[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 36.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
‘GRAND DAY.’
To the majority of people, the surroundings of the legal profession,
to say nothing of the law itself, are subjects fraught with no
inconsiderable amount of the mysterious. For instance, what a variety
of conceptions have been formed by the uninitiated with respect to
one ceremony alone connected with the ‘upper branch’ of the legal
profession; we mean that known as ‘Call to the Bar.’ The very
expression itself has often proved a puzzle to the lay outsider, and
perhaps not unnaturally, because there can be no doubt that it is
one of those out-of-the-way phrases the signification of which sets
anything like mere conjecture on that point at defiance. There is a
hazy notion abroad that ‘Call to the Bar’ involves proceedings of a
somewhat imposing character, especially as there is just a smack of the
grandiloquent about the term. Accordingly, it may be disappointing to
many persons to learn that, in the first place, there is no ‘calling’
at all connected with the ceremony, except the calling over the names
of the gentlemen who present themselves for admission to the profession
known as the Bar. And in the next place, it may be a little surprising
to learn that there is no semblance even of a ‘bar’ of any description
employed in the performance of the ceremony alluded to.
Again, people appear to have a somewhat indistinct notion about legal
festivities, the traditional fun of a circuit mess, the precise share
which ‘eating dinners’ has in qualifying a student for the Bar, and
so forth. Often, too, they wonder how it is that men addicted to such
grave pursuits as those followed by the working members of the Bar, are
so much given to mirth and jollity and costly festivity. The answer to
this is that, just in proportion to the mental tension superinduced
by the demands of their calling, is the recoil of their minds in an
exactly opposite direction after that tension.
Well, then, assuming that barristers are not only a learned and
laborious but also at suitable times a convivial body of men, we will
endeavour to describe the proceedings in the Hall of an Inn of Court
on the evening of a day when barristerial conviviality is supposed to
reach its culminating point—namely, on what is termed ‘Grand Day.’
We may observe that during each of the four legal terms or sittings
there is one Grand Day, but the Grand Day of Trinity Term is the
grandest of them all, and is accordingly styled ‘Great Grand Day.’
Also, that these days are observed in each of the four Inns of
Court—namely, the Inner and Middle Temple, Lincoln’s Inn, and Gray’s
Inn. For present purposes, however, we shall suppose our Grand Day to
be in Trinity Term, and at an Inn which we shall for certain proper
reasons call Mansfield’s Inn.
* * * * *
It is a glorious summer evening, and as we approach our noble old
Hall, we soon perceive that something ‘out of the common’ is going on.
There is the crimson cloth laid down for the noble and distinguished
guests who are always invited on these occasions; and near the entrance
there is a little knot of spectators of all kinds, from the elderly
respectable gentleman down to the shoeless ‘arab’ from the streets.
The carriages are beginning to arrive; and the sooner we are inside
the Hall the better. But there is something to be done before we get
thither. We must first enter one of the anterooms. Here there is a
great crush owing to the invariable preliminary to every dinner in
Hall—the ‘robing,’ as it is called; for benchers, barristers, and
students all dine in gowns. There are two men now busily engaged
at this work of robing, selecting from a great black mountain of
gown-stuff the attire suited to each member. On they go, asking all
the time the question, ‘Barrister or student, sir?’ of those with
whom they are unacquainted, until the last man is served. But who is
that portly looking personage, wearing a gorgeous scarlet gown, who
ever and anon appears on the scene and gives directions? Nonsense!
Did you say the head-porter? Certainly; and he is so called, after
the _lucus a non lucendo_ fashion, because he is never employed to
carry anything except perhaps letters and messages. In like manner the
women called ‘laundresses’ who attend to the chambers in the Inns of
Court, are so termed because they never wash anything at all, which in
some instances is but too painfully true. But the ‘head-porter’ _is_
carrying something this evening, in the shape of an enormous baton with
a silver knob big enough to produce five pounds-worth of shillings.
Then there is another important-looking gentleman, of graver and more
anxious demeanour, wearing a black gown, who seems to be the life and
soul of the preparations generally, and who moves about with such
alacrity as to suggest an approach to the ubiquitous. This individual
is the head-butler, and of course his position is one of serious
responsibility, especially on the present occasion.
Being now robed, we enter the Hall. What a babel of tongues is here
also! ‘Have you got a mess?’ is the question asked by friend of friend.
(An Inn of Court mess consists of four persons, the first of whom
is called the ‘Captain.’) ‘Come and join our mess,’ says another.
‘I have a capital place up here,’ shouts a joyous young student.
‘Oh, but you’ll be turned down,’ replies his friend, with a slightly
consequential air; and we see that the latter, by his sleeved and
otherwise more flowing robe, is a barrister, although as juvenile as
his hopeful friend; hence the tone of importance.
‘We sit by seniority on Grand Day,’ our learned young friend goes on to
state, and languidly falls into a seat.
‘When were you called, sir?’ says a voice to the languid but
consequential one. The voice proceeds from a form which might easily be
that of the other’s father, if not grandfather; but the question is put
_pro formâ_.
‘Hilary ’78’ is the answer.
