table under a verandah outside a Russian snap-shop. There were two of
the old school amongst them, and these were being egged on to a debate
by the younger men on a question that was creating a vast amount of
interest at that time. The heir to the Tichborne estates had left home
to travel abroad, and as nothing was heard of him for several years,
his mother became anxious and began advertising very widely in the
Colonial, English, and Continental press. The result of this was that a
person calling himself Sir Roger Tichborne turned up. He paid a visit
to Wapping, and then presented himself to Lady Tichborne, who was in
bed. She flung her arms around his neck in an ecstasy of joy and
claimed him as her long-lost son. The real Roger Tichborne was supposed
to have been lost in a vessel called the _Bella_, which had sailed from
Rio in South America for Australia. A claim was made on the Tichborne
baronetcy. The claimant's counsel, Dr Keneally, who did not get on very
well with the judges, commenced a paper called the _Englishman_,
which gave full accounts of the trial. It was widely read by
enthusiasts who believed that Dr Keneally's client was the real Sir
Roger. It was this trial that the coterie of commanders had gathered
together to discuss. One of them, Captain Rush, was a staunch believer
in the claimant. He had just received the paper, and was brim-full of
the convincing proofs that it contained. Another fine old salt, who had
neither education nor manners, endeavoured to take an intelligent
interest in the discussion. His name was Mark Grips. Both he and
Captain Rush belonged to the old school, and both were Northumbrians
who spoke the dialect without any attempt at moderation.
"Ah," grunted Captain Rush, almost jumping off his seat with delight;
"Keneally has Hawkins there!"
"Where?" said Mark.
"Why, here," replied Rush.
"Nothing but damned nonsense," said Mark.
"Nothing but nonsense? What? What? What d'ye say?" screamed Rush. "D'ye
mean to tell me that Keneally doesn't know what he's talkin' about?"
"No; you divent knaw what yo're talkin' about."
"What? I divent knaw what I'm talkin' about? I tell ye' what it is,
sor, Roger's the man!"
"Beggared a one," said Mark. (It wasn't exactly "beggared" a one that
he said, but that is near enough.)
"D'ye mean to tell me," said Captain Rush (as he frothed with wrath),
"that a man doesn't know the Ass's Bridge when he's asked about it?"
"Beggared a one," said Mark.
"Then you're a leir."
"A leir, d'ye say? Then I say beggared a one!"
"Another thing: d'ye mean to tell me, Mark, that a mother doesn't know
her own son?"
"Beggared a one," replied Mark.
"D'ye say that again?" said Rush; "I tell you, when a woman puts her
arms around her son's neck, d'ye think she doesn't know it's her son?"
Mark by this time is also frothing at the mouth; and, standing in a
bellicose attitude, hisses:
"I says 'beggared a one.' Roger's not the man!"
Rush becomes speechless, and his eyes flash with anger, and he flings
the _Englishman_ at Mark, who in turn calls his friend, "Coward; that's
the only argument you have. I tell you again, Roger's _not_ the man!"
"Who are you?" retorted Rush; "do you think yourself the Lord High
Admiral Dundas, then?"
"No," said the excited Mark; "I'm Mark Grips, one of Jimmy Young's
skippers, and I tell ye Roger never was the man!"
This finished the controversy for a time, as the two combatants were
prevailed upon to shake hands, and in spite of this spirited combat
they were soon enjoying their long pipes and their grog together.
Just about the time the Radicals in the House of Commons, aided by the
Irish Nationalists, were making a good stand-up fight for the abolition
of flogging in the army and navy, Mr Charles Bradlaugh was elected as
one of the members for Northampton, with Mr Henry Labouchere as his
colleague. The sanctity of the nation was violently shocked at the
effrontery of Northampton in electing so dangerous a Radical infidel to
represent them in Parliament as the notorious "Iconoclast." A wave of
screaming passed over the fair Christian land; the notorious advocate
of atheistic principles was proclaimed a menacing danger to the
Christian edifice. Injustice and untruth joined against him; shocking
stories of blasphemy were circulated with mad recklessness against him.
