THE ART OF SWIMMING—FEATS IN NATATION—LIFE SAVERS.
Lord Byron and the Hellespont—The Art of Swimming a Necessary
Accomplishment—The Numbers Lost from Drowning—A Lamentable
Accident—Captain Webb’s Advice to Beginners—Bold and Timid
Lads—Best Places to Learn in—Necessity of Commencing Properly—The
Secret of a Good Stroke—Useful and Ornamental
Natation—Diving—Advice—Possibilities of Serious Injury—Inventions
for Aiding Swimming and Floating—The Boyton Dress—Matthew
Webb—Brave Attempt to Save a Comrade—The Great Channel
Swim—Twenty‐Two Hours in the Sea—Stung by a Jelly‐Fish—Red Light
on the Waters—Cape Grisnez at Hand—Exhaustion of the Swimmer—Fears
of Collapse—Triumphant Landing on Calais Sands—Webb’s Feelings—An
Ingenious Sailor Saved by Wine‐bottles—Life Savers—Thomas Fowell
Buxton—Ellerthorpe—Lambert—The “Hero of the Clyde”—His Brave
Deeds—Funny Instances—The Crowning Feat—Blinded and
Neglected—Appreciation at Last.
“But since he(64) crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo ...
And swam for love, as I for glory;
“’Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:
For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague.”
So sang Lord Byron after his memorable swim across the Hellespont with
Lieutenant Ekenhead, of H.M.S. _Salsette_. The distance from Abydos to
Sestos is about a mile, but the distance swum was four; the current there
runs so strongly that no boat can cross direct. “It may,” says Byron, “in
some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance
being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the
other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold from the
melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had
made an attempt; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same
morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to
postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when
we swam the straits as just stated, entering a considerable way above the
European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young
Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions it having
been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither
of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A
number of the _Salsette’s_ crew were known to have accomplished a greater
distance, and the only thing that surprised me was that, as doubts had
been entertained of the truth of Leander’s story, no traveller had ever
endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.” Byron’s allusion to the ague
caught was simply put in for effect.(65)
In presenting this chapter(66) on swimming and feats of natation, the
writer is earnest in the hope that it may lead to a more general knowledge
and practice of the art. Were it merely the healthy, manly exercise it is,
it would be worthy of all encouragement; but there is another and a more
important side to the question. Annually thousands of valuable lives are
lost which might be easily saved, not by others, but by their own
knowledge. Every father of a family should make his children learn at the
earliest opportunity, and, except in the case of very delicate children,
they will inevitably take kindly to the exercise. Young men should count
it as one of their most pleasant and useful recreations. Cricket, rowing,
riding (if even on a bicycle) are to‐day among the accomplishments of
almost all respectable youths; let all of them add swimming to the list.
The first three are health‐giving and invigorating pursuits; the art of
natation is all this, and very much more besides. Some one or more in
every large family to‐day travel or voyage frequently; usually one, two,
or more are settled in the colonies or foreign countries, to reach or
return from which the wide ocean must be crossed. And in spite of steam
and all modern facilities, wrecks are not unknown to‐day. The writer
strongly advocates the establishment of Government schools of swimming.
Every year the papers record numerous cases of drowning, but the
_un_‐recorded cases are far more numerous. Not long since the National
Lifeboat Institution published an instructive chart of the numbers lost in
one year in _inland_ waters, rivers, lakes, and ponds. It amounted to
scarcely less than two thousand persons, a large proportion being young
people, all of whom ought to have been able to swim. The full annual
record of those lost at sea and on the coasts would be something
appalling.
There is no doubt that swimming is much easier learned in youth than in
middle age, and the younger a lad is the easier it is for him to learn. Of
all places for this purpose none will be found better than a bath. It will
always be found that where the water is warm it is much easier to remain
in a long period than where the water is cold. It is for this reason that
all our fast swimmers come from inland towns. Boys at the sea have
probably but a few weeks, or at the outside but a few months, in the
course of the year in which they find it practicable to go into the water.
Rough days, cold weather, too often deter lads from bathing, though cases
are indeed occasionally found in which men will bathe in the sea all the
year round, not only in midsummer, but in mid‐winter as well.
In commencing to teach a person to swim, the first point is entering the
water, and here _ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_. Where the learner
is very young the greatest difficulty often is to induce him to enter the
water at all. Still, most healthy boys are courageous enough in this
regard.
“Having once persuaded a pupil to walk about within his depth, the next
great point is to prove to him how great is the buoyancy of the water. I
think it will be found that, in almost all works written on the subject of
swimming, the same plan is recommended, viz., to place some object at the
bottom of the bath (such as a large stone or piece of white chalk), and
then to tell the pupil to pick it up with his hand. He will now experience
the difficult, not of keeping himself up, but of getting down. The
buoyancy of the water is so great that, supposing him to be about chest‐
deep, probably he will be unable to pick up the stone at all. He will now
find from this how very little is necessary to keep a man afloat.”
