_From a Photo by G. West & Son, Southsea._]
The _Victoria and Albert_ is a paddle vessel of 2,470 tons, built by
Her Majesty's Government and launched from Pembroke Dock in 1855. Her
dimensions are: extreme length, 336ft. 4in.; breadth of deck, 40ft.;
displacement in tons, when deep, 2,390 tons.
Her engines make twenty-one revolutions a minute, and are supplied by
four boilers, with six furnaces to each. It takes about six tons of
coal to get up steam, and about three tons an hour to keep her at full
speed. Highest indicated horse-power, 2,400.
Her Majesty the Queen made her first cruise in her on July 12th, 1855.
What will first strike any visitor going on board the _Victoria and
Albert_ is the utter lack of luxury and magnificence of decoration
and furniture in the Royal apartments. The most perfect simplicity,
combined with good taste, prevails everywhere. It would be well for
those who complain of the cost of our Royal yachts to compare them with
those of other nations, and note the difference.
The deck is covered with linoleum, over which red carpeting is laid
when the Queen is on board; and plenty of lounges and cushions laid
about and many plants, which contrast pleasantly with the white
and gold with which the vessel is painted. She is lit electrically
throughout, having forty-two accumulating cells. She carries two
brass guns (six pounders) for signalling only. There is a pretty
little five o'clock tea cabin on deck, which has a hood coming down
from the doorway, as a protection from the wind. There is also a
miniature armoury, lamp-room, chart-room, and a number of lockers for
signalling-flags.
All the Royal apartments have the floors covered with red and black
Brussels carpet, in small coral pattern; the walls hung with rosebud
chintz, box pleated; the doors of bird's-eye maple, with handles of
iron, and fittings heavily electro-plated. Her Majesty's bedroom has
a brass bedstead screwed into sockets in the floor, bed furniture of
rosebud chintz lined with green silk, canopy to match, green silk
blinds, and plain white muslin curtains with goffered frills, mahogany
furniture, chintz-covered. Dressing-room: mahogany furniture, covered
with green leather, writing and dressing table combined; the walls
covered with maps and charts on spring rollers.
The wardrobe-room, in which Her Majesty's dresser sleeps, is furnished
in a similar style; and here I saw a boat cloak of blue embossed
velvet, lined with scarlet cloth, and another made entirely of scarlet
cloth and with the "Star" on the front, which once belonged to George
IV., but is now sometimes worn by the Queen.
[Illustration: THE DECK.
_From a Photograph._]
In the Princess Royal's room--as it is still called--the furniture is
of maple, an electric light pendant hangs over the toilet table, the
walls are a pale salmon colour, and the cornice a shell pattern in
white and gold, the ceiling done in imitation of plaster.
[Illustration: THE PAVILION.
_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]
The cabin which was formerly occupied by the Prince of Wales and Duke
of Edinburgh contains two little brass bedsteads, maple furniture,
decorated with the Prince of Wales' Feathers; and the Tutor's cabin
opens out of it.
The pavilion, or breakfast-room, has mahogany furniture covered in
leather, and a couple of large saddle-bag easy chairs, a very handsome
painted porcelain stove, and frilled muslin curtains to all the parts.
The dining-room is furnished in a similar way, but the walls are hung
with charts and portraits of the former captains of the vessel, who
were as follows: (1) Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, (2) Sir Joseph Denman,
(3) George Henry Seymour, C.B., (4) His Serene Highness Prince of
Leiningen, (5) Captain Hugh Campbell, and (6) Captain Frank Thompson.
A very handsome candelabrum is of nautical design, and the brass coal
scuttle is fashioned like a nautilus shell; walls, salmon; and cornice,
white and gold, in "Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle" design.
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photograph._]
Her Majesty's drawing-room is 26 ft. by 18 ft. 6 in. The walls
chintz-covered, and hung with portraits of the Royal Family in oval
gilt frames, in the same design as the cornice; the furniture of
bird's-eye maple; the coverings, all of chintz, to match the walls. Two
large sofas, one at each end of the room; two or three easy chairs, the
others high-backed; an "Erard" piano, book-case and cabinet combined,
writing-table, occasional tables, and an oval centre table, comprise
the whole of the furniture. I noticed a very handsome reading-lamp of
copper and brass, for electric light, with a portable connection, so
that it can be used in any part of the room. The bells have also the
same contrivance. The two chandeliers, for six candles each, are of the
same design as the one in the dining-room.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photograph._]
The corridor leading to the Royal apartments is hung with rich green
silk damask curtains, and on the walls are water-colour paintings of
several of Her Majesty's ships, done by the boys of Christ's Hospital.