‘Then I fear I must trouble you to move, for I was called in Hilary
’58, ha, ha, ha!’ in which the students previously corrected heartily
join.
‘Oh, all right,’ with a slight _soupçon_ of deference; and away go the
youngsters; while the man called to the Bar in 1858 will very likely
have to make way for another called in ’48, and so on, until the whole
are duly and severally located.
There is an unquestionable aspect of distinction about the place this
evening. The old Hall itself, in the centre of which is displayed the
costly plate of Mansfield’s Inn, seems to smile in the sunshine of the
summer evening. Yet, as the light softly steals in through the stained
glass forming the armorial bearings of distinguished members of the Inn
long since passed away, we seem to feel a sort of melancholy, in spite
of all the gaiety around, from the consideration—which _will_ force
itself upon the mind—that the paths of law, like glory, ‘lead but to
the grave.’
Then, again, the timeworn and grim-looking escutcheons of the old
‘readers,’ which crowd the wainscoted walls, seem to be less grim than
usual. At the same time, it is impossible not to heave one little
sigh, as we look up and see in front of us the name and arms, say, of
Gulielmus Jones, Armiger, Cons. Domi. Regis, Lector Auct. 1745 (William
Jones, Esquire, Counsel of our Lord the King, Autumn Reader, &c.), and
wonder how much that learned gentleman enjoyed his Grand Days in the
period of comparative antiquity mentioned on his escutcheon.
Our business, however, is strictly with the present; and as one of the
features of Grand Day dinner is that the _mauvais quart d’heure_ is a
very long _quart_ indeed, we shall be able to look round before dinner
and see what is going on.
It requires no very great expenditure of speculative power to
comprehend the nature of the present assembly, numerous though it is.
Each member of it will readily and with tolerable accuracy tell us who
and what he is, as mathematicians say, by mere inspection on our part.
The fact is, we are really face to face with a world as veritable and
as varied as that outside, only compressed into a smaller compass.
Here are to be seen old, worn, sombre-looking men, some of them bending
under the weight of years, and actually wearing the identical gowns—now
musty and faded, like themselves—which had adorned their persons when
first assumed in the heyday of early manhood, health, high spirits,
and bright hopes. Among these old faces there are some that are genial
and easy-looking; yet, beyond a doubt, we are in close proximity to
many of those individuals who help to constitute that numerous and
inevitable host with which society abounds—the disappointed in life. We
see clearly that upon many of these patriarchal personages, the fickle
goddess has persistently frowned from their youth up, and that they
have borne those frowns with a bad grace and a rebellious spirit.
Hither, also, have come those who began their career under the benign
and auspicious influences of wealth and powerful friends; yet many
of these are now a long way behind in the race—have, in fact, been
outrun by those who never possessed a tithe of their advantages.
Such men form a very melancholy group; and we gladly pass from them
to another class of visitors. These are they whose lives have been
a steady, manful conflict with hard times and hard lines, but who,
uninspired by that devouring ambition already alluded to, have not
experienced the disheartening and chilling disappointment which has
preyed upon some of the others. These men, however, have seen many of
their early hopes and aspirations crushed; but they have borne the
grievance with patience and cheerfulness. They may have had a better
right to expect success than some of those who had been more sanguine;
but they have not sneered at small successes because they could not
achieve grander ones, and have not been ashamed to settle down as
plodders. They are most of them gentlemen in all senses of the word;
men of whom universities had once been proud, and who had also honoured
universities; men who, if unknown to the world at large, have yet
enlightened it; men whose bright intellects have perhaps elucidated
for the benefit of the world the mysteries of science, thrown light
upon its art, literature, and laws; and who, without having headed
subscription lists or contributed to so-called charities, have yet
been genuine benefactors to their species. But with all this, they are
nevertheless men who, destitute of the practical art of ‘getting on in
the world,’ have not made money. They have never condescended to ‘boo’
or toady, in order to do so, and thus they must be content to shuffle
along the byroads of life as best they can, after their own fashion.
Intermingled with such members of the Inn as we have just mentioned are
their opposites—those who are regarded as having been successful in the
race of life. How portly and well got-up they are; how bland are the
smiles which light up their jolly, comfortable-looking countenances,
whereon exist none of those lines so painfully conspicuous elsewhere.
There is no lack of geniality here; and you are certain that these
gentlemen possess happy, if not indeed hilarious temperaments, the
buoyancy of which is never endangered by the intrusion of any such
‘pale cast of thought’ as wears away the existence of those others whom
we have referred to.
This species of ‘successful’ barristers, fortunate though they may
be, and risen men, too, in one sense, must yet not be confounded with
that other set of men who make up the real _bonâ fide_ rising and
risen ones. These latter are grand fellows, and constitute the most
interesting group of the evening. In some respects they are like those
others we have spoken of, who have had to fight; but unlike them, they
have possessed and exercised the gifts of energy, tact, perseverance,
a wider acquaintance with human nature; and they have also possessed
the inestimable gifts of good physique and the capacity for unmitigated
labour. Like the other successful ones, they have risen; but unlike
them, they have achieved honours which appertain more closely to their
profession. They are the men from whose ranks our judicial strength
is recruited; men who in time may become statesmen too, and leave
distinguished names behind them. They are, in short, gifted honourable
men, whose promotion is a delight to their friends and a benefit to the
community, because the promotion of such is always well deserved.