Another good plan is to let some person go into the water with the
beginner, and float on his back, resting on the learner’s hand. Then tell
him to take his hand away for a second or two at a time, and, so to speak,
balance the body on his hand. He will find the pressure of the body barely
that of a few ounces. In fact, the human body is so nearly the same weight
as an equal bulk of water that the movement of the arms and legs in
swimming is not necessary so much to keep the body afloat as to keep it
afloat in the right position. Many a drowning man has come repeatedly to
the surface, but often, unfortunately, the mouth or nose, through which he
could breathe, has not been the portion that reached the surface. Another
method by which you can give a pupil confidence is to go into the water
yourself, and prove to him by ocular demonstration how very slight a
movement of the limbs is necessary to keep the body afloat and the mouth
above water. All good swimmers know how very little movement of the hands
or feet will be sufficient for this purpose.
In commencing to learn, all boys should first learn to swim well on their
chests. Since the introduction of the side stroke it will be often found
that lads who have barely learned to swim properly at all try to imitate
the first‐class professionals, and in so doing succeed simply in making
themselves ridiculous.
“The great secret of a good stroke,” says Webb, “is to kick out the legs
wide; and here let me observe that it is a popular fallacy to imagine that
the speed of the swimmer in any way depends upon the resistance of the
water against the soles of the feet. I have often heard it observed—‘Oh!
that man would make a fine swimmer; he has got such large feet.’ Now, in
the movement of the legs the flat of the foot never directly meets the
water, except in the case known as ‘treading water.’ The propelling power
in swimming is caused by the legs being suddenly brought from a position
in which they are placed wide apart into one in which they are close
together, like the blades of a pair of scissors. In fact, the mechanical
power here brought into play is that of the wedge. For instance, suppose a
wedge of ice were suddenly pinched hard between the thumb and finger, it
is evident that it would shoot off in the direction opposite to that in
which the sharp edge points. Now a wedge of water is forced backwards, and
the resistance caused propels the body forward in an opposite direction.”
When this point is well considered, the importance of drawing the legs
well up will at once become manifest.
Again, too, in dwelling on the stroke (and by “dwelling on the stroke” is
meant resting for a few seconds in the water while the body moves
forward), care should be taken that the toes are pointed in a direction
contrary to that in which the swimmer is going. The movement of the arms
is never one in which great difficulty will be found. The two hands should
be kept perfectly flat, the palms resting on the water; and at the same
time as the swimmer strikes out his legs each hand should be brought
slowly round, one to the right and the other to the left, care being taken
that the palm of the hand is horizontal. Were the hands to be placed
sideways, it is at once evident that the water would offer but little
resistance. By keeping the hands in the position named the resistance
offered by the water in case of sinking would be very considerable. Should
the beginner doubt this, let him enter the water and stoop down, and
keeping his hand flat, bring it suddenly downwards in the water; the
resistance the water will offer prevents him from doing this with any
speed at all. On the other hand, should he strike downwards with his hands
sideways, he will find that he can do it as fast almost as he could in the
air. Now, in reaching forward with the hands the swimmer should always
endeavour to reach as far forward as possible. Let him imagine some small
object is placed in the water just out of reach, and let him struggle to
reach it; the more he reaches forward the faster he will swim. This is a
very important point.
Every boy should in learning to swim be very particular as to the kind of
stroke he acquires with his legs. Bear in mind that if once you get into a
bad style you will experience ten times the difficulty in altering it into
a correct one than you would by commencing to learn to swim afresh; for
this reason every one learning to swim should go and watch carefully some
first‐class swimmer, and note how he moves his legs, and then imitate him
as closely as possible.
Diving from a height requires, as Artemus Ward observed when he took the
census, experience, like any other business; and just as that worthy
gentleman got into difficulties with the two first old maids he met, and
whose mouths he attempted to examine, not believing their answers to be
correct with regard to age, so many a boy who has witnessed the apparently
easy feat of taking a header has come to terrible grief by finding himself
come down flat on the water, which he has shortly afterwards left with the
appearance of having had a particularly strong mustard poultice on his
chest. Now, in diving from a height of, say, six feet, the heels must be
thrown well up, the legs should be kept straight and well together, and
the two hands brought forward in front of the head, exactly similar to the
position that a man takes in making his first attempt at swimming on his
chest. The hands act simply as a breakwater, and they should be turned up
the moment the water is reached, thus preventing the diver going deep, and
also enabling him to dart forward along the surface the moment he reaches
the water. A good diver can dive from a height of forty to fifty feet, and
yet never go a yard below the surface.
On one occasion, when only fourteen years of age, a boy dived from the top
deck of Her Majesty’s ship _President_, stationed at the West India Docks.
The height above water was forty‐five feet, and those who witnessed him
state that they did not think he went more than two feet below the
surface. Neither man nor boy should attempt to dive from such a height.