The staircase is very wide and handsome, of maple, with gold and white
balustrades.
[Illustration: THE CORRIDOR.
_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]
The Ladies-in-Waiting have their cabins on the starboard side in the
fore part of the vessel, and the Lords on the port side; they have also
a commodious dining-room, decorated in white and gold. Her Majesty's
servants have twelve cabins, six of them fitted up for two people. In
addition to these there are numerous domestic offices, a dispensary,
the officers' cabins, and accommodation for the crew, which numbers 170.
Her Majesty the Queen is never now longer on board than forty-eight
hours at a time, and the vessel is kept in such perfect order that only
twelve hours' notice is required to prepare her for the reception of
Royalty.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN AND OFFICERS OF THE "VICTORIA AND ALBERT."
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration:
LIGHT
A LONDON IDYLL]
BY E. M. HEWITT.
We lodged in a street together:
You a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she bird of his feather.
I.
Marigold Place is a blind alley turning out of the animal life and
ugliness of the Harrow Road. No. 7 is Mrs. Xerxes'. She was unique
among landladies, never having seen better days. The oldest inhabitant
of the Place had no other recollection of her, girl and matron, than
as a limping slattern with a squint, wearing a sackcloth bib-apron and
a ragged, rusty crape bonnet. Mrs. Xerxes' sole source of income, in
addition to occasional charing, was derived from her lodgers--a colony
of obscure workers, with much shabby tragedy underlying their daily
absences. Little Miss Barberry, the upholsteress, who lived on the
third-floor back, was Mrs. Xerxes' model lodger, or, as she expressed
it, "the only 'let' that does credit to the 'ouse."
Madge Barberry was a very pretty girl, refined in voice, manner, and
appearance, with delicate features, soft, dark eyes, and glossy brown
hair loosely coiled on the top of her head. She always wore black, with
a white apron, and a chatelaine of keys, scissors, and needle-case hung
on a long ribbon at her waist. She lived in one room, poorly furnished,
for which Mrs. Xerxes condescended to accept three-and-sixpence
weekly. It was little more than a garret, hideous with the miserable
appointments and musty atmosphere of the low-life London lodging-house.
But, as for outlook, it was much better off than Paul Vespan's, on
the other side of the landing. Through its grimy windows there was
a glimpse of green Virginia creeper climbing up the dingy walls of
the opposite mews; whereas, the third-floor front only commanded the
depressing prospect of the narrow street. Madge merely knew Mr. Vespan
by sight. They had met on the stairs, passing each other with that
curious blending of shyness and suspicion which characterises the
relation of London fellow-lodgers. Once or twice Paul had heard her
singing; she had a sweet voice.
Mr. Vespan ranked next to Miss Barberry in Mrs. Xerxes' estimation.
"Bookish, but with a good 'eart. Shabby, but quite a gentleman,"
ran the landlady's verdict. Madge chose to take him for a poet. He
was a tall, fair young man, with a pale face and sad, serious eyes.
The little upholsteress, who was not a philosopher, and had never
read Emerson, had, nevertheless, long ago "renounced ideals and
accepted London." Her life had always been hard. Before her birth her
parents had lost their all in one of those financial disasters which
sometimes overtake the most prosperous communities. The father died
broken-hearted. Madge worked bravely for her mother until she, too,
went from her. Then the orphan faced the world with a slender yearly
pittance of twenty pounds. Such lives are too common in London to stand
for romance. She was generally lucky in getting work, and one cannot
starve on a shilling a day.
Paul Vespan, whom Mrs. Xerxes believed to be "something in the
City," was much poorer than Madge; but he had a Hope, which he meant
to convert into money some day. Meanwhile, he carried it about in
the breast-pocket of his shabby coat in the shape of a roll of MS.
The sheets were torn at the edges and blackened with frequent post
marks--the scars of repeated disappointments. But all day long they
nestled near the poet's heart. For the truth of Paul Vespan was what
Madge Barberry had divined, though Mrs. Xerxes also had right on her
side. Her lodger was a sandwich-man. He had not come to London with
that intention, but he had fallen to it. His people, well-to-do,
narrow-minded country folk, took it for granted that he was getting on.