Observable also in the present assembly are several of what may be
termed the purely ornamental limbs of the law, who are to be found in
the Inns of Court, and elsewhere. This class comprises country squires,
gentlemen at large generally, and so forth, who, although entitled to
the designation of ‘barrister-at-law,’ make no pretensions—at anyrate,
here—to any depth of legal learning. Yet, likely enough, many of
them are administrators of the law as county magistrates. However,
great lawyers are not always the best hands at discharging the often
rough-and-ready duties of ‘justices out of sessions;’ and whatever may
be the ability of our friends now in Hall, one thing concerning them is
clear, that they are to-night amongst the jolliest of the jolly. Look
at them greeting old friends, dodging about the Hall, replenishing here
and there their stock of legal _on dits_ and anecdotes for retailing to
admiring audiences elsewhere, discussing the affairs of the Inn and of
the nation generally!
Lastly, there are the youngsters, ranging from the shy students only
recently ‘of’ the Inn, to the youthful barristers who have just assumed
the wig and gown. Some of the latter are engaged in detailing to eager
and ambitious listeners the glories surrounding the first brief, while
all are brimful of mirth and hopefulness. To such, the business of
Grand Day appears tame in comparison with the high and substantial
honours which they all firmly believe to be in store for them in
the future. Ah! the future; that alluring period, so surpassingly
enchanting to us all in the days of youth!
Such is the assembly before us at Mansfield’s Inn on Grand Day of this
Trinity Term.
‘Dinner!’ shouts the head-porter, who stands at the door with his
great silver-headed baton in hand. We now see the use of this badge
of office; for immediately after enunciating the above welcome word,
he brings his baton heavily on to the floor three times. Then slowly
advancing up the Hall, we see that he is a sort of vanguard, or rather
_avant-courier_, of a host which is gradually following him, gentlemen
who walk two and two in procession, almost with funereal precision and
solemnity. As they proceed, the previous loud hum of conversation is
considerably lulled, and everybody is standing at his place. These are
the Benchers of the Inn and their guests. The proper designation of
the former is ‘Masters of the Bench’ of the Inn to which they belong.
Each is called ‘Master’ So-and-so; and the chief of their body is the
Treasurer of the Inn, who holds office for one year. The guests are
invariably persons of well-known position in the Army and Navy, the
Church, Politics, Law, Science, Literature, and Art. Sometimes royal
personages honour the Inns with their company on Grand Day; and it is
well known that several members of the royal family are _members_ of
certain Inns. The Prince of Wales is a Bencher of the Middle Temple,
and dined there on Grand Day of Trinity Term 1874, when an unusually
brilliant gathering appeared. The Prince on that occasion delivered a
humorous and genial speech, in which he reminded his learned friends of
the circumstance of Chancellor Sir Christopher Hatton opening a ball
in that very place with Queen Elizabeth. On the recent occasion of the
Prince again dining there, no speeches were delivered in Hall.
The procession moves on; and as many of the various guests are
recognised, the hum of conversation recommences. The Benchers wear
silk gowns; and now we are actually brushed by a K.G., whose blue
ribbon is unquestionably a _distingué_ addition to evening dress;
or by a G.C.B., whose red ribbon is so extremely becoming as to
set some of the youngsters speculating which they would rather be,
a Knight of the Garter or a Grand Cross of the Bath. Here we are,
then, with peers, right honourables, generals, judges, orators,
poets, painters, humorists, and so forth, around us; but, alas, in
the midst of so much grandeur, we are troubled by a prosaic monitor
whose demands are becoming imperative. In other words, we are getting
hungry. Well, we have not much longer to wait. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ goes
the head-porter—this time with an auctioneer’s hammer on one of the
tables. Immediately dead silence ensues, and then ‘grace’ is read by
the Preacher of the Inn.
Now we fall to. There is soup, fish, joint, poultry, pastry, beer,
champagne, and one bottle of any other wine for each mess; and all for
half-a-crown! However, we know the Inn is rolling in wealth, and we
feel no compunction as to assisting in the heartiest way to carry on
the work of consumption going on in all directions.
Presently comes the rapping of Mr Head-porter again, who now proclaims
‘Silence!’ and having secured this, there comes another request to the
assembly: ‘Gentlemen, charge your glasses, and drink to the health of
Her Majesty the Queen.’ The Treasurer then rises and says: ‘Gentlemen,
“The Queen;”’ whereupon a great and enthusiastic shout of ‘The Queen!’
bursts forth. There is no more conservative body of men than the Bar of
England, nor has the Crown more staunch or more devoted supporters than
the gentlemen of the Long Robe. At the same time, no body of men in
this country has ever more firmly withstood any attempt to extend the
royal prerogative to the injury of the subject. The toast, ‘The health
of the Queen,’ is always drunk at these Bar gatherings with an amount
of fervour which betokens strong attachment to the constitution; and on
this particular occasion, the intensity and unanimity of the response
forcibly reminds one of the discharge of a sixty-eight-pounder!
