Agincourt, 1844, 3 vols. 3.
Agnes Sorrel, 1853, 3 vols. 4. Arabella Stuart, 1853, 3 vols. 5. Arrah
Neil, 1845, 3 vols. 6. Attila, 1837, 3 vols. 7. Beauchamp, 1848, 3 vols.
8. Blanche of Navarre; a Play, 1839, 1 vol. 9. Book of the Passions,
1838, 1 vol. 10. Cameralzaman; a Fairy Drama, 1848,1 vol. 11.
Castelneau; or, The Ancient Régime, 1841, 3 vols. 12. Castle of
Ehrenstein, 1847, 3 vols. 13. Charles Tyrrell, 1839, 2 vols. 14. City of
the Silent; a Poem, 1 vol. 15. Commissioner; or, De Lunatico Inquirendo,
1842, 1 vol. 16. Convict, 1847, 3 vols. 17. Corse de Leon, the Brigand,
1841, 3 vols. 18. Dark Scenes of History, 1849, 3 vols. 19. Darnley,
1830, 3 vols. 20. Delaware, 3 vols; subsequently published under the
title of Thirty Years Since, 1848, 1 vol. 21. De L'Orme, 1830, 3 vols.
22. Desultory Man, 3 vols. 23. Educational Institutions of Germany, 1
vol. 24. Eva St. Clair, and other Tales, 1843, 2 vols. 25. False Heir,
1843, 3 vols. 26. Fate, 1851, 3 vols. 27. Fight of the Fiddlers, 1848, 1
vol. 28. Forest Days, 1843, 3 vols. 29. Forgery; or, Best Intentions,
1848, 3 vols. 30. Gentleman of the Old School, 1839, 3 vols. 31. Gipsy,
1835, 3 vols. 32. Gowrie; or, The King's Plot, 1 vol. 33. Heidelberg,
1846, 3 vols. 34. Henry Masterton, 1832, 3 vols. 35. Henry Smeaton,
1850, 3 vols. 36. Henry of Guise, 1839, 3 vols. 37. History of
Charlemagne, 1832, 1 vol. 38. History of Chivalry, 1 vol. 39. History of
Louis XIV., 1838, 4 vols. 40. History of Richard Coeur de Lion,
1841-42, 4 vols. 41. Huguenot, 1838, 3 vols. 42. Jacquerie, 1841, 3
vols. 43. John Jones's Tales from English History, for Little John
Joneses, 1849, 2 vols. 44. John Marston Hall, 1834, 3 vols; subsequently
published under the title of Little Ball o' Fire, 1847, 1 vol. 45.
King's Highway, 1840, 3 vols. 46. Last of the Fairies, 1847, 1 vol. 47.
Life of Edward the Black Prince, 1822, 2 vols. 48. Life of Henry IV. of
France, 1847, 3 vols. 49. Life of Vicissitudes, 1 vol. 50. Man-at-Arms,
1840, 3 vols. 51. Margaret Graham, 1847, 2 vols. 52. Mary of Burgundy,
1833, 3 vols. 53. Memoirs of Great Commanders, 1832, 3 vols. 54. Morley
Ernstein, 1842, 3 vols. 55. My Aunt Pontypool, 3 vols. 56. Old Dominion;
or, The Southampton Massacre, 1856, 3 vols. 57. Old Oak Chest, 3 vols.
58. One in a Thousand, 1835, 3 vols. 59. Pequinillo, 1852, 3 vols. 60.
Philip Augustus, 1831, 3 vols. 61. Prince Life, 1855, 1 vol. 62.
Revenge, 1851, 3 vols; so styled by the bookseller, without the author's
consent. It was originally published in papers under a different name.
63. Richelieu, 1829, 3 vols. 64. Robber, 1838, 3 vols. 65. Rose
D'Albret, 1840, 3 vols. 66. Russell, 1847, 3 vols. 67. Sir Theodore
Broughton, 1847, 3 vols. 68. Smuggler, 1845, 3 vols. 69. Stepmother,
1846, 3 vols. 70. Story without a Name, 1852, 1 vol. 71. String of
Pearls, 1849, 2 vols. 72. Ticonderoga; or, The Black Eagle, 1854, 3
vols. 73. Whim and its Consequences, 1847, 3 vols. 74. Woodman, 1847, 3
vols.
