THE HAVEN AT LAST—HOME IN THE THAMES.
The “Mighty Thames”—Poor Jack Home Again—Provident Sailors—The
Belvedere Home and its Inmates—A Ship Ashore—Rival
Castaways—Greenwich Pensioners—The Present System Compared with
the Old—Freedom Outside the Hospital—The Observatory—The
Astronomer Royal—Modern Belief in Astrology—Site of Greenwich
Park—The Telescopes and Observations—The Clock which Sets the Time
for all England—Sad Reminiscences—The Loss of the _Princess
Alice_—The Old _Dreadnought_—The Largest Floating Hospital in the
World—The Trinity House: Its Constitution, Purposes, and
Uses—Lighthouses and Light‐vessels—Its Masters.
“Let the Rhine be blue and bright
In its path of liquid light,
Where the red grapes fling a beam
Of glory on the stream;
Let the gorgeous beauty there
Mingle all that’s rich and fair;
Yet to me it ne’er could be
Like that river great and free,
The Thames! the mighty Thames!”
The poet’s enthusiasm may be pardoned, for, although there are scores of
rivers, considered only as such alone, that outvie the Thames, regarding
it in its relation to the sea—aye, to the whole world—it stands pre‐
eminent and alone. To the sailor the Thames and the Mersey have an
interest and importance which belong to the streams of no other country.
The reader has, in spirit, voyaged with poor Jack to the farthest corners
of the earth; he has seen much of his life of peril and heroism; he has
noted that the hardships he endures are often unrequited, and that, after
a long career of usefulness and bravery, he may lie on the shore “a sheer
hulk,” valueless to himself, possibly to die and rot in poverty and
distress. The charge of special improvidence cannot nowadays be hurled at
the sailor, as it might have been in days of old. Even Jack’s improvidence
was more excusable than the same fault in any other class whatever. The
fact is—as such valuable institutions as the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society
have proved—that there was a great desire on the part of seamen to help
themselves. The fortieth annual report of the Society (1879) states that
48,000 mariners subscribe to the benefit fund organised under its
auspices.(80) The history of this excellent association, which has now an
income of nearly £29,000, is interesting. “A worthy, philanthropic medical
man, Mr. John Rye, of Bath, had a servant who had formerly been a sailor,
and was in the habit of reading the newspapers to his master. One morning
their attention was arrested by an account of some fearful wrecks of
fishing boats, with loss of life, on the north coast of Devon. The servant
asked his master if there was any fund out of which help could be obtained
to relieve the families of those men. The master replied that he supposed
there was, but he would make inquiries from Admiral Sir Jahleen Brenton,
then Governor of Greenwich Hospital; and from him he found that there was
none. They then together drew up a prospectus, and presented it to the
late Admiral of the Fleet, Sir George Cockburn, who most heartily took the
matter up, and after circulating the appeal widely, called a public
meeting in February, 1839, at which Sir George was appointed President,
and a number of noblemen and gentlemen formed themselves into a committee,
of which the worthy Chairman, Captain the Hon. Francis Maude, R.N., is now
the sole survivor. The following month Her Majesty the Queen graciously
consented to be the Patron of the Society; and so prosperous was the
infant institution, that at the second anniversary, at which the late Sir
Robert Peel consented to preside, the sum of £1,100 was collected. The
Committee next set about to obtain the services of gentlemen to act as
honorary agents, of whom there are now upwards of 1,000; and whose duties
are to board, lodge, clothe, and forward to their homes all shipwrecked
persons. The Committee meet every Friday in London to relieve the widows
and orphans of the lost, not only at the time of their death, but by small
annual payments. There were thus 9,601 persons relieved in 1879.”(81)
[Illustration: THE HOME FOR AGED MERCHANT SEAMEN, BELVEDERE, KENT.]
Sooth to say, and in strict justice, we must not forget how much has been
done for the seaman on the banks of old Father Thames, both by Government
and private liberality. An excellent home, the “Royal Alfred Aged Merchant
Seamen’s Institution” exists at Belvedere, in Kent, started under the
auspices of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. This institution was
inaugurated, with room for the reception of 400 persons of all grades of
the mercantile marine, although nothing like that number has been as yet
accommodated at any one time. The Society also grants out‐pensions to
those who have homes or friends.
The most singular and characteristic and yet appropriate features of the
building are a number of little cabins comfortably fitted, and so much
like the real thing, that it requires only a very slight stretch of the
imagination for Jack ashore to indulge in the fond delusion that he is at
sea again. The large rooms are divided into wards, one for masters and
mates, containing ten cabins, each six feet by seven feet, and perfect
ventilation is secured by the partitions being open at the top. Each man,
by this excellent arrangement, has his little cabin to himself, and all
the sweetness of retirement should he be that way inclined. What a
contrast is this to the ungainly, unhomely, and barren shelters of our
Unions!
It speaks well for the profession that most of the inmates have seen over
forty or fifty years of service, which, judging from what we know of
service in the maritime navy, might decidedly be called active. On being
interrogated by a visitor, some of these veterans proved having most
successfully braved the dangers of the deep.