Were they to slip or to fall flat, the probability is that they would be
killed on the spot. But should it at any time be necessary to take a dive
from a high place, bear in mind that you must not give the same movement
to your body as if you were going off from the height of a few feet,
otherwise you will turn completely over in the air and come down on your
back, which, should the distance be very great, would probably kill you;
and if the distance be moderate, you would certainly have the appearance
of having had a severe whipping. In diving, and in everything else, it is
practice only that will make perfect. Webb dived off the yard‐arm of a
ship quite thirty feet above the water; but if by chance any one from such
a height comes in the least degree flat, he will hurt himself
considerably.
[Illustration: DIVING.]
Many stories have been told in this work of native divers, but referring
merely to their power of remaining under water, and not their diving from
a height; and, so far as swimming goes, no black people approach a first‐
class English swimmer. Three feet of water are sufficient to dive in, but
no man in his senses would ever make a dive from any height unless the
water was at least five or six feet deep, as if by chance he should come
down a little straighter than he intended, he would inevitably dash his
brains out, in addition to breaking both his arms against the bottom of
the bath or river. Great care, too, should be taken in diving into any
open piece of water. Webb mentions a case in which a man was seen to
receive a fearful laceration of his skull from diving on to a broken green
glass bottle which had been thrown in.
Innumerable are the inventions for assisting the learner of swimming, or
for aiding those who cannot swim to float. Foremost in the latter category
must be placed what is known as the Boyton dress, an American invention.
It is a complete india‐rubber suit, and can be inflated at any point
desired, the result being that the wearer can lie down, remain in a
perpendicular or slanting direction in the water, his body being kept as
warm, and if in exertion warmer, than it would be under ordinary
circumstances. Captain Paul Boyton crossed the Channel in it without
difficulty, floating, paddling, and even _sailing_ (for a sail is part of
the gear), meanwhile feeding from the knapsack or receptacle which is a
component part of the dress, smoking, and drinking cherry brandy amid the
boiling waves. This dress would no doubt enable a shipwrecked person to
live for days, and even weeks, in the water. Its expense is not great, but
too much for general adoption. It was while wearing this dress, in
crossing the Straits of Messina on the 10th of March, 1877, that Captain
Boyton met with the adventure illustrated in our plate. We translate from
an Italian journal the following account of it:—
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BOYTON ATTACKED BY A DOG‐FISH IN THE STRAITS OF
MESSINA.]
“Disregarding the counsels of those who warned him of the perils of such a
rough sea, and one so infested with dog‐fish, Boyton let himself into the
water at eight in the morning, followed by a vessel, which more than once
lost sight of him. He rowed in his apparatus with the aid of arms which
appeared as though made of steel, when he suddenly felt himself strongly
knocked against behind. It was a dog‐fish! There was a flash; Boyton
raised himself to the middle, drew the dagger which he always carried at
his side, and repelled the assailant. Reassured, he then re‐took the oar,
drank for the third or fourth time some cognac, and about midday, with his
eyes inflamed by the heavy strokes of the sea, arrived at the port of
Messina, saluted with enthusiasm by the crowd of people, on shore and in
boats and steamers, who were anxiously awaiting him.”
Apparently one of the simplest devices for those unable to swim is that
known as the Nautilus Safety Bathing Dress, the invention of Captain
Peacock. It is simply a short shirt, made of the purest Irish flax, which
fits closely round the neck and waist, &c., by means of elastic bands. It
has an inflating tube and mouthpiece. The principle on which it is founded
is simply this: Irish flax, _when wet_, is nearly air and water proof;
dipping, then, first the shirt in water, air is blown inside by the tube
till there is sufficient inflation. Should there be any slight leakage,
more air can at any moment be blown into it by the wearer. These shirts
are, of course, comparatively inexpensive.
A seaman’s belt, invented by Captain Ward, R.N., and sanctioned by the
National Life‐Boat Institution, is highly commended by many authorities. A
schoolmaster says that he has been accustomed for many years to take from
thirty to forty boys, of all ages, during the bathing season, into deep
water, and that not merely is it perfectly safe, and free from some
objections urged against many swimming‐belts, but that its use enables
young people to swim more rapidly.
Captain Warren has invented a life‐buoy which is highly commended. It
consists of a bladder chemically prepared, to which is affixed a patent
valve, by means of which the former can be easily inflated. A second
invention of Captain Warren’s consists of 500 life‐buoys, three feet long,
made of cork or specially prepared wood, and strung on to a series of iron
rods, which are connected with the turret or mast of the ship. These are
all kept together by means of a band, which, when the vessel is sinking,
would be cut, and the whole of the buoys could be instantly released. This
apparatus would cost £250, but of course it could be made on a smaller
scale if required.
A most ingenious “Life‐Buoy Seat” has been invented by Mr. Richard Rose,
an old traveller and colonist. It is composed of two semi‐conical buckets
of block tin, the smaller end of one screwing into the other, together
forming a buoy resembling an hour‐glass in shape. Placed upright it forms
a capital deck camp‐seat, the upper end being of cork, which of course
increases its buoyancy. In the event of fire on board the two portions can
be rapidly unscrewed, and each buoy thus representing two buckets, a ship
with only two or three dozen would have an ample supply in such emergency.