It will be seen that the above list presents a total of 188
vols.,--viz.: 51 works in 3 vols. each, 2 in 4 vols. each, 6 in 2 vols.
each, and 15 in 1 vol. each. Almost all of these volumes are of the
post-octavo size. Mr. James is also the editor of the Vernon Letters,
illustrative of the times of William III., 1841, 3 vols. 8vo; and of Wm.
Henry Ireland's historical romance of David Rizzio, 1849, 3 vols. p.
8vo; and was associated with Dr. E. E. Crowe in the Lives of the Most
Eminent Foreign Statesmen, 1832-38, 5 vols. p. 8vo., (4 vols. were Mr.
James's, and 1 vol. Dr. Crowe's,) and with Mr. Maunsell B. Field in the
composition of Adrian, or The Clouds of the Mind, 1852, 2 vols. p. 8vo.
To this list may be added Norfolk and Hereford, (in a collection
entitled Seven Tales by Seven Authors,) and enough articles in various
periodicals to fill eight or ten volumes. Perhaps we should not omit to
notice that a work entitled A Brief History of the United States
Boundary Question, drawn up from official papers, published in London,
1839, 8vo., and ascribed to Mr. James, is not his production; nor had he
any share (further than writing a preface, or something of that kind) in
another work often credited to him,--Memoirs of Celebrated Women, 1837,
2 vols. p. 8vo. During the reign of William IV. the author received the
appointment of historiographer of Great Britain; but this post was
resigned by him many years since.
There have been new editions of many of Mr. James's novels, and some or
all of them have appeared in Bentley's Series of Standard Novels. There
has been also a Parlor-Library Edition. A collective edition was
published by Smith, Elder & Co., commencing in June, 1844, and continued
by Parry, and by Simpkin, Marshall & Co. In America they have been very
popular and published in large quantities.
About 1850 Mr. James, with his family, removed permanently to the United
States, and resided for two or three years in Berkshire county,
Massachusetts. Since 1852 he has been British Consul at Richmond,
Virginia. The space which we have occupied by a recital of the titles
only of Mr. James's volumes necessarily restricts the quotation of
criticisms upon the merits or demerits of their contents. It has fallen
to the lot of few authors to be so much read, and at the same time so
much abused, as the owner of the fertile pen which claims the long list
of novels commencing with Richelieu in 1829 and extending to the Old
Dominion in 1856. That there should be a family likeness in this
numerous race--where so many, too, are nearly of an age--can be no
matter of surprise. The mind, like any other artisan, can only construct
from materials which lie within its range; and, when no time is allowed
for the accumulation and renewal of these, it is vain to hope that
variety of architecture will conceal the identity of substance. Yet,
after all, the champion of this popular author will probably argue that
this objection against the writings of Mr. James is greatly overstated
and extravagantly overestimated. The novelist can draw only from the
experience of human life in its different phases, and these admit not of
such variety as the inordinate appetite of the modern Athenians
unreasonably demands. A new series of catastrophes and perplexities, of
mortifications and triumphs, of joys and sorrows, cannot be evoked for
the benefit of the reader of each new novel. Again, Mr. James's admirer
insists that this charge of sameness so often urged against our
novelist's writings is perhaps overstated. Where one author, as is
frequently the case, gains the reputation of versatility of talent by
writing one or two volumes, it is not to be believed that Mr. James
exhibits less in one or two hundred. He who composes a library is not to
be judged by the same standard as he who writes but one book. And even
if the charge of "sameness" be admitted to its full extent, yet many
will cordially concur with the grateful and graceful acknowledgment of
one of the most eminent of modern critics:--
"I hail every fresh publication of James, though I half know
what he is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his
landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal
trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings
out of old materials. I look on him as I look on a musician
famous for 'variations.' I am grateful for his vein of
cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid landscapes,
for his power of painting women at once ladylike and loving, (a
rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at once beautiful and
well-bred, and for the solace which all this has afforded me,
sometimes over and over again, in illness and in convalescence,
when I required interest without violence, and entertainment at
once animated and mild."--LEIGH HUNT.
