[Illustration]
THE
TOLL-KEEPERS
AND OTHER
_STORIES FOR THE YOUNG_
BY
BENJAMIN CLARKE
AUTHOR OF “MY FIRST AND LAST VOYAGE,” ETC. ETC.
[Illustration]
EDINBURGH
W. P. NIMMO, HAY, & MITCHELL
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE TOLL-KEEPERS, 5
CHIPS FROM A NAVAL OFFICER’S LOG, 11
A SHORT ACCOUNT OF GIBRALTAR, 15
A GENEROUS ENEMY, 21
THIRSTY JACK, 25
A VISIT TO MALTA, 29
THE FAT CAPTAIN, 33
A CONVICT STORY, 37
THE LITTER OF PUPS, 43
ABOUT FISHING, 49
AN ANIMAL THAT HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS, 55
CHARLEY FORDER AND HIS SISTERS, 61
MY GRANDFATHER, 69
THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL, 76
MY FIRST BEAR, 84
THE PLOT DISCOVERED, 90
_The “Chips from a Naval Officer’s Log” are all strictly true, having
been related to the Writer by officers who bore witness to the truth of
their statements._
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[Illustration]
THE TOLL-KEEPERS.
Bushgrove farm-house was a right snug homestead, and the farm-yard,
and the rick-yard, and the out-buildings said very plainly that Farmer
Cousens was a well-to-do man. To spend one fine summer’s day at Bushgrove
would furnish you children with enough to talk about for a month. There
would be something to suit the tastes of all of you. Some of the boys
would make for the stable at once, and very likely would get a chance of
a ride in one of the carts to some part of the farm; others would venture
up in the loft above, and perform some daring somersaults on the soft
hay; some of the girls would get permission to feed the poultry, and
be delighted when the different sorts came half running, half flying at
the sight of the well-known bowl; others would only be too glad to help
Mrs Cousens in the house, especially if they were entrusted with the
important duty of going up to the apple room and selecting the nicest,
rosiest apples for the pie. But none, either of the boys or girls, would
be far away when the cows were milked just before tea, for a draught of
new milk warm from the cow is a treat that Londoners do not easily forget.
I will undertake, however, to say that not one of you when thinking over
your day’s pleasure, but would decide that the most enjoyable part of
your visit was your introduction to little Sophy and Nelly Cousens.
Oh! their father would not think much of his farm or his ricks if he
had not these little rogues about him, and their mother would consider
Bushgrove a very dismal home without these little feet trotting about it:
it was hard to say who was the farmer’s favourite. Sophy was the elder
and the prettier, so strangers said, but “Bless you,” he would say,
“folks may talk, but they won’t persuade me which is the prettier, for I
don’t want to know: ’tis just like this with cows—some like ’em all roan,
others like ’em spotted, but Betty doesn’t care which way ’tis as long
as they are quiet and well-behaved when she milks ’em; so I say, as long
as the dear children are good, what’s the use of comparing ’em feature
by feature?” But friends could not help comparing their manner. Nelly,
though only four,—more than a year younger than her sister—was by far the
sturdier child, and far less shy and bashful. She would hold up her dear
honest face for any one to kiss that spoke kindly to her, while Sophy
needed to be persuaded that you loved her before she would raise her
drooping eyes, much less her plump cheeks.
Now Farmer Cousens used to grumble—all farmers have some cause, they
say; and his was, that he could not take his corn, or his hay, or his
vegetables to market without paying a heavy toll. But when most inclined
to complain, he would think of the other toll gate nearer home, and then
his face would lighten up with a smile.
I wonder who kept that other gate, and what the toll was for passing
through.
It was very strictly kept by two little keepers, who were very partial
indeed in deciding who were to pay, and who were to go free; and, strange
to say, those they loved best had to pay the most. Why, they let their
toll gate take care of itself till just as they knew their father would
be coming home; then they would take up their places—Sophy on her feet,
ready to catch him if he should try to run through; and Nelly sitting up
on the bars, to get a ride when the gate was opened, as well as her toll.
Sometimes her father pretended he could not open it with such a great
heavy weight on it, but she was not to be done in that way. If anything
delayed him longer than usual, Sophy would soon begin to get anxious
and fear he would not come before it was time for her to go to bed,
but little Nelly rested her heels on the bar, and planted her hands so
firmly, as much as to say, “Here I sit till he does come.”
All right, Sophy; cheer up, little woman; I hear old Bob’s steady trot,
your father is coming, and you won’t care about our society just now;
so good-bye both of you, and save some kisses for us when we next go
through—we shall want lots of change for our money.
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[Illustration]
CHIPS FROM A NAVAL OFFICER’S LOG.
I hardly know whether I ought to call the short story I am going to tell
you “a chip” from my log, or not; for this reason, that it did not occur
in my own experience, but was related to me. However, like all my other
chips, you may rely on its truth. I can vouch for the fact that I am
going to mention, and you may rely on whatever you find in my log, for
old sailors have seen too many wonderful things that have really happened
to go out of their way to take in their listeners by trying to impose
upon them.
