PAVING-STONES SOMETIMES PROVE STUMBLING-BLOCKS--A DISQUISITION ON THE
FIGURATIVE, ENDS BY RALPH FIGURING AT THE MAST-HEAD, THUS EXTENDING HIS
VIEWS UPON THE SUBJECT.
The next morning at daylight we weighed, and, by the aid of much firing
of guns, and the display of unmeasured bunting, we got the whole of the
convoy out of the cove by noon, with two men-of-war brigs bringing up
the rear. Shortly after losing sight of land, bad weather came on, in
which poor Gubbins was drowned, as I have before narrated.
By the time that we had reached Madeira, the ship's company had settled
into good order, and formed that concentrated principle which enabled
them to act as one man. It was a young and a fine crew, made up of
drafts of twenties and thirties from different vessels, thanks to the
nepotism of the treasurer of the navy.
We also began to understand each other's characters, and to study the
captain's. Mischief was his besetting sin. Naturally malignant he was
not, but inconsiderate to a degree that would make you think that his
heart was really bad. One of his greatest pleasures was that of placing
people in awkward and ludicrous situations. He very soon discovered the
fattest men among the masters of the merchant vessels; and, when we had
run far enough to the southward to make sitting in an open boat very
unpleasant, he would in light winds, make a signal for one of his jolly
friends to come on board, the more especially if he happened to be far
astern. Then began Captain Reud's enjoyment. After two hours' hard
pulling, the master would be seen coming up astern, wiping his brows,
and, when within hail, Reud would shout to him to give away--and, just
as he reached the stern ladder, the main-topsail of the frigate would be
shivered, and the boat again be left half a mile astern. Another
attempt, and another failure, the captain meanwhile gloating over the
poor man's misery with the suppressed chuckle of delight, in which you
would fancy a monkey to indulge after he had perpetrated some
irreparable mischief.
However, he would generally tease his victim no longer than dinner-time.
The ship would then be effectively hove-to, the half-melted skipper
would get on board, and the captain receive him with studied politeness.
Much would I admire the gravity with which he would deplore the
impossibility of stopping his Majesty's ship _Eos_ by anything short of
an anchor and good holding ground. No, she would not be hove-to--go
a-head or go astern she must--but stand still she could not. During
this harangue, the mystified mariner would look at his commodore, much
wondering which of the two was the fool.
"But, Mister Stubbs," the tormentor would continue, "it is now nearly
six bells--you have not dined, I presume; how long have you been making
this little distance, Mister Stubbs?" with a slow accent on the word
Mister. "Six hours!--bless me--I would certainly rope's--end those
lubbers in your boat. You _must_ be hungry--so must they, poor fellows!
Here, Mr Rattlin, call them up, put a boat-keeper in the boat, and let
her drop astern--tell my steward to give them a good tuck--out and a
glass of grog. Mister Stubbs, you'll dine with me;" and the affair
would end by the gratified hoaxed one being sent on board his own vessel
about the end of twilight, seeing more stars in the heavens than
astronomers have yet discovered.
But these skippers were, though very plump, but very humble game for our
yellow-skinned tormentor. He nearly drove the third lieutenant mad, and
that by a series of such delicate persecutions, annoyances so artfully
veiled, and administered in a manner so gentlemanly, that complaint on
the part of the persecuted, instead of exciting commiseration, covered
him with ridicule. This officer was a Portuguese nobleman of the name
of Silva--the Don we could never bring our English mouths to use--who
had entered our service at a very early age, and consequently spoke our
language as naturally as ourselves. He was surnamed the "Paviour," and,
when off duty, generally so addressed. It must not be supposed that he
acquired this soubriquet on account of the gentlemen in corduroys laying
by their hammers when he walked the street, bidding God bless him, for
he was a very light and elegant figure, and singularly handsome. At
this time I was the youngster of his watch, and a great favourite with
him. The misfortune of his life was, that he had written a book--only
one single sin--but it never left him,--it haunted him through half the
ships in the service, and finally drove him out of it. He had written
this book, and caused it to be printed--and he _published_ it also, for
nobody else could. His bookseller had tried, and failed lamentably.