Two of the severest criticisms to which Mr. James's novels have been
subjected are, the one in the London Athenæum for April 11, 1846, and
the one in the North American Review, by E. P. Whipple, for April,
1844.
We have spoken of Mr. James's champions and admirers; and such are by no
means fabulous personages, notwithstanding the severe censures to which
we have alluded. A brief quotation from one of these eulogies will be
another evidence added to the many in this volume of a wide
dissimilarity in critical opinions:--
"His pen is prolific enough to keep the imagination constantly
nourished; and of him, more than of any modern writer, it may be
said, that he has improved his style by the mere dint of
constant and abundant practice. For, although so agreeable a
novelist, it must not be forgotten that he stands infinitely
higher as an historian.... The most fantastic and beautiful
coruscations which the skies can exhibit to the eyes of mankind
dart as if in play from the huge volumes that roll out from the
crater of the volcano.... The recreation of an enlarged
intellect is ever more valuable than the highest efforts of a
confined one. Hence we find in the works before us, [Corse de
Leon, the Ancient Régime, and The Jacquerie,] lightly as they
have been thrown off, the traces of study,--the footsteps of a
powerful and vigorous understanding."--_Dublin University
Magazine_, March, 1842.
The Edinburgh Review concludes some comments upon our author with the
remark,
"Our readers will perceive from these general observations that
we estimate Mr. James's abilities, as a romance-writer, highly:
his works are lively and interesting, and animated by a spirit
of sound and healthy morality in feeling, and of natural
delineation in character, which, we think, will secure for them
a calm popularity which will last beyond the present day."
We have before us more than thirty (to be exact, just thirty-two)
commendatory notices of our author, but brief extracts from two of these
is all for which we can find space.
"He belongs to the historical school of fiction, and, like the
masters of the art, takes up a real person or a real event, and,
pursuing the course of history, makes out the intentions of
nature by adding circumstances and heightening character, till,
like a statue in the hands of the sculptor, the whole is in fair
proportion, truth of sentiment, and character. For this he has
high qualities,--an excellent taste, extensive knowledge of
history, a right feeling of the chivalrous, and a heroic and a
ready eye for the picturesque: his proprieties are admirable;
his sympathy with whatever is high-souled and noble is deep and
impressive. His best works are Richelieu and Mary of
Burgundy."--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM: _Biographical and Critical History
of the Literature of the Last Fifty Years, 1833._
The critic next to be quoted, whilst coinciding in the objections
prominently urged against Mr. James as an author,--repetition,
tediousness, and deficiency of terseness,--yet urges on his behalf that
"There is a constant appeal in his brilliant pages not only to
the pure and generous, but to the elevated and noble sentiments;
he is imbued with the very soul of chivalry; and all his stories
turn on the final triumph of those who are influenced by such
feelings over such as are swayed by selfish or base desires. He
possesses great pictorial powers, and a remarkable facility of
turning his graphic pen at will to the delineation of the most
distant and opposite scenes, manners, and social customs.... Not
a word or a thought which can give pain to the purest heart ever
escapes from his pen; and the mind wearied with the cares and
grieved at the selfishness of the world reverts with pleasure to
his varied compositions, which carry it back, as it were, to
former days, and portray, perhaps in too brilliant colors, the
ideas and manners of the olden time."--SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON:
_Hist. of Europe,_ 1815-52, chap, v., 1853. See also _Alison's
Essays,_ 1850, iii. 545-546; _North British Review,_ Feb. 1857,
art on Modern Style.
Prefatory Dedication.