As a rule, there is no speechifying in Hall, and there is none this
evening. The practice is for the Benchers to take dessert in one of
their reception-rooms, called ‘The Parliament Chamber.’ There, all
the speeches are made, and the speakers are refreshed by the choicest
products of the vineyard which money and good judgment can procure. Who
would not be a Bencher?
And now, so far as the ordinary portion of the assembly is concerned,
dinner is over. Grace again is said; and the Benchers, with their
guests, retire in the order in which they entered. But now there is
not altogether that grave air of solemnity about the procession which
distinguished it at its entrance; indeed, everybody looks and feels all
the better for the good things which have been partaken of. Neither the
distinguished guests nor those of the Benchers who are popular with
the Inn are allowed to depart without a friendly cheer; and if some
personage happens to be very popular indeed, his name is shouted out in
a fashion often bordering on the obstreperous.
The last two members of the retiring procession have now passed through
the door of the Hall, and away go also the majority of those who have
been dining. A few of the ‘Ancients’ or senior barristers are left
behind, to finish their wine and their chat; but by twelve o’clock the
Hall itself and its purlieus are once more deserted and silent.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XLV.—HIGH PRESSURE.
Madge reached home in the darkness, and opened the outer door so
quietly that she got up to her own room without being observed by
any of the inmates. Hat and cloak were off in a minute, and flung
carelessly anywhere—thus marking how completely her mind was distracted
from ordinary affairs; for, as a rule, she was careful in putting
things away.
Then!—she did not fling herself on the bed, and give way to an
overwhelming sense of despair, in the manner of heroines of romance.
She sat down; clasped hands lying on her lap, and stared into the
darkness of the room, which was luminous to her hot, dry eyes, and
wondered what it was all about.
Her engagement with Philip was broken off, and _he_ wished it to be
so! Now, how could that be? Was it not all some disagreeable fantastic
dream, from which she would presently awaken, and find him by her side?
They would laugh at the folly of it all, and be sorry that such ideas
could occur to them even in dreams. And that horrible, silent drive
to the station; the silent clasp of hands as the train started; no
word spoken by either since, in her pain and confusion, she had said
‘Good-bye,’ and he had echoed it—all that was a nightmare. She would
shake it off, rouse up, and see the bright day dawning.
But she could not shake it off so easily. He had said that she was to
consider herself free from all bond to him. He wished it—there was the
sting—and they had parted. It was a different kind of parting from the
one she had prepared herself to pass through with composure. Was it a
distorted shadow of her mother’s fate that had fallen upon her?
At this she started, and bravely struggled with the nightmare which had
weighed upon her from the moment the fatal word ‘Good-bye’ had escaped
her lips. They were not parted—absurd to think that possible. She took
blame to herself; she had been hasty, and had not made sufficient
allowance for his worried state. Perhaps she had been quickened to
anger by his apparent want of faith because she would not reveal what
she had promised to be silent about for his sake. She, too, felt
distracted at the moment; and want of faith in those we love is the
cruelest blow to the distracted mind.
Ay, she should have been more forbearing—much more forbearing,
considering how worried he was. And she could see that haggard face now
with the great dazed eyes of a man who is looking straight at Ruin,
feeling its fingers round his throat choking him.... Poor Philip. She
had been unkind to him; but it should be all put right in the morning.
She would tell Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick, and they would force him away
from that dreadful work which was killing him, and——
And here what threatened to be a violent fit of hysteria ended in a
brief interval of unconsciousness.
The door opened, light streamed into the room, and Aunt Hessy, lamp in
hand, entered. Madge had slipped down to the floor, and long, sobbing
sighs were relieving the overpent emotions of her heart.
‘Thou art here, child, and in such a plight!’
The good dame did not waste more words in useless exclamations of
amazement and sorrow, but raised her niece to the chair and, without
calling for any assistance, applied those simple restoratives which a
careful country housewife has always at command for emergencies. The
effect of these was greatly aided by the sturdy efforts made by the
patient herself to control the weakness to which she had for a space
succumbed.
‘I’ll be better in a minute or two, aunt,’ were the first words she
managed to say; ‘don’t fret about me.’
‘I shall fret much, child, if thou dost not continue to fret less
thyself.’
‘I’ll try.... But there is such sore news. Philip says he is ruined,
and that he must—he must ... because it is Uncle Dick’s wish ... he
must’——
She was unable to finish the sentence.
‘Say nothing more until I give thee leave to speak,’ said Aunt Hessy
with gentle firmness; but the tone was one which Madge knew was never
heard save when the dame was most determined to be obeyed. ‘We have
heard much since thou hast been away; and we have been in fright about
thee, as it grew late. But though thou wert with friends, I knew that
home was dear to thee, whether thou wast glad or sad. So I came up
here, and found thee.’
‘But the ruin is not what I mind: it is his saying that we are to part.’
