1539, 1540, 1541, and 1545 all claim his birth, and the historians are
at conflict as to whether his father was a parson or not. Some say that,
having, owing to religious persecution, to flee to Kent, the elder Drake
inhabited a hulk (like Rudder Grange), and, in the intervals of reading
prayers to the sailors in the Medway, brought up his twelve sons to the
sea. But that matters little; what matters is that one of his sons
became a master mariner, a buccaneer, a circumnavigator, a knight, an
admiral, and in 1588 destroyed (under God) the Spanish Armada. This
successful and intrepid commander was a man "of small size, with reddish
beard," who treated his companions with affection, as they him with
respect, and got the last drop of energy and devotion out of all. He had
"every possible luxury, even to perfume," but remained hard as nails.
His death came to pass off Porto Rico, whither he had been sent by Queen
Elizabeth to bring back another haul of treasure from the West Indies.
Hitherto he had succeeded, returning always with more spoil, but this
time he succumbed to various disorders.
The waves became his winding sheet, the waters were his tomb;
But for his fame the ocean sea is not sufficient room.
Even in the six-and-thirty years that Drake has stood, in bronze, on the
Hoe, he has seen wonderful changes; but had his statue been there ever
since his death--as it should have been--what amazing naval developments
would have passed beneath his eyes: wood to iron, canvas to
paddle-wheel, paddle-wheel to screw, coal to oil, and then the
submarine!
Turning from the Hoe with the intention of descending to the town by one
of the paths through the lawns at the back of the great sailor's
statue, what should confront me but the most perfect bowling-green I
have ever seen, with little sets of phlegmatic Devonians absorbed in
their contests. Here, thought I, is, beyond praise, devotion to
tradition. Of national games we have all heard, but there is something,
in a way, even finer in a municipal game--and such a municipal game, the
most famous of all. For years I have never heard Plymouth Hoe mentioned
without thinking of Drake and the game of bowls in which he was playing,
and which he refused to interrupt, when, that July afternoon, in 1588,
news came that the Spaniards were off the Lizard. ("Plenty of time," he
said, "to finish the game and beat the Spaniards too.") But it had never
occurred to me that bowls and the Hoe were still associated. England has
commonly a shorter memory than that. And, indeed, why should they be
associated? There is, for example, no archery at Tell's Chapel on the
shore of the Lake of Lucerne, no wood-chopping at Mount Vernon. But
Devon, with excellent piety, remembers and honours its own prophet; and
I now understand how it is that the Plymouth Museum should be destitute
of relics of Drake. Why trouble about his personal trappings when this
pleasant sward is in existence, to connect the eye instantly with the
mighty admiral at one of the most engaging moments of his life?
I stood by the railings of the green for two hours watching the
latter-day Plymouth champions at their play. Only the descent of the sun
and the encroaching gloom drove me away, and even then a few enthusiasts
remained bowling and bowling; for every one who is devoted to bowls
knows that the twilight favours form, although it does not favour the
spectators. The players seemed to me to be chiefly of the mercantile
class, and I wondered if among them were any of the bearers of the odd
names which I had noticed above the Plymouth shops as I was drifting
about its streets that morning. Were any of the great Devon tribe of Yeo
there? Was Mr. Condy U'Ren winning or losing? What kind of a "wood" did
Mr. Odam project towards the "jack"? Could the admirable elderly player
who always lifted his right foot and held it poised in the air while
delivering the bowl be Mr. Jethro Ham? I judged the players to be, in
many cases, old antagonists, and these games on this sunny October
afternoon merely items in a series of battles spread over years past,
and to continue, I hope, for years to come; for the pastime of bowls,
unlike cricket and baseball and lawn tennis, has a kindly, welcoming
smile for old age. The late Sir William Osler's rule as to forty being
the culmination of man's power becomes an absurdity on the green. There,
seventy is nothing. At eighty you are not necessarily to be sneezed at.
Even nonagenarians, I believe, have earned the thrill contained in the
phrase "Good wood!" So then I confidently expect, if I am alive, and am
on Plymouth Hoe in twenty years' time, when prosperity will again be
established, with amity among the nations, to find many of the same
players at this at once the gentlest, but not the least exciting, of
games--to me, at any rate, more exciting than horse-racing with all its
speed.