“How often have you been wrecked?” inquired the interviewer of our
“ancient mariner.”
“Why, let me see, sir”—then, counting half audibly—“one, two, three, four,
five times, I think, sir.”
The second, on being questioned, answered, simply, “Once in 1825,
sir—going to Hamburg that was; and once in 1828, on the coast of Norway;
and again on the coast of Java in ’42.” This man had also done some
memorable deeds on shore, which fully made up for his being short by “two”
wrecks of the other.
Greenwich Hospital next demands our attention, as once the great home and
asylum for the seamen of the navy, although now a hospital only. It was
founded in the year 1694, in memory of Queen Mary, who had long designed
the foundation of such an institution. It was also built as a monument of
the great victory of La Hogue. Sir Christopher Wren furnished the designs
and plans for the edifice gratuitously—a noble gift from a professional
architect, and valuable to boot. The object of the foundation was “to
encourage the seamen of this kingdom to continue the industry and
skilfulness of their employments, by which they had for a long time
distinguished themselves throughout the world;” “to encourage them to
continue also their ancient reputation for the courage and constancy
manifested in engagements for the defence and honour of their native
country;” “to invite greater numbers of his Majesty’s subjects to betake
themselves to the sea;” and so forth. In sooth, the condition of the
Greenwich pensioner was not, for a long period, particularly enviable. On
admission he was required to relinquish any pension he might have gained
in the service. Maimed men received only _tenpence_ a day, and a shilling
a week, intended for tobacco and the humbler comforts of life. The
Commissioners at one time stated that “the wives are wholly ignored, and
their circumstances are deplorable.” From the Hospital they received only
the broken meat of the hall and the rations of men on leave of absence.
The wives were often reduced to the parish. No wonder the poor old veteran
used to be so glad for a sixpence or even a “screw” of tobacco in return
for his tough yarns!
The system has been entirely changed. At present all are out‐pensioners,
and when in good health can follow other employments. On the 26th
September, 1865, the Greenwich exodus commenced. On that day nearly 200
out of the 900 pensioners of Greenwich Hospital who had accepted the
Admiralty offer of pension allowance, in conformity with an Act passed in
the previous session of Parliament, left that establishment for the
various parts of the country they had selected for their future home.
Since that time the whole have left; and the institution which, only a few
years ago, had upwards of 2,000 inmates, now contains only a few hundred
sick and disabled. Greenwich Hospital is a changed institution, and the
system of rewarding those who have spent their lives in the service of
their country is made more consistent with humanity, morality, and common
sense. Instead of hundreds of elderly but still hale and athletic veterans
wandering listlessly about the terraces and colonnades of Greenwich, and,
if the truth must be told, sometimes overstepping the bounds of sobriety
in the numerous public‐houses of the neighbourhood, there are but a
limited number of indoor‐pensioners, and those are such as may be
fittingly provided for in a place bearing the name of a hospital. They are
disabled seamen in the strict sense of the term—poor worn‐out old fellows
who require to be taken care of, and who have, perhaps, no one but the
nation to take care of them. The blind, the doting, the crippled, find
comfortable board and lodging, and, without doubt, attentive nursing in
the national hospital. But, as there are constantly new applications for
admission, it is probable that there will always be a few hundreds in the
establishment. On the first and third Thursday in each month a board sits
at Somerset House to consider the claims of applicants for admission, and
those who are passed are sent in an omnibus to the hospital. But for the
large body of men who, though too old to reef top‐sails and to work guns,
are not too old to do something for their own living, and to wish for
liberty and domestic life, there is the allowance before mentioned from
the funds of the hospital, and the power of living where and how they
please.
“What the average pension granted may be,” said a writer in the _Cornhill
Magazine_, “we have no means of knowing, but if some of the men have a
larger sum than £36 10s., so also many of them will have much less, and
will be unable to command in their homes the standard of living with which
the Hospital supplied them. They elect to go, we take it, partly because
they know the government of the place is to be changed, that it is to
become a hospital in the narrower sense of the word, and that there will
be less freedom of ingress and egress for them henceforth; but this is
only part of a more general feeling in favour of liberty among them, at
which nobody who has inquired into their condition can wonder. The
authorities at Greenwich Hospital have contrived to make a palace as dull
as a prison. The men have had no amusements but a library inconveniently
furnished. They have not been allowed to have flower‐pots in their
windows, nor to receive friends and visitors in private; and it is not
many years ago since they were forbidden to walk on the terraces. Some of
the punishments, too—such as being compelled to wear a yellow collar and
do scavengers’ work—have been harsh and injudicious. All these things have
combined with the monastic character of the place to give a character of
_ennui_ and listlessness to the Greenwich pensioner’s life, which must
have struck every observing visitor. Dulness has been relieved within the
walls chiefly by temptation without.
[Illustration: GREENWICH HOSPITAL.]