If you want wonderful things that never happened; if you want frightful
scenes that never could have occurred; if you want battles written by
people that scarcely know the stem from the stern of a ship; that know
nothing of the Queen’s service, and precious little of the Queen’s
English, then you must go to “Admiral Dick; or, the Death Calm;” or,
“Stick-at-nothing Tom; or, the Gory Capstan,” or some such rubbish as
you see advertised, and alas! see read. Now, I won’t say more about this
now, except that the boys and girls who care for my chips, and take any
interest in them, will find them truthful and harmless, neither of which
qualities do those exciting and absurd tales possess.
Well, when I was serving in the “Conqueror” frigate, there was a
midshipman who was a Turk by birth. He was the only Turk I ever knew in
Her Majesty’s service; but this youngster was not a bad sort of a fellow
in his way. ’Twas from him I heard this short story, with which he was
personally familiar. In a former ship in which he sailed, there was a
passenger who had made some money as a milkman at Constantinople, which
he kept in a bag in his cabin, and was very fond of retiring there and
counting it over. Now, the captain had a pet monkey that used to watch
this man, and seeing him so often going to this bag, he thought there
must be something in it worth examining; so one day he watched his
opportunity, ran into the man’s cabin, seized the bag, and climbed with
it up to the mainsail-yard. The man soon missed his bag, and soon found
out where it was gone, for the monkey began taking out the gold coins,
and throwing them alternately on the deck and into the sea.
Those that fell on the deck the poor man greedily picked up, but the half
of them that went overboard, of course, were lost. He did not intend
putting up with his loss so quietly, for he held the captain responsible,
as it was his monkey that had robbed him.
Nothing could be done until the vessel got into port, when the man had
the captain brought before the Kadi, or magistrate, to recover the value
of the coins lost.
“You were a milkman?” said the Kadi.
“I was, sir,” replied the man.
“And, pray, will you tell me how much water you used to put with your
milk?”
The man was much confused, and replied, he would rather not tell; but as
he saw the magistrate was determined to know, he at last confessed he
used to mix one-half.
“Very well, then,” said the Kadi, “it appears to me that only one-half of
what you earned was honestly yours. You have got, therefore, all that was
your due, and this monkey has only thrown _into_ the water the amount of
profit you dishonestly got _out of_ the water.”
Thus, judgment was given against the man, and every one but he felt how
just it was.
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[Illustration]
A SHORT ACCOUNT OF GIBRALTAR.
FROM NOTES OF A PERSONAL VISIT.
The rock, the town, the bay, and the strait of Gibraltar lie, as you
know, at the southern extremity of Spain, but I dare say if you have been
at all interested in the place, you have fallen into the same mistake
that many have who are older than you. They have thought the town was
near the mouth of the strait which its artillery is supposed to command.
But this is not the case, the town is more than twenty miles from the
Atlantic, and its guns, instead of pointing southward to the straits,
which are here no less than fifteen miles across, point towards the bay
on the west, where alone it is accessible, and to the Spanish mainland on
the north.
Looking at Gibraltar from the sea, it is indeed a grand sight. The
rock is formed of marble and limestone, and rises to three points,
the loftiest of which, Sugar Loaf Point, is 1439 feet from the sea.
Europa Point is on the south, and here, on an oval platform, stands the
governor’s cottage.
One of the most dreadful tragedies I ever heard of in the way of duelling
came off at Europa Point. One evening an American officer was going
through the guard-room—where were a number of English officers—on the way
to his ship, when as he passed he overheard the Englishmen mention, in no
insulting manner, the word “Yankee.” He returned, boiling over with rage,
and told them they should repent the insult, which they declared was
never intended. However, the American returned next day with a challenge
from as many officers of his ship as there were English officers of our
army in the guard-room, to fight duels.
The English took up the challenge, but stipulated that they would none of
them fight with Americans of inferior rank. This threw out some of the
Americans, so that then there were more English than necessary, and they
arranged amongst themselves that no married men, but only single ones,
should go forth to this mad encounter. The morning came, and at Europa
Point there stood up in deadly combat four English against four American
officers, of whom two were killed and three or four wounded. Now I cannot
be quite exact as to the number; I know however I am rather under the
mark than over—but the main incident I had from most reliable authority
at Gibraltar.
On landing, one is disappointed with the town itself, which is
situated at the base of the rock. It is a miserable place, with small
dirty-looking houses and straggling irregular streets. The inhabitants
themselves—some 20,000 of them—are not very attractive, such a mixture
of English, Spanish, Moors, and Turks, with but little in the fair sex
to warrant their being called so. But if you are not struck with the
beauty of the people, you will be with the strength of the place. All the
descriptions you may have read will not prepare you for the reality, so
that I do not expect my account of it will bring you much nearer. I will
merely say, therefore, that there are four or five tiers of galleries
rising one above another on one side of the rock, in which are placed
guns of immense power and weight. Smaller batteries are placed in every
possible direction, and altogether there can be stowed away ammunition
and provisions sufficient for a very long siege. Ordinarily, there are
about seven thousand soldiers on the rock, of whom about three thousand
belong to the artillery, but these are not enough to work all the guns,
so that in case of war many more would be sent out.