TO
GUSTAVUS A. MYERS, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR:--
In dedicating to you the following pages, I am moved not more by private
friendship and regard, than by esteem for your abilities, and respect
for your many and varied acquirements. It might seem somewhat
presumptuous in me to call for your acceptance or seek your approbation
of this work, when not only your general acquaintance with, but your
profound knowledge of, almost every branch of modern and ancient
literature qualify and might be expected to prompt you to minute and
severe criticism. But I have always found, in regard to my own works at
least, that those who were best fitted to judge were the most inclined
to be lenient, and that men of high talent and deep learning
condescended to tolerate, if not to approve, that which was assailed by
very small critics, or scoffed at by men who, calling themselves
humorists, omitted the word "_bad_" before the appellation in which they
gloried.
To your good humor, then, I leave the work, and will only add a few
words in regard to the object and construction of the story.
We have in the present day romances of many various kinds; and I really
know not how to class my present effort. It is not a love-story, for any
thing like that which was the great moving power of young energies--at
least in less material days than these--has very little part in the
book. I cannot call it a novel without a hero, because it is altogether
dedicated to the adventures of one man. I cannot call it a romance
without a heroine, because there is a woman in it, and a woman with whom
I am myself very much in love. I cannot call it absolutely a historical
romance, because there are several characters which are not historical,
and I am afraid I have taken a few little liberties with Chronology
which, were she as prudish a dame as some of the middle-aged ladies whom
I could mention, would either earn me a _box_ of the ear, or produce so
much scandal that my good name would be lost forever. Plague take the
months and the days! they are always getting in one's way. But I do
believe I have been very reverent and respectful to their grandmothers
the years, and, with due regard for precedence and the Court Guide, have
not put any of the latter out of her proper place.
I do not altogether wish to call this a book of character; for I do not
exactly understand that word as the public has lately been taught to
understand it. There is no peasant, or cobbler, or brick-layer's
apprentice, in the whole book, endowed with superhuman qualities, moral
and physical. There is no personage in high station--given as the type
of a class--imbued with intense selfishness or demoniac passions, wicked
without motive, heartless against common sense, and utterly degraded
from that noble humanity, God's best and holiest gift to mankind. There
is no meek, poor, puling, suffering lover, who condescends humbly to be
bamboozled and befooled through three volumes, or Heaven knows how many
numbers, for the sake of marrying the heroine in the end. I therefore
cannot properly, in the present day, call it a work of character.
I might call it, perhaps,--although the hero is an Englishman,--a
picture of the times of Louis XIII; but, alas! I have not ventured to
give a full picture of these times. We have become so uncommonly cleanly
and decorous in our own days, that a mere allusion to the dirt and
indecency of the age of our great-grandmothers is not to be tolerated.
In order, indeed, to preserve something like verisimilitude, I have been
obliged to glance, in one chapter, at the freedom of manners of the days
to which I refer; but it has been a mere glance, and given in such a
manner that the cheek of one who understands it, in the sense in which
one of those very days would understand it, must have lost the power of
blushing. At all events, it can never sully or offend the pure, nor lead
the impure any further wrong.
There are a great many explanations and comments, in illustration of the
times, which I should like to give for the benefit of that part of my
readers who have put on the right of knowing all things at the same time
that the third change was made in their dress, and I would have done so,
in notes; but, unfortunately, I do not write Greek; and a little
incident prevented me from writing those notes in Latin. A work--a most
interesting work--was published a few years ago in London, called the
Bernstein Hexe, or Amber Witch. More than one translation appeared; and
one of these had the original notes,--some written in Latin where they
were peculiarly anatomical and indecent; but, to my surprise, I found
that several ladies were fully versed in that sort of Latinity. I cannot
flatter myself with having a sufficient command of the Roman tongue to
be enabled to veil the meaning more completely from the unlearned.
Only in the case of two personages have I attempted to elaborate
character,--in regard to my hero, and in regard to the Cardinal de
Richelieu. The former, though not altogether fictitious, must go with
very little comment. I wished to show how a young heart may be hardened
by circumstances, and how it may be softened and its better feelings
evolved by a propitious change. The latter, I will confess, I have
labored much; because I think the world in general, and I myself also,
have done some injustice to one of the greatest men that ever lived.