“Since the age when Queen Mary pictured to herself Greenwich as a place of
pious repose, where the sailor might end his days in the fear of God, it
has become the favourite haunt of the pleasure‐loving cockney—an emporium
of shrimps, a reservoir of beer. Those quaint figures—the ‘geese’ and
‘blue‐bottles’ of local slang—lounging about under the trees of the park,
and loitering through the streets in the dress of another age, have been
regarded by the holiday‐maker from the metropolis as parts of the
amusements of the place. They have been paid for yarns in drink and stray
shillings, and have found the doctrine that sailors lived only for grog
and tobacco accepted by their admirers as one of the glories of the
British navy. It has been well remarked that, as a whole, the old fellows
have been more decent in their lives than we had a right to expect under
the peculiar circumstances. But a chapter might be written on Greenwich
morality and its effects on the parish rates, which nobody would care to
bind up with the naval histories of Brenton or James, but which would help
to reconcile the reader to the break‐up of an institution which has had
much in it to kindle the imagination and justify the pride of our
countrymen.
[Illustration: GREENWICH PENSIONERS.]
“The break‐up is, after all, one in which people will acquiesce rather
than one at which they will rejoice. It was a noble as well as a pious
idea to gather under the roofs of a grand edifice—at once a dwelling‐place
and a naval monument, and placed on the shores of a river itself one of
the chief sources of our maritime strength—the survivors of each
generation of warriors against the enemy or the storm. Here the traditions
of one age blended gradually with the experience of the next; stories of
Shovel were passed on to those who fought under Hawke; the conqueror with
Rodney lived to welcome the heroes of Trafalgar—not as bedridden or
imbecile men, though they might be somewhat shattered—but still able to
enjoy life, and to give the vividness of reality to the narratives of the
past. All phases of naval service were represented. One of the ‘saucy
_Arethusa’s_’ smoked his pipe with an old _Agamemnon_, and men who had
first smelt powder on the Canadian lakes listened reverently to the
recollections of those who had seen _L’Orient_ explode in thunder at the
Nile. Greenwich Hospital will always be a great and useful institution—a
mighty boon, whether to the sick nursed within or to the poor pensioned
without its walls.”
Before leaving Greenwich we must certainly pay a visit to the Observatory,
a building which has such intimate relations with the sea. The account
which follows is that of M. Esquiros,(82) who particularly studied all our
institutions connected with maritime interests:—
“I entered,” says he, “a well‐lighted apartment, the walls of which were
covered with charts, engravings, photographic portraits of the moon, and
Donati’s famous comet of 1858. Mr. [now Sir George] Airy, the Astronomer
Royal, is a man who has grown grey in the study of the stars; his
energetic features indicate the incessant activity of the strong intellect
which for more than a quarter of a century has upheld the reputation of
Greenwich Observatory. On his writing‐table were heaped a quantity of
papers covered with calculations, and a maze of letters as to a thousand
matters of business. A large iron cupboard contains all the precious
documents which will, no doubt, one day serve to trace out the scientific
history of the nineteenth century. Here, for instance, are preserved the
letters and authentic documents which are destined to modify certain
received opinions as to the discovery of the planet Neptune. In this
cupboard may also be found the records of bygone errors and chimerical
ideas, which one wonders to find reappearing in this enlightened age.
“It is difficult to believe that many amongst the English still confound
astronomy with judicial astrology; but Mr. Airy preserves a very curious
collection—letters that he has received from all classes of persons,
asking what his terms are for _drawing a horoscope_. Sometimes it is a
young man wishing to know ‘who will be his wife;’ at others it is a lady,
on the eve of embarking in the great business of life, who desires to
consult the stars. Postage‐stamps are occasionally sent with these
missives, and he or she who consults the oracle promises to make known, if
necessary, the true day and hour of their birth. The fact is, that a great
many people can scarcely understand how the astronomers can contemplate
the vault of heaven by day and night without endeavouring to trace out the
secret of human destiny. Some years back a young lady dressed in good
taste applied at the door of the Observatory; she felt interested in one
of her near relations, a sailor in the Pacific Ocean, from whom no news
had been received for several years. After she had had a few minutes’
conversation with one of the assistants, she went away bathed in tears,
because the stars were not able to tell her if the object of her
affections were still alive.”
On the ground that Greenwich Park now occupies there once stood an ancient
tower, built about the year 1440, by Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, and
uncle to King Henry VI. In the time of Elizabeth it was called
_Mirefleur_. In 1642 the name of Greenwich Castle was given to it. Sir
James Moore and Sir Christopher Wren pointed out the site of this fortress
to Charles II. as the best place for the construction of an observatory.
The old feudal tower was therefore pulled down, and over its remains was
raised an edifice dedicated to the contemplation of the stars.
“The building was scarcely finished ere Flamsteed was installed in it,
with the title of Astronomer Royal, and an emolument of £100 a year. He
presided over the new establishment for more than half a century, and
spent more than £2,000 of his own money. His works will always be looked
upon in England as the starting point of modern astronomy. He may be
deemed the founder of Greenwich observatory. His successors were Halley,
Bradley, Nathaniel Bliss, and Dr. Nevil Maskelyn, the author of four
volumes, of which it is said by Delampre, ‘that if, in consequence of some
great revolution every record of science had been lost, with the exception
of this collection, in it would be found materials quite sufficient for
building up again the science of modern astronomy.’ Maskelyn was followed
by John Pond, who died in 1835; his place is now supplied by Mr. Airy.