To her surprise, Aunt Hessy did not immediately lift her voice in
comforting assurance of the impossibility of such a calamity. She only
raised her hand, as if to remind her that silence had been enjoined.
Seeing that this was not enough, or moved by compassion for the
distress which shone through Madge’s amazement, she said:
‘We shall see about that, by-and-by.’
But Madge could not be so easily satisfied; for something in her aunt’s
manner suggested that there might be truth in Philip’s assertion of
the view her guardians would take of the position. He had said they
would hold it as contrary to common-sense that a man who had been
disinherited by his father and ruined by speculation should keep a girl
bound to wait for him till he had retrieved his fortune, or to marry
him and share—or rather increase his poverty. That was a cruel kind of
practical reason which she could neither understand nor appreciate. If
they really intended to insist upon such a monstrous interpretation of
the engagement she had entered into with Philip, then she must try to
explain how differently she regarded it. The moment of misfortune was
the moment in which she ought to step forward and say: ‘Philip, I am
ready to help you with all my strength—with all my love.’
Only Philip had the right to say: ‘No; you shall not do this.’
And there the poor heart sank again, for he had in effect said this: he
had told her that he _wished_ the bond to be cancelled. That was a very
bitter memory, even when she made allowance for his conviction that her
guardians expected him in honour bound to make such a declaration. Now,
however, she recognised self-sacrifice in his act; and feeling sure
that it was love for her which prompted it, took comfort.
Her first idea, then, was to find out what her guardians were to do,
and she was about to rise, with the intention of asking her aunt to go
with her to the oak parlour, when she was interrupted.
There was first a banging of doors below; next there was a deep voice
from the middle of the staircase:
‘I say, missus, art up there?’
Before any answer could be given, Uncle Dick presented himself with as
near an approach to a frown as his broad honest face was capable of
forming.
‘So you are here, Madge. Thought as much. I told the missus you could
take care of yourself; but a rare fuss you have been making among
us, running about here, there, and anyhow, when you know the day for
Smithfield is nigh, and ever so many things to do that you ought to do
for me. I say that ain’t like you, and I’m not pleased.’
While Crawshay was venting this bit of ill-humour, he stood in the
doorway, and as Madge had risen, the lamp was below the level of her
face, so that he could not see how ill she looked.
‘I hope I have not forgotten anything,’ she said hastily; ‘you remember
the first papers were filled up by—by Philip.’
‘They’re right enough; but here’s a letter from the secretary you
didn’t even open.’
‘It must have come after I went away.’
‘Like enough, like enough,’ he went on irritably, although the dame had
now grasped his arm, and was endeavouring to stop him. ‘Away early and
back late—that’s the shortest cut into a mess I know of.—Where have you
been?’
It was evident that the unopened letter of the Smithfield secretary had
less to do with his ill-humour than he was trying to make believe. The
question with which he closed his grumble suggested the real cause of
vexation.
‘Quiet thyself, Dick,’ his wife interposed. ‘Madge is not well
to-night, and it makes her worse to find thee angry.’
‘Could a man help being angry?’ he said, becoming more angry because of
his attention being called to the fact that he was so, as is the wont
of quick tempers. ‘Have you told her about them blessed letters?’
‘I have told her that we received them: to-morrow, we can tell her what
they are about.’
‘I would rather know at once, aunt,’ said Madge calmly, as she advanced
to Crawshay, and only a slight tremor of the voice betrayed her
agitation. ‘They concern Philip; and I should not be able to sleep if
anything was kept back from me. He is in cruel trouble, Uncle Dick, and
he says you want me to break off from him, and that has upset me a
little, although I know that you would not ask me to do such a thing,
when he is in misfortune.’
‘Dick Crawshay never left a friend in a ditch yet, and he had no
business to say that of me,’ blurted out the yeoman indignantly. Then,
checking himself, he added: ‘But there’s sense in it too. Maybe he
wants to break off himself; and I shouldn’t wonder, either, if he has
heard what that fellow Wrentham says about your goings-on with Beecham.’
‘Goings-on with Mr Beecham!’
‘Ay, that’s it.... Come now, lass, tell truth and shame the devil—was
it Beecham you went off in such haste to see to-day?’
‘I went to see Mr Shield, and saw Mr Beecham at the same time.’
‘Then it is true, mother—you see she owns to it,’ said Uncle Dick, his
passion again rising. ‘And you’ve been writing to Beecham and meeting
him underhand.’
‘Not underhand, uncle,’ she exclaimed, drawing back in surprise and
pain. The word ‘underhand’ assumed the significance of a revelation
to her; but even now she did not see clearly the extent of the
misconceptions to which her conduct was liable, if criticised by
unfriendly eyes.
‘You say it ain’t underhand! I say it’s mortal like it. You never said
a word about Beecham this morning, though you must have known that you
were going to see him.... Come now, did you not?’
He added the question in a softer tone, as if hoping for a negative
answer. But Madge evaded a direct reply.
‘What is in the letters to make you so vexed with me?’ she asked.