The fact was, he was on the verge of starvation.
II.
It was sultry summer evening in Marigold Place. Madge Barberry, who had
worked far into the twilight, was sitting at her open window with idly
folded hands. Overhead the glassy sky was brilliant with stars. Down in
the mews the lamps flickered fitfully behind their panes. From time to
time the silence was broken by the shrill screams of gutter children
at play, or by the impatient stamp of a horse in its stall. Madge was
singing to herself, but her thoughts were wandering away from the song
to Mr. Vespan. The motherliness in her tender young heart had been
touched by the sight of his wan, weary face, as it passed her on the
stairs that morning. He walked languidly, and seemed paler than usual.
But, then, the heat was very trying. Fierce enough in Marigold Place,
it was worse, no doubt, in the City. Could it have been a mere fancy,
too, that he looked at her, as she hurried by, with timid, pitiful
eyes, that seemed to ask her help? Poor Paul! It would have done him
good to know how much sympathetic interest he was exciting in this
stranger's heart.
Mrs. Xerxes limped upstairs after supper, and found her lodger in the
dark. Madge economized in lights all the summer.
"If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her
a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for
you."
"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Xerxes," smiled Madge.
[Illustration: "THAT IS VERY KIND OF YOU."]
"I 'oped you would take it that way, miss. It's where I was charing
to-day. The young ladies are doin' up their rooms, and they asked me if
I could recommend a respectable young person for upholstery. So I put
in a word for you, thinking that every little helps."
"Indeed, it does, Mrs. Xerxes. Where is the house? And when am I to go?"
"To-morrow, at nine. Here's the address."
Mrs. Xerxes extricated a scrap of dirty paper from her pocket, and
handed it to Madge. Then she went hobbling downstairs again.
A little later, a man who had groped his way up the narrow
stairs stopped on the third-floor landing, gasping for breath.
Madge was singing--her chatelaine jingling, not unmusically, for
accompaniment--as she moved about her room. It was a sweet song, sweet
with hope and promise:--
Sing high. Tho' the red sun dip
There is yet a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea.
But the words fell with pathetic irony on Paul Vespan's ears, that must
shortly be deaf to the sound of all human voices.
Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since have we met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was is yet.
That verse was not for him. The light-hearted singer, no doubt, had
had her love-passages, but she had evidently outlived them. He had no
such memories to console or to detain him. He had lived solitary and
misunderstood. He must die alone. Who would be sorry for him? Not this
heartless singer, certainly. Poor Madge, who had been troubled, even in
her singing, for her poet!
Paul turned into his room, and began to grope about for a match. Then
he felt in his pockets. They were empty. He was poor, indeed. Fate had
not left him so much as a light for his last journey. Nor was this
the only delay. Across the landing a sweet voice called him back with
tender insistence--
There is yet a day for me!
If only he could believe it! He had grown weary waiting for its dawn.
The Poet's day is long in coming.
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea!
If it might be so! Paul staggered out of his dark room into the
darkness beyond, clutching blindly at the air, for he was weak with
long fasting. The song broke off. A woman called across the landing:--
"Who is there?"
"It is I."
"That's a starving man," said Madge to herself, "and it's Mr. Vespan's
voice. What do you want?" she asked, opening her door.
"A light."
[Illustration: "SHE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY."]
"Wait a moment. I will bring you one."
She came out and stood in the doorway, shading a flickering candle with
her hand. The delicate face and slender figure were sharply silhouetted
on Paul Vespan's fading consciousness. If he had meant to live, here
was a woman worth living for. But he had done with possibilities. She
went up to him and looked bravely into his white face.
"You are very ill," she said, gently.
"I shall be better soon."
Madge's quick eyes travelled down to his shaking hand. It had closed
like a vice over some hidden treasure; but not before his good angel
had seen it. Her own face paled as she bent above him.
"Give me that bottle," she said, quietly.
But, as the dark blue phial with its orange label slipped from Paul
Vespan's nerveless fingers to hers, the little upholsteress burst into
tears.
"Don't cry," said the man, hoarsely. "I am not worth it."
"You never meant it. No, my poor boy, no. You were unhappy--tired. It
was all a mistake."
He fell back, gasping, against the wall.
"You had no right----"
"It would have been easier than--did you ever see anyone die
of--starvation----?"
"You are not----"
"Yes, I am."
"Let me get you something."