Ah! in case of war; that reminds us that it has often been the scene of
warfare, and perhaps a short sketch of its past history would not be
uninteresting to our young readers.
When William III. assisted Charles III. of Spain against Philip V. it was
agreed that Gibraltar was to be given to England, but as the agreement
was not kept, and Gibraltar was not handed over to us, Sir G. Rooke took
forcible possession of it in the year 1704. An attempt was made by the
Spaniards to recover it, but it was formally ceded to us in July 1713.
In the year 1779, during the war with America, Gibraltar was blockaded by
the French and Spanish squadrons. The garrison, under Governor-General
Elliott, made a brave resistance, but was subject to great privations
by reason of the provisions running scarce through the long siege. At
last a vessel hove in sight which proved to be the forerunner of Admiral
Rodney’s squadron of twenty ships, who, having defeated the enemy, came
to the relief of the garrison.
Since then the Spaniards have often desired to be again in possession of
Gibraltar, and have made some attempts, but always unsuccessful. They now
see the value and importance of it, and so do we. It is the key to the
Mediterranean, and though England has a good many keys on her bunch, she
is not likely to give up this one.
And now with an anecdote nearer our own time, I must close. You know
that William IV. was in the navy when young, and once, when he was a
midshipman, he served under Admiral Digby in the _Prince George_.
When the Spanish Admiral Langara was a prisoner of the English, he
visited Admiral Digby, and was introduced to His Royal Highness, who
retired during the conference, but reappeared at its conclusion as the
midshipman on duty, respectfully informing the Spanish Admiral that the
boat was manned ready for him. “Well does Great Britain merit the empire
of the sea,” exclaimed the Spaniard, “when the humblest stations in her
navy are occupied by princes of the blood.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A GENEROUS ENEMY.
In 1815 I was a “younker,” or midshipman, on board His Majesty’s ship
“Swinger,” a twelve-gun brig.
I remember one day, soon after we left Surinam, our captain hobbled upon
deck—for he had a wooden leg—and as his custom was, he stood up near one
of the guns, and looked over the ship’s side.
“Beat to quarters,” shouted the captain; and sure enough ’twas no false
alarm, for bearing right down upon us was a ship much larger than our
own, which we soon made out to be an American. Nothing daunted by her
size or her superior armament, and consequently larger ship’s company,
we prepared for action, and soon gave the enemy a taste of our metal.
Nothing could have been better than the manner in which our guns were
served, for although we had but sixty men and boys, and twelve guns,
whilst the enemy had 145 men and boys, and fifteen guns, we kept up a
galling fire for two hours and a-half, until the American, finding she
had had as much as she cared for, and not wanting a closer acquaintance,
made off and left us.
We gave chase for the remainder of the day, but as she was a much faster
ship than ours she made good her escape.
Soon after, we returned to Surinam; but on the way we painted our ports,
so that we were not at first recognised.
I had better explain that when we left we were painted entirely black,
but on our return we were black and white, something like a chess-board.
When we asked “what news,” we were told that a little black brig, that
had recently left, had been licked by an American. We had a good laugh,
of course, and we were able to give a much better account of the little
black brig than that.
Well, six years after, in 1821, a friend of mine was in the West Indies,
and was thrown into contact with the captain of the American vessel that
encountered the “Swinger.” He often spoke of the engagement, and declared
“he would give anything to see her captain, for he was the smartest man
he’d ever came across.”
“Why,” said my friend, “the officer who commanded the ‘Swinger’ is now
here, and is an old friend of mine. I shall be delighted to introduce
you.”
Accordingly it was arranged, and a friendly meeting took place between
the two former enemies. The American rushed up to his old opponent, and
shook him by the hand in such a hearty manner, that it was some minutes
before he relinquished his grasp. “I’m delighted to see you, sir,” he
said; “you’re the cleverest man I ever saw, by a long chalk. Why, I
expected to chaw you up in about half-an-hour, and instead of that, in
about two you gave me such a walloping that I ran into port and didn’t
venture out again. We had nine killed and fifteen wounded; how many had
you?”
“Only five killed and wounded.”
“Well done! give us your hand again, captain!”
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THIRSTY JACK.
This little story I am going to tell you is a very small chip, so small,
indeed, that it might be almost called a shaving, but it comes into my
mind just now, and is such a trifling occurrence, that unless I tell you
now I may forget it at another time. It will just do to fill up a spare
moment or two while your candle is being got ready for bed, or after you
have finished your dinner, and have a minute to spare, or while you are
waiting to be attended to in a shop.
It is about Jack Fraser, one of our lieutenants in the ——. Well, on
second thoughts, I won’t tell you the name of the ship, or some of my
fair young friends may be ingenious enough to look through old Navy
Lists, and by seeing when my ship was at the station I am going to
mention, may discover that I must be getting very old, whereas I want
you all to fancy I’m very young. At all events, though my timbers are
creaking, and my skylights getting dim, and my figure-head rather grey, I
am still fond of boys and girls, and like to have them about me.
Well, about Jack Fraser. We were at Jamaica, which is, as you know,
rather a warm climate. Fraser was what they call “a thirsty soul,” that
is, one very fond of his glass; not his spyglass for looking abroad,
or his looking-glass for looking at home, but his wine glass and
grog-tumbler. He had always some excuse, though I can’t call it a reason.