‘What’s in them?—Why, Shield says that Philip has been a fool, allowing
himself to be cheated on all sides, and that there’s nothing for him
but the Bankrupt Court. That’s a fine thing for a man to come to with
such a fortune in such a short time. But I might have known it would
end in this way—it’s the same thing always with them that set up for
improving on the ways of Providence.’
Uncle Dick was in his excitement oblivious of the fact, that whilst he
had cast some doubt on the success of Philip’s project, he had approved
the spirit of it. Madge did not observe the inconsistency; she was
so much astonished by what appeared to be the harsh language of Mr
Shield, notwithstanding the assurances he had given to her. But she was
presently set at rest on this point by Aunt Hessy.
‘Thou art forgetting, Dick, that Shield says he’ll see what can be done
to put Philip right again.’
Madge was relieved; for in spite of its improbability, the thought had
flashed upon her, that Austin Shield might have been deceiving her as
to his ultimate purpose regarding Philip.
‘That may be,’ continued Uncle Dick in a tone of general discontent;
‘like enough, he’ll spend more money on the lad, if so be as that
Beecham hasn’t got something against it; and blame me if ever I trust
a man more, if Beecham be a knave.—Now you can settle all that, Madge.
Seems you know more about him than any of us. Tell us what you know.’
There was no way of evading this request, or rather command; and yet
she could not comply with it immediately. She had been told that Philip
would be safe if she kept her promise.
‘What, will you not speak?’ thundered Uncle Dick, after he had waited a
few seconds. ‘You know that Beecham has to do with Shield, and will say
nought!’
‘There is nothing wrong about him,’ she pleaded.
‘Does Philip know you are in league with this stranger, and maybe
helping to ruin him?’
‘I have not told Philip, but’——
‘I don’t want your buts—honest folk don’t need them. That scamp
Wrentham is right; and it’s a bad business for Philip, and for you,
and for all of us. Think on it, and when you do, you’ll be sorry for
yourself.’
He wheeled about, and went downstairs with loud angry steps.
There was a long silence in the room; and then Madge turned with
pleading eyes to the dame.
‘He is very angry with me, aunt,’ she faltered.
‘I am sorry that I cannot say he is wrong, child,’ was the gentle, but
reproachful answer.
THE COMMERCIAL PRODUCTS OF THE WHALE.
Whales are more numerous than is usually supposed—that is to say, there
is a greater variety of these giants of the deep than the two or three
which are known to commerce; such animals being abundant in all seas,
so far as they have been explored. It is not, however, our intention
to enter into the natural history of these cetaceans farther than may
be necessary to understand their commercial value. Nor do we intend to
dwell on the dangers which are incidental to the pursuit of the whale,
of which it would not be difficult to compile a melancholy catalogue.
Terrible shipwrecks, vessels ‘crunched’ by the power of the ice without
a moment’s warning, others run into and destroyed by the animal itself;
pitiful boat-voyages, so prolonged as to cause deaths from hunger and
thirst; ships ingulfed amid the roar of the tempest, and crews never
heard of since the day they sailed—these are among the incidents which
have from its beginning marked the progress of the whale-fishery; the
mortality connected with which has often attracted attention, not only
in the icy regions of the arctic seas, but also in those of the Pacific
Ocean, in which, all the year round, men pursue the sperm-whale with
unceasing activity, at a risk to life and limb only faintly realised by
landsmen.
It is ‘for gold the merchant ploughs the main;’ and there are persons
who say that the risks encountered by whale-ships are not greater than
those common to most branches of the mercantile marine. ‘And if it
pays,’ say the advocates of whaling, ‘why not carry on the enterprise?’
But no matter what defence may be offered, whale-fishing has always
been much of a lottery, in which the few have drawn prizes, whilst the
many have had to be content with the blanks.
The fortunes of ‘whaling’ are exceedingly varied: one ship may capture
ten or twelve fish;[1] some vessels occasionally come home ‘clean;’
while others may each secure from two to half a dozen. We have before
us several records of the financial results of whale-fishing, in which
the profits and losses among Pacific whalers exhibit some striking
differences. One ship, for instance, places at her credit during her
voyage one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars; but to the owners
of the fleet of whalers fishing from New Bedford, United States, in
1858, there accrued a loss of more than a million dollars. Again, a
Scottish whale-ship from Peterhead, in Aberdeenshire, was one season
fortunate enough to capture forty-four whales, the largest number
ever ‘fished’ by one vessel. The value of the cargo in oil and bone
considerably exceeded ten thousand pounds sterling. One of the largest
cargoes ever landed was brought home by the steamer _Arctic_ of Dundee,
commanded by Captain Adams, one of the ablest arctic navigators. It
consisted of the produce of thirty-seven whales, which, besides oil,
included almost eighteen tons of whalebone.
The only whales of commerce were at one time the great sperm-whale
of southern latitudes, and ‘the right’ or Greenland whale, both
of which are animals of gigantic size and great power, the latter
being undoubtedly the larger. No British vessels take part in the
sperm-fishery, their operations being confined to the arctic regions.