Practically tested in a swimming‐bath, several bathers could not sink one
placed there for the experiment, and it took a dead weight of nearly a
hundredweight to do so. The buoy being water‐tight could, of course, be
utilised for carrying a supply of water, biscuit, or other food, valuable
ship’s papers, and so forth, and without materially impairing its
buoyancy, while several lashed together would form a raft. Two ropes are
attached to each seat. When one considers the confusion and panic that too
often attend collisions, fires at sea, and shipwrecks generally, this
invention would prove of incalculable value, as it could be utilised on
the immediate spur of the moment.
The Royal Humane Society promulgates the following golden rules for
bathers (and which apply also in part to swimmers), prepared by competent
authorities:—1. Avoid bathing within two hours after a meal. 2. Avoid
bathing when exhausted by fatigue. 3. Avoid bathing when the body is
cooling after perspiration. But—4. Bathe when the body is warm, provided
no time be lost in getting into the water. 5. Avoid chilling the body by
sitting naked on the banks or in boats after having been in the water. 6.
Avoid remaining too long in the water—leave the water immediately there is
the slightest feeling of chillness. 7. Avoid bathing altogether in the
open air, if, after having been a short time in the water, there is a
sense of chilliness with numbness of the hands and feet. 8. The vigorous
and strong may bathe early in the morning on an empty stomach. 9. The
young and those that are weak had better bathe three hours after a
meal—the best time for such is from two to three hours after breakfast.
10. Those who are subject to attacks of giddiness or faintness, and those
who suffer from palpitation and other sense of discomfort at the heart,
should not bathe without first consulting their medical adviser.
And now we must speak of the greatest swimmer of our day—one who has never
been excelled. Captain Matthew Webb swam the Channel when he was but
twenty‐six years of age. The son of a country surgeon, he had early become
fond of the sea, and obtained his first instruction on board the _Conway_
training ship at Liverpool.
The event in Webb’s life which first brought his name prominently before
the public in connection with swimming took place on board the Cunard
steamship _Russia_, then on the homeward voyage from America. One day a
tremendous heavy sea caused the ship to roll in a manner which rendered it
almost impossible for any one to keep their feet without a life‐line
(_i.e._, a rope stretched along or across the deck from one point to
another), and all of a sudden a cry arose, “A man overboard!” A poor young
fellow, Michael Hynes by name, who had been ordered aloft in the main
rigging to “clear the sheet,” had missed his hold, and fell backwards into
the water. Webb saw him fall, and within two or three seconds was after
him in the sea, but, alas! could see nothing of him, save his cap floating
on the waves. On this occasion he was thirty‐seven minutes in the water
before be was picked up by the _Russia’s_ lifeboat, the waves being
“mountains high,” and the ship going at fifteen knots. Webb was utterly
unable to save the poor fellow, who was never seen to rise again, but for
his noble attempt deservedly received the leading medal, the—“Stanhope
gold medal”—of the Royal Humane Society of London, another from the
Liverpool Humane Society, and £100 from the passengers on board the
_Russia_.
The first time that Captain Webb took up the idea of swimming the Channel
was after a “good try”—but failure—made by Johnson, to swim from Dover to
Calais. Webb commenced by an excellent swim from Dover as far as the Varne
Buoy, about mid‐channel. On this occasion he remained four and a half
hours in the water. His first public swim was from Blackwall Pier to
Gravesend, a distance of twenty miles—mere child’s play to him. After
considerable practice he made a trial trip from Dover to Ramsgate,
remaining in the water nearly nine hours. He now publicly announced his
intention of attempting to swim to Calais, and he received a considerable
amount of encouragement as well as well‐meant advice to make the attempt.
A number of extraordinary precautions were recommended to him—one,
however, being sensible enough: that being to cover his body with a
coating of some kind of grease. On the Ramsgate swim he used cod‐liver
oil, and, on the first Channel attempt, porpoise oil.
The second attempt of Captain Webb to swim across the Channel took place
on August 24th, 1875, and was crowned with success, after a display of
unequalled courage and physical endurance. At four minutes to one o’clock
on that day he dived from the steps at the head of the Admiralty Pier,
Dover, and at forty‐one minutes past ten a.m. next day he touched the
sands of Calais, having remained in the water, without even touching a
boat on his way, no less than twenty‐one and three‐quarter hours.
During the early part of the journey Captain Webb was particularly
favoured by the weather. The sea was as calm as a mill‐pond, and there was
not a breath of wind. The lugger which accompanied him across the Channel
had to be propelled a considerable distance by oars. The swimmer was
accompanied by two small rowing‐boats in immediate attendance upon
himself, one containing his cousin, Mr. Ward, who supplied him
occasionally with refreshments, and one of the referees, who had been
appointed at Webb’s own request to see fair play; the other boat was used
for the purpose of conveying messages to and from the lugger.