When here, he used to say it was so hot we could only keep cool by
drinking; when farther north in colder climates, he declared the only way
to keep warm was by drinking; and when on any home station on half-pay,
he used to say that this was such a wretched climate that he could only
keep off “the blues” by his glass regular. I always think when I hear any
one finding excuses like this for drinking, that he is rather ashamed of
it himself, and that he indulges far more than is generally supposed.
Well, one afternoon he went ashore at Port Royal, and had not returned
when we all turned in, and when all lights were turned out. By and by
Jack came on board and began fumbling about for something to drink. The
steward had retired, so he knew he could not get supplied. My cabin
opened in the mess-room, so I heard him talking to himself about his
misfortune in being so thirsty and in not getting anything to drink.
Presently I found out he had discovered some, which he soon drank off,
for in a few seconds I heard such a spitting and spluttering that I
laughed right out, for I at once guessed what had happened. He had got
hold of the jug which contained a decoction for enticing mosquitoes and
other insects to it, and which had done its work pretty well that day. It
was this liquid Fraser had drunk, and it was these mosquitoes that he had
spit out, except such as had been swallowed past recovery.
I wish this had taught him a lesson; but this bad habit, even more
than others, though it may receive many checks, is with the greatest
difficulty given up.
Take care, young friends, that you do not form them.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A VISIT TO MALTA.
The view of Malta did not quite equal my expectations, though
the I harbour certainly is very fine, and the number of gay and
picturesque-looking boats makes it a lively scene. The fortifications are
of great extent, but so different from Gibraltar, being all artificial.
I need hardly say that Malta is an island in the Mediterranean, between
Africa and Sicily, but perhaps it may be necessary to mention that it is
about 20 miles long by 12 broad.
By the way, Malta is not unlike some human beings—naturally barren and of
no use, but by culture and application and diligence, and with help from
others, how very fertile they become?
This reflection occupies us whilst we row to land—there to see for
ourselves the places of note. The streets are very curious, being large
flights of steps leading up from the sea into the town. The church of
St John and the governor’s house are well worth seeing; but one of the
finest modern buildings is the Hospital, on the left hand side of the
entrance to the town. The hotels and shops are very good, that is, you
can get what you require, but then you have to pay rather dearly; perhaps
the people think that persons going to the East must make all their
purchases here, as it is the last European place at which the steamers
stop, and that persons coming from the East are only too glad to prepare
here for the colder climate they will encounter before they finish their
journey, and so do not much mind what they pay for things. The population
is somewhat over 125,000, and as most of the inhabitants are Roman
Catholics, there is a great deal of church-going. But the bell-ringing
is enough to summon ten times the number of people to matins and
vespers;—clang, clang, ding, dong,—the noise is incessant. I am talking,
of course, of the time when I was there, but I hear that much of the
nuisance has been done away with. Then, besides the churches, there are
many monasteries, one of which I visited, and of which I will tell you,
as a very singular custom is in force there, that of baking the deceased
friars.
The monastery is one of the Capuchin order, and as soon as one of the
monks dies, his body is exposed to a dry heat; whereby the softer parts
become hardened; then he is propped up in a niche set apart for him,
and his name and history are written above. The catacombs, where all
these bodies are placed, consist of a long narrow room dimly lighted,
and filled with a faint sickly odour; on either side is a row of corpses
attired in the robes of their order, with ropes fastened round them as
waistbands. Over each niche branches of the bay tree were wreathed,
and among them the monks, with horrible ingenuity, had intertwined
garlands and festoons of skulls, thigh bones, legs, and arms. The monk
who accompanied me appeared intensely gratified and exultant over these
disgusting things, and when he pointed out one old fellow who had been
baked about a hundred years, he was in raptures.
Rather an unpleasant order to belong to! Fancy seeing your niche in the
wall that your body will fill up some day! almost as bad as the custom in
Iceland of standing the minister’s coffin in the church near the pulpit,
or as the man who bought a job lot of coffins, thinking they would be
sure to come in useful some day.
An officer of ours accompanied me, who two years ago knew one of the
monks, and on his asking for him, he was taken to a newly-filled niche,
and there shown his old friend in a state of mummyism, as he had been
dead some months.
Instead of being an order of _friars_, they should be called an order of
_bakers_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE FAT CAPTAIN.
One of the queerest men I ever knew was Captain ——. Well, there, you
won’t be any wiser if I tell you his name. He has been dead some time,
but many of his friends are still living, so I will merely call him the
fat captain.
He was an immensely stout man, and if he wasn’t a port admiral, he was a
portly captain.
Once when his ship was in the Piræus, he gave an entertainment to some
of the principal residents at Athens, among whom were many ladies. They
spent a merry evening on board the ship, and when it was time for the
party to break up, the captain called aside the first lieutenant, who was
a very small man indeed, by the way, and told him that when the boats
were putting off from the ship he would fall into the water, and asked
the lieutenant if he would mind jumping in after him. The latter, quite
appreciating the joke, readily consented, for both could swim; and they
waited to carry out their intention.