They played exceedingly well, these men of Plymouth, one veteran in
particular exacting a deadly amount of work out of the last four feet of
the bowls' stealthy journey. And how serious they were--with their
india-rubber over-shoes, and a mat to start from! I doubt if Sir Francis
had it all so spick-and-span--for in his day we were very nearly as far
from lawn mowers as from turbines. And how intent they were on the
progress not only of their own bowls but of their opponents' too--but of
course with a more personal, more intimate, interest in their own, even
to following its curve with their back-bones, and to some extent
spinally reproducing it, as conscientious players involuntarily do.
ADMIRALS ALL--TO BE
It is fitting that the naval training college from which the English
midshipmen go straight to sea should be situated in Drake's county. This
means that they breathe the right air, and, through the gap made by the
rocky mouth of the Dart, look out from their commanding eminence upon a
triangle of the right blue water. Drake also gives his noble name to one
of the Terms (or companies of cadets).
I have seen Dartmouth both at work and at play, and am still not sure
which was which. Whether the boys were at football on those high
table-lands where, at the first glimpse--so many players are there--all
the games seem one; or cleaning boilers; or solving the problems of
knots; or winding accumulators; or learning to steer; or drawing
machinery sections; or poring over charts; or assembling an engine; or
sailing their cutters in the Dart; or listening to signal instructors in
the gun-rooms; or acquiring the principles of navigation; or collecting
the constituents of a variegated tea in the canteen; or singing "God
Save the King" in chapel (all three verses); or grappling with
logarithms; or swimming vociferously in the bath--whatever they are
doing, there seems to be at the back of it the same spirit and zeal.
Even the four or five offenders whom I saw expiating in punishment drill
their most recent misdeeds appeared to have a zest.
Literature and the Navy have always had their liaison; and after
studying two or three typical numbers of _The Britannia Magazine_, the
organ of the cadets, I see every chance of a new crop of Captain
Marryats and Basil Hoods; while there is promise of an excellent
caricaturist or so, too. Compared with the ordinary run of school
periodicals, this is rather striking. I fancy that I discern a fresher
and more independent outlook and a rather wider range of interest. The
natural history articles, for example, are unusually good, and some of
the experiences of war, by midshipmen, are vivid and well done; and amid
the fun and nonsense, of which there is a plentiful infusion, there is
often a sagacious irony. Among this fun I find, in prose, an account of
the Battle of St. Vincent, by a young disciple of George Ade, which
would not disgrace a seriously comic periodical and must be quoted.
Nelson, I should premise, has just defeated the Spaniards. Then--
"Say, stranger," asked H. N., as the dons mushed around with
their surrenders, "is this a business proposition or a
sad-faced competition at a dime show?"
"Gee-whizz!" said the Spanish Ad., "we reckon we're bored
some. My name is Muckheap, and I don't seem to get gay any
old way."
"Bully for you, old Corpse-face," Nels replied; "hand out
your ham-carvers and then run around and fix yourself an
eye-wizzler!"
And so they passed in real swift.
And did the British Fleet push in the glad cry right away
when Nels put in his entrance? Why, sure!
As for the verse, which is both grave and humorous, nothing gives me
more pleasure and satisfaction than the rapid but exhaustive summary of
England's blockading efforts at sea in the Great War, which begins thus:
Observe how doth the British Navy
Baulk the Bavarian of his gravy;
While the fat Boche from Koeln to Munich
Cannot expand to fill his tunic....
The British Navy, we know, "does not advertise"; but there is no harm in
its nestlings saying a good word for it now and then.
Of all the things that I saw at Dartmouth, I shall retain, I think,
longest--against that comely smiling background of gay towers and
brickwork on the hill--the memory of the gymnasium and the swimming
bath. Compared with Dartmouth's physical training, with its
originality, ingenuity, thoroughness, and keenness, all other varieties
become unintelligent and savourless. This is fitness with fun--and is
there a better mixture? As for the swimming bath, it is always the abode
of high spirits, but to see it at its best you must go there directly
after morning service on Sunday. It is then that the boys really become
porpoises--or, rather, it is then that you really understand why
porpoises are always referred to as moving in "schools." I know nothing
of the doctrine that is preached normally at the College, for I heard
only a sermon by a visiting dignitary of notable earnestness and
eloquence, but I assume it to be beyond question. If, however, a heresy
should ever be propounded no harm would be done; for the waters of the
swimming bath would instantly wash it away. As one of the officers
remarked to me (of course in confidence), he always looked upon this
after-service riot of splashing and plunging as an instinctive
corrective of theological excess. On these occasions the bath becomes a
very cauldron, bubbling with boy.