There was not a single word of truth in them. This was proved over and
over again in courts of law, and yet the charges were encouraged and
persisted in. Poor Bradlaugh; what a time he had of it until the
tempest of folly subsided, and both the people and some of their
representatives in Parliament came back to their senses, and not only
allowed the member for Northampton to take his seat, but passed an act
giving members the option of affirming instead of taking the oath, and
also ordered the erasing from the journals of the House those records
which were said to justify Mr Bradlaugh's exclusion. It was not to be
wondered at that this rapturous concert of passion and prejudice should
reach the impressionable sailors from one border of the ocean to the
other, and formed part of their occasional riotous debates. Any one who
has had the privilege of listening to the fiery arguments set forth by
sailors on the Bradlaugh or any other topic of absorbing interest must
ever cherish it as a memorable experience. There is seldom any regard
for moderation in such conflicts, and the extraordinary confusion of
ideas makes them fascinating. I have a vivid recollection of my
attention being attracted to the clamour of about half a dozen
weather-beaten nautical stagers that were seated outside a dram-shop
which was known to fame as "Jack the Blaster's." It will be readily
recognized that the name was given to it by a north-countryman. I
stopped, asked for a chair, and saw the whole thing through.
Occasionally, while the controversy was travelling along its more
turbulent stages, I was asked to intervene in some way or other, but I
had to act with studied impartiality, so adopted a neutral course.
"They tell me," said burly Captain Harvey, "that he's the best speaker
in England."
"Who's the best speaker in England?" asked Skipper Cowan; "do you mean
that fellow that's givin' members of Parliament so much trouble just
now?"
"I mean Bradlaugh," said Mr Harvey.
"Well then," said Mr Cowan, "you're decidedly in the wrong. I heard a
Methodist parson beat him to fits at Blyth. Bradlaugh lost his temper,
and after that the parson wiped the boards with him. They called the
parson Harrison,[2] and the atheists were all frightened of him after
that."
[2] The same Mr Harrison is now a clergyman of the Church of
England, and is pastor of St Thomas's, Newcastle.
"I never heard that before," said Harvey.
"Very well," retorted his friend, "you hear it now. I'm telling you;
and another thing, instead of making him a member of Parliament I'd put
the fellow in gaol and stop him going about the country destroying
religion and making people infidels. Lord Randolph is a grand chap; he
won't have any of his affirmin'. No, no, Sir Randolph doesn't believe
in that sort of cattle, and he means what he says. Randy's all their
daddies [Randy is cleverer than they]. Look what he did when Bradlaugh
kept running up to the bar of the House of Commons to kiss the book.
What did Randolph do, you say? Why he jumped after him every time,
seized him by the coat tails, and said, 'Bradlaugh, stand back!' That's
pluck, if you like. Of course he had what they call the sargent with a
sword by his side ready to stick him had Randolph not been too many for
him. And what do you think old Gladstone did? He's always up to some
mischief. He wrote that pamphlet on the Bulgarian atrocities that
brought about the war with Russia and Turkey. What did he do, sir? I'll
tell you what he did. He said, 'Gentlemen, Bradlaugh's been elected; he
must be allowed to come among us.' There's a fine Englishman for you!
But never mind, _his_ day will come!"
A bulbous, beery-looking skipper tapped a companion on the shoulder,
and said in startled undertone, "Cowan said something about Bradlaugh
running up to the bar of the House. Is there a bar there?" And Harvey
overhearing, said:
"Yes, Mister, there's a bar in that house, but not the kind of bar you
mean. It is a bar sir, not a drinking-bar, mind you."
"What do they call it a bar for, then?" asked the beery person; "a
bar's a bar, isn't it?"
"Yes, a bar's a bar, and you've got a lot to learn yet. What do they
call the speaker 'the speaker' for?"
"Because he can speak, of course," said the beery gentleman.
"Shut up, man," said Cowan; "don't show your ignorance, and let me go
on with the argument. It's not that at all."
"What is it, then?" said the inconvenient heckler.
"Never mind what it is. It's not what you say it is," remarked Cowan.
"By George, he was well served when they locked him up in the Clock
Tower for his impudence. Why, at one time it took ten bobbies to keep
him from mauling a lot of Christian gentleman that had taken the oath
and kissed the Bible over and over again. They tore his clothes, and
the pity is they were not torn off him altogether. Where was his cheek
to talk about his conscience? And as to Gladstone, well, he's a fine
Englishman to back a man up in his infidel works. He deserves as much
as Bradlaugh; and as to Northampton, they should take away the vote
from it."