But the gunner had overheard the conversation, and knew what was going to
take place.
Now this man was a great favourite on board, especially with the captain,
with whom he had sailed six years. He was the handiest man imaginable,
and could do anything, even to repairing any watches that might be out of
order. His readiness and willingness gave him a certain position which
made him rather saucy.
When he heard of the captain’s intended joke, he thought some fun might
be made out of it, and so he went below and told all the men of it.
At length the party was ready to go. It was a lovely night; the moon
shone on the still blue water, and the ladies were looking forward to a
pleasant row to land.
Just as the boats had got clear of the ship there was a sudden splash as
a body fell heavily into the water, and a cry was instantly raised, “The
captain overboard.”
Another splash! as over went the lieutenant, the ladies screaming,
greatly terrified.
No sooner was the lieutenant in the water, when splash! splash! splash!
as from every port-hole on that side of the ship plunged sailor after
sailor, who had been waiting, undressed, for the captain’s joke.
Then followed quite a scrimmage as to who should save the captain, until
the unfortunate man was being rather roughly handled in the very laudable
and extraordinarily prompt efforts, as he thought, to save his life.
When the ladies got over the fright of the supposed accident, and the
proximity of so many naked tars, they entered into the fun and enjoyed it
with the others.
I don’t know if the captain ever knew of the part the gunner had taken in
the affair, but he always continued to be a favourite with him, although
the captain frequently declared he was the greatest blackguard in the
ship.
Some time after, when the captain’s vessel was ordered home, he sent for
the gunner and told him he was going home, but wouldn’t disgrace himself
by taking such a blackguard back to England. He said he was transferred
to another ship, and handed him two letters. When he got out of the cabin
the man found that one letter contained his discharge to the admiral’s
ship, and the other a ten-pound note.
They quite understood one another, and I dare say the gunner would rather
have had his captain’s abuse than his praise. Queer fellow, wasn’t he?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A CONVICT STORY.
It was soon after landing at Sydney from my second voyage that I fell in
with an old friend, who was then a magistrate of the town.
After comparing notes since we had last met, he asked me to go out and
visit his family who lived in the bush, about seven miles from Sydney.
The captain of the “Tartar,” the vessel I had come out in, was to go with
me; and so we hired a gig, and drove out.
It was a wild, dreary country, sure enough, that we went over, and
a most dismal locality to reside in. Why, the nearest house was the
police-station, and that was three miles off; but, as we shall see, the
police are not at all bad neighbours in that part of the world.
We got to our journey’s end, and the first sight we saw was four gibbets
erected near the gate. We thought, perhaps, that they were the sign that
a magistrate lived there, or that they were put up, just like the old
stocks one sometimes sees on a village green, to be ready when wanted,
and to be a terror to people always; but the account that my friend gave
showed that they were erected for some real criminals.
About six weeks before this, a gentleman and his son were spending Sunday
here; and in the afternoon the young man, with my friend’s son, were
strolling about the yard, when they fancied they heard a strange noise in
an out-house.
They listened for some time, till, feeling sure they heard footsteps,
they went near, and opened the door, when immediately they found
themselves attacked by four convicts.
A desperate struggle took place, for the young men were strong, and were
not to be easily beaten; but the odds were too great, and it might have
gone very hard with them, had not the scuffle been heard in-doors.
My friend said he was sitting with his daughter in the back parlour,
when he heard a noise of heavy footfalls, with loud and laboured
breathing. They went out into the yard, the father taking his gun with
him; but, as it was getting dusk, they could see nothing.
“Who’s there?” shouted he. No answer; but he could just make out the form
of a man scrambling from the ditch, and retreating over the wall. He
fired; and then three other men retreated in like manner. The young men
quickly appeared and related how they had been attacked, and how narrowly
they had escaped strangulation, for it was their hard breathing that had
been heard in-doors.
They soon informed the police, who quickly caught the four men, and they
were hung near the scene of their crime.
I had been left with the ladies for some time, wondering where my
friend and the captain had gone; but when I came to inquire, I was
rather annoyed to find that they had gone to Sydney in the gig, as the
magistrate was sent for in a hurry, and had left word for me to remain
there for the night. I must say I did not like the idea at all.
I knew something of these convicts, what desperate fellows they were, and
thought it not unlikely that they might resent the punishment so lately
inflicted on some of their order, particularly as the gibbets reminded
them of the event, and were likely to keep alive any ill-feeling that
might exist. Besides, I knew I was the only male in the house, and that
great things would be expected of me in case of an alarm.
When I got up to my room, my first care was to fasten the door; but,
alas! there was no lock; and I could only discover a small button. I then
searched the room for some weapon, and found a gun; but this, like the
door, was without a lock. I got hold of a _whaddy_, a short, club-like
stick, heavier at one end than the other; so, placing this with the gun
near me, I jumped into bed. Then I was rather ashamed of myself for
getting at all alarmed, and so I soon went asleep. I was awoke shortly
after by the sound of heavy breathing, such as my friend had described;
and at once all the circumstances of his account came into my mind. I
sat up in bed, and heard the breathing—now dying away, now getting
louder—and also footsteps in like manner. I got out of bed, seized my
weapons, and was close to the door, feeling that a desperate encounter
was at hand. I should not care to see a sketch of myself as I then
appeared. My lower limbs were altogether unprotected, and were not very
steady; but I hope you will charitably put down any shaking there may
have been to cold rather than fear.