Very early in life I depicted him when he had reached old age,--that is
to say, his old age; for he had not, at the time of his death, numbered
as many years as are now upon my own head. He had then been tried in the
fire of the most terrible circumstances which perhaps ever assayed a
human heart; not only tried, but hardened; and even then, upon his
death-bed, his burst of tenderness to his old friend, Bois Robert, his
delight in the arts, and passion for flowers, showed that the tenderer
and--may I not say more noble?--feelings of the man had not been
swallowed up by the hard duties of the statesman, or the galling cares
of the politician. I now present him to the reader at a much earlier
period of life,--young, vigorous, successful, happy,--when the germs of
all those qualities for which men have reproached or applauded him were
certainly developed, were growing to maturity; when the severity which
afterwards characterized him, and the gentleness which he as certainly
displayed, had both been exercised; but when the briers and thorns had
not fully grown up, and before the soft grass of the heart had been
trampled under foot.
All men have mixed characters. I do not believe in perfect evil or in
perfect goodness on this earth; but at various times of life the worse
or the better spirit predominates, according to the nourishment and
encouragement it receives. How far Richelieu changed, and when and how
he changed, would require a longer discussion than can be here afforded.
But one thing is to be always remembered,--that he was generally painted
by his enemies; and, where they admit high qualities and generous
feelings, we may be sure that it was done with even a niggard hand, and
add something to the tribute of the unwilling witness.
In regard to critics, it may be supposed that I have spoken, a few pages
back, somewhat irreverently: I do not mean to do so in the least.
Amongst them are some most admirable men,--some who have done great,
real, tangible service to the public,--who have guided, if not formed,
public taste; and for them I have the greatest possible respect. I speak
not of the contributors to our greater and more pretentious
Reviews,--although, perhaps, a mass of deeper learning, more close and
acute investigation, and purer critical taste, cannot be found in the
literature of the world than that contained in their pages; but I speak
of the whole body of contemporary critics, many of whose minor articles
are full of astute perception and sound judgment. But there are others
for whom, though I have the most profound contempt, I have a most humble
fear. It is useless in Southern climates, such as that which I inhabit,
to attempt to prevent oneself from being stung by mosquitos or to keep
one's ears closed against their musical but venomous song. The only plan
which presents any chance of success--at least, it is as good as any
other--is to go down upon your knees and humbly to beseech them to spare
you. I therefore most reverently beseech the moral mosquitos, who are
accustomed to whistle and sing about my lowly path, to forbear as much
as possible; and, although their critical virulence may be aroused to
the highest pitch by seeing a man walk quietly on for thirty years along
the only firm path he can find amongst the bogs and quagmires of
literature, to spare at least those parts which are left naked by his
tailor and his shoemaker; to remember, in other words, that, besides the
faults and errors for which I am myself clearly responsible, there is
some allowance to be made for the faults of my amanuensis and for the
errors of my printer. I admit that I am the worst corrector in the whole
world; but I do hope that the liberality of criticism will not think fit
to see, as has been lately done, errors of mind in errors clearly of the
printer; especially in works which, by some arrangement between Mr.
Newby and the Atlantic, I never by any means see till the book has
passed through the press. But, should they still be determined to lay
the whole blame upon the poor author's shoulders, I may as well furnish
them with some excuse for so doing. The best that I know is to be found
in the following little anecdote:--
When I was quite a young boy, there was a painter in Edinburgh, of the
name of Skirven, celebrated both for his taste and genius, and his
minute accuracy in portrait-painting. A very beautiful lady of my
acquaintance sat to him for her portrait in a falling collar of rich and
beautiful lace. Unfortunately, there was a hole in the lace. As usual,
he did not suffer her to see the portrait till it was completed; and,
when she did see it, there was a portrait of the hole as well as
herself. "Well, Mr. Skirven," she said, "I think you need not have
painted the hole."
"Well, madam," answered the painter, "then you should have mended it
first."