The orator had completely exhausted and entwined a rich fund of
adjectives into his harangue as he went along; and, when he ceased
speaking, a warm supporter of his gave some applause, and nudging the
bulbous person, he remarked:
"He's a long-headed fellow, isn't he? Eh, what a wonderful man for
politics, and what a speaker! Why, Bradlaugh wouldn't have much chance
with him. He should be in Parliament hissel'. By gum, he'd make them
sit up. What do you say?"
His companion looked wise, and seemed smitten with awe. He could not
trust himself to speak of the brilliant oration they had just listened
to. Harvey followed up the debate by defending the right of freedom of
action and freedom of speech all round.
"What business is it of these members of Parliament to interfere with
what people think or say? I say 'no business at all.' Why, they tell me
that when Bradlaugh beat them and took his seat and defied them, the
Tories flocked round him and said: 'Bradlaugh, we're glad to see you in
this honourable House, and congratulate you as one of ourselves.' Now
there was brazen hypocrisy for you; and what do you think he said in
reply? He stood up and said: 'Gentlemen, I know you of old, but I'm not
going to be sucked in by any of your snakish ways.' Wasn't that fine?"
"Where did you hear that?" said Cowan.
"I saw'd in the papers; it's all right," said Harvey.
"Yes, and what's more," said Cowan, "I saw that Bradlaugh had become
very popular with everybody, and the Tories said he was a rare good
sort."
"Then I don't believe it," said Harvey.
"But I tell you I saw'd in the papers."
"Well," said Cowan, "if you hadn't telled me that, I wouldn't have
believed it."
"But I'm telling ye," said Harvey; "and what is more, there's
Labouchere: he's a queer 'un. He has a paper they call _Truth_, and he
writes all about the Queen and the aristocracy. He knows everything
about them, and doesn't care a damn for anybody. He's been had up for
libel many a time, but that never makes any difference. He goes on
worse. They call him a Radical. He belongs to that lot that wants
everything for themselves."
"But what about them Prussians wantin' to steal Denmark? What do you
call that but cowardly work; and had it not been that Austria, the
other bully, came to their assistance, the little Danes had the
Prussians by the throat, and then, like all bullies, they fell out
about the spoil and began to fight among themselves. No wonder that the
Germans are hated; everybody liked the Danes. And where was your
England then? Was she frightened of Von Bismarck? Yes, I says; yes! Was
Palmerston frightened of him or of all the Prussians in the world? No,
certainly not! He said: 'Gentlemen, let us draw the sword for the
father of the Princess of Wales'; but these great Christian members of
Parliament that you've been talking about so much said: 'No, we'll
fight for nobody but ourselves.' Where is your Waterloo, your Corunna
and Balaclava now? What about that foggy mornin' in the Baltic Sea when
the fog cleared away and we were right in the centre of the Danish
line-of-battleships, and the whole crew wanted to join the Danish navy,
and the skipper said: 'No, men, you must stick to your own ship.' But
we saluted them with the old flag, and gave them three good English
cheers, and they cheered us, and the skipper said: 'Ah, they're fine
fellows. What is England doin' of not to help them? There's no
ill-feelin' left about Nelson puttin' the spy-glass to his blind eye
and blowing Copenhagen down about their ears.'"
"Talk about makin' the Queen Empress of India? By George! Gladstone did
walk into Disraeli about that, and it was said the Queen got her hump
up about it."
"Well she might," said Cowan; "what business had Gladstone to
interfere? He's always interfering."
"Yes," said Harvey; "and a good job for England he is."
"What d'ye say? Good job for England? What about the Fenians? What
about Parnell and them Irishmen? What about the rascals who were nabbed
settin' fire to infernal machinery for blowing up the House of
Parliament? And then he talks of givin' them Home Rule! What about
Piggott, Parnell and company?"
"Yes, and what about the forgeries, Mr Sniggins," said Harvey.
"Don't call me Sniggins!" said Captain Cowan, "I'm a respectable man."
"Don't you say this and that about Gladstone, then," said Harvey.