The footsteps were again drawing near, the breathing was more plainly
heard, and the door was gently shaken. I opened it, sprang out—shouted
“Who’s there?”—got no answer—saw no one—listened—heard the footsteps
retreating, and felt sure there were several. I then returned to my room,
and soon heard the footsteps again approaching so this time prepared for
the worst; and when I imagined they had got up to the door, I rushed
out, and confronted two as strongly-built, savage-looking _bloodhounds_
as I ever saw, which, after giving a good sniff at my legs—I, of course,
expected a bite—turned round, and kept their watch as before. My friend
had got them since the night of the attack as a protection.
Ah! it’s all very well to laugh now, but it was no laughing matter at the
time, my young friends.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LITTER OF PUPS.
“Oh! my! what beauties!” exclaimed Jessie Barton, on coming down one
morning and finding that their dear old “Floss” had become a joyful
mother. The household was soon informed of the fact and hastened to
welcome the little strangers. Tom, who was Jessie’s brother, and two
years older, immediately had ideas of appropriation, and wanted to know
which he might have. But his father said they would not decide yet, but
had better select two that were to live, and destroy the rest. In vain
Tom urged, in vain Jessie pleaded for the innocents; Mr Barton said it
was kindness to the mother, who could not possibly do justice to the
whole litter—seven in number; and to the pups themselves, who could not
be all kept by them, but would be given away, and might fall into cruel
hands.
So five of the number were quickly immersed in a bucket, and were kept
under water by a mop until, in a few seconds, their very young life was
extinguished.
The two that were spared, were by general consent the prettiest; and when
in the course of nine days they looked out upon the world into which
they had been born, it was then considered the time had come for their
appropriation. This was a rather important matter to Tom and Jessie, to
whom they were to belong. One pup was black and tan, with rather a sharp
nose; and the other was brown with a shorter nose and more amiable look.
It so happened that the one each had fixed on was just the one the other
did not want, so that both were well pleased.
As soon as they could leave their mother the young people took the
pups under their especial charge, whilst “Floss” exercised a parental
watchfulness over them both.
Jessie had, after great deliberation, and asking the advice of all her
young friends, called her pet “Gyp,” and it must be acknowledged that
she took great care of him, and appeared very fond of him. But Gyp was
ungrateful from his earliest puppyhood; he never thought of his poor
mother when any food was going, but gobbled up as much as he possibly
could; and when he had done would even try to take a bone from his
mother’s mouth, which was perhaps all she had had. He soon resented any
interference with his freedom and liberty, and showed his mother he did
not want her to be following him about, licking his back, or trying to
keep him in any way clean. You will judge from this that “Gyp” was rather
a strong-minded and self-willed dog. He was also of a reflective turn
of mind, and as he had plenty of time hanging on his paws, he would sit
and puzzle over things that did not concern him, and try to find out the
reason for things which had puzzled older and wiser dogs than he.
There was one thing that troubled him much; he saw “Pincher” Tom’s dog,
go out with him continually, and always on half-holidays, and heard from
him what fun they had had; whilst he seldom went out, and even then was
dragged along by his mistress with a piece of red window-blind cord; so
that if he wanted to investigate anything for himself, or if he met with
other dogs whose acquaintance he might like to form, he found himself
suddenly jerked along by the neck, in a most humiliating, and sometimes
painful manner.
One afternoon, the two brothers met, and, of course, stopped and had
a chat. “Pincher” was off to the country with Tom and a number of his
school-fellows, but “Gyp” had been out with Jessie on an errand, and
was going home. He complained to his brother of his confinement, when
he suggested he should slip the cord, and make a bolt of it; but he
was unable to do it; he was nearly choked, both by the cord and with
indignation, and he returned home in a desperate frame of mind.
The next day “Gyp” was gone, and was nowhere to be found, nor did he ever
return to his native place, for soon after, the family changed houses.
Of course, Jessie missed her pet for some time; but long after she had
ceased to think much of him, he thought with sorrowful regret of the
comfortable home and kind mistress he had lost.
He soon got tired of his wandering, roving life, and found it very
unsatisfying to his appetite. Then he followed some little boys for a
day or two, who gave him some crusts, but who soon ceased to care for
him, and gave him the slip. He then attached himself to a cat’s-meat
woman, from whom he now and then got a stray piece; but some stronger dog
witnessed his good fortune and usurped his place, when the woman, finding
herself surrounded by quite a pack of hounds of various sorts, sternly
drove them all off, and never gave them as much as a skewer to pick.
One day in his hungry wanderings, “Gyp” found himself in the street in
which he had formerly lived, and seeing a board up in the garden of his
old home, he trotted up, hoping to find a notice of a reward offered for
his restoration; but it was only to the effect that the house was to let,
and the family had gone, he knew not whither.