Everything went on favourably till nine p.m., when Captain Webb complained
of being stung by a jelly‐fish, and asked for a little brandy. He had
previously been supplied with some cod‐liver oil and hot coffee. The
weather still continued perfect, and the intrepid swimmer proceeded at a
good rate, taking a long, clean breast stroke, which drove him well
through the water. Owing to the phosphorescent state of the sea, he was
sometimes almost surrounded with a glow of light. At 10.30 he was visited
by a steam‐tug, which had put off from Dover for the purpose, and which,
strange to say, left the man who had ploughed through the waves for over
nine hours without even the encouragement of a parting cheer. At 11.45,
however, a Dover boat, on its way to Calais, gave cheer after cheer to
greet him, and one of the small boats burnt a red light, which cast a
ruddy glow over the scene, and illuminated the water all around, the face
of Captain Webb being lighted up by it, so that he was distinctly seen by
all on board the Continental mail boat.
At two o’clock next morning Cape Grisnez light seemed close at hand, and
Captain Webb was still bravely struggling on, although at this juncture
the tide not merely impeded him, but was sweeping him farther and farther
from the shore. He, however, showed signs of fatigue, and young Baker, a
well‐known diver, sat with a life‐line round him by the side of the
referee, in case of accident, as it was supposed by many that the long
exposure to cold might cause Webb to become suddenly numbed and
insensible, and so sink without a moment’s warning. But Webb is a man
among ten thousand; the collapse from penetrating cold which the best
swimmers usually experience after long exposure in the water seems unknown
to him. By nine o’clock he was within a mile of the shore, a little to the
westward of Calais, and at this juncture, young Baker, then only sixteen
years of age, plunged in and kept the exhausted swimmer company, not,
however, trying to aid him in any way except by encouragement.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN MATTHEW WEBB. (_From a Photograph by Albert
Fradelle._)]
Unfortunately, however, two hours previously a strong breeze had risen,
and the sea, which had hitherto been like a sheet of glass, was running
high, with crested waves. Webb was evidently fearfully exhausted. The tide
was running strongly away from the shore, and the swimmer was battling
against double odds when he was least fit for it. Still, at 9.45 he had
lessened the distance by one‐half; he was only half a mile from the beach.
Would he ever reach it?
Just as the now utterly exhausted swimmer was beginning bitterly to think
that failure even at this point was possible, a steamboat put off from
Calais, and her commander placed her in such a position that she acted as
a kind of breakwater, for the sea was running so high that it nearly
swamped the boats accompanying him. One last struggling exertion and he
touched ground, so weak that he could not stand. A couple of men instantly
went to his assistance, and he was able to walk slowly ashore. When the
Calais boat left he was comfortably asleep, a medical man watching by his
side.
“I can only say,” says Captain Webb, “that the moment when I touched the
Calais sands, and felt the French soil beneath my feet, is one which I
shall never forget, were I to live for a hundred years. I was terribly
exhausted at the time, and during the last two or three hours I began to
think that, after all, I should fail. On the following day, after I had
had a good night’s rest, I did not feel very much the worse for what I had
undergone. I had a peculiar sensation in my limbs, somewhat similar to
that which is often felt after the first week of the cricket season; and
it was a week before I could wear a shirt‐collar, owing to a red raw rim
at the back of my neck, caused by being obliged to keep my head back for
so long a period; for, it must be remembered, I was in the water for very
nearly twenty‐two hours.”(67)
[Illustration: CAPTAIN WEBB’S ARRIVAL AT CALAIS.]
When Webb returned to London he met with an enthusiastic reception. In the
City he was welcomed by the same uproarious heartiness that Tom Sayers
less deservedly received after his fight with Heenan. The cheering and
hand‐shaking of Webb began at the “Baltic,” increased in warmth at
“Lloyds,” and culminated at the Stock Exchange, where “bulls” and “bears”
were eclipsed by the lion of the day, and whence he had to beat a retreat
to save his right hand from being wrung off.
The following will show the value of ingenuity in the midst of great
danger. It occurred at a terrible wreck, which took place on the coast, in
the sight of hundreds of powerless spectators:—“In the midst of these
horrifying moments a man was observed to jump from the wreck into the sea.
It was concluded by the watchers that he had voluntarily destroyed himself
to avoid dying by inches and hunger. After all, who could blame him? It
was a question of only an hour or so, for hope there appeared none. But
the crowd was agreeably disappointed, for the man held his head up in the
midst of the hissing surges boldly, and although he disappeared every
moment, yet by the aid of good glasses his head was seen to bob up again,
a conspicuous black object in the surrounding foam. Expectation stood on
tip‐toe. Would he reach the shore? was asked by a hundred voices in an
instant, and everybody was anxious to do something to assist a man who so
nobly tried to assist himself. The minutes that followed were intensely
exciting; every movement of the swimmer was eagerly noticed, and it was
with difficulty that several generous spirits were prevented from dashing,
at all risks, into the sea to his assistance. Slowly, but surely, the poor
fellow approached the shore—his head well up yet. He is just within the
outer tier of the breakers—poor fellow! he will stand no chance now. See,
he is caught by a monstrous wave—he rides upon its crest, and is urged
rapidly towards the beach; the horrid wave curls and breaks; he is rolled
head over heels; he is gone. No; he rights himself, and he is taken out to
sea again by a retiring wave. Back he comes again—head over heels he goes
once more; but this time fortune pitied misfortune, for he was flung by a
wave within reach of a coast‐guard, who, at the risk of his life, rushed
into the sea and saved him. The secret of his buoyancy soon appeared.