“The Astronomer Royal is nominated by the First Lord of the Treasury, and
performs his functions under the warrant of the great seal of state; his
salary is fixed at £800 per annum. One of his principal duties is to
preserve for Greenwich observatory that character which the founder
himself wished to impress upon it. The Astronomer Royal is therefore bound
by the express terms of his commission, ‘to devote himself with the
greatest care to correcting the tables of the celestial movements, and to
determine the positions of the fixed stars, in order to furnish the long‐
desired means of discovering the longitude at sea, and of thus bringing to
perfection the art of navigation.’ It is also necessary that he should
reside in the observatory, and devote all his time to the duties of his
office, never absenting himself for any long period without having
previously obtained the sanction of the Lords of the Admiralty.
“Consulted as he is by various branches of the Government, he is able to
render assistance to the public service by his advice and information,
well assured that he himself can never be affected by any of the changes
in official power, or by any of the results of political conflict. His
residence has a garden attached to it, which is parted off from the
grounds of the park, and well planted with fruit‐trees. He has under his
control eight assistants, and ordinarily six computers.
“It is curious to see these computers in their two offices, one situated
on the ground floor near the study of the Astronomer Royal, and the other
isolated in one of the quietest parts of the observatory, all sedately
occupied in reckoning up, from morning to night, dull columns of figures.
“Before describing what Greenwich observatory _is_, it would be better
perhaps to state first what it is _not_. It relinquishes to other
inquirers the task of discovering spots in the sun and mountains in the
moon. The observations of the assistants are not directed either to the
figures of the planets or to the extraordinary movements of the double
stars, revolving one round the other in the depths of the firmament, or
the mysteries of the nebulæ. What a firmness of character, what a truly
English strength of will have these observers shown, in voluntarily
drawing a veil over some of the most splendid wonders of the heavens! At
the time of John Pond, a telescope twenty feet in length had been erected
in the establishment at great expense, but as it was a strong attraction
to visitors, he caused the instrument to be dismantled. About the year
1847 Mr. Lerebours offered to Greenwich observatory the largest refracting
telescope which had ever been constructed. The temptation was certainly a
great one; it would have been flattering to the self‐esteem of the
institution to have possessed a wonder of this sort, unique as it was in
the world. Mr. Airy need only to have said the word, and the Lords of the
Admiralty would assuredly have made the purchase. But the Astronomer, on
the contrary, held the present aloof with a determined hand. What was it
that he feared? The perfidious influence of such a siren, which, by
concentrating attention on the beauties of the heavens, would perhaps have
turned away the attention of the assistants from their daily task, and
have compromised the success of the Observatory.
“An observation of the sun takes place at least once a week at mid‐day, in
the transit circle room, and a large portion of the staff of the
establishment take a part in it; but it is at night that one can form the
best idea of the mode in which the transit of the heavenly bodies over the
meridian is duly verified.
“The first observations made with the new transit circle date from 1851,
and, from that time to the present they have never been discontinued. The
assistant who is appointed, aided by this instrument to watch the state of
the heavens, is on guard for twenty‐four hours, _i.e._, from three in the
morning until three a.m. the next day. Except under extraordinary
circumstances, the same duties are never assigned to an assistant two days
running. Having already worked some hours after sunset, he goes home to
take his evening meal, and when he returns into the transit circle room it
is quite night. The shutters, which, during the day shut in a part of the
ceiling, are now unclosed, and by means of this aperture the whole sky
seems thrown open to the room.
“Having consulted his list, and adjusted his telescope, he commences his
steady gaze. His intentness can only be compared to that of a sportsman,
or still better to that of a pointer dog, only, instead of a partridge or
a woodcock, he is eagerly waiting to see a star get up. There it is at
last! It comes into view quick and sudden as a meteor. Scarcely has it
entered into the telegraphic field of sight than it appears to approach
rapidly some objects which look like a series of transverse iron bars
placed at equal distances from each other. These, however, in reality, are
nothing but threads of the thickness of a spider’s web, stretched
according to a system in the interior of the telescope, and wonderfully
magnified by the power of the lenses.