Dundee is now the chief whaling port, sending out annually sixteen
ships to Greenland. The Greenland whale, which our British whalemen
endure such dangers to procure, seldom exceeds sixty feet in length,
and is about half that number in circumference. An average-sized
specimen will weigh some seventy tons or more, and forms a mass of
matter equal to about two hundred fat oxen. One individual caught
by a Scotch whaler was seventy-two feet in length, with a girth
of forty-five feet, the total weight being reckoned at upwards of
one hundred tons. The chief product of the sperm and ‘the right’
whale—their oil—is of course common to both animals, and is obtained by
boiling their fat, or ‘blubber’ as the substance is technically called.
It is somewhat curious that in both of these whales the head is
the portion, size being considered, which is the most valuable. In
the sperm-whale, ‘the case,’ situated in the head, is filled with
a substance which is known as spermaceti, and brings a high price.
One of these giants of the deep will sometimes yield a ton of this
valuable substance, which is found, when the whale is killed, as an
oily fluid, that when prepared, gradually concretes into a granulated
mass. In the Greenland whale the great prize is ‘the bone’ with which
its head is furnished, and which at the present time is quoted as
being of the enormous value of two thousand two hundred and fifty
pounds per ton! The price in America is even higher, the last sales
in that country bringing two thousand five hundred pounds. It is only
the Greenland fish which yield this valuable commodity. The whale of
the Pacific is furnished with teeth; but ‘the right’ whale has in
lieu thereof a series of plates, or laminæ, on the upper jaw, which
are in reality the whalebone of commerce. The uses to which ‘bone’ is
applied vary according to the demands of fashion, so that within the
last hundred years the price has fluctuated exceedingly, and has been
quoted from almost a nominal price per ton up to the sum mentioned.
At one period, we are told in an American account of the fishery, the
rates for whalebone were so low that few whalemen would bring any of
it home, their space being of much greater value when packed with oil.
Threepence a pound-weight was at one time all that could be obtained
for it; now the price of bone is twenty shillings per pound-weight. It
may be explained that the yield of bone is as eight or ten pounds to
each barrel of oil. A vessel which brings home one hundred tuns of oil
will, in all probability, have on board six tons of whalebone.
There is a special product of the sperm-whale which is of greater
value than either spermaceti or whalebone; it is known as ambergris.
For a series of years there raged a hot controversy as to what this
valuable substance really was, the most extraordinary opinions being
offered regarding its origin, composition, and uses. One statement,
dated so far back as 1762, says that ambergris issues from a tree,
which manages to shoot its roots into the water, seeking the warmth
therefrom in order to deposit therein the fat gum of which it is the
source. ‘When that fat gum is shot into the sea, it is so tough that it
is not easily broken from the root unless by the strength of its own
weight. If you plant such trees where the stream sets to the shore,
then the stream will cast it up to great advantage.’ Another authority,
Dr Thomas Brown, in a work published in 1686, shows that an idea then
entertained was, that ambergris was only found in such whales as had
come upon the substance floating in the sea and swallowed it. In course
of time it was found that this precious commodity was generated in the
whale itself. An American doctor residing in Boston made it public in
1724, that some Nantucket whalemen, in cutting up a spermaceti whale,
had found about twenty pounds of the valuable substance, which, they
said, was contained in a cyst or bag without either outlet or inlet. As
a matter of fact, ambergris, which is an important drug, is a morbid
secretion in the intestines of the sperm-whale. Captain Coffin, in a
statement he made at the bar of the House of Commons, said that he had
lately brought home three hundred and sixty-two ounces of that costly
substance, which he had found in a sperm-whale captured off the coast
of New Guinea. At the time of Coffin’s examination, ambergris was of
the value of twenty-five shillings an ounce. The Pacific whalers search
keenly for this commodity, and large finds of it sometimes bring them a
rich reward.
Formerly, it was the oil which rendered the whaling voyages
remunerative, and made or marred the fortune of the venture, but the
case is now altered, owing to the enormous prices realised for bone.
The head of the sperm-whale is equal to about a third of its whole
size, and ‘the case’ yields spermaceti, which commands a high price;
but in the case of the Greenland whale, as we have shown, only a
comparatively small weight of whalebone is contained in the mouths
of each of them; but small as it is, the quantity tends to swell the
account and increase the dividends. Whaling ventures are usually made
by Companies, and nearly everybody engaged in the hazardous work has
a share in the venture—the men being partially paid by a share of the
oil-money. Whalers earn their wages hardly. The work—not to speak of
the dangers incurred—is always carried on at a high-pressure rate,
and is anything but agreeable. The pursuit and capture of a whale
are usually very exciting, some of these animals being difficult to
kill, even when the boats, after a long chase, come within such a
distance of them as admits of striking with the harpoon. Many are
the adventures which take place on the occasions of whale-killing;
though most of the animals attacked finally succumb. Then begins the
labour of securing the prize, and converting the products which it
yields into matter bearing a commercial value. The dead whale must be
brought either close to the ship, or the ship must be brought close
to the whale, which, in the icy waters of the high arctic latitudes,
involves a great deal of fatigue, the animal being sometimes killed at
a considerable distance from the ship. On some occasions a day will
elapse before it can be known that the whale will without doubt become
the prey of those who have found it, and several boats may require to
take part in the process of killing. As many as four boats may at one
time be ‘fast,’ as it is called, to the same animal—in other words,
they have all succeeded in planting their harpoons in the whale. But
the harpoon, even when shot from a gun into the fish, does not kill
it; the putting of the animal to death is accomplished by means of
what are called ‘lances,’ instruments which are used after the animal
has been harpooned. After that process has been successfully achieved,
the labour of capture, which may have taken from two to ten hours to
accomplish, is over. Instances are known where boats have been ‘fast’
for upwards of fifty hours before the whale was finally despatched.