Under each arm he had lashed (as seamen only know how) an empty wine
bottle, well corked, and he had stuffed several others under an elastic
Guernsey shirt, and buttoned his trousers over all, and with these frail
floats he came through a heavy belt of breakers in safety.”(68)
“That man has saved seventeen lives single‐handed,” we heard a marine
officer say one day at Lowestoft, pointing to a fine handsome young fellow
who sat on the beach smoking his pipe. “He ought to be well off,” said a
bystander. “He is well off,” was the answer. “He has the satisfaction of
knowing that men, women, and children thank God for his bravery every
day.”(69)
Before the establishment of a floating light off Happisburg, wrecks were
very numerous on the Cromer coast. One of the greatest philanthropists who
ever lived, Thomas Fowell Buxton, the great anti‐slavery leader, spent
much of his time at Cromer Hall, and was constantly on the shore during
bad weather, urging and directing the efforts of others, and often “giving
a hand” himself. In the storm of the 31st October, 1823, still vividly
remembered on that coast, Mr. Buxton performed an act of heroic bravery.
About noon, a collier, the _Duchess of Cumberland_, ran upon the rocks off
the Cromer lighthouse. The life‐boatmen could not be induced to venture
out, so terrific was the sea and surf. Once a wave ran up the beach and
floated the wreck. Buxton sprang into the water, hoping that others might
be induced to follow, but in vain. Captain Manby’s gun was fired several
times, but the line fell short of the ill‐fated brig, on which nine poor
sailors were seen lashed to the shrouds. At length a huge sea completely
broke her up, the water being blackened by the bursting coal. The helpless
spectators looked on, horror‐stricken. “Poor dear hearts! they’re all gone
now,” exclaimed an old fisherman; but at that instant a body—was it alive
or dead?—was seen on the crest of a wave. Without waiting for a rope, Mr.
Buxton dashed into the surf, caught the exhausted sailor, flung himself
upon him, and struggled against the strong reflux of the surf, until
others could reach him. He, with his living burden, was dragged to land,
both at that moment more dead than alive. Buxton said afterwards that he
felt the waves play with him as he could play with an orange.(70)
The record of a man in humbler life, John Ellerthorpe, foreman of the
Humber Dock gates, Hull, who deservedly earned for himself the title of
“Hero of the Humber” is very interesting. During a period of forty years
he saved _thirty‐nine_ individuals, most of whom were difficult cases, as
they fell into the Humber through intoxication.
His services were honourably recognised. Medals and other acknowledgments
from the Royal Humane Society and the Board of Trade were showered on him;
he received a donation from the Royal Bounty, a purse of a hundred guineas
from his townsmen, and other valuable testimonials. Turn we now to the
case of another hero, who saved one life more than Ellerthorpe, and until
very late in his career received no recognition whatever. A hero of the
Clyde now appears on the scene.
It is to Mr. Charles Reade, the distinguished novelist, poet, and
playwright, that we owe a “true and accurate account of the heroic feats
and sad calamity of James Lambert, a living man.”(71) Mr. Reade had read
in the _Glasgow Times_ of October 2nd, 1856, how, when a little boy was
drowning in the Clyde, an elderly blind man would have dived in but for
his granddaughter, who with a girl’s affection and unreasoning fears, had
clung to his knees and utterly spoiled his good intentions. The boy was
drowned. The poor blind hero went home crying like a child, saying, “It
was a laddie flung away; clean flung away.”
Mr. Reade, after long and weary searching, found Lambert in a wretched
lodging in Calton, a suburb of Glasgow, and easily extracted from him a
fund of anecdote, a part only of which can be presented here.
The “first case” Lambert had attended to was a twenty‐stone “drooning”
baker, who gripped him tight to his breast, and nearly succeeded in
drowning him. Lambert was then a youth of about fourteen. Another was of a
poor old washerwoman who had overbalanced herself in the water, and who
when saved wanted to go and pawn her tub that she might reward him.
Instead of which her rescuer “clappit a shellin’” in her hand, and
promised to repeat the kindness each Saturday from his own meagre wages.
When Mr. Reade had provided the poor old man with a little refreshment, he
told the following episode in his life.