G. P. R. JAMES.
ASHLAND, VIRGINIA,
December, 1857.
LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
It was a dark and stormy night,--a very dark night indeed. No dog's
mouth, whether terrier, mastiff, or Newfoundland, was ever so dark as
that night. The hatches had been battened down, and every aperture but
one, by which any of the great, curly-pated, leaping waves could jump
into the vessel, had been closed.
What vessel? the reader may perhaps inquire. Well, that being a piece of
reasonable curiosity,--although I do wish, as a general thing, that
readers would not be so impatient,--I will gratify it, and answer the
inquirer's question; and, indeed, would have told him all about it in
five minutes if he would but have given me time.
What vessel? asks the reader. Why, a little, heavy-looking,
fore-and-aft, one-masted ship, somewhat tubbish in form, which had
battled with a not very favorable gale during a long stormy day, and
had, as the sun went down, approached the coast of France, it might be
somewhat too close for safety. The atmosphere in the cabin below was hot
and oppressive. How indeed could it be otherwise, when not one breath of
air, notwithstanding all the bullying and roaring of Boreas, had been
able to get in during the whole day? But such being the case, and
respiration in the little den being difficult, the only altogether
terrestrial animal--sailors are, of course, amphibious--which that
vessel contained had forced his way up to the deck through the only
narrow outlet which had been left open.
The amphibia have always a considerable dislike and some degree of
contempt for all land-animals, and the five sailors, with their skipper,
who formed all the crew so small a craft required, would probably have
driven below the intruder upon their labors, had they had time, leisure,
or light to notice him at all. But for near two hours he stood at the
stern on the weather side of the ship, holding on by the bulwarks, wet
to the skin, with his hat blown off and probably swimming back toward
Old England, and his hands numbed with cold and with hard grasping.
There is something in the very act of holding on tight which increases
the natural tenacity of purpose that exists in some minds, and, if I may
use a very vulgar figure, thickens the glue. At the end of the two
hours, one of the sailors, who had something to do at the stern in a
great hurry, ran up to the spot where the only passenger was clinging
and nearly tumbled over him. Then, of course, he cursed him, as men in a
hurry are wont to, and exclaimed, "Get down below! What the devil are
you doing up here, where you are in everybody's way? Get down, I say!"
"I will not," was the reply, in a quiet, and even sweet, but very
resolute, voice.
"Then I'll knock you overboard, by ----!" said the seaman, adding an oath
which did not much strengthen the threat in the ears to which it was
addressed.
"You cannot, and you dare not try," answered the other. But then the
voice of the skipper, who had been working hard at the tiller, was heard
exclaiming, "Let him alone, Tom;" and he beneficently called down
condemnation not only upon the eyes but upon all the members of his
subordinate. "Mind your own work, and let him alone."
Now, it may be worth while to ask what sort of a personage was this,
whom the somewhat irascible Master Tom threatened to knock overboard,
and who replied with so little reverence for the threat. He could not be
a very formidable person, at least in appearance,--a very necessary
qualification of the assertion; for I have known very formidable snakes
the most pitiful-looking reptiles I ever beheld; and some of the most
dangerous men ever seen, either on the same stage of life where we are
playing our parts with them, or on the wider boards of history, have
been the least impressive in person, and the meanest-looking of
creatures. But, as I was saying,--for it is too late to finish that
sentence now,--the single passenger could not be very formidable in
appearance; for Tom was probably too wise and too experienced to engage
in what he considered even an equal struggle on so dark a night, while
the wind was blowing a gale, and the little craft heeling gunwale to.
Yet he could not be one without some powers, internally if not
externally, which rendered him fully as careless of consequences as the
other. Well, he was only a lad of some five feet eight or nine in
height, slight-looking in form, and dressed in a common sailor's jacket.
But in a leathern belt round his waist was a large caseknife, on the
handle or hilt of which, while he continued to hold on to the rail of
the bulwark with his left hand, he clasped the fingers of his right in a
very resolute and uncompromising manner. We all know that bowie-knives,
in one land at least, are very useful companions, and in all lands very
formidable weapons. Now, the knife in the lad's black leather belt was
not at all unlike a bowie-knife, and not in the least less formidable.