"We will if we like," said the bulbous friend, who showed in his
phlegmatic way signs of taking sides against the great Liberal leader.
"What do you know about it?" contemptuously interposed Harvey. "My
advice is to you, 'keep yourself sober and your mouth shut, and don't
show your empty-headedness to people who have forgotten more than ever
you knew!' _You_ talk about Gladstone! Why, you would never have known
there was such a man if I hadn't told you. Of all the brazen cheek,
well! You take the cake to talk to me about a man that made England and
stopped the gentry from pilfering the whole thing."
"Get away, man!" replied our portly friend; "you would swear you were
the Duke of Argyle. I tell you he would have given the country away to
the foreigners if we hadn't stepped in."
"Do _you_ call yourself '_we_'!" interjected Harvey, his utterance
almost incoherent with anger; "you want to go to school again and get
some learnin'."
"Get some learnin', d'ye say, Mr Know-all? What has Gladstone done for
the sailors, you an' me? That's a poser for you; and look at the money
he gave away about the _Alabama_ to the Yankees, instead of fightin'
them for it like an Englishman. That's another poser for you!" retorted
the big, burly antagonist who had wakened up and entered into the
discussion with elephantine zeal. "Some of you would let foreigners
jump on your stomachs, but Captain Cowan and me says, 'England for
ever!' Why, if it hadn't been for Palmerston and the old Jew, we would
all have been Russians or blooming Germans before now."
"Bravo, John Bird, well said! That's a clinker for you, Harvey," chimed
in the devoted supporter of the previous speaker. "Fine Britishers they
are, givin' away the country of their birth in lumps at a time!"
Harvey was purple; his blood was at boiling pitch, and his poignant
attack on Captain John Bird gave that gentleman some concern lest it
should reach to something more than mere words. His peroration
consisted of a luxuriant use of imprecating adjectives which stamped
him as a person of original thought. He apologized to his Creator as he
passed from point to point of these profane heights, and was obviously
sure that this chaste mode of seeking forgiveness commended his
observations to the Deity. The attack on Gladstone's and his own
patriotism roused him to produce prodigies of declamatory
illustrations.
"Givin' the country away," he said. "Gladstone's trying to stop them
dukes and earls and such like from stealing it. What does he say that
the House of Lords should be shut up for, and these gentry made to work
like other folk? I'll tell you what he says that for: because he wants
it fairly shared, and the men that go down to the sea in ships to have
a bit of it."
"Now you needn't repeat Scripture after you've been swearin' see hard,"
interposed Captain Cowan.
"No, sir, I'm not using Scripture. I'm saying that Gladstone wants to
turn them fellows in the House of Lords out to work for their living,
instead of cribbing all the land and gettin' such as you to back them
up and crawl on your bended knees and kiss their hands for them; but
I'm not one of them sort. I says what Joe Cowan says: 'The land for the
people if they pay for it.' Wasn't it Gladstone and Bright that said no
good would ever be done until the House of Lords was pulled down, and
wasn't it Joe Cowan that stood up for them when they wanted to make the
Queen the Empress of India? Didn't he say: 'No, gentlemen, the Queen
of England's good enough for me; I wants no Empress'? And didn't that
favourite Jew of yours say to him it was a grand speech? But I'm not
goin' to open my mouth to fill your empty heads. You don't know your
A B C's yet; and you talk to me about givin' away England, and about
Dizzy, and you haven't a good word to say about your own countrymen who
want to get you a bit of the land to grow something on. I tell you,
you're nothing better than nincompoops, hobbledehoys that knows no more
about politics than the old hookers you're skippers of do." He
emphasized these last remarks by bringing his fist heavily down on the
table, knocking the glasses off, and then in a patronizing way he
walked from them a short distance, turned round quickly as though a
sudden impulse had seized him, and shouted at the top of his voice:
"You want to go to school again, if you've ever been there, but I don't
think you have!"
A reticent man sat close by during the singular debate. An observer
could see that Captain Harvey's last oration was having a convincing
effect on him, and immediately Harvey had fired his last shot Captain
George Halligay rose, and with unaffected solemnity remarked:
"That man knows too much to be a shipmaster. He should be in the House
of Commons. The language he uses, and his knowledge of men and what
they say, is very clever. It would take a funny 'un to tackle him. They
tell me he's written to the papers sometimes."