“The assistants are all astronomers by profession, and their eyes have
been well trained by continual practice. How, then, can it happen, that
their observations do not always prove accordant one with another? There
is a physiological mystery hidden in the fact which it would be
interesting to penetrate. Each observer, although operating with the same
instrument and guided by the same plan, perceives a celestial
phenomenon—as, for instance, the transit of a star—either sooner or later
than another does. This variation is attributed to the idiosyncrasy of the
sense of sight in each individual, or to the more or less prompt manner in
which the eye telegraphs its impression to the brain. It must, of course,
be quite understood that no considerable inequalities of time are in
question here; it is, at the most, some fraction of a second that I am
alluding to; but the astronomical transit observations are of so delicate
a nature, that the slightest errors would destroy their worth. Under these
circumstances it has been found necessary to establish an average or
standard, and each observer gets to know precisely how far his visual
faculties vary from the ideal. Hence arises a question, incomprehensible
to the uninitiated, which, however, is commonly asked among astronomers
themselves—‘What is the value of your personal equation?’ This inquiry is
answered by a figure expressing the particular amount of deviation from
the standard. The most singular thing is, that the value of the personal
equation is different in the same individual as regards the various
celestial bodies. Some can very quickly discern the phenomena of a fixed
star who are much slower in perceiving those of the moon, and _vice
versâ_. In order to obviate the inconvenience which might result from the
variations in personal equations, they also have recourse to a very
ingenious plan. An eye‐piece with two tubes allows two assistants
simultaneously to observe the passage of the same star over the same
threads in the instrument; they both listen to the ticking of the clock
marking the seconds, and separately calculate the results of their
observations, which are afterwards compared. To obtain a greater degree of
certitude, they occasionally exchange places. In this way the slightest
chances of error are eliminated. The aberrations of the instrument must
also be taken into account. Notwithstanding its excellence and the
solidity with which it is fixed to stone walls sunk into the ground, it
sometimes is affected by slight vibrations, which can only be attributed
to the _terra firma_ on which it is constructed. Mr. Airy has noticed this
same phenomenon at Cambridge, whence he has come to the conclusion ‘that
the surface of the earth, commonly regarded as the base of all solidity,
is itself in movement.’
[Illustration: THE GREAT EQUATORIAL TELESCOPE IN THE DOME, GREENWICH
OBSERVATORY.]
“‘I am going to show you the clock which sets the time for all England,’
said the Astronomer Royal to me, as he conducted me into a little room
occupying one of the oldest parts of the edifice. Covered with its simple
mahogany case, this _Mother clock_, as it is called, is not unlike one of
those venerable wooden‐cased clocks that one meets with sometimes in the
old English manor‐houses. No one, however, could fail to discover that the
mechanism in this time‐keeper is new and uncommon. Its chief
characteristic is that it possesses two distinct attributes. In the first
place it marks the time most exactly; and, in the next, it communicates
this power to other clocks as well. It has therefore been called the
_Mother clock_, because it animates in the Observatory eight of its
_daughters_. Its dial is divided into three circles, one of which marks
the hours, another the minutes, and a third the seconds. One hand only
moves round each of these dials, and thus points out the generally‐
accepted measures of time.
“The Observatory transmits signals every hour to the telegraph‐office in
Lothbury, in the City of London, whence, by a network of galvanic wires,
the knowledge of the true time is spread along the lines of railway to the
extremities of Great Britain. This vast Æolian harp covers thus with its
chords nearly the whole surface of the British Isles, and vibrates in
unison with one prime mover.
“As regards the true time, these telegraphic wires have a double mission.
The current leaving Greenwich transmits the signal given by the clock at
the Observatory, and what is called a return current then communicates the
errors of the other clock on which the _Mother_ has just acted. ‘I would
never undertake to regulate a clock from which I did not get regular
replies,’ said the Astronomer Royal; and just as we were passing in front
of a galvanic apparatus, ‘Stop!’ he added, ‘the great clock at Westminster
is at this very moment giving me an account of itself; it goes well, and
is only the twentieth part of a second slow. Twice a day in this way it
keeps me informed of the state of its health.’”
Below Greenwich one of the saddest catastrophes of the century occurred in
1879, one which has its lessons for all who voyage. We refer to the loss
of the _Princess Alice_. A pleasure steamer, one of the largest and best
known of the London Steam‐packet Company, with some 700 happy merrymakers,
a large proportion of whom were children, left London Bridge on Tuesday
morning, September 3rd, 1878, for Gravesend and Sheerness, and everything,
even the temper of our uncertain climate, combined to make the day one of
real and innocent pleasure. How true is it that danger is never so near as
when we deem it farthest off. It was eight o’clock in the evening when the
_Princess Alice_ hove in sight off Woolwich Arsenal, with her living
freight of gladsome excursionists. The song that comes when toil ceases,
the careless laugh and harmless jest were going round; eager eyes watched
the dim lights of home glinting through the purple September twilight, and
no whispered thought of peril dulled the harmony of the day, when a large
steam collier, the _Bywell Castle_, loomed darkly in the gloom.
Those who feared the least and knew the most from experience were the
first to see the danger—the danger that, in the time, no human skill or
ingenuity could avert. The _Princess Alice_, steaming on at good speed,
had attained an impetus, and, together with the adverse tide and confined
space, defeated the ready efforts of the commanders of both vessels, and
the collision came. There was no time to think—no time to act; there was a
fearful cracking and tearing, during which it seemed that the _Bywell
Castle_ would walk right through the ill‐fated pleasure‐boat, and in that
dread and awe‐inspiring moment the startled eye saw its fate, and the
happy heart was stilled in horror. Only five minutes from the time the
vessels struck, and all that was then the _Princess Alice_ lay cradled in
the mud at the bottom of the Thames.
Save for the few who clambered on to the _Bywell Castle_, and the
proportionately fewer who could swim ashore, the entire human freight was
hurled into the black and fœtid river, or carried down in the cabins and
saloon of the submerged sepulchre. How terribly was this proved when the
wreck was raised! The unfortunate passengers were found packed together at
the foot of the companion ladders with no time to move hand or foot, with
no air to breathe, stifled where they stood.