There was the slight insinuating curve, the heavy haft, the tremendously
long blade, the razor-like edge, and the sharp, unfailing point; so that
it is not improbable that the youth's confidence was mightily
strengthened by the companionship of such a serviceable friend, although
he was not half the size of his adversary and not above a third of his
weight. Boys, however, are always daring; and he could not at the utmost
have passed much more than seventeen years on the surface of this cold
earth.
Now, all this account would have been spared the beloved reader had not
a trait of character at the outset of the career of any personage, in a
poem, novel, romance, or tale, been worth half a volume of description
afterward. It would have been spared, indeed, simply because the little
incident ended just where we have left it. Tom, the sailor, though a
reckless, ill-conditioned fellow, was obedient to the voice of his
commander, and, after having boused the boom a little to the one side or
the other of the vessel,--which side I neither know nor care,--he
returned to the bow, muttering a few objurgations of the youth, implying
that if it had not been for him they would never have come upon that
d----d voyage at all, and that probably they all would go to the bottom
for having such a Jonah on board.
The truth is, Tom had left his sweetheart at Plymouth.
As soon as he was gone, the skipper called the lad a little nearer and
said, "Tom says true enough, Master Ned. You were better below on every
account. I don't see what you want to come up for on such a night as
this."
"Because I do not want to be smothered, Captain Tinly," replied Master
Ned. "I had rather be frozen than stewed; rather be melted by the water
like a piece of salt or sugar than baked like a pasty. Besides, what
harm do I do here? I am in no one's way, and that sea-dog could do his
work as well with me here as without me. But I'll tell you what,
captain, we are getting into smoother water. Some land is giving us a
lee. We ought soon to see a light."
"Why, were you ever here before, youngster?" asked the master.
"Ay, twice," said the boy; "and I know that when the sea smooths down as
it is now doing, we cannot be far from the island; and you will soon see
the lantern."
"Well, keep a sharp look-out, then," was the reply: "you can see better
where you stand than I can, and it's so dark those fellows forward may
miss it. A minute or two to-night may save or sink us."
"It matters not much which," answered the young man. A strange thought
for one at the age when life is brightest! but there are cases when the
disappointment of all early hopes--when the first grasp of misfortune's
iron hand has been so hard that it seems to have crushed the butterfly
of the heart even unto death,--when it is not alone the gay colors have
been brushed off, the soft down swept away, but when Hope's own life
seems extinguished.
Happily, it is but for a time. There is immortality in Hope. She cannot
die; The fabled Phoenix of the ancients was but an emblem, like every
other myth; and, if the painting of Cupid burning a butterfly over a
flame was the image of love tormenting the soul, the Phoenix rising
from her ashes was surely a figure of the constant resurrection of Hope.
Ay, from her very ashes does she rise to brighter and still brighter
existence, till, soaring over the cold Lethe of the grave, she spreads
her wings afar to the Elysian fields beyond!
It is an old axiom, never to say "die;" and though there be those who
say it, ay, and in a momentary madness give the word the form of action,
did they but wait, they themselves would find that, though circumstances
remained unchanged, the prospect as rugged or the night as dark, the
sunshine of Hope would break forth again to cheer, or her star twinkle
through the gloom to guide.
The boy felt what he said at the time, but it was only for the time; and
there were years before him in which he never felt so again.
"Captain, there is a light surely toward the southwest," said the lad:
"that must be the light at St. Martin's-on-Re. It seems very far off. We
must be hugging the main shore too close."
"I don't see it," answered the skipper; "but there is one due east, or
half a point north. What the devil is that?"
The boy ran across the deck nearly at the risk of his life; for though
the sea and wind had both fallen, the little craft still pitched and
heeled so much that he lost his footing and had wellnigh gone overboard.
He held on, however, was up in a moment, and exclaimed, "Marans! The
light in Maran's church! You'll be on the sands in ten minutes! Put
about, put about, if you would save the ship!"