"All wind and blather," said Captain John Bird, which remark was
endorsed by Captain Cowan and received with some applause.
"Not so," said Halligay. "He has great gifts." And then they made their
way to the landing where their boats waited to convey them to their
respective ships.
These were some of the last specimens of our old-time sailor manhood.
Rough, uncultured, careless of danger, their fighting instincts
sometimes leading them to ferocity; but withal they were strong in many
ways, and had intervals of docility which ofttimes made them lovable. I
dare say many, if not all, of their generation (for they were aged men
when I knew them) have passed beyond the reach of the political or
social student, and we shall nevermore hear the same kind of confusion
of thought that made the discussions of these aged mariners so
delightful to listen to. Of course many of the captains of that time
had real accomplishments far beyond the stolid men of whom I have been
speaking. But even the most cultured of that generation did not reach
the zenith of fame to which the modern commander has risen. The average
present-day captain has little in common with his predecessors. His
political creed goes beyond the mere assertion of the superiority of
Britishers over foreigners. He claims association with a party, and
knows a good deal about prominent statesmen and politicians. He is up
to date in the causes which led to the Boer War, the Coal Tax, the Corn
Duty, Irish Land Purchase, the Education Act, and Chamberlain's
agitation to force a change in our fiscal policy from Free Trade to
Protection. He has a peculiar form of self-confidence which may be
considered phenomenal though it is rarely offensive.
VI
MARY ROUTLEDGE
I have often come in contact with old people living in the villages
close by the sea and far away from the bustle of railroads and large
towns, who lament the good times gone by when they used to look forward
to the homecoming and the passing to and fro of the bonny sailor lads,
who were always expected to lift the monotony from their dull,
uneventful lives by strange stories and rollicking habits. The
villagers for the most part lived under a kind of despotism. The Lord
of the Manor and the parson dominated them, and fashioned their
politics, their religion, and even their social lives. The rule was to
keep within the limits of their own little community when they wanted a
wife or a husband, but if at any time their affections travelled
outside this sanctified boundary, the two potentates were assiduous in
their warnings that if the new comer in any way transgressed the
unwritten code of laws that were framed in order that the estate might
be kept free from contamination they would have to leave it
peremptorily. Ranters, Wesleyans, and other Nonconformists were
regarded as heretics. A religious test was practised, and those who
openly avowed their dissent from the established form of worship were
frankly told that there was a strong aversion to having that manner of
person about the place, and that any attempt at proselytising would be
met by immediate expulsion. That was the state of things existent in a
certain country village no further back than the middle of the last
century, when, as though Providence had pre-arranged it, a man who at
one time had been a sailor came to live there. He was tall and
well-made, with broad shoulders, and he walked with a sort of military
tread. He had a broad forehead, firmly set lips, and altogether he was
good to look on. No one could come in contact with him without being
impressed with his strength of character. His wife was an equally
fine-looking person, with pronounced intellectual capacity. They were
both evangelical Wesleyans. Their family consisted of five sons and two
daughters, a fine wholesome brood, who were all quite young, the eldest
being about fifteen. The children were reared and trained with great
care, and without distinction of sexes: they were all taught to do
housework. Family worship was held morning and night. If the father was
unavoidably absent, the mother took the service, and if both were
absent, the eldest of the family, either son or daughter, took it. The
house was a hive of industry and religious fervour; everything about it
was neat and spotlessly clean. Soon after their arrival the parson made
a call on them, and of course the father and mother were asked what
their faith was. This being quickly settled, the man of holy orders
intimated that the parents would be expected to attend the parish
church each Sunday with their family. They of course reminded him that
they were Wesleyan Methodists, but that would not prevent them
attending his church in the mornings. "In the afternoon and evenings I
have been accustomed to conduct a service myself either in the open air
or in my own or someone else's home," said the placid-looking father.
The parson gazed at him with apoplectic surprise, and hinted that he
hoped he would not continue his mission work there, as Nonconformity
was not approved by the owner of the village, and, he might add, by
himself either.
"I fear I must disregard your request," said Mr Burnside, "and do what
my conscience and judgement demand of me."