"Anything--I am so hungry."
What should she do? She had spent her daily shilling. But to-morrow
she would be sure of a dinner: to-morrow's pittance should go to this
starving man.
Her poet was starving! That awful cry, going up hourly from the heart
of the Great City, had never come home to Madge Barberry before. True,
the horror had sometimes seemed imminent in her own life, but her brave
hands, made desperate by love, had always kept it at bay. For the sake
of her dead mother, who had been spared this martyrdom, she must save
Paul Vespan. Quick as thought, she ran downstairs and knocked at the
kitchen door. Mrs. Xerxes came out, wiping her mouth with the back of
her hand.
"Deary me, Miss Barberry, whatever's the matter?"
"Will you come upstairs, Mrs. Xerxes? Mr. Vespan has fainted outside
his door. He looks very ill. Perhaps he's hungry. Would you take this
and buy what he wants until--until he gets better?"
"I always said you were the lady born, Miss Barberry," observed Mrs.
Xerxes, looking down at the silver coin which Madge had pressed into
her grimy hand; "but I don't know that I ought to take this from you.
What would Mr. Vespan say?"
"Please, please don't tell him," cried poor Madge, in an agony of
apprehension. "Let him think it's you."
III.
Madge went to her work next morning at nine, after a sleepless night.
Mrs. Xerxes stopped her on the stairs to whisper that Mr. Vespan was
much better. He had begged her to say to Miss Barberry that he hoped he
had not frightened her, and to thank her for her kindness.
"Mrs. Xerxes! You never told him?"
"Bless you, my dear; he meant his fainting. I was mum about the money."
Madge nodded, much relieved, and resumed her way.
Her destination was within easy reach of Marigold Place. It was
a stately red-brick house, one of a fashionable avenue, the blue
window-boxes gaily crowded with white and scarlet flowers. The
upholsteress was shown into the young ladies' boudoir. Two pretty
girls were standing at a table, looking through a book of patterns in
cretonne. They were twin sisters, and always spoke together. When the
servant announced "The young person from Mrs. Xerxes'," both turned on
Madge.
"Do you think you could upholster a cosy corner for us--Miss Barberry,
isn't it? Then we want curtains to match. Can you make curtains? Which
of these cretonnes will look best? How many yards will it take? May we
stay and watch you work?"
Madge contrived to give lucid answers to all their questions, and
proved invaluable to the sisters, who were delighted with her. They
wasted a whole morning discussing and suggesting; but Madge had her
dinner, and they insisted on her staying to tea also.
She went home at six. Mrs. Xerxes darted out of the kitchen, pointing
mysteriously over her shoulder.
"He's in there."
"Who?"
"Mr. Vespan. I got him downstairs for a change. Suppose you go in and
see him?"
"I?"
"Why not? Where's the harm? But for you, I'd like to know where he'd
be!"
"Hush! He might hear you," whispered Madge.
"Not he. Well, will you come?"
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Xerxes threw open the door of her
sitting-room.
"I've brought Miss Barberry to see you, sir."
Paul Vespan turned his head languidly.
In Mrs. Xerxes' back yard, among battered tins and broken bottles, a
Madonna lily had grown up, tall, and strong, and pure. It reminded the
poet of Madge Barberry, as he saw her then.
"I have much to thank you for," he said, "though you saved a worthless
life."
Madge looked round nervously; but Mrs. Xerxes had disappeared.
"How wicked I must seem to you!" Paul Vespan went on, in his weak,
weary voice; "but if you knew what I have suffered!"
"I think I do know," said Madge, gently. "Life in London is very hard.
And it is hardest for such as you are."
Paul looked at her inquiringly.
"That is----?"
"Perhaps you will laugh at me."
"No, no. Tell me."
"I took you for a poet."
"It is the truth."
"Not really!"
"But it is no use. There is no room for me anywhere. Board-carrying is
more lucrative."
"Board-carrying?"
"Yes. Does it shock you? I am a sandwich-man by profession; a poet by
accident."
"Oh! it can't be true!" cried Madge, passionately. "You--you, a
sandwich-man?"
[Illustration: "I AM A SANDWICH-MAN."]
"One and twopence a day is poor pay; but I assure you it's better than
poetry."
"Some day----"
"Yes. I know. I have heard that so often. But one never comes up with
'some day.' Perhaps you are not ambitious?"
"No."
"How do you escape? It is in the air in London."