A great deal of hurry and confusion succeeded; and there was much
unnecessary noise, and still more unnecessary swearing. The youth who
had discovered the danger was the most silent of the party; but he was
not inactive, aiding the captain with more strength than he seemed to
possess, to bring the ship's head as near to the wind as possible. And
the manoeuvre was just in time; for the lead at one time showed that
they were just up the very verge of the sands at the moment when,
answering the helm better than she did at first, she made way toward the
west, and the danger was past. In half an hour--for their progress was
slow--the light upon the Isle de Re could be distinctly seen, and one by
one other lights and landmarks appeared, rendering the rest of the
voyage comparatively safe.
Still the lad kept his place upon the deck, addressing hardly a word to
any one, but watching with a keen eye the eastern line of shore, which
was every now and then visible notwithstanding the darkness. The moon,
too, began to give some light, though she could not be seen; for the
clouds were still thick, and their rapid race across the sky told that,
though the sea under the lea of the Isle de Re had lost all its
fierceness, the gale was blowing with unabated fury.
The lad quitted his hold of the bulwarks and walked slowly to the
captain's side, as if to speak to him; but the skipper spoke first. His
professional vanity was somewhat mortified, or perhaps he was afraid
that his professional reputation might suffer by the lad's report in the
ears of those whose approbation was valuable to him; and consequently he
was inclined to put a little bit of defensive armor on a spot where he
fancied himself vulnerable.
"We had a narrow squeak of it just now, Master Ned," he said. "However,
it was no fault of mine. I could not help it. It is twenty years since I
was last at this d--d place, and the chart they gave me is a mighty bad
one. Besides, those beastly gales we have had ever since Ushant might
puzzle the devil,--and this dark night, too!"
"You've saved the ship, captain," answered the lad: "that is all we have
to do with;" and then, perhaps thinking he might as well add something
to help the good skipper's palliatives for wellnigh running the ship
ashore, he added, "Besides, there is a strong current running,--what
between the sands of Oleron and the point of Re, and the Pertuis
d'Antioche--I do not know very well how it is; but I was so told by one
of the men last time I was here."
"Ay, 'tis so, I dare say," answered the captain. "Indeed, it must be
so; for we could never have got so far to the eastward without one of
those currents. I wish to heaven some one would put them all down, for
one can't keep them all in one's head, anyhow. You tell the duke, when
you see him again, about the currents, Master Ned."
"What is the use of telling him any thing at all but that we got safe to
Rochelle?" asked the lad. "If we get there--as there is now no doubt--he
will ask no questions how; and if we don't, anybody may blame us who
likes: it will make little difference to you or me."
The skipper was about to answer; but just at that moment a light broke
suddenly out upon that longish point of land which a boat that keeps
under the western shore of France has to double--as the reader very well
recollects--before it can make the port of La Rochelle; and the boy as
suddenly laid his hand on the captain's arm, saying, "Make for that
light as near as you can, captain; keep the lead going; drop your anchor
as close as you can, and send me ashore in a boat."
"Why, Master Ned, I was told to land you at Rochelle," replied the
other.
"You were told to do as I bade you," answered the lad, as stoutly as if
he had been a captain of horse,--adding the saving clause, "in every
thing except the navigation of your vessel. I must be put ashore where
you see that light. So send down for my bags, have the boat all ready,
and when I am landed go on to Rochelle and wait till you hear more."
The captain of the vessel did not hesitate to obey. The ship ran
speedily for the shore and approached perhaps nearer than was altogether
safe; the boat was lowered to the water, and the lad sprang in without
bidding adieu to any one. There was a heavy sea running upon the coast,
and it required no slight skill and strength on the part of the two
stout rowers to land him in safety; but he showed neither fear nor
hesitation, though probably he knew the extent of the danger and the
service better than any one; for, when he sprang out into the shallow
water where the boat grounded, he gave each of the men a gold-piece, and
then watched them with somewhat anxious eyes till they had got their
boat through the surf into the open sea.