[Illustration: COLLISION OF THE _BYWELL CASTLE_ AND THE _PRINCESS ALICE_.]
Collisions amongst iron ships have been so painfully frequent of late
years that it is impossible to conjecture what may be the result of this
wholesale loss of life in the future. It is doubtful, however, whether any
previous accident ever equalled in its harrowing results the loss of the
_Princess Alice_. Excepting the fatal accident to the _Grosser Kurfürst_,
the running down of the _Northfleet_ off Dungeness by the Spanish steamer
_Murillo_, comes next in horror to the cutting in two of the _Princess
Alice_. This terrible affair, and the heartless conduct of the commander
of the Spanish steamer, will make the night of the 22nd of January, 1873,
ever memorable in the dark annals of the sea; 293 persons went down with
the ill‐fated passenger ship. A sad case was that of the _Lady Elgin_, run
into by a schooner on Lake Michigan on September 8th, 1860. The _Lady
Elgin_ was an excursion steamer with 400 souls on board; she sank within
fifteen minutes of the collision and with the loss of 287 people. Then,
again, in 1854, in this fatal month of September, on the 27th, the
_Arctic_, a ship of the Collins line, came into collision with the screw
steamer _Vesta_ in a fog. This time the scene of the tragic disaster was
the coast of Newfoundland; out of a list of 368 all told, 323 were lost,
among whom were the Duc de Grammont and the Duc de Guynes. In the same
year we have to record the loss of the _City of Glasgow_ with 480 persons
on board; and the _Lady Nugent_, a British transport, which carried
reinforcements for the army at Rangoon; the total loss in this case was
400. Neither of these ships was ever heard of after leaving port; a fate
as terrible and mysterious as that which befell the _City of Boston_ and
the _Pacific_, the former of which left Liverpool on the 23rd of January,
1856, with 186; while the _City of Boston_ had 191 persons on board when
she sailed from Halifax, N.S., on January 26, 1870. Who amongst the living
does not remember that black‐letter day when news arrived in England of
the capsizing of the _Captain_ off Cape Finisterre on September 7, 1870,
with Captain Burgoyne and a complement of 500 all told, which remains the
greatest calamity that has yet befallen the British Navy.
The army, however, suffered a loss nearly as appalling in the foundering
of the _Birkenhead_ off the Cape of Good Hope, where a contingent, made up
from the 12th Lancers, 23rd and 92nd Foot, helped to make up the 438 lives
destroyed on that occasion, February 26, 1852. Nor were the greatest
horrors entirely occasioned by the unruly elements and the sometimes
pitiless sea, for added to these ever‐impending dangers was the
incombatable enemy—fire. The most heart‐rending on record of these marine
conflagrations was that which destroyed the S.S. _Austria_ on its way from
Hamburg to New York, U.S., on September 23, 1858. By this fire, out of 528
passengers and crew, 461 were either burnt to death or drowned; how many
met the more horrible death of burning can never be known, nor is it well
for the mind to dwell upon the painful subject. Going back a little
farther we find the record of the burning of the _Ocean Monarch_ in
Abergele Bay, August 24, 1848, with loss of 178 lives. Then we have the
S.S. _London_, which went down in the Bay of Biscay on January 11, 1866,
carrying down with her to a watery grave 239 out of a complement of 258.
The wrecks of the _Atlantic_ and the _Royal Charter_ are conspicuous in
the black list: the latter, an Australian clipper ship, was smashed to
pieces on the coast of Anglesea on October 26, 1859, when, while some
forty people or so managed to get on shore, 459 of men, women, and
children, were added to the ocean sepulchre. The _Atlantic_, of the White
Star Line, struck on a sunken rock off Nova Scotia, April 1, 1873, and 481
out of 931 were lost. The _Annie Jane_, of Liverpool, swells the death‐
roll by 393, by being driven on shore at Barra Island, one of the
Hebrides, on September 29, 1853; while the _Pomona_, another emigrant
ship, through carelessness in the reckoning, went ashore on the Wexford
coast on April 28, 1859, losing 386 lives. And this sad list only
represents the more prominent cases which occurred during thirty years.