It was cheering indeed, as I roamed about this great competent
establishment, to be conscious of such an undercurrent of content and
_joie de vivre_. At Dartmouth in particular is this a matter for
satisfaction, since the College is likely to be, for the boys, a last
link with the land--with solid England, the England of fields and trees
and games and friends--for many years. Of all boys who deserve a jolly
boyhood, these naval cadets, I think, come first; for the sea is a hard
mistress and they are plighted to her. Once they embark as midshipmen
responsibility is upon them; none of our sons need to grow up more
quickly. As to the glamour of the sea, one of the cadet poets becomes
lyrical about it--"I hear," he sings:
I hear the sea a-calling,
Calling me;
Calling of its charms,
Of its tempests and its calms;
I've lived upon the mainland,
But I'll die upon the sea!
May the fulfilment of his wish be long deferred! But, beneath the
glamour, the fact remains that, for all her pearls, the sea demands
everything that her sailors can give, often in every kind of danger,
discomfort, and dismay; and the division between herself and the
mainland is immense and profound. Let us rejoice then that the mainland
life of these boys dedicated to her service should be so blithe.
A STUDY IN SYMMETRY
Apropos of admirals, let me tell you the following story which, however
improbable it may seem to you, is true.
Once upon a time there was an artist with historical leanings not
unassociated with the desire for pelf--pelf being, even to idealists,
what gasoline is to a car. The blend brought him one day to Portsmouth,
where the _Victory_ lies, with the honourable purpose of painting a
picture of that famous ship with Nelson on board. The Admiral was of
course dying, and the meritorious intention of the artist, whose wife
wanted some new curtains, was to make the work as attractive as might be
and thus extract a little profit from the wave of naval enthusiasm which
was then passing over the country; for not only was the picture itself
to be saleable, but reproductions were to be made of it.
Permission having been obtained from the authorities, the artist boarded
the _Victory_, set up his easel on her deck, and settled down to his
task, the monotony of which was pleasantly alleviated by the chatter of
the old salts who guard the ship and act as guides to the tourists
visiting her. Since all these estimable men not only possessed views on
art, but had come by now to the firm belief that they had personally
fought with Nelson and witnessed his end, their criticisms were not too
easily combated: so that the artist had not a tedious moment. Thus,
painting, conversing, and learning (as one can learn only from a trained
imparter of information), three or four days passed quickly away and the
picture was done.
So far there has been nothing to strain credulity. But a time will
come--is, in fact, upon us.
On the evening of the last day, as the artist was sitting at early
dinner with a friend before catching the London train, his remarks
turned (as an artist's sometimes will) upon the work upon which he had
just been engaged. He expressed satisfaction with it in the main, but
could not, he said, help feeling that its chances of becoming a real
success would be sensibly increased if he could find as a model for the
central figure some one whose resemblance to Nelson was noticeable.
"It seems to be a law of nature," he went on, "that there cannot exist
at the same time--that is to say, among contemporaries--two faces
exactly alike. That is an axiom. Strange as it may sound, among all the
millions of countenances with two eyes, a nose in the middle and a mouth
below it, no two precisely resemble each other. There are differences,
however slight." (He was now beginning really to enjoy the sound of his
own voice.) "That is, as I say, among contemporaries: in the world at
the moment in which I am speaking. But," he continued, "I see no reason
why after the lapse of years Nature should not begin precisely to
reproduce physiognomies and so save herself the trouble of for ever
varying them. That being so, and surely the hypothesis is not too
far-fetched"--Here his friend said, "No, not at all--oh no!"--"that
being so, why," the artist continued, "should there not be at this
moment, more than a century later, some one whose resemblance to Nelson
is exact? He would not be necessarily a naval man--probably, indeed,
not, for Nelson's face was not characteristic of the sea--but whoever he
was, even if he were an archbishop, I," said the painter firmly, "should
not hesitate to go up to him and ask him to sit to me."
The friend agreed that this was a very proper attitude and that it
betokened true sincerity of purpose.