The whale is usually dragged to the ship by the boats engaged in its
capture. Holes are cut in its tail, and ropes being then attached,
the laborious process of towing the gigantic carcass commences. Once
alongside of the ship, the work of flensing, or cutting-up of the
whale, is speedily in operation, all engaged being in a state of
ferment, and eager for further work of the same sort. The crew may be
likened to those animals which, having tasted blood, long for more.
The operation of removing the bone from the head of the whale is
first entered upon; this is superintended by an officer known as the
‘spectioneer,’ and who is responsible for this part of the process.
After the bone has been carefully dealt with, the blubber is cut
off the body in long strips, which are hauled on board by means of
a block-and-tackle. It is first cut into large squares, in which
condition it is allowed to remain till the salt water drains out of
it, a few hours, or even a day or two, being allowed, according to the
work on hand. The skin is then peeled off, and the mass of fatty matter
is further dealt with by being chopped into little pieces, which are
stowed away in barrels or tanks, to be brought home to the boileries,
in order to be, as we may say, distilled into a commercial product.
When the fish has yielded up its valuable products, the flensed carcass
is cut adrift. Sometimes the ponderous jawbones are preserved; when
that is the case, they are cut out of the head and lifted on board.
The strips of blubber vary in thickness from ten to sixteen inches, or
even more, according to the size and fatness of the fish. In general,
it averages twelve inches all over the body, the thickest portion being
at the neck, where twenty-two inches of blubber are sometimes found.
The yield of oil is of course in proportion to the size and condition
of the animal, and will run from five to twenty tuns. A whale caught
many years ago by the crew of the _Princess Charlotte_ of Dundee
yielded thirty-two tuns of oil. An examination of some old records
of the fishery shows fifteen hundred tuns of oil to the one hundred
and thirty-five fish of the Aberdeen fleet of eleven vessels; twelve
hundred and forty-three tuns to the Peterhead fleet of eleven ships
(three vessels had been lost), which captured eighty-eight whales and
three thousand seals.
In sperm-whale fishing, the process of flensing and disposing of the
carcass is much the same as in the Davis Straits’ fishery. When the
body has been stripped of the blubber, it is thrown loose, and is
permitted to float away, to become the prey of sharks and sea-birds
which are usually in attendance. In the process of dissecting the great
whale of the southern seas, the head is usually the last portion dealt
with. It is cut off and kept afloat till required, being carefully
secured to the vessel. The valuable contents of ‘the case’ are brought
on board by means of buckets, and are very carefully preserved, being
known as ‘head-matter.’ A large whale of the Pacific seas will yield
from seventy to ninety, or even on occasion a hundred barrels of oil.
Sperm oil is more valuable than train oil, the produce of the Greenland
fish. In a trade circular, we find as we write, ‘crude sperm’ quoted at
sixty-four pounds ten shillings per tun, the other sort being set down
as ranging from twenty-seven to thirty-two pounds. But the prices are
ever varying according to supply and demand. Spermaceti is offered at
about a shilling per pound-weight.
The ships which go whale-fishing from Scotland to the arctic regions
make an annual voyage, which lasts from five to nine months; but
sperm-whalers often remain at sea for a period of three years. They
boil out their oil as they cruise about in search of their prey; or
when blubber has so accumulated as to warrant the action, the ship will
put in at some convenient island, where the process of melting the fat
can be conveniently carried on.
We have no statistics of the number of vessels or men at present
engaged in the southern fishery; but the exciting nature of the
work being attractive to many persons, crews are never wanting when
ships are being fitted out to hunt the sperm-whale. At one period in
Great Britain, ‘whaling’ was an enterprise of great moment, and was
encouraged by government, which awarded bounty-money to ships engaged
in that particular enterprise. In the earlier years of the present
century over one hundred and fifty British ships were engaged in the
industry of whale-fishing; by 1828, the number had, however, fallen to
eighty-nine vessels, forty-nine of these being fitted out at Scottish
ports. In that season, eleven hundred and ninety-seven fish were
killed, the produce being thirteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-six
tuns of oil, and eight hundred and two tons of whalebone. Dundee, as
already mentioned, and Peterhead are the principal centres of the
British whaling industry, the number of vessels employed by the two
ports being between twenty and thirty; but for many years past, some
of these ships also make a voyage in the way of seal-fishing, which
sometimes proves a profitable venture. The total value of the seal and
whale fisheries so far as the Dundee fleet was concerned amounted last
year to £108,563; in 1882 it was £110,200; while in 1881 it reached
£130,900.