However, they had not moved very far off; and so tired was “Gyp” of his
roving life, that he determined to hang about the neighbourhood with the
hope of getting some one to recognise him. He came across the milkman,
and wagged his weary tail against his can to attract his notice, but
he only drove him away. He loitered outside the butcher’s, hoping to
be remembered, but he was thought to have designs upon the meat on the
boards, and was driven off with a whip. At last one day he met “Pincher,”
and great was the delight of both, for Tom had gone to boarding-school,
and his dog was very dull. Of course he took “Gyp” with him to the house,
and soon brought Jessie to the door, who at once recognised her dear old
“Gyp,” in spite of his hungry and dirty condition; and what was far more
important to poor “Gyp,” received him with open arms.
He has now grown up a faithful, steady dog, and has learned the lesson
that he and others did not think necessary—that it is well when young to
be subject to control and discipline, and that at that period we do not
know what is best for ourselves.
[Illustration]
ABOUT FISHING.
How many recollections do these fishing-boats, now hauled up and lying
idle on the beach, revive!
They tell of long hours of toil, of longer hours still of weary watching
and waiting; they tell of dangers braved, of storms endured, of exposure
to cold winds and drenching spray. They suggest all the dangers of the
deep to which some of their number have succumbed, leaving widows and
orphans to mourn for—
“Those who shall never come back to the town.”
But just now we do not want so much to dwell on the hardships and dangers
of the fisherman’s lot, as the produce of his toil and the result of his
fishing.
Those of you who have been to seaport towns have sometimes watched the
fleet of fishing-boats going out to sea.
If there is a smart breeze blowing, and the sun is shining, it is as
pretty a sight as you are likely to see; the strong heavy boats running
before the wind, and the sun lighting up their dull brown sails. They
will remain out perhaps for a day or two if the fish are scarce, but if
plentiful, they will bring in their hauls, and dispose of them at fair
prices.
Now, perhaps some of you who are fond of fish are disposed to ask why
fish is so dear, as you so seldom get any on that account. Well, the
principal fault lies with the retailer or shopkeeper: the fisherman only
receives from 3d. to 4d. a lb. for his prime fish, but those who buy it,
or the consumers, pay from 1s. to 1s. 6d. a lb. When at a watering-place
last year, we paid 2s. a lb. for soles that were caught off the coast.
Of course some allowance is to be made for the perishable nature of the
commodity, but when that has been done, it does seem that we have to pay
far too dearly for that which is so plentiful.
Besides, the facilities of conveyance are so much greater than they were
formerly. Then the trade was carried on from Yarmouth to London by light
four-horse vans, and in that way some 2000 tons were conveyed every year;
but now that quantity is sent to London by rail every fortnight.
In the fishing-grounds on the south and south-east coasts, steamers go
out to the fleets and bring up the fish very quickly to Billingsgate
every day.
The largest traffic is with fish that are taken in shoals. Off
Scarborough from seven to eight hundred tons of herrings have been taken
and sent away at one time; and on the Suffolk coast £14,000 worth of fish
were taken in a single day.
Then mackerel has its seasons, when the hauls are enormous; this fish
is much liked for its solidity, and also for its delicacy. You boys and
girls can get a good mouthful without fear of bones if you are ordinarily
careful; and you may imagine they are relished when you are told that
the consumption in London alone, every year, is 25,000,000. There is
quite a numeration sum for many of you, and very few will at all realise
what an enormous quantity those figures convey?
But perhaps of all fish, pilchards are taken in the largest quantities.
They are caught chiefly off the coast of Devon and Cornwall, and when
_marinated_ or potted are much liked. Many a nice jar of potted pilchards
do the mothers in the west of England prepare and send to different
parts; and if some of you who never tasted them, once had a jar sent you,
you would think them a fine “institution.”
The shoals are often of enormous extent; one was computed to extend
over a hundred miles, and no doubt many millions were captured. Besides
the home consumption, they are packed in oil and shipped to Italy and
different parts in the Mediterranean.
Now we wonder if the thought has entered the minds of any of you, that
with so many taken they will become by and by very scarce; and this
refers not only to pilchards, but to fish generally.
If so, you are by no means singular, for lately a Royal Commission
has considered the subject, and we believe that the supply of fish is
inexhaustible. It has been ascertained that far more fish are destroyed
by creatures of their own race than by man, that by far greater slaughter
goes on under the water than above it.
We have counted as many as fifteen or twenty small fish inside a cod,
and often as many herrings have been discovered to have been swallowed
by one of the same species. A calculation then has been made: allowing a
cod two herrings a day for seven months of the year, it was found that if
“the cod and ling caught on the Scotch coast in 1861 had been left in the
water, they would have devoured as many herrings as were caught by all
the fishermen of Scotland, and 6000 more, in the same year.”
So that you see, instead of making fish scarce by catching them, there
are actually more because of all the fishing that goes on. There is no
fear, therefore, that we shall ever exhaust the stock; and besides, the
rate of increase is so enormous. Little have you thought, perhaps,
when you were eating the roe of a herring, that you were crunching up
thousands and thousands of eggs. A single herring has been found to
contain 36,000; a mackerel half-a-million; a sole a million; a flounder a
million and a quarter; whilst a cod has been known to possess 3,400,000
eggs.