"Nelson's face," the painter continued, "was an uncommon one. So large
and so mobile a mouth is rare. But it is by no means impossible that a
duplicate exists, and no matter who was the owner of it, even were he an
archbishop, I should not hesitate to go up and ask him to sit to me."
(For the benefit of any feminine reader of this veracious history, I
should say that the repetition which she has just noticed is not a slip
on my part but has been carefully set down. It is an attempt to give
verisimilitude to the conversation--because men have a habit of saying
things like that twice.)
The friend again remarked that the painter's resolve did him infinite
credit, and the two started for the station, still conversing on this
theme.
On entering their carriage the first thing to take their attention was a
quiet little man in black, who was the absolute double of the hero of
Trafalgar.
"Good gracious!" whispered the painter excitedly, "do you see that?
There's the very man. The likeness to Nelson is astonishing. I never saw
anything like it. I don't care who he is, I must tackle him. It's the
most extraordinary chance that ever occurred."
Assuming his most silky and deferential manner--for, though clearly not
an archbishop, unless in mufti, this might yet be a person of
importance--the painter approached the stranger and tendered a card.
"I trust, sir, that you will excuse me," he began, "for the liberty I am
taking, but I am an artist and I happen to be engaged on a picture of
Nelson on the _Victory_. I have all the accessories and so forth, but
what I very seriously need is a brief sitting from some gentleman with a
likeness to the great Admiral. Such, sir, as yourself. It may be news to
you--it probably is--but you, sir, if I may say so, are so like the
famous and immortal warrior as almost to take one's breath away. It is
astonishing, wonderful! Might I--would it be--could you--would you, sir,
be so very kind as to allow me to paint you? I would, of course, make
every effort not to inconvenience you--I would arrange so that your time
should be mine."
"Of course I will, guvnor," said the man. "Being a professional model,
I've been sitting for Nelson for years. Why, I've been doing it for an
artist this very afternoon."
DAVY JONES
A naval gentleman of importance having asked me who the original Davy
Jones was, I was rendered mute and ashamed. The shame ought properly to
have been his, since he is in the Admiralty, where the secrets of the
sea should be known, and is covered with buttons and gold braid; but
there is caprice in these matters, and it is I (as a defaulting literary
person) who felt it.
I left with bent head, determined, directly I reached London and books
were again accessible, to find the answer. But have I found it? You
shall decide.
I began with a "Glossary of Sea Terms," which is glib enough about the
meaning of Davy Jones's locker but silent as to derivation. I passed on
to "The Oxford Dictionary," there to find the meaning more precisely
stated, after directions how to pronounce Davy's name. You or I would
assume that he should be pronounced as he is spelt: just Davy; but the
late Dr. Murray knew better. You don't say Davy; you say _Dee.vi_.
Having invented and solved these difficulties, the Dictionary proceeds:
"Nautical slang. The spirit of the sea, the sailor's devil. Davy Jones's
locker: the ocean, the deep, especially as the grave of those who perish
at sea." Among the authors cited is Smollett in "Peregrine Pickle," and
also one J. Willock, to whom I shall return later.
Still on the search for an origin of Davy Jones I went next to "The
Dictionary of National Biography" (which, if only you could get it
ashore, is, no matter what the pundits say as to the Bible and Boswell
and Plato and "The Golden Treasury," and so forth, the best book for a
desert island), and there I found no fewer than eight David Joneses, all
of course Welsh, not one of whom, however, could possibly claim any
connexion with our hero; three being hymn-writers and antiquaries, one a
revivalist, one a soldier and translator, one a barrister, one a
missionary to Madagascar (the only one who knew anything of the sea),
and one a mad preacher whose troubles caused his "coal-black hair to
turn milk-white in a night"--as mine seemed likely soon to do. However,
I then bethought me of what I should have done first, and seeking the
shelves where "Notes and Queries" reside was at once rewarded. For
"Notes and Queries" had tackled the problem and done with it as long ago
as 1851. On June 14 of that year Mr. Henry Campkin requested the little
paper (which, since Captain Cuttle provided it with its excellent motto,
should have a certain friendliness towards nautical questions) to help
him. Mr. Campkin, however, did not, as my Admiralty friend did, say, "By
the way, who the devil _was_ Davy Jones?" He asked, as a gentleman
should, in gentlemanly, if precise, terms: "Who was the important
individual whose name has become so powerful a myth? And what occasioned
the identification of the ocean itself with the locker of this
mysterious person?"