"I only have a wish. It is not great enough to be called an ambition."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Not now. I'm afraid I have let you talk too much as it is."
"No. It has done me good. What a happy face you have!"
"I am not unhappy."
"May you always remain so! Good-bye, then, since you must go. And thank
you once more."
He held out his hand feebly, with a wan smile.
"And now--now, you will be brave, will you not? Try once more. Let me
post your next poem for you. I may bring you luck."
"As you brought me light. I should be a churl to refuse you, to whom
I owe my life. You _shall_ post a poem for me. I have a penny in my
pocket, the last, until I get another job. It shall buy a stamp."
Then she went away, shutting Paul into loneliness once more. But she
had also left a hope behind. He was a braver man for the contact of
that sister-life, his fellow-toiler in the Great City. Her courage
shamed him. She, too, was poor and lonely, but not a coward. He would
be one no longer. Because she had saved his life, he could never again
think meanly of it, nor lightly fling it away. At last his heart could
join in her sunset song:--
There is yet a day for me!
He went up to his poor room presently with a firmer step and a
grateful glance across the landing to the door from which light had
streamed to beckon him back to hope and life. He sat down in the
twilight and began to think. First of all, he must find work or starve.
Meanwhile, how was he living? On whose bounty? Mrs. Xerxes was a poor
woman. She could not afford to be generous. To whom, then, did he owe
it that he was not at this moment a homeless wanderer in the streets?
Surely not to that strong, sweet woman to whom he owed his very life!
His pale face flushed at the wild thought. Impossible, if her resources
ran on anything like the same lines as his. He drew from his pocket
the back of an old envelope, pencilled with figures. Madge Barberry's
balance-sheet, indeed, compared favourably with this. On the credit
side appeared six days' pay at 1s. 2d. per day for board-carrying. The
debit side was made up of seven days' food, 2s. 4d.; lodging, 2s. 4d.;
soap, 1d.; washing, 3d.; boots, 2s.
That was how Paul Vespan lived on seven shillings a week, and but for
Madge Barberry, the record might have run "how he died" instead.
It was a pathetic little story; but, like Madge Barberry's, too
everyday for romance in this city of sharp contrasts.
Then he rummaged amongst the contents of a battered cardboard box for
the best of his poems, which he had promised to lend Madge. In the
search he encountered frequent sharp reminders of past failure. Many
a curt editorial note of rejection had drifted in between the loose
sheets of MSS. Here, one "regretted that the accompanying manuscript
was unsuitable to his pages, and returned it herewith."
Or another "presented his compliments to the writer of the accompanying
article, which he returned with thanks."
But in the strength of the new life which he was facing, these stabs
were pin-pricks. He would try once more, as that sweet voice had urged.
IV.
Madge and her poet did not meet again for several days. Meanwhile, she
posted his letter "for luck." He also left a roll of MS. at her door
with "Paul Vespan's compliments." She read the poems in her leisure
moments, which were few; for she now went daily to the red house in the
avenue. The cosy corner made splendid progress, and the twins were more
than ever enchanted with their upholsteress.
With a rebel thought of the poet thrusting itself between the lines,
Madge read the verses to a finish; and then seized a regretful
opportunity to return them.
She gave them back to him reverently.
"They are all very beautiful," she said: "I wonder no one listens; but
I am sure they will some day."
Dear critic! If she were all he had to fear!
"I am glad you like them," he said.
"Is there any news yet of the other?" she asked.
"Not yet."
But Madge was to hear it first.
The next afternoon when she was at the avenue, a red-faced old
gentleman with white hair put his head in at the door of the work-room,
and then beat a hasty retreat.
"Come in, papa," chorused the twins; "it's only Miss Barberry."
"I'll look in presently. I only came to tell you I've found a poet."
"Papa! Not really! Where is he?"
[Illustration: "HE RUMMAGED AMONGST THE CONTENTS."]
"Marigold Place, Harrow Road, of all localities in the world."
"Why, that's where Mrs. Xerxes lives!" said one of the sisters, and
then she looked at Madge.
"They're a very promising set of verses," went on the editor,
impressively, "but I don't know that I can find room for them."
"Oh, please, please, don't send them back, sir! It will kill him."
"Eh? What? Who's this?" exclaimed the editor, looking severely over his
glasses at Madge, and from her to his daughters. "Do you know this Paul
Vespan, young woman?"