Truly these may be said to be some of the wonders of the sea, and glad
shall we be if this hurried paper leads any of our readers to study the
wisdom and goodness of God in the great deep.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AN ANIMAL THAT HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS.
I wish some one would write a book about the ass, and show us how he
became so degenerated, and when he first got into disfavour.
Everybody knows he was an animal of great importance once, and in the
East, at the present day, he is ridden by nobles, and is well cared for.
Ah! you say, he is a very different animal from our poor ass. Of course
he is; there, he is really an elegant animal, full of spirit and of good
action; his coat is smooth, and his pace is rapid. But this only proves
our point. It is not because he is first dull and stupid that he is ill
cared for; but because he is badly treated, that he is the poor, slow,
heavy brute we find him.
Even now, we do see some first-rate animals in the shafts of
costermongers’ carts, and sometimes of gigs and other vehicles; in these
cases, their owners take an interest in them, feed them well, groom them
carefully, and oftener use the corn measure than the cudgel.
At recent donkey exhibitions there have been some fine specimens, showing
what the race is capable of; but, alas! these are only exceptions, and
only make their less fortunate fellows appear more stupid than ever.
We see what can be done with kindness with our existing stock; but if
some good specimens were brought from the East, might we not have a much
better race of donkeys? At one time in this country no doubt we had; but
then the ass was an object of religious interest; people remembered how
honoured his race had been; he was the only animal on which our Saviour
rode, the only one that ever relieved Him of any bodily fatigue and
weariness; and so he became celebrated in the early church.
The Feast of the Ass was held on the 14th January, in commemoration of
the flight into Egypt. The Holy Family was represented, the ass was led
round the town, and then taken into the church, where at the end of
the service the priest brayed three times, and the whole congregation
“hee-hawed.” A hymn was sung, and in the chorus the braying was imitated:
“From the country of the East,
Came this strong and handsome beast;
This noble ass, beyond compare,
Heavy loads and packs to bear.
Now, seignior ass, a noble bray,
Thy beauteous mouth, at large display;
Abundant food our hay-lofts yield,
And oats abundant load the field.
Hee-haw! hee-haw! hee-haw!”
There! was not he a lucky ass?
Some of you boys are quite irreverent enough to think they were all a set
of asses together.
Well, it was certainly a queer proceeding, and one that should never have
taken place inside a church.
Why, the priest must have been the original “Vicar of Bray.”
They carried their reverence so far as to declare—and the superstition
has been handed down to our time—that the cross that we see on the back
of every ass, near the shoulders, is there because of our Saviour’s
riding on one into Jerusalem. The fact is, however, that the stripe on
the ass shows that it belongs to the same class as the zebra, which has
several of them.
This much to show that the ass was treated well at one time; and I
remember a friend drawing attention to a verse in the Bible, which proved
how different was his nature then from now.
In Proverbs xxvi. 3, it says, “A whip for the horse, a bridle for the
ass,” as if in those days it was the horse who wanted urging, and the
ass that required to be held in. How different now! not only does the
ass feel the whip, but the cudgel, rope-end, or anything that comes to
_hand_, and often the _foot_ too.
His body is a mark for stones to be aimed at, if he is grazing by the
roadside, or if he meets any one on the road he is considered fair game
to whack, in passing. With some men and boys, it is impossible to have a
stick without bringing it down upon every donkey they meet with. Some
look upon them as animated drums, made on purpose to be beaten; they do
not think there is any feeling below that rough hide.
Why, in one stage, an ass’s skin retains the impression of a black
lead pencil; and be sure that in its roughest and toughest state it is
painfully affected by a cudgel.
The fact is, the poor donkey is not well able to defend himself, as if it
were never contemplated he would be so ill-used. It was natural for him
to expect the stings of insects and the pricks of brambles, and so he is
covered with a thick coating of hair; it was likely he would come across
nettles and such things in his quest for food, and so his mouth has
been made nettle-proof; but it was never to be expected that a patient,
useful, willing, hard-working brute, should be an Ishmael among animals,
with every man’s hand against him, and so he is not furnished with any
formidable qualities. He does not even run away very rapidly from his
enemies; and as to his kicking, he does not often do that, and, when he
does, it is not a very sudden affair; but he has always credit given him
for being about to kick, and so he gets walloped in anticipation.
Men have found out that he is rather sensitive about his ears, and so the
only object of his having them, that they can see, is to furnish them
with opportunities to annoy him.
I had one once—there, now, the mere mention of the circumstance makes
some of you smile, as if it were a more ridiculous animal than a goat or
pig.
The poor donkey is looked upon as a joke; but he would not mind if jokes
were the only things cracked upon him—it is the whip and stick that he
minds most.
Some have asked, “Why a donkey prefers thistles to grass?”—“Because he’s
_an ass_.” But these playful attacks he doesn’t mind at all; he would
only like to put in a word, that he could do with more of them and fewer
kicks and blows; but that he would even prefer corn to thistles.
[Illustration]
CHARLEY FORDER AND HIS SISTERS.