“Aweel, sirr, ye’ve heerd o’ the callant they wadna let me save—Hech,
sirr, yon was a wean wastit(72)—noo, I’ll make ye the joodge whether I
could na hae saved that ane, and twarree mair. There’s a beck they ca’
‘the Plumb’ rins doon fra’ the horsebrae into the Clyde near Stockwell
Brigg. The bairns were aye for sporting in the beck, because it was
shallow by ordinar, and ye’ll see them the color o’ vilets, and no’ hauf
sae sweet, wi’ the dye that rins to the beck. Aweel, ae day there was a
band o’ them there; and a high spate(73) had come doon and catched them,
and the reesolt was I saw ane o’ th’ assembly in the Clyde. I had warned
the neer‐do‐weels, ye ken, mony’s the time. By good luck I was na far
away, and went in for him and took him by the ear. ‘C’way, ye little
deevil,’ says I. I had na made three strokes when I am catched round the
neck wi’ another callan.”
“Where on earth did he spring from?”
“I dinna ken. I was attending to number ane, when number twa poppit up,
just to tak’ leave o’ Glasgee. I tell’t them to stick into me, and carried
the pair ashore. Directly there’s a skirl on the bank, and up comes number
three, far ahint me in the Clyde, and sinks before I can win(74) to him.
Dives for this one, and has a wark to find him at the bottom. Brings him
ashore in a kind o’ a dwam; but I had na fear for his life; he hadna been
doon lang; my lord had a deal more mischief to do, ye ken. By the same
token he came to vara sune, and d’ye ken the first word he said to me? he
said: ‘Dinna tell my feyther. Lord’s sake, man, dinna tell my feyther!’”
“I never,” remarks Mr. Reade, “saw a man more tickled by a straw, than
James Lambert was at this. By contemplating him I was enabled in the
course of time to lose my own gravity, for his whole face was puckered
with mirth, and every inch of it seemed to laugh.”
“But,” said he, “wad ye believe it, some officious pairson tell’t his
feyther, in spite o’ us baith. He was just a labouring man. He called on
me, and thank’t me vara hairtily, and gied me a refreshment. And I thoucht
mair o’t than I hae thoucht o’ a hantle siller on the like occasions.”
After one or two other savings, that entitled him to a medal or two,
Lambert admitted that, “By this time, sirr, I was aye prowling about day
and night for vectims!” Mr. Reade suggested that he had the pride of an
artist, and wanted them to fall in, that he might pull them out and show
his dexterity. Lambert answered that in those days swimming was not an
accomplishment so common as now; and if such a thing as drowning was to
be, he would like to be there and save them. “Ech,” said he, “the
sweetness o’t! the sweetness o’t!”
He next told a funny story of rescuing a boy, and running up to the house
to have him properly cared for. “Then,” said he, “I’m going oot, when a’
of a sooden I find I haena a steek on me, and twa hundred folk about the
doore. Wad ye believe it, _wi’ the great excitement I never knew I wa’
nakit_ till I saw the folk and bethought me.” At the foot of the stairs he
found a bundle of linen, and he was not long in helping himself, coming
back to the room in the wife’s apron and a sheet. “The sight o’ me made
the lasses skairt and skirl;(75) for I was like a corp just poppit oot of
the grave.” When he went for his clothes they had disappeared, but at last
he discovered that a young lady had carefully kept them for him behind a
hedge, fearing that some one might steal them.
“I come now,” says Mr. Reade, “to the crowning feat of this philanthropic
and adventurous life, and I doubt my power to describe it. I halt before
it like one that feels weak and a mountain to climb, for such a feat, I
believe, was never done in the water by mortal man, nor never will again
while earth shall last.
“James Lambert worked in Somerville’s Mill. Like most of the hands, he
must cross the water to get home. For that purpose a small ferry‐boat was
provided: it lay at a little quay near the mill. One Andrew had charge of
it ashore, and used to shove it off with a lever, and receive it on its
return. He often let more people go into it than Lambert thought safe, and
Lambert had remonstrated, and had even said, ‘Ye’ll hae an accident some
day that ye’ll rue but ance, and that will be a’ your life.’ Andrew, in
reply to him, told him to mind his own business.
“Well, one evening James Lambert wanted to get away in the first boat‐
load. This was somehow connected with his having bought a new hat: perhaps
he wished to avoid the crowd of workpeople—here I am not very clear.
However, he watched the great wheel, and the moment it began to waver,
previous to stopping, he ran for his hat and darted down the stairs. But
as he worked in an upper storey full a dozen got into the boat before him.
He told Andrew to put off, but Andrew would not till the boat should be
full; and soon it was crammed. James Lambert then said it was a shame of
him to let so many on board. This angered the man, and when the boat was
so crowded that her gunwale was not far above water, he shoved her
violently off into the tideway, and said words which, if he had not prayed
God to forgive them in this world, will perhaps hang heavy round his neck
in the next.... ‘ye beggars!’ he cried.
“This rough launching made the overladen boat wobble. The women got
frightened, and before the boat had gone twenty yards she upset in dark,
icy water, ten feet deep. It was night.