Although the chief outward and visible sign of usefulness of the Seamen’s
Hospital Society exists no longer on the Thames, many of our readers knew
the old _Dreadnought_ well. She was the largest floating hospital in the
world, and no other ship housed so cosmopolitan a crew as could be found
among her 200 patients. Dysentery, scurvy, hepatic diseases in most
varieties, and typhoid, were among the medical specialities to be seen on
board, and it is probable that Budd gained much of his experience of
enteric fever from this ship, which received annually from sixty to
seventy cases of the disease. The surgical practice was equally useful,
and we believe that the first resection (that of the shoulder) in London
was performed by Busk on the _Dreadnought_. A large number of men, now
teaching in our schools, gleaned useful knowledge here, and (an important
matter in surgery) learnt how to do little things well. Although in
maintaining a necessary and constant communication with the shore, there
were the usual perils of water, including a strong current, a crowded
stream, ice, &c., no person engaged directly or indirectly in the business
of the ship was ever drowned during the half century that she and her
predecessors were moored off Greenwich. The late Dr. Rooke, one of the
ablest and kindest of the _Dreadnought’s_ officers, nobly earned the
Humane Society’s medal by saving a boy who fell off a barge close at hand;
three patients jumped overboard at different times, in a state of
delirium, but all were rescued and recovered. There were convivial
gatherings now and again in the snug recess of the admiral’s cabin, used
as a mess room by the medical staff. The _Dreadnought_ suffered many blows
from without, and was run into seriously on several occasions. But the old
ship stood it all, and was missed by the bargemen, who made a cushion of
her wherewith to cannon off to the opposite shore. There can be no doubt
that the managing committee of the Seamen’s Hospital Society acted wisely
in removing their clients to a home on shore, so that we need not say
altogether regretfully, although truly, “Take her all in all, we shall not
look upon her like again.”
Of all the hospitals there is none so interesting as a sailor’s, and that
at Greenwich, which represents the old _Dreadnought_ floating hospital, is
particularly so. It is here Jack ashore is seen at his best, and his best
is very good indeed as a general thing, especially when all the good
qualities are developed as they are when he settles down to enjoy the
autumn calm of his life, which generally begins in the hospital. Not only
are there seamen from every clime, and every creed, too, here, but one
ward is occupied by a few old naval pensioners. In this ward the first
thing that attracts the eye, and is placed prominently over the fire‐
place, is Dibdin’s simple legend of the “Sweet little cherub that sits up
aloft.” Every inmate of this ward could tell his interesting yarn of
personal experiences of the Battle and the Breeze. One old fellow is both
blind and deaf, and still happy and contented under the sympathetic care
of an ancient cherub, who has sailed through three‐quarters of a century
of life’s uncertain tide. Why the blind tar should be called “the
nightingale” has not been clearly stated, though the fact remains the
same, and may possibly refer to great vocal powers. His messmate has been
through enough battles to fill a volume; while another, an octogenarian
marine, speaks with pride of the part he took in the _Chesapeake_ affair,
which was beaten and captured _thirteen minutes_ after the first gun was
fired by the weather‐beaten _Shannon_.
“You see,” he is wont to say, as he straightens himself, “by my military
cut that I’m not a regular tar, though I’ve been in as many cutting‐out
parties as any a’most, and had the grape and canister pelting round me
like hailstones, pretty nigh as often as I remembers feeling real
hailstones. But I remembers best when the king—God bless him!—sent out
thirty barrels of porter, that me and the rest of us might drink his
majesty’s health in; that was in the time of the war with Ameriky, and
good times they was too,” a little bit of individual opinion that no one
would dream of controverting here. Next come we to another pensioner, who
sits over the fire hugging his feeble knees, and who is just in the last
year of his ninth decade. _He_ tells you of the part he took in 1805, in
the capture of two French frigates, and some of the latent fire returns as
he speaks of it; for it was a fight that lasted three days and nights
before victory was fairly ours.
Take the wards _en masse_, and we see peering out of the medley the
delicate sallow skin and long black hair of the Greek, who is estimated by
every British commander at seventy‐five per cent. below the English tar in
hauling power and endurance, while the South Sea Islander, the
Scandinavian, the dusky Turk, Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians, Spaniards,
Americans, Chinamen, are here side by side with the hardy sons of our own
isles. In one corridor there is even a Fantee, with the mark of his tribe
upon his ebon‐hued forehead, but minus feet, having lost them through
their being frost‐bitten in the Black Sea. Another and more painful case
is that of a poor fellow wrecked off Cape Horn, who, drifting for fourteen
days in an open boat, reached shore only to find that he must purchase
life at the cost of both nether limbs. The surgical operator was an
unskilled sailor, the instrument a rough ship’s knife, with which he
succeeded in performing successfully the dangerous operation, but with
what torture to the sufferer can too vividly be imagined. He is cheerful
enough now as he potters about on his stumps, full of dry humour and as
cheerful as any able‐bodied man could be. The light occupations of these
disabled sons of the sea are varied and congenial to their different
tastes, and their labour is chiefly confined to decorating the wards of
the hospital. Amongst the many inscriptions are a beautiful white wreath
with “Albert the Good” on it, and Nelson’s famous last signal. One German
sailor lad has entirely decorated one ward with a taste and elegance
simply surprising. This boy is an original, seeing that he went all the
way to Jerusalem to learn English! “In Hamburg, his native place, he heard
other boys, and occasionally travellers, say that there was a good school
there where English was taught. Thereupon, seizing his opportunity, he
worked his passage from Hamburg to Alexandria, took ship to Jaffa, and
induced the German Consul to forward him to the Holy City.” Evidently he
did not think there was anything remarkable in this singular method of
acquiring our language!(83)
The Thames Church Mission is a society established to minister to the
spiritual necessities of the vast fluctuating population of the Thames,
consisting of seamen, bargemen, steamboat‐men, fishermen, &c. Services are
held on board troop, emigrant, and passenger ships, screw colliers, and
every description of vessels; also in the mission and reading‐room which
has been opened for seamen, &c., by the bank of the river at Bugsby, near
East Greenwich. Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer‐books are sold at reduced
prices, and tracts distributed. A chaplain (licensed by the Bishop of
London to visit ministerially and officiate on board all ships and vessels
on the Thames), four missionaries, and five seamen colporteurs, constitute
the missionary staff. The Mission undertakes the sale of Scriptures to
English and foreign seamen, and gives Testaments to emigrants on behalf of
the British and Foreign Bible Society; it places on board emigrant ships
packets of tracts, and distributes the cards and circulars of the Sailor’s
Home among seamen arriving in the Thames. The field of operation extends
from London Bridge to the anchorages below Gravesend. The chaplain also
holds Sabbath services on board the training ships _Arethusa_,
_Chichester_, and _Cornwall_, and has weekly classes with the boys; and
the missionaries act as honorary agents for enrolling members of the
Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. There are many other excellent institutions
for the seamen’s benefit, from London city to Gravesend town, but which
cannot be described with the space at our command.
