Somewhere about the middle of this nineteenth century, a baby boy was
born on the raging sea in the midst of a howling tempest. That boy was
the hero of this tale.
He was cradled in squalls, and nourished in squalor--a week of dirty
weather having converted the fore-cabin of the emigrant ship into
something like a pig-sty. Appreciating the situation, no doubt, the
baby boy began his career with a squall that harmonised with the
weather, and, as the steward remarked to the ship's cook, "continued for
to squall straight on end all that day and night without so much as ever
takin' breath!" It is but right to add that the steward was prone to
exaggeration.
"Stooard," said the ship's cook in reply, as he raised his eyes from the
contemplation of his bubbling coppers, "take my word for it, that there
babby what has just bin launched ain't agoin' to shovel off his mortal
coil--as the play-actor said--without makin' his mark some'ow an'
somew'eres."
"What makes you think so, Johnson?" asked the steward.
"What makes me think so, stooard?" replied the cook, who was a huge
good-natured young man. "Well, I'll tell 'ee. I was standin' close to
the fore hatch at the time, a-talkin' to Jim Brag, an' the father o' the
babby, poor feller, he was standin' by the foretops'l halyards holdin'
on to a belayin'-pin, an' lookin' as white as a sheet--for I got a
glance at 'im two or three times doorin' the flashes o' lightnin'.
Well, stooard, there was lightnin' playin' round the mizzen truck, an'
the main truck, an' the fore truck, an' at the end o' the flyin'
jib-boom, an' the spanker boom; then there came a flash that seemed to
set afire the entire univarse; then a burst o' thunder like fifty great
guns gone off all at once in a hurry. At that identical moment,
stooard, there came up from the fore-cabin a yell that beat--well, I
can't rightly say what it beat, but it minded me o' that unfortnit pig
as got his tail jammed in the capstan off Cape Horn. The father gave a
gasp. `It's born,' says he. `More like's if it's basted,' growled Jim
Brag. `You're a unfeelin' monster, Brag,' says I; `an' though you _are_
the ship's carpenter, I _will_ say it, you 'aven't got no more sympathy
than the fluke of an anchor!' Hows'ever the poor father didn't hear the
remark, for he went down below all of a heap--head, legs, and arms--
anyhow. Then there came another yell, an' another, an' half a dozen
more, which was followed by another flash o' lightnin' an' drownded in
another roar o' thunder; but the yells from below kep' on, an' came out
strong between times, makin' no account whatever o' the whistlin' wind
an' rattlin' ropes, which they riz above--easy.--Now, stooard, do you
mean for to tell me that all that signifies nothink? Do you suppose
that that babby could go through life like an or'nary babby? No, it
couldn't--not even if it was to try--w'ich it _won't_!"
Having uttered this prophecy the cook resumed the contemplation of his
bubbling coppers.
"Well, I suppose you're right, John Johnson," said the steward.
"Yes, I'm right, Tom Thomson," returned the cook, with the nod and air
of a man who is never wrong.
And the cook _was_ right, as the reader who continues to read shall find
out in course of time.
The gale in which little Robin Wright was thus launched upon the sea of
Time blew the sails of that emigrant ship--the Seahorse--to ribbons. It
also blew the masts out of her, leaving her a helpless wreck on the
breast of the palpitating sea. Then it blew a friendly sail in sight,
by which passengers and crew were rescued and carried safe back to Old
England. There they separated--some to re-embark in other emigrant
ships; some to renew the battle of life at home--thenceforward and for
ever after to vilify the sea in all its aspects, except when viewed at a
safe distance from the solid land!
Little Robin's parents were among the latter. His father, a poor
gentleman, procured a situation as accountant in a mercantile house.
His mother busied herself--and she was a very busy little creature--with
the economics of home. She clothed Robin's body and stored his mind.
Among other things, she early taught him to read from the Bible.
As Robin grew he waxed strong and bold and lively, becoming a source of
much anxiety, mingled with delight, to his mother, and of considerable
alarm, mixed with admiration and surprise, to his father. He possessed
an inquisitive mind. He inquired into everything--including the antique
barometer and the household clock, both of which were heirlooms, and
were not improved by his inquiries. Strange to say, Robin's chief
delight in those early days was a thunderstorm. The rolling of heaven's
artillery seemed to afford inexpressible satisfaction to his little
heart, but it was the lightning that affected him most. It filled him
with a species of awful joy. No matter how it came--whether in the
forked flashes of the storm, or the lambent gleamings of the summer
sky--he would sit and gaze at it in solemn wonder. Even in his earliest
years he began to make inquiries into that remarkable and mysterious
agent.
"Musser," he said one day, during a thunderstorm, raising his large eyes
to his mother's face with intense gravity,--"Musser, what is
lightenin'?"
Mrs Wright, who was a soft little unscientific lady with gorgeous eyes,
sat before her son, perplexed.
"Well, child, it is--it--really, I don't know what it is!"
"Don't know?" echoed Robin, with surprise, "I sought you know'd
everysing."
"No, not everything, dear," replied Mrs Wright, with a deprecatory
smile; "but here comes your father, who will tell you."
"Does _he_ know everysing?" asked the child.
"N-no, not exactly; but he knows many things--oh, _ever_ so many
things," answered the cautious wife and mother.
The accountant had barely crossed his humble threshold and sat
down, when Robin clambered on his knee and put the puzzling
question.--"Fasser, what is lightenin'?"
"Lightning, my boy?--why, it's--it's--let me see--it's fire, of course,
of some sort, that comes out o' the clouds and goes slap into the
earth--there, don't you see it?"
Robin did see it, and was so awestruck by the crash which followed the
blinding flash that he forgot at the moment to push his inquiries
further, much to his father's satisfaction, who internally resolved to
hunt up the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ that very evening--letter L--and
study it.
In process of time Robin increased in size. As he expanded in body he
developed in mind and in heart, for his little mother, although
profoundly ignorant of electricity and its effects, was deeply learned
in the Scriptures. But Robin did not hunger in vain after scientific
knowledge. By good fortune he had a cousin--cousin Sam Shipton--who was
fourteen years older than himself, and a clerk at a neighbouring railway
station, where there was a telegraphic instrument.
Now, Sam, being himself possessed of strongly scientific tendencies,
took a great fancy to little Robin, and sought to enlighten his young
mind on many subjects where "musser's" knowledge failed. Of course he
could not explain all that he himself knew about electricity--the child
was too young for that,--but he did what he could, and introduced him
one day to the interior of the station, where he filled his youthful
mind with amazement and admiration by his rapid, and apparently
meaningless, manipulation of the telegraph instrument.
Cousin Sam, however, did a good deal more for him than that in the
course of time; but before proceeding further, we must turn aside for a
few minutes to comment on that wonderful subject which is essentially
connected with the development of this tale.