“Before the boat coupit(76) athegither they a’ flew to me that could, for
they a’ kenned me. I’ the water, them that hadna a hand o’ me, had a hand
o’ them that had a hand o’ me, and they carried me doon like leed. * * *
“Sirr, when yeve twa feet i’ the grave, your mind warks hard. I didna
struggle, for it was nae mair use than to wrastle wi’ a kirk. I just
strauchtened myself oot like a corp, and let them tak’ me doon to the
bottom of the Clyde, and there I stude upright and waited; for I kenned
the puir souls would droon afore me, and I saw just ae wee‐wee chance to
save them yet. Ye shall understond, sirr, that when folk are drooning,
they dinna settle doon till the water fills their lungs and drives the air
oot. At first they waver up and doon at sairtain intervals. Aweel, sirr, I
waited for that, on the grund. I was the only ane grunded, you’ll
obsairve. A slight upward movement commenced. I took advantage, and gieda
vi’lent spang wi’ my feet against the bottom, and wi’ me, choosing my
time, up we a’ came. My arms were grippit; but I could strike oot wi’ my
feet and before ever we reached the surface, I lashed oot like a deevil,
for the quay. Aweel, sirr, wi’ all I could do, we didna wend abune a yard,
or may be a yard and a hauf and doone they carried me like leed. I
strauchtened myself as we sank, and I grunded. The lave were a’ roond me
like a fon.(77) I bides my time, and, when they are inclining upward I
strikes fra the grund; an’ this time, maur slanting towards the quay. That
helpit us, and in a dozen vi’lent strokes we maybe gained twa yards this
time. Then doon like leed. Plays the same game again, up, and doon again.
And noo, sirr, there was something that turned sair against us; but then
there was something for us, to bollance it. It was against us that they
had swallowed their pint o’ water by this time, and were nae sae buoyant;
it was for us that the water was shallower noo, maybe not more than twa
feet ower head. This wad droon us as weel as twanty; but wi’ nae mair nor
twa feet water abune us I could spring up fra the grun by mere force; for
the grun gies ye an awfu’ poower for a foot or twa. Sae noo I’m nae suner
doon than up again, and still creeping for the quay, and the water aye a
wee bit shallower. The next news is, I get sair spent, and that was bad;
but to bollance that, some folk on the quay gat rapes and boat‐hooks, and
pickit off ane or twa that was the nearest; and now ilka time I cam’ up,
they pickit ane off, and that lightened my burden; and bymby I drave a
couple into shallow water mysel’, wi’ my feet. When I was in seven fut
water mysel’, and fewer folk hauding me doon, I got to be maister, and
shovit ane, and pu’d anither in, till we landed the whole saxteen or
seventeen. But my wark was na’ done, for I kenned there were mair in the
river. I saw the last o’ my ain band safe, and then oot into the Clyde,
wherever I heerd cries, and sune I fund twa lasses skirling, takes ’em by
their lang hair, and tows them to the quay in a minute. Just as I’m
landing thir(78) twa, I hear a cry in the vara middle of the river, and in
I splash. It was a strapping lass—they caed her Elizabeth Whitelaw.
‘C’way, ye lang daftie,’ says I, and begins to tow her. Lo an’ behold, I’m
grippit wi’ a man under the water. It was her sweetheairt. She was hauding
him doon. The hizzy was a’ reicht, but she was drooning the lad; pairts
these(79) twa lovers—for their gude—and taks ’em ashore, one in each hand.
Aweel, sirr, I saved just ane mair, and then I plunged in and sairched,
but there was nae mair to be seen noo: three puir lasses were drooned, but
I didna ken that at the time. And noo I’ll tell ye a farce. I’m seized wi’
a faintness, and maks for the shore. But I gat weaker, and dazed‐like, and
the lights o’ Glasgee begins to flecker afore my een: and, thinks I, ‘I’ll
no see _ye_ again; I’m done this time.’ It was all I could do for the bare
life, to drift to the hinder part of the quay. I hadna the power to draw
mysel’ oot. I just grippit the quay and sobbit. The folk were a’ busy wi’
them I had saved; nane o’ them noticed me, and I would ha’ been drooned
that nicht: but wha d’ye think saved me, that had saved sae many?—an auld
decrepit man: haw! haw! haw! He had a hookit stick, and gied me the
handle, and towed me along the quay into shallow water, and I gat oot, wi’
his help, and swooned deed away. I’m tauld I lay there negleckit awhile;
but they fand me at last, and then I had fifty nurses for ane.”
The story of the cause of this hero’s blindness is very sad. He had dived
in the river to save another while perspiring freely. It was winter, and
the water icy cold. Soon after a great dazzling seized him, followed by
darkness. This occurred again and again, until at last the darkness
settled on him, and the light fled for ever.
When Mr. Reade first saw him, the single public honour paid him was that
he had the right, with one Bailie Harvey, to pass over a certain
suspension bridge gratis till his death, while the rest of mankind paid a
halfpenny! His only pension was one of three‐and‐sixpence a week from the
Barony Parish, Glasgow. Mr. Reade’s efforts gained him an annuity, which
he unfortunately did not live long to enjoy.