Every reader knows the Trinity House, but he may not be aware of its value
to the seaman, the voyager, and the interests of commerce. The Trinity
House, as it stands on Tower Hill, was built towards the end of the last
century by Samuel Wyatt. It is of the Ionic order, and has some busts of
naval heroes, whose deeds, like themselves, are of the past. Amongst its
many interesting pictures is a very large Gainsborough, representing the
Trinity Board of that day. This picture, by the way, is upwards of twenty
feet in length, and, if merit go by measurement, is necessarily a very
great picture. The Board of Trinity House has control of the beaconage and
pilotage of the United Kingdom. The Corporation existed fully one hundred
years before its original charter, which was granted in 1514, and was at
that early date known simply as the “Shipmen and Mariners of England”—a
voluntary and influential association of some standing, and at that time
protected maritime interests and gave substantial relief to the aged and
indigent of the seafaring community.
[Illustration: TRINITY HOUSE, LONDON.]
Henry VIII. was the first king who granted it a Royal Charter, in 1514, in
recognition of its well‐tried merit. In this charter it is described as
the “Guild or Fraternity of the most glorious and undividable Trinity of
St. Clement.” The Charter of James I. and all subsequent charters are
granted to “The Master, Wardens, and Assistants of the Guild, Fraternity,
or Brotherhood of the most glorious and undivided Trinity of St. Clement,
in the parish of Deptford, in the county of Kent.” The motto of the
Corporation is _Trinitas in unitate_. The Elder Brethren of Trinity House
are not always exempt from undertaking stern and unpleasant duties afloat,
as was instanced in that terrible time of trial—the mutiny of the Nore, in
1799, when they destroyed or removed every beacon and buoy that could
guide the mutinous fleet out to sea. Its culminating recognition was by an
Act of Parliament in 1836. The honorary members of this Court are men of
distinction, including some of the members of the Royal Family. H.R.H. the
Duke of Edinburgh became its Master in 1866. The duties of the Corporation
are described in their charter as follows:—
“To treat and conclude upon all and singular articles anywise concerning
the science or art of marines; to maintain in perfect working order all
the lighthouses, floating‐lights, and fog‐signal stations on the coast of
England, and to lay down, maintain, renew, and modify all the buoys,
beacons, and sea‐signals; to regulate the supply of stores, the
appointment of keepers, and constantly to inspect the stations; to examine
and license pilots for a large portion of our coasts, and to investigate
generally into all matters of pilotage; to act as nautical advisers with
the judge of the High Court of Admiralty: to survey and inspect the
channels of the Thames and the shoals of the North Sea, and other points
of the coast at which shifting, scouring, growth, or waste of sand may
affect the navigation, and require to be watched and notified; to supply
shipping in the Thames with ballast. The Elder Brethren have also to
perform the duty of accompanying the Sovereign on sea voyages.”
The light‐vessels of the Corporation are nearly fifty in number, while
there are more than eighty lighthouses. The buoys on our coasts must not
be omitted. The number in position can scarcely be approximated, while in
addition—in case of casualties—there must be kept in reserve fully one‐
half the number in position. There are also some sixty odd beacons of
different kinds. The working staff of the Trinity House is composed of
district superintendents, buoy‐keepers, store‐keepers, local agents,
lighthouse‐keepers, crews of floating‐lights, watchmen, fog‐signal
attendants,(84) crews of steam and sailing vessels, altogether making a
total of nearly a thousand men.
[Illustration: THE SIREN FOG‐HORN, FOR WARNING SHIPS OFF THE COAST.]
In 1837 the Duke of Wellington was Master of the Trinity House; in 1852
Prince Albert held that office, and Viscount Palmerston in 1862. Then came
(1866), as already mentioned, the Duke of Edinburgh, while the Prince of
Wales headed the list of a long roll of Brethren, to say nothing of the
numerous dukes and earls who have gladly accepted the same honour. The
Trinity House Corporation has successfully withstood several most
searching Parliamentary investigations, only to come out with triumphantly
flying colours, which added to the confidence generally reposed in it.