Mr. Campkin, who obviously should have occupied a seat in the House of
Commons, was answered in record time, much quicker than would be his
fortune to-day; for on June 21 Mr. Pemberton, the only reader of "Notes
and Queries" ever to take up the challenge, made his reply, and with
that reply our knowledge begins and ends. Mr. Pemberton said that being
himself a seafarer and having given much consideration to the question,
he had come at length to the conclusion that the name of Davy Jones was
derived from the prophet Jonah (who, of course, was not Welsh at all but
an Israelite). Jonah, if not exactly a sailor, had had his marine
adventures, and in his prayer thus refers to them: "The waters
compassed me about ... the depth closed me round about; the weeds were
wrapped about my head," and so forth. The sea, then, Mr. Pemberton
continued, "might not be misappropriately termed by a rude mariner
Jonah's locker"; while Jonah would naturally soon be familiarised into
Jones, and since all Joneses hail from the country from whose valleys
and mountains Mr. Lloyd George derives his moving perorations, and since
most Welshmen (Mr. Lloyd George being no exception) are named Davy, how
natural that "Davy Jones" should emerge! That was Mr. Pemberton's
theory, and the only one which I have discovered; but I am sure that
Mrs. Gamp would support him--although she might prefer to substitute for
the word "locker" the word which comic military poets always rhyme to
"reveille."
But, indeed, the more one thinks of it, the more reasonable does the
story seem; for, as Mr. Pemberton might have gone on to say, there is
further evidence for linking up Jonah and Jones in the genus of fish
which swallowed the prophet but failed to retain him. To a dialectician
of any parts the fatal association of whales and Wales would be child's
play. Later I found that Dr. Brewer of "The Dictionary of Phrase and
Fable" supports the Jonah theory whole-heartedly; but he goes on--to my
mind very unnecessarily--to derive "Davy" from "duffy," a West Indian
spirit. Thus, says he, Davy Jones's locker is really Duffy Jonah's
locker--that is, the bottom of the sea, or the place where the sailors
intended to consign Jonah. The confusion is rather comic. First, a man
of God whom the crew throws overboard. Secondly a fish, divinely sent to
save the man of God. Thirdly, the use of the man of God's name to
signify the sailor's devil, with himself as sinister ruler of an element
which he had the best reasons for hating. Thus do myths grow.
So much for Davy Jones. J. Willock, however, another of the authorities
whom "The Oxford Dictionary" cites, plunges us into a further mystery.
In one of his _Voyages_ he says: "The great bugbear of the ocean is
Davie Jones. At the crossing of the line they call out that Davie Jones
and his wife are coming on board...."
"And his wife"!
But with the identity of Mrs. Davy Jones I refuse to concern myself--not
even though the whole Board of Admiralty command it.
THE MAN OF ROSS
I have several reasons for remembering Ross, but the first is that a
visit to that grey hillside town sent me to the authorities for more
particulars concerning John Kyrle. Others are the intensity and density
of the rain that can fall in Herefordshire; the sundial on Wilton
Bridge; and the most elementary Roman Catholic chapel I ever
saw--nothing but a bare room--made, however, when I pushed open the door
on that chill and aqueous afternoon, cheerful and smiling by its full
complement of votive candles all alight at once. In the honour of what
Saint they burned so gaily, like a little mass meeting of flames, I
cannot say, but probably the Gentle Spirit of Padua, who not only
befriends all tender young things but, it is notorious, if properly
approached, can find again whatever you have lost; and most people have
lost something. I remember Ross also because I had Dickens's Letters
(that generous feast) with me, and behold! on the wall of the hotel,
whose name I forget but which overlooks the sinuous Wye, was his
autograph and an intimation that under that very roof the novelist had
arranged with John Forster the details of his last American tour.
But these are digressions. The prime boast of Ross is that it had a Man;
and this Man is immanent. You cannot raise your eyes in Ross without
encountering a reminder of its Manhood, its Manliness; and the
uninstructed, as they wander hither and thither, naturally become more
and more curious as to his identity: how he obtained the definite
article and the capital M so definitely--The Man--and what was his
association with the place.