Now, Don Silva was always publishing, and never selling. His cabin was
piled up with several ill-conditioned cases of great weight, which cases
laboured under the abominable suspicion of containing the unsold copies.
As much as ever I could learn of the matter, no one ever got farther
than the middle of the second page of this volume, excepting the
printer's devils, the corrector of the press, and the author. The book
was lent to me, but, great reader as I am, I broke down in attempting to
pass the impassible passage. The book might have been a good book, for
aught I, or the world, knew to the contrary: but there was a fatality
attending this particular part that was really enough to make one
superstitious--nobody could break the charm, and get over it. I wish
that the thought had occurred to me at that time of beginning it at the
end, and reading it backwards; surely, in that manner, the book might
have been got through. It was of a winning exterior, and tolerable
thickness. Never did an unsound nut look more tempting to be cracked,
than this volume to be opened and read. It had for its title the
imposing sentence of, "A Naval and Military _Tour up and down_ the Rio
de la Plate, by Don Alphonso Ribidiero da Silva."
I have before stated that my shipmates were all strangers to each other.
We had hardly got things to rights after leaving Cork, when Mr Silva
began, "as was his custom in the afternoon," to _publish_ his book. He
begged leave to read it to his messmates after dinner, and leave was
granted. With bland frankness, he insisted upon the opinions of the
company as he proceeded. He began--but the wily purser at once started
an objection to the first sentence--yea, even to the title. He begged
to be enlightened as to what sort of _tour_ that was that merely went
_up_ and _down_. However, the doctor came at this crisis to the
assistance of the Don, and suggested that the river might have _turns_
in it. The reader sees how critical we are in a man-of-war.
However, in the middle of the second page appeared the fatal passage,
"After having _paved_ our way up the _river_;" upon which, issue was
immediately joined, and hot argument ensued. The objector, of course,
was the purser; and, on this point, the doctor went over to the enemy.
All the lieutenants followed, the master stood neuter, and the marine
officer fell asleep--thus poor Silva stood alone in his glory, to fight
the unequal battle; and in doing so, after the manner of authors, lost
his temper.
Five, six, seven times was the book begun, but, like the hackney
coaches, the audience could not get off the stones. The book and the
discussion were always closed together in anger, just as the author was
_paving his way_. As he adopted the phrase with a parental fondness,
the father was called the "_paviour_."
All this duly reached the ears of the captain. He immediately wrote to
Don Silva, requesting his company to dinner, particularly soliciting him
to bring his excellent work. Of course, the little man took care to
have the doctor and purser. The claret is on the table, the Amphytrion
settles himself into a right critical attitude, but with a most
suspicious leer in the corner of his eye. Our friend begins to read his
book exultingly, but, at the memorable passage, as was previously
concerted, the hue and cry is raised.
During the janging of argument Reud seems undecided, and observes that
he can only judge the matter from well understanding the previous style
and the context, and so, every now and then, requests him, with a most
persuasive politeness, to begin again from the beginning. Of course, he
gets no farther than the paving. After the baited author had re-read
his page-and-a-half about six or seven times, the captain smiles upon
him lovingly, and says in his most insinuating tones, "Just read it over
again once more, and we shall never trouble you after--we shall know it
by heart."
As it was well understood that the author was never to get beyond that
passage until he had acknowledged it absurd and egregiously foolish,
anybody who knows anything about the _genus irritabile_ will be certain,
that if he lived till "the crack of doom," Don Silva would never have
passed the Rubicon. It was thus that the poor fellow was tormented: and
every time that he was asked to dine in the cabin, he was requested to
bring his Tour, in order that the _whole_ of it might be read.
The best and most imposing manner of writing is, to lay down some wise
dogma, and afterwards prove it by example. I shall follow this august
method. It is unwise for a midshipman to argue with the lieutenant of
the watch, whilst there are three lofty mastheads unoccupied. QED.
One morning, after a literary skirmish in the captain's cabin the
overnight, Mr Silva smiled me over to him on his side of the
quarter-deck, just as day was breaking. The weather was beautiful, and
we had got well into the trade winds.
"Mr Rattlin," said he, "you have not yet read my book. You are very
young, but